California, The Department Store State.

It Was About Eleven O'clock In The Morning, Mid October, With The Sun Not Shining And A Look Of Hard Wet Rain In The Clearness Of The Foothills. I Was Wearing My Powder-blue Suit, With Dark Blue Shirt, Tie And Display Handkerchief, Black Brogues, Black Wool Socks With Dark Little Clocks On Them. I Was Neat, Clean, Shaved And Sober, And I Didn't Care Who Knew It. I Was Everything The Well-dressed Private Detective Ought To Be. I Was Calling On Four Million Dollars.

I Don't Mind Your Showing Me Your Legs. They're Very Swell Legs And It's A Pleasure To Make Their Acquaintance. I Don't Mind If You Don't Like My Manners. They're Pretty Bad. I Grieve Over Them During The Long Winter Evenings. But Don't Waste Your Time Trying To Cross-examine Me.

Tall, Aren't You? I Didn't Mean To Be.

The Most Durable Thing In Writing Is Style. It Is A Projection Of Personality And You Have To Have A Personality Before You Can Project It. It Is The Product Of Emotion And Perception.

Everything Written With Vitality Expresses That Vitality: There Are No Dull Subjects, Only Dull Minds.