Burned Bridges by Bertrand W. Sinclair (win 10 ebook reader .TXT) 📖
- Author: Bertrand W. Sinclair
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In Two Years."
"How Did They Both Manage To Escape The Draft?" Thompson Asked. "I'm
Sure Ashe Is A Class A Man."
"Huh!" The Broker Snorted. "Necessary Government Undertakings.
Necessary Hell! All They Had To Do With The Shipbuilding Was To Bank
Their Rake-Off. I Tell You, Thompson, This Country Has Supported The War
In Great Style--But There's Been A Lot Of Raw Stuff In Places Where You
Wouldn't Suspect It. I'm Not Knocking, Y' Understand. This Is No Time To
Knock. But When The War's Over, We've Got To Do Some House-Cleaning."
Thompson Called The Shipyard First. In The Glow Of A Sunny September
Morning He Felt That He Must Have Imagined Tommy's Attitude. He Was A
Fair-Minded Man, And He Gave Tommy The Benefit Of The Doubt.
But He Failed To Get In Touch With Tommy. A Voice Informed Him Politely
That Mr. Ashe Had Left Town That Morning And Would Be Gone Several Days.
Thompson Hung Up The Receiver. For At Least Five Minutes He Sat Debating
With Himself. Then He Took It Down Again.
"Give Me Seymour 365l," He Said To Central.
"Hello."
"Is Mr. Carr At Home?"
"You Have The Wrong Number," He Was Answered, And He Heard The
Connection Break.
He Tried Again, And Once More The Same Voice, This Time Impatiently,
Said, "Wrong Number."
"Wait," Thompson Said Quickly. "Is This Seymour 365l, Corner Of Larch
And First?"
"Yes."
"I Beg Pardon For Bothering You. I'm Just Back From Overseas And I'm
Chapter 22 (Thompson's Return) Pg 152Rather Anxious To Locate Mr. Carr--Samuel A. Carr. This Was His Home
Two Years Ago."
"Just A Minute," The Feminine Voice Had Recovered Its Original
Sweetness. "Perhaps I Can Help You. Hold The Line."
Thompson Waited. Presently He Was Being Addressed Again.
"My Husband Believes Mr. Carr Still Owns This Place. We Lease Through An
Agent, However, Lyng And Salmon, Credit Foncier Building. Probably They
Will Be Able To Give You The Required Information."
"Thanks," Thompson Said.
He Found Lyng And Salmon's Number In The Telephone Book. But The Lady
Was Mistaken. Carr Had Sold The Place. Nor Did Lyng And Salmon Know His
Whereabouts.
Tommy Would Know. But Tommy Was Out Of Town. Still There Were Other
Sources Of Information. A Man Like Carr Could Not Make His Home In A
Place No Larger Than Vancouver And Drop Out Of Sight Without A Ripple.
Thompson Stuck Doggedly To The Telephone, Sought Out Numbers And Called
Them Up. In The Course Of An Hour He Was In Possession Of Several Facts.
Sam Carr Was Up The Coast, Operating A Timber And Land Undertaking For
Returned Soldiers. The Precise Location He Could Not Discover, Beyond
The General One Of Toba Inlet.
They Still Maintained A Residence In Town, An Apartment Suite. From The
Caretaker Of That He Learned That Sophie Spent Most Of Her Time With Her
Father, And That Their Coming And Going Was Uncertain And Unheralded.
The Latter Facts Were Purely Incidental, Save One. Tommy Ashe Had That
Morning Cleared The _Alert_ For A Coastwise Voyage.
Sam Carr And Sophie Were Up The Coast. Tommy Was Up The Coast. Thompson
Sat For A Time In Deep Study. Very Well, Then. He, Too, Would Journey Up
The Coast. He Had Not Come Six Thousand Miles To Loaf In A Hotel Lobby
And Wear Out Shoe Leather On Concrete Walks.
Chapter 23 (Fair Winds) Pg 153
Within A Gunshot Of The Heart Of Vancouver Lies A Snug Tidal Basin Where
Yachts Swing To Their Moorings, Where A Mosquito Fleet Of Motor Craft
Lies Along Narrow Slips, With The Green Woods Of Stanley Park For A
Background. Thompson Knew Coal Harbor Well. He Knew The Slips And The
Boats And Many Of The Men Who Owned Them. He Had Gone On Many A Week-End
Chapter 23 (Fair Winds) Pg 154Cruise Out Of That Basin With Young Fellows Who Looked Their Last On The
Sea When They Crossed The English Channel. So He Had Picked Up A Working
Fund Of Nautical Practice, A First-Hand Knowledge Of The Sea And The
Manner Of Handling Small Sail.
From The Granada He Went Straight To Coal Harbor. While The Afternoon
Was Yet Young He Had Chartered A Yawl, A True One-Man Craft, Carrying
Plenty Of Canvas For Her Inches, But Not Too Much. She Had A Small, Snug
Cabin, Was Well-Found As To Gear, And Was Equipped With A Sturdy
Single-Cylinder Gas Engine To Kick Her Along Through Calm And Tideway.
Before Six He Had Her Ready For Sea, His Dunnage Bag Aboard, Grub In The
Lockers, Gas In The Tanks, Clearance From The Customhouse. He Slept
Aboard In A Bunk Softer Than Many A Sleeping Place That Had Fallen To
His Lot In France. And At Sunrise The Outgoing Tide Bore Him Swiftly
Through The Narrows And Spewed Him Out On The Broad Bosom Of The Gulf Of
Georgia, All Ruffled By A Stiff Breeze That Heeled The Little Yawl And
Sent Her Scudding Like A Gray Gull When Thompson Laid Her West, A Half
North, To Clear Roger Curtis Point.
He Blew Through Welcome Pass At Noon On The Forefront Of A Rising Gale,
With The Sun Peeping Furtively Through Cracks In A Gathering Cloudbank.
As The Wind Freshened, The Manes Of The White Horses Curled Higher And
Whiter. Thompson Tied In His Last Reef In The Lee Of A Point Midway Of
The Pass. Once Clear Of It The Marching Surges Lifted The Yawl And Bore
Her Racing Forward, And When The Crest Passed She Would Drop Into A
Green Hollow Like A Bird To Its Nest, To Lift And Race And Sink Deep In
The Trough Again.
But She Made Merry Weather Of It. And Thompson Rode The Tiller, An Eye
To His Sheets, Glorying In His Mastery Of The Sea. It Was Good To Be
There With A Clean Wind Whistling Through Taut Stays, No Sound But The
Ripple Of Water Streaming Under His Lee, And The Swoosh Of Breaking Seas
That Had No Power To Harm Him. Peace Rode With Him. His Body Rested, And
The Tension Left His Nerves Which For Months Had Been Strung Like The
Gut On A Violin.
Between Welcome Pass And Cape Coburn The Southeaster Loosed Its Full
Fury On Him. The Seas Rose Steeper At The Turn Of The Tide, Broke With A
Wicked Curl. He Put The Cape On His Lee After A Wild Fifteen Minutes
Among Dangerous Tiderips, And Then Prudence Drove Him To Shelter.
He Put Into A Bottle-Necked Cove Gained By A Passage Scarce Twenty Feet
Wide Which Opened To A Quiet Lagoon Where No Wind Could Come And Where
The Swell Was Broken Into A Foamy Jumble At The Narrow Entrance.
He Cooked His Supper, Ate, Watched The Sun Drop Behind The Encircling
Rim Of Firs. Then He Lay On A Cushion In The Cockpit Until Dark Came And
The Green Shore Of The Little Bay Grew Dim And Then Black And The Dusky
Water Under The Yawl's Counter Was Split With The Phosphorescent Flashes
Of Darting Fish.
Across A Peninsula, On The Weather Side Of The Cape, He Could Hear The
Seas Thud And The Surf Growl Like The Distant Booming Of Heavy
Batteries. Over His Head The Wind Whistled And Whined In The Firs With A
Whistle And A Whine Like Machine-Gun Bullets That Have Missed Their
Chapter 23 (Fair Winds) Pg 155Mark. But Neither Of These Sounds Held The Menace Of The Sounds Of Which
They Reminded Him. He Listened To Those Diapasons And Thin Trebles And
Was Strangely Soothed. And At Last He Grew Sleepy And Turned In To His
Bunk.
Some Time In The Night He Had A Weird Sort Of Dream. He Was Falling,
Falling Swiftly From A Great Height In The Air. On The Tail Of His Plane
Rode A German, With A Face Like Those Newspaper Caricatures Of The
Kaiser, Who Shot At Him With A Trench Mortar--Boom--Boom--Boom--Boom!
Thompson Found Himself Sitting Up In His Bunk. The Queer Dream Had Given
Place To Reality, In Which The Staccato Explosions Continued. As He Put
His Face To An Open Porthole A Narrow, Searching Ray Of Uncommon
Brilliance Flashed Over His Yawl And Picked Up The Shore Beyond. Back
Of The Searchlight Lifted The Red, Green, And White Triangle Of Running
Lights Laid Dead For Him. It Sheered A Little. The Brilliant Ray Blinked
Out. He Saw A Dim Bulk, A Pale Glimmer Through Cabin Windows, Heard The
Murmur Of Voices And The Rattle Of Anchor Chain Running Through Hawse
Pipe. Then He Closed His Eyes And Slept Again.
He Rose With The Sun. Beside Him Lay A Sturdily Built Motor Tug. A Man
Leaned On The Towing Bitts Aft, Smoking A Pipe, Gazing At The Yawl.
Twenty Feet Would Have Spanned The Distance Between Them.
Thompson Emerged Into The Cockpit. The Air Was Cool And He Was Fully
Dressed. At Sight Of The Uniform With The Insignia On Sleeve And Collar
The Man Straightened Up, Came To Attention, Lifted His Hand Smartly In
The Military Salute--The Formality Tempered By A Friendly Grin. Thompson
Saw Then That The Man Had A Steel Hook Where His Left Hand Should Have
Been. Also A Livid Scar Across His Cheek Where A Bullet Or Shrapnel Had
Plowed.
"It's A Fine Morning After A Wild Night," Thompson Broke The
Conversational Ice.
"It Was A Wild Night Outside And No Mistake," The Man Replied. "We Took
Cover About Midnight--Got Tired Of Plowing Into It, And Wasn't Too Keen
For Wallowing Through Them Rips Off The Cape. Say, Are You Back Long
From Over There?"
"Not Long," Thompson Replied. "I Left England Two Weeks Ago."
"How's It Going?"
"We're Over The Hump," Thompson Told Him. "They're Outgunned Now. The
Americans Are There In Force.
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