"Not on your life. What do you think I am?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Molloy acidly. "But, whatever it is, you're the only one of it."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, that is so."
"Now, now, now," said Mr. Molloy, intervening. "Let's not get personal. I can't figure this thing out, Chimpie. I can't see where your kick comes in. You surely aren't suggesting that you should ought to have as much as I and the wife put together?"
"No, I'm not. I'm suggesting I ought to have more."
"What!"
"Sixty-forty's my terms."
A feverish cry rang through the room, a cry that came straight from a suffering heart. The temperamental Mrs. Molloy was very near the point past which a sensitive woman cannot be pushed.
"Every time we get together on one of these jobs," she said, with deep emotion, "we always have this same fuss about the divvying up. Just when everything looks nice and settled you start this thing of trying to hand I and Soapy the nub end of the deal. What's the matter with you that you always want the earth? Be human, why can't you, you poor lump of Camembert."