the season was too far advanced; the finished cars might all move, but the unfinished cars—the ones for which parts had been contracted—engines, wheels, axles, and bodies—the carloads of which were pushed daily into the factory yard and checks for which went gayly out from the cashier's desk in a constantly fluttering and dreadfully draining stream—these built but unassembled cars could not be sold.
It was not merely an operation without profits which George Judson faced now. It was a loss—and the only question was, How great a loss? Pale, perspiring, feeling a little touch of dizziness for a moment, George acknowledged to himself the truth. He had been beaten. Actually beaten!
But again he was quick and resolute to act. He had now to confess defeat in the least disguisable way for a manufacturer. He shut down the shop!
This was done so suddenly it was dramatic. He did not shut down next Saturday night. He did not shut down tonight at six o'clock. He shut down now, at 3.40 o'clock in the afternoon. He did not want another piece of material wasted—not another ounce of steel or rubber or aluminum or brass turned into a thing on four wheels that could not be sold at a profit. So he ordered the fires drawn and the power turned off.
