Seeing the question on the faces of both visitors, he cackled, in a queer, high-pitched voice: "I refuse to poison my gastric juices with nicotine, but I like the smell of tobacco.

Poor old Steingall there has pretty fair eyesight, but his nose wouldn't sniff brimstone in a volcano, all because he insists on smoking." "Gastric juice!" laughed Steingall.

"You don't possess the article.
Skin, bones, and tongue are your chief constituents.

I'm not surprised you make an occasional hit as a detective, because the average crook would never suspect a funny little gazook like you of being that celebrated sleuth, Eugene Clancy." Clancy's long, nervous fingers had cracked the wrapper of the cigar given him by Curtis, and he was now passing it to and fro beneath his nostrils.
"You will observe the difference, gentlemen, between beef and brains," he said, nodding derisively at the bulky Chief Inspector.

"He rubbers along because he looks like a prize-fighter, and can drive his fist through a three-quarter inch pine plank.