another section from the piece of pipe and made another cylinder. The two-cylinder result was somewhat better, but still the little car jerked along over the ground and did not satisfy him.
He fell back into the old routine—twelve hours at the Edison plant, home to supper and out to the shed to work the evening through on the machine. Mrs. Ford was in charge of the house again, busy keeping it neat and bright, nursing the baby, making his little dresses, washing and ironing, keeping down the grocer's bills.
Meantime other men, with machines no better than Ford's, were starting factories and manufacturing automobiles. Once in a while on his way home from work Ford saw one on the street—a horseless carriage, shining with black enamel, upholstered with deep leather cushions, ornamented with elaborate brass carriage lamps. Usually they were driven by steam engines.
They were a curiosity in Detroit's streets, a luxury which only the very rich might afford.
Crowds gathered to look at them. Ford must have seen them with some bitterness, but apparently he was not greatly discouraged.
"I didn't worry much. I knew I could put my idea through somehow," he says. "I tell you, no matter how things may look, any project that's founded on the idea of the greatest good for the greatest number will win in the end. It's bound to."
He went home, ate the supper Mrs. Ford had
