Have nothing on

“Abe, I 've come down to gather you in,” announced the calmly mendacious detective. He continued to sip his bruilleau with fraternal unconcern. “You got nothing on me, Jim,” protested the other, losing his taste for the delicacies arrayed about him. “Well, we got 'o go down to Headquarters and talk that over,” calmly persisted Blake.

“We’re goin’ to hang you higher ’n’ Haman, you damned kidnappers an’ murderers,” yelled a man in the crowd. “Why don’t you give us a chance?” asked Bridge in an even tone, unaltered by fear or excitement. “You’ve nothing on us. As a matter of fact we are both innocent—” “Oh, shut your damned mouth,” interrupted another of the crowd.

“You’ve nothing on me—don't try bluffing me, Mr. West! You can't do it. […] You know damned well you can't prove anything on me, and I know it too!”

‘But I should like to give you a piece of professional information; and that is, that the law has an ugly name for persons like you, and an uncomfortable remedy for—’ Cradock was quite at his ease again. ‘But you must first catch your hare, my dear Sir Anthony. To employ an expression which I picked up in the United States of America, you have nothing on me.’ ‘For the moment I admit that I have nothing on you—’ ‘So that’s that!’ Cradock turned away lightly, as if to address Mildred.

“Now you have nothing on me, Senator, except my name on lists of names from Iraq, many of which have been drawn up after the installation of your puppet government in Baghdad. If you had any of the letters against me that you had against Zhirinovsky, and even Pasqua, they would have been up there in your slideshow for the members of your committee today.”

I would take an hour in consuming that one cracker. I took the smallest nibbles, never losing a crumb, and chewed the nibble till it became the thinnest and most delectable of pastes. I never voluntarily swallowed this paste. I just tasted it, and went on tasting it, turning it over with my tongue, spreading it on the inside of this cheek, then on the inside of the other cheek, until, at the end, it eluded me and in tiny drops and oozelets, slipped and dribbled down my throat. Horace Fletcher had nothing on me when it came to soda crackers.

“Gad, what a green!” said Mr. Mott, pop-eyed. “Like a billiard-table. We’ve got an English greenskeeper; he’s a wonder. Sleepy Hollow and Pine Valley have nothing on us.”

“And I say unto you, no pious person could gaze down upon that scene without recognizing fully the Bible picture of the Pit of Hell. Believe me, the writers of the New Testament had nothing on us. […]”