startled, recessed eyes seeming to advance and gleam furtively in their sockets.
"Don't you know that Olds has sold four thousand cars this very season?"
"But Olds—Olds." Milton Morris sat forward again, floundering with his arms, as if he also floundered in his mind. "Olds has got the jump on us. Besides, that was just a freak demand. Nobody will ever sell four thousand cars again in any one year."
"Pardon me if I seem to contradict your judgment, Mr. Morris," said George suavely, "but there is a man in Detroit now offering to contract for one thousand cars for spring delivery for the New York City agency alone. I tell you the world is hungry for automobiles. Look at these!" The young man lifted the contracts and fiuttered them with their drafts attached. "Mr. Morris, do you know what you are going to do, you and I?"
Milton Morris had not a notion. Leaning back, rather helpless now, he had a craven feeling that however absurd the proposal, he would accept it.
George was going on: "We're going to build not one hundred and two, but one thousand one hundred and two cars, and have them ready for delivery next season. You build 'em. I sell 'em."
"By Gad, I believe you could sell 'em all
