If a soft answer did not turn away wrath, I might respond that Amos is a blabberlips, a buttercup changling wrought by the pixie dust of Southern California, clap't out from the lues of all the sordid taverns of the Pacific isles, his brainpan softened by the gentle taps of too many saps in too many Shanghai dives, but I shall answer softly and simply remonstrate gently with him.