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Updated: May 18, 2025
"It isn't too big for you, Mr. Ford. It was too big for Colbrith, Magnus, et al. And, besides, you're not going to give it up. You'll drop off in Chicago, hunt up some meat-packer or other Croesus, and land your new railroad independently of the P. S-W."
I'm game," I said, jumping up and entering into the spirit of gaiety that lay so easily on my new acquaintance. "Good boy!" he cried, getting up and holding out his hand. "My name's Horsfal, K. B. Horsfal, lumberman, meat-packer, and the man whose name is on every trouser-suspender worth wearing. What's yours?" "George Bremner," I answered simply.
K. B. Horsfal, millionaire, patentee, lumberman and meat-packer, looked at me, sighed and nodded his head. "After all, my boy," he said, almost sadly, "I shouldn't wonder if that isn't better than all the hellish wealth-hunting that ever was or ever shall be. Stick to your ideals. Try them out if you can. As for me, it's too late.
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