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 growing stocks upon their shelves and with trained salespeople to dispose of them. But the best, the most assiduous sales person of them all was George Judson himself. Indeed it was as a salesman that his genius manifested itself. George would not be an inventor like Charlie King; he would not be a builder like Henry Ford. But he was already a salesman. He was a marvel at selling things. Being that, he one afternoon sold out his business to the last shoestring—the shining shop, the chain of news-stands, and the two book stores—everything that he owned; and the proceeds put fourteen thousand dollars in the bank. Fourteen!

Now it would not be strange if at this moment George Judson felt a bit cocky, and underneath his prematurely varnished exterior, George was still naïve and human. A little more than twenty-one years old, toughened rather than hardened by his experiences—tempered perhaps is the better word—he straightened his shoulders with this sale of all his business, as if a burden had rolled off, then filled his lungs afresh. He stood upon the threshold of manhood, amply equipped. Before him were two choices. He could go to college and drink in knowledge in long, thirsty draughts with absolutely nothing to distract, or he could launch directly out. He had made up his mind which.

But what he did first was a perfectly natural