You must remember in this connection that the automobile was a new thing with absolutely no precedent. The makers groped in the dark, and every step cost something. New steels had to be welded; new machinery made; a whole new engineering system had to be created. The model of to-day was in the junk heap to-morrow. But just as curious instinct led the hand of man to the silver heart of the Comstock Lode, so did circumstance, destiny, and invention combine to point the way to the commercially successful car. Out of the wreck, the chaos, and the failure of the struggling days came a cheap and serviceable car that did not require a daily renewal of its parts. It proved to be the pathfinder to motor popularity, for with its appearance, early in this decade, the automobile began to find itself. Now began the "shoe-string" period, the most picturesque in the whole dazzling story of the automobile. There could be no god in the car without gold. Here, then, was the situation--on the one hand was the enthusiastic inventor; on the other was the conservative banker. "We will make four thousand machines this year," said the inventor. "Who will buy them?" asked the banker in amazement; he refused to lend the capital that the inventor so sorely needed. The idea of selling four thousand motor-cars in a year seemed incredible. Yet within ten years they were selling fifty times as many, and were unable to supply the demand. No fabulous gold strike ever had more episodes of quick wealth than this business. Here is an incident that will show what was going on: A Detroit engineer, who had served his apprenticeship in an electric-light plant, evolved a car which he believed would sell for a popular price. He tried to interest capitalists in vain. Finally, he fell in with a stove-manufacturer, who agreed to lend him twenty-seven thousand dollars. "But I can't afford to be identified with your project," said the backer, who feared ridicule for his hardihood. That small investment paid a dividend as high as thirteen hundred per cent. in a year. To-day the name of the struggling inventor is known wherever cars are run, and his output is measured by thousands. This, in substance, is the story of Henry Ford. A young machinist worked in one of the first Detroit automobile factories, earning three dollars and fifty cents a day. One day he said to himself: "I can build a better car than we are making here." He did so, and the car succeeded. Then he went to his employers, and said: "I am worth three thousand dollars a year." They did not think so, and he left, to go into business on his own account. A manufacturer staked him at the start. Later, through a friend, some Wall Street capital was interested. Such was the start of J.D. Maxwell, whose interests to-day are merged in a company with a capitalization of sixteen million dollars.