Ben Barton:
[answering knock at the door]
Come in, come in.
[in walks Iris]
Ben Barton:
Well, if it ain't my ooold pal Iris.
Iris Tuttle:
I'm not your pal and I'm not old.
[puts her hand to her cheek]
Iris Tuttle:
Nothing short of a tooth that's kickin' up like a bucking bronco could bring me here.
Ben Barton:
I take it you want... a little whiskey?
Iris Tuttle:
Yes, and as little conversation as possible.
Ben Barton:
Now, let's not be hasty, Iris Tuttle. Are you addressing me as, uh, the owner of the general store, or as your *very fine friend* and barterer.
Iris Tuttle:
As a storekeeper.
Ben Barton:
Then you're all outta luck because it's after 8 o'clock and I can't sell you none.
Iris Tuttle:
Well, you'll never get me to call you my fine friend, not even for a *gallon* of whiskey.
Ben Barton:
With a gallon you couldn't say "fine friend."
Riportata da il
05/03/2025 alle ore 08:18
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