odd commingling of mannish gravity and earnestness, which challenged closer observation.
"I am George Judson," announced the visitor, quietly, but with the subtle, though perhaps unintended intimation that it was something to be George Judson. At the same time the young man smiled yet more broadly, thereby revealing rows of even, white, strong teeth.
But Mr. Morris did not wish to be sold anything this afternoon. "What can I do for you, Mr. Judson?" he asked, a trifle brusquely.
Now Mr. Morris, without knowing it of course, had got his question all wrong. He should have inquired, "What can you do for me, Mr. Judson?"
The George Judson standing here was himself a sort of miracle. Comparing him with that straddling adolescent who had gawped at Mr. King's horseless carriage, this young man represented as much the magic of evolution as the transmutation of "a wagon without a horse" into an automobile.
To believe in this miracle one turns back to that day of dreams shattered by a father's broken back and the stubborn resolve of a boy to realize his dreams in spite of obstacles.
It was from that hour that the boy's old-time, happy-go-lucky ways began to fall from him like the tattered pieces of a frayed and failing garment. He straightened his small back under
