Robert Stroud: What the hell is eatin' you?Bull Ransom: Twelve years I've known you, Stroud. Twelve years, sun up and sun down, I've had to look at that frozen mug of yours. And in all that time, never so much as a how-de-do out of you. I try to treat you decent 'cause you got no bed of roses in there. So I put my head on the block and I dummy up about the birds. Did you say, "Thanks, my boy?" Just once you say, "Thanks? Or maybe I just didn't hear you. You're a soft speaker. You... you want a pop bottle? You want a pop bottle? Do I hear maybe, maybe the word "please" someplace? Or could I be goin' deef? "Hand over the... hand over the box," says you. "Hand over the box," like you was the Czar of Russia or somebody. Well, you get this, Bucko. I may be just a uniform to you, but you got no patent on feelings. I'm a man, the same as you, and I wanna be treated like one. So you'd better come up with a few manners with me, or don't even expect the time of day from yours truly!
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