"I said you THOUGHT so.

And now here he is,--look at him.

Does he look like Scrooge or Shylock or some old skinflint who--" here he faced Cohen, his eyes brimming with merriment--"What are we going to do with this blasphemer, Isaac?
Shall we boil him in oil as they did that old sixteenth-century saint you were telling me about the other night, or shall we-- ?" The little tailor threw out his hands--each finger an exclamation point--and laughed heartily, cutting short Peter's tirade.
"No--no--we do none of these dreadful things to Mr.Breen; he is too good to be a saint," and he patted Jack's knees--"and then again it is only the truth.

Mr.Breen is quite right; we are a race of money-getters, and we are also the world's pawnbrokers and will always be.

Sometimes we make a loan on a watch or a wedding ring to keep some poor soul from starving; sometimes it is a railroad to give a millionaire a yacht, or help buy his wife a string of pearls.