So, when Andy Dufresne came to me in 1949
and asked me to smuggle Rita Hayworth into the prison for him,
I told him, "No problem."
Andy came to Shawshank Prison in early 1947,
for murdering his wife and the fella she was banging.
On the outside he had been vice-president of a large Portland bank.
Good work for a man as young as he was.
Do you speak English, butt steak?
You follow this officer.
I haven't seen such a sorry-looking heap of m-m-maggot shit in all my life.
Hey, fish! Come over here.
Come on, fish.
Taking bets today, Red?
Smokes or coins? Better's choice.
Smokes. Put me down for two.
All right. Who's your horse?
That little sack of shit...eighth from the front. He'll be first.
Bullshit. I'll take that action. Ea.. Me too.
You're out some smokes, son. Let me tell you.
Heywood, you're so smart, you call it.
I'll take...t-t-the chubby fat-ass there.
The fifth one from the front.
Put me down for a quarter deck.
Fresh fish today! We're reeling them in!
I must admit, I didn't think much of Andy, first time I laid eyes on him.
Looked like a stiff breeze would blow him over.
That was my first impression of the man.
What do you say, Red?
That tall drink of water with the silver spoon up his ass.
That guy? Never happen.
That's a rich bet.
All right. Who's gonna prove me wrong?
Heywood? Jigger? Skeet? Floyd?
Four brave souls.