I asked but one more question.
"Mr. Ford," I said, "I should think that when a man is very rich he might hardly know, sometimes, whether people are really his friends or whether they are cultivating him because of his money. Isn't that so?"
Mr. Ford's dry grin spread across his face. He replied with a question:
"When people come after you because they want to get something out of you, don't you get their number?"
"I think I do," I answered.
"Well, so do I," said Mr. Ford.
CHAPTER VIII
THE CURIOUS CITY OF BATTLE CREEK
It was on a chilly morning, not much after eight o'clock, that we left Detroit. I recall that, driving trainward, I closed the window of the taxicab; that the marble waiting room of the new station looked uncomfortably half awake, like a sleeper who has kicked the bedclothes off, and that the concrete platform outside was a playground for cold, boisterous gusts of wind.