"It was 'fool' this afternoon.

I'm Pelman when there's any nerve needed for your schemes; but when you smile at me and call me Joey, what I say is--one-third!" "You devil! I ought to wring your neck!" "Try it! I'll stab your black heart with a corkscrew! I've studied it all out, and I've carried a corkscrew on purpose ever since I've known you.
Thirty-three and one-third per cent.

Three-ninths.

Proceed!" Mitchell paced the floor for a few furious seconds before he began again.
"You remember Mayer Zurich, whom we helped through that fake bankruptcy at Syracuse ?" "Three-ninths ?" "Yes, damn you!" Joey settled back in his chair, crossed his knees comfortably, screwed his face to round-eyed innocence, and gave a dainty caress to the thin silky line of black on his upper lip.
"You may go on, Oscar," he drawled patronizingly.
After another angry turn, Mitchell resumed with forced composure: "Zurich is now a fixture in Cobre, Arizona, where my Cousin Stanley lives.

I had a letter from him a week ago and he tells me--this is in strict confidence, mind you--that poor Stanley is in jail." Joey interrupted him by a gentle waving of a deprecatory hand.
"Save your breath, Oscar dear, and pass on to the main proposition.