"You were talkin about the meeces an then you tole me about meetin Schnozzle in Scranton. . . . ." which was as far as Mr Jinks got, because suddenly TC was pacing around the back-yard, snapping his fingers, talking jive 16 to the dozen, "you're one hot-diggity-dog, Jinksy," he said, jabbing a finger into Jinks' chest, "you're smart—hot, smart and don't give a fig for convention! you hit the nail on the head while other guys are lookin for their tool-boxes, dontcha see? the meeces is the Answer to the Great Riddle of the Myriad! and you're the one, the only one who knows what that means, aintcha just?" and Jinks felt a strange brew of pleasure and delight at being singled out for praise by TC, combined with confusion because he had no idea what the Cato of all Catos was talking about, but luckily TC provided an answer he could relate to: "what we need is a Scouthouse and surely the basement of your house will be ideal—safe, secure, and square, especially once we've corrected the orientation anomaly, which is where the meeces come in, isn't it?" and Jinks gulped, then said "it is?" with the inflexion adjusted so that it came out as, "it is!" at which TC swept aside the beer glasses, consigning them to the rubbish dump of history and pulling out a large, silver hip-flask, he unscrewed the cap and offered it to Jinks, who took a long draw and felt his head balloon as the alcohol hit his bloodstream, "fifty-year old Laphraoigh, old bean, 100% proof," said TC, taking a swig himself, as Jinks slumped into Goldilocks' rocking chair and began to snore, while the Boss strutted around the yard, tossing ideas, suggestions, plans, fantasies, directions, dreams and utter nonsense into the air, where Pixie and Dixie, fascinated, watched them drift like the mists of time until they evaporated and vanished.