he morning when he arose, which was
often as early as half past four, or even four--he was a brief
sleeper--he would begin by pulling on his trousers (he seldom bathed
any more except at a down-town barber shop) and talking to Jennie.

"Git up, now, Jinnie," he would say. "It's time to git up. We've got
to make our coffee now and git some breakfast. I can see yuh, lyin'
there, pertendin' to be asleep. Come on, now! You've had sleep enough.
You've been sleepin' as long as I have."

Jennie would be watching him out of the corner of one loving eye, her
tail tap-tapping on the bed, her free ear going up and down.

When he was fully dressed, his face and hands washed, his old string
tie pulled around into a loose and convenient knot, his hair brushed
upward, Jennie would get up and jump demonstratively about, as much as
to say, "You see how prompt I am."

"That's the way," old Laughlin would comment. "Allers last. Yuh never
git up first, do yuh, Jinnie? Allers let yer old man do that, don't
you?"

On bitter days, when the car-wheels squeaked and one's ears and fingers
seemed to be in danger of freezing, old Laughlin, arrayed in a heavy,
dusty greatcoat of ancient vintage and a square hat, would carry Jennie
down-town in a greenish-black bag along with some of his beloved
"sheers" which he was meditating on. Only then could he take Jennie in
the cars. On other days they would walk, for he liked exercise. He
would get to his office as early as seven-thirty or eight, though
business did not usually begin until after nine, and remain until
four-thirty or five, reading the papers or calculating during the hours
when there were no customers. Then he would take Jennie and go for a
walk or to call on some business acquaintance. His home room, the
newspapers, the floor of the exchange, his offices, and the streets
were his only resources. He cared nothing for plays, books, pictures,
music--and for women only in his one-angled, mentally impoverished way.
His limitations were so marked that to a lover of character like
Cowperwood he was fascinating--but Cowperwood only used character. He
never idled over it long artistically.

As Cowperwood suspected, what old Laughlin did not know about Chicago
financial conditions, deals, opportunities, and individuals was
scarcely worth knowing. Being only a trader by instinct, neither an
organizer nor an executive, he had never been able to make any great
constructive use of his