often he had sat when Milton Morris was in it. His eyes were on the floor. He was thinking, thinking of the character of Milton Morris and the thing that he had built—thinking that today, in every country in the world, men and women were riding about in comfort, enjoying life and the world as they never could have enjoyed it but for this man's work. And this carried the young man's thought into the future—into tomorrow.
As George pondered, there came to him one of those flashes which seem akin to genius. Give him one year of personal attention to engineering problems, and he would develop or discover the designer in his organization who could be trusted to take Milton Morris's place. But in the meantime—well, in the meantime, what was the matter with the Nemo model? Nothing! With a gasp George realized that Milton Morris had lived at least long enough. The Nemo was his masterpiece for another year. It was more than a year ahead of other cars; in some respects car design was attaining standardization, and the Nemo represented standards of which the rest of the motor world was yet to come abreast.
The more George pondered this idea, the more brilliant the conception appeared to him. He saw an opportunity for a master-stroke. He was building ten thousand Nemos this year; he
