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 never grew large because he was more interested in building machines than in selling them. It was because he was a builder that he added automobiles at all. An automobile was several times more complicated than a gas engine; it challenged his building instinct. The result was a little spawn of automobiles, each an almost individual product—a more costly car, but a better car, than most of its early rivals in that city.

But because he was not a salesman, these better cars stood neglected on his floors, and because they stood so neglected Milton Morris sat at his desk and frowned. Yet it was perfectly characteristic that while he frowned, what his mind worked at was not a problem in salesmanship, but an idea half sketched out before him, an idea for taking the controls for his car off the dashboard and running them up through the center of the steering shaft, which would therefore have to be made hollow.

Peering over steel-framed glasses with peculiar flat tops constructed to make peering over easy, he became aware of a young man in a blue serge suit and a straw hat, slightly over the medium height, with dark but luminous eyes, an olive skin, an arching chest, sturdy shoulders, and a combined air of solidity, energy, and smiling aggression about him. Along with buoyant youthfulness, the stranger displayed an