have nothing on someone

“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.

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.