“I am,” was the madcap’s answer.
“Then I think I must be; but, by the beard of the prophet, I have been beyond the grave.”
“Good! Stick to that, Ib, and your fortune is made.”
Ibrahim was indignant at the light way in which his companion spoke, but Max persisted.
“I tell you, Ib, if only you will stick to that, and do as I tell you, we will coin the dollars.”
“That is like you Americans—always thinking of dollars.”
“And why not? Can you get along without dollars?”
“Perhaps not; but why be always thinking about them? I hate the very name of money,” exclaimed Ibrahim, fretfully.
“Do you? Well, I don’t,” answered Max, and continued talking, for he realized that there was no better way to rouse Ibrahim’s dormant faculties than by a good discussion.
“I don’t,” he said—“neither do you. You will go on making shawls in Persia, no matter how many dollars you get. You want to travel—you must have the money or you cannot do it. Say, old chap! did you never imagine that every dollar is coined through some fellow’s think tank being agitated?”