Cobb assented too, as it suited him to assent. Peter assented to his own theory, looking through his own mirror of experience. They all assented, and reassented, acquiesced, agreed, yielded—to this assertion, time after time.
"Still, I have a fighting chance, like all dogs," soliloquized Monroe.
"Ah, you must win," said Peter, not yet discouraged, like Monroe appeared to be; "I never lost hope."
"But what did you get, Peter?" said Monroe, without a glint that would indicate that he meant a jest; "a woman and ten kids!"
"That's all I wanted," replied Peter, grinning. "Why, you old poltroon, I don't pretend to have ancestry; but I do pretend to have money and gratitude."
"Don't get personal, Peter," said the admonitory Monroe.
"Don't, don't get personal," said the pacifying Cobb.
"Oh, no, Cobb; I do not mean to be personal; but how is the money coming from the dives?" answered Peter, rubbing his hands first, then scratching his ear, then pulling an extra pull on his pipe, then spitting, then squinting, then sneezing as if to give three cheers for his observations on the various subjects up for discussion, in all of which he seemed to have the best of the results.
"Fine!" exclaimed Cobb, with his eyes lighting up. "The police are just rolling it into our coffers."
"I need ten thousand more for Jim Dalls," said Peter, looking gloomy, and ceasing to rub his hands.