It could easily have happened that Thompson would have embraced with enthusiasm a future bounded by San Francisco, a future in which he would successfully sell Groya cars until his amassed funds enabled him to expand still further his material success.  If that future embraced a comfortable home, if a mate and affection suggested themselves as possibilities well within his reach, the basis of those tentative yearnings rested upon the need that dwells within every normal human being, and upon what he saw happening now and then to other young men—­and young women—­within the immediate radius of his observation.

But upon this particular May morning his mind was questing far afield.  The prime cause of that mental projection was a letter in his hand, a letter from Tommy Ashe.  Thompson had a lively imagination, tempered by the sort of worldly experience no moderately successful man can escape.  And Tommy’s letter—­the latest in a series of renewed correspondence—­opened up certain desirable eventualities.  The first page of Tommy’s screed was devoted to personal matters.  The rest ran thus: 

Candidly, old man, your description of the contemplated Henderson car makes a hit with me.  The line I handle now is a fair seller.  But fair isn’t good enough for me.  I really need—­in addition—­to have a smaller machine, to supply a pretty numerous class of prospects.  I should like to get hold of just such a car as you describe.  I am feeling around for the agency of a small, good car.  Send me all the dope on this one, and when it will be on the market.  There is a tremendous market here for something like that.  I’d prefer to take up a line with an established reputation behind it.  But the main thing is to have a car that will sell when you push it.  And this listens good.

Aren’t you about due for a vacation?  Why don’t you take a run up here?  I’d enjoy a chin-fest.  The fishing’s good, too—­and we are long on rather striking scenery.  Do come up for a week, when you can get off.  Meantime, by-by.

     Tommy

Thompson laid down the letter and stared out over the roof-tops.  He couldn’t afford to be a philanthropist.  A rather sweeping idea had flashed into his mind as he read that missive.  His horizon was continually expanding.  Money, beyond cavil, was the key to many doors, a necessity if a man’s eyes were fixed upon much that was desirable.  If he could make money selling machines for Groya Motors Inc., why not for himself?  Why not?

The answer seemed too obvious for argument.  The new car which had taken final form in Fred Henderson’s drafting room and in the Groya shop was long past the experimental stage.  All it required was financing and John P. Henderson had attended efficiently to that.  There was a plant rising swiftly across the bay, a modern plant with railway service, big yards, and a testing track, in which six months hence would begin an estimated annual production of ten thousand cars a year.  John P. had remarked once to his son that for the Henderson family to design, produce, manufacture and market successfully a car they could be proud of would be the summit of his ambition.  And the new car was named the Summit.