"Poor old chap! He wore out too soon!" he found himself murmuring through his tears, and it never for a moment occurred to George that he might have been to blame for this wearing out too soon; that Milton Morris, linked up with him, was like a piece of machinery coupled to an engine that was geared too high for it and that by superior speed would literally run it to pieces.
George arranged everything. As Mr. Morris had trusted him in life, so George was faithful to the last detail in death. After the last sad office was concluded, the young man had himself driven, not home, but to the works. They were empty—only watchmen were about. The great factory, unit on unit, arch on arch, space beyond space, seemed huge and void, itself some vast and lonely tomb. The office seemed most empty of all. Not a typewriter clicked, not an adding machine; not a telephone bell rang.
George made his way into Milton Morris's office. His desk was clear, save for a single, graceful spray of some white flowers; and those few, simple draughting instruments so often in the man's hands as his fingers transferred the designs of his devising brain to paper. Mute but eloquent, they testified of him who had been their master. The swivel chair was pushed up close as emphasizing its emptiness.
George Judson sat down beside this chair, as
