SOME years slipped along, and a miracle happened to the world. Concerned with that miracle was Milton Morris. He was a man of fifty, with an open but rather serious countenance, with broad brow, with recessed, crow's footed eyes.
Mr. Morris sat in his shirt-sleeves at a flat desk that was large, substantial, and scarred with much usage. It was littered with correspondence, with drawings and much small mechanical junk. The room in which the desk was located, besides some office furniture, was also cumbered with cogs, wheels, pieces of shafting, and parts of gas engines with half-exposed workings. This cluttered office was situated on the ground floor of a rangy, two-story structure of brick and corrugated iron in Franklin Street on a lot reaching back toward the Detroit River. Across the top of this building was a sign in cut-out letters against a screen of wire, somewhat loppy under the impact of winds and years, but which still lifted to the world the words:
Milton Morris—Gas Engines
