e. You seem to know a good deal of what
has gone on in the past."

"Yep, ever since 1852," replied the old man. He had a thick growth of
upstanding hair looking not unlike a rooster's comb, a long and what
threatened eventually to become a Punch-and-Judy chin, a slightly
aquiline nose, high cheek-bones, and hollow, brown-skinned cheeks. His
eyes were as clear and sharp as those of a lynx.

"To tell you the truth, Mr. Laughlin," went on Cowperwood, "what I'm
really out here in Chicago for is to find a man with whom I can go into
partnership in the brokerage business. Now I'm in the banking and
brokerage business myself in the East. I have a firm in Philadelphia
and a seat on both the New York and Philadelphia exchanges. I have
some affairs in Fargo also. Any trade agency can tell you about me.
You have a Board of Trade seat here, and no doubt you do some New York
and Philadelphia exchange business. The new firm, if you would go in
with me, could handle it all direct. I'm a rather strong outside man
myself. I'm thinking of locating permanently in Chicago. What would
you say now to going into business with me? Do you think we could get
along in the same office space?"

Cowperwood had a way, when he wanted to be pleasant, of beating the
fingers of his two hands together, finger for finger, tip for tip. He
also smiled at the same time--or, rather, beamed--his eyes glowing with
a warm, magnetic, seemingly affectionate light.

As it happened, old Peter Laughlin had arrived at that psychological
moment when he was wishing that some such opportunity as this might
appear and be available. He was a lonely man, never having been able
to bring himself to trust his peculiar temperament in the hands of any
woman. As a matter of fact, he had never understood women at all, his
relations being confined to those sad immoralities of the cheapest
character which only money--grudgingly given, at that--could buy. He
lived in three small rooms in West Harrison Street, near Throup, where
he cooked his own meals at times. His one companion was a small
spaniel, simple and affectionate, a she dog, Jennie by name, with whom
he slept. Jennie was a docile, loving companion, waiting for him
patiently by day in his office until he was ready to go home at night.
He talked to this spaniel quite as he would to a human being (even more
intimately, perhaps), taking the dog's glances, tail-waggings, and
general movements for answer. In t