ing, he stole in for cap and coat, then, with the newspaper containing the picture and the address of Charlie King's shop tightly in his hand, George climbed over the fence and started on a dogged run for the main trunk artery east and west through the city of Detroit. How George Judson, reasonably conscientious and with a healthy awe of his father's disciplinary hand, could so have abandoned duty was something that neither his fascination by the idea of the self-propelled vehicle nor his hatred of the smell of a horse could account for. He did it—that was all; and at about half after two o'clock that day stood before King's red factory building. At various places on the ground floor forges flamed, lathes turned, and men hammered at anvils or before benches, making a terrible racket and seeming to exult in it; but back in the far corner of this ground floor was a vacant space. Into this George's eyes eventually roved, then peered, then stared, while a lump formed in his throat and a singular thrill went downward to his heels. There stood the shaftless vehicle of the newspaper cut.
To the boy's complete surprise no gaping crowd surrounded it—in his fascinated judgment an almost irreverent neglect, an indifference that was near to blasphemy; but true enough it was that few in that day took any particular interest in the marvel of the horseless
