Burned Bridges, Bertrand W. Sinclair [ready to read books .txt] 📗

Accumulated Four Hundred Dollars. Also He Had Made An

Impression On The Contractor By His Steadiness,  To Such An Extent That

Chapter 9 (The Restless Foot) Pg 80

The Man Offered Him A Hundred And Twenty-Five Dollars A Month To Come

Back And Take Charge Of A Similar Camp In The Spring. But Thompson,  Like

Tommy Ashe,  Had Grown Troubled With The Wandering Foot. The Money In

Hand Gave Him Security Against Want In Strange Places. He Would Not

Promise To Be On Hand In The Spring. Like Tommy,  He Had A Notion To Try

Town,  To See For Himself What Opportunity Town Afforded. And He Pitched

On Vancouver,  Not Alone Because Tommy Ashe Was There,  But Because It Was

The Biggest Port On Canada's Western Coast. He Had Heard Once From

Tommy. He Was A Motor-Car Salesman Now,  And He Was Doing Well. But

Tommy's Letter Was Neither Long Nor Graphic In Its Descriptions. It Left

A Good Deal Of Vancouver To Thompson's Imagination. However,  Like The

Bear That Went Over The Mountain,  Thompson Thought He Would Go And See

What He Could See.

 

Wrangel Lies Well Within The Inside Passage,  That Great Waterway Which

Is Formed Between The Mainland And A Chain Of Islands That Sweeps From

Cape Flattery In The South To The Landward End Of The Aleutians. All The

Steamers That Ply Between Puget Sound And Skagway Take That Route.

Seldom Do The Vessels Plying Between Southern Ports And The Far Beaches

Of Nome Come Inside. They Are Deep-Sea Craft,  Built For Offshore Work.

So That One Taking A Steamer At Wrangel Can Travel In Two Directions

Only,  North To Skagway,  South To Puget Sound.

 

The Booking Facilities At Wrangel Are Primitive,  To Say The Least. When

Thompson Inquired About Southbound Passage,  He Was Told To Go Down And

Board The First Steamer At The Pierhead,  And That It Would Leave At

Eleven That Night. So He Took All His Meager Belongings,  Which He Could

Easily Carry In A Blanket Roll And A Sailor's Ditty-Bag,  And Went Down

Half An Hour Before Sailing Time. There Seemed No One To Bar His

Passage,  And He Passed Up The Gangplank Aboard A Two-Funnelled,

Clean-Decked Steamer,  And Made His Way To A Smoking Room Aft.

 

There Were A Few Men Lounging About,  Men Of The Type He Was Accustomed

To Seeing In Wrangel,  Miners,  Prospectors And The Like,  Clad In

Mackinaws And Heavy Laced Boots. Thompson,  Habitually Diffident,  Asked

No Questions,  Struck Up No Conversations After The Free And Easy Manner

Of The North. He Laid Down His Bag And Roll,  Sat Awhile Listening To The

Shift Of Feet And The Clatter Of Cargo Winches On Deck And Pierhead.

Then,  Growing Drowsy,  He Stretched Himself On A Cushioned Seat With His

Bag For A Pillow And Fell Asleep.

 

He Woke With An Odd Sensation Of His Bed Dropping Out From Under Him.

Coming Out Of A Sound Slumber He Was At First A Trifle Bewildered,  But

Instinctively He Grasped A Stanchion To Keep Himself From Sliding Across

The Floor As The Vessel Took Another Deep Roll. The Smoking Room Was

Deserted. He Gained His Feet And Peered Out Of A Window. All About Him

Ran The Uneasy Heave Of The Sea. Try As He Would His Eyes Could Pick Up

No Dim Shore Line. And It Was Not Particularly Dark,  Only A Dusky Gloom

Spotted With White Patches Where A Comber Reared Up And Broke In Foam.

He Wondered At The Ship's Position. It Did Not Conform To What He Had

Been Told Of The Inside Passage.

 

And While He Was Wondering A Ship's Officer In Uniform Walked Through

The Saloon. He Cast A Quick Glance At Thompson And Smiled Slightly.

 

"This Outside Roll Bother You?" He Inquired Pleasantly.

 

Chapter 9 (The Restless Foot) Pg 81

"Outside?" Thompson Grasped At The Word's Significance. "Are We Going

Down Outside?"

 

"Sure," The Man Responded. "We Always Do."

 

"I Wonder," Thompson Began To Sense What He Had Done,  "I Say--Isn't This

The _Roanoke_ For Seattle?"

 

The Mate's Smile Deepened. "Uh-Uh," He Grinned. "This Is The _Simoon_,

Last Boat Of The Season From Outside Northern Points. We Had To Put Into

Wrangel,  Which We Rarely Do. The _Roanoke_ Berthed Right Across The

Wharf From Us. Got Aboard Us By Mistake,  Did You?"

 

Thompson Nodded.

 

"Well," The Officer Continued,  "Sometimes The Longest Way Round Is The

Shortest Way Home. We Don't Touch This Side The Golden Gate. So You May

As Well See The Purser When He Gets Up And Have Him Assign You A Berth.

It's Pretty Near Daylight Now."

 

He Nodded And Went On. Thompson,  Holding Fast,  Getting His First

Uncomfortable Experience Of The Roll And Recovery Of A Ship In A Beam

Sea,  Made His Way Out On The After Deck. Holding On The Rail He Peered

Over The Troubled Water That Was Running In The Open Mouth Of Dixon

Entrance,  Beyond Which Lay The Vast Breadth Of The Pacific,  An Unbroken

Stretch To The Coast Of Japan.

 

Again Chance Was Playing The Deuce With His Calculations. For A Few

Minutes He Felt Uncommonly Irritated. He Had Not Started For San

Francisco. He Did Not Want To Go To San Francisco. Still--What Was The

Odds? San Francisco Was As Good As Any Other Town. He Shrugged His

Shoulders,  And Feeling His Way To A Coiled Hawser Sat Down In The Bight

Of It To Contend With The First,  Faint Touch Of Seasickness.

 

 

 

Chapter 10 (The World Is Small) Pg 82

For Reasons Of Economy Thompson Put Himself Up At A Cheap Rooming-House

Well Out Market Street. His Window Looked Out Upon That Thoroughfare

Which Is To San Francisco What The Aorta Is To The Arterial System.

Gazing Down From A Height Of Four Stories He Could See A Never-Ending

Stir,  Hear The Roar Of Vehicular Traffic Which Swelled From A Midnight

Murmur To A Deep-Mouthed Roar In The Daylight Hours. And On Either Side

The Traffic Lane There Swept A Stream Of People Like The Current Of The

Stikine River.

 

He Was Not A Stranger To Cities,  No Rustic Gazing Open-Mouthed At

Throngs And Tall Buildings. His Native City Of Toronto Was A Fair-Sized

Place As American And Canadian Cities Go. But It Was Not A Seaport. It

Chapter 10 (The World Is Small) Pg 83

Was Insular Rather Than Cosmopolitan; It Took Its Character From Its

Locale Rather Than From A Population Gathered From The Four Quarters Of

The Globe. San Francisco--Is San Francisco--A Melting-Pot Of Peoples,

Blown Through With Airs From Far Countries,  Not Wholly Rid Of The Aura

Of Drake And The Conquistadores Of Spain Even In These Latter Days Of

Commercial Expansion. And All Of San Francisco's Greatness And Color And

Wealth Is Crowded Upon A Peninsula,  Built Upon Rolling Hills. What The

City Lacks Of Spaciousness Is Compensated By Action. Life Goes At A

Great Pace.

 

It Made A Profound Impression On Thompson,  Since He Had Reached The

Stage Where He Was Keenly Susceptible To External Impressions From Any

Source Whatever. Those Hurrying Multitudes,  That Unending Stir,  The

Kaleidoscopic Shifts Of This Human Antheap Made Him At First Profoundly

Lonely,  Immeasurably Insignificant,  Just As The North Had Made Him Feel

When He Was New To It. But Just As He Had Shaped Himself To That

Environment,  So He Felt--As He Had Not At First Felt In The North--That

In Time,  With Effort,  He Would Become An Integral Part Of This. Here The

Big Game Was Played. It Was The Antithesis Of The North Inasmuch As All

This Activity Had A Purely Human Source And Was Therefore In Some

Measure Akin To Himself. The Barriers To Be Overcome And The Problems To

Be Solved Were Social And Monetary. It Was Less A Case Of Adapting

Himself By Painful Degrees To A Hostile Primitive Environment Than A

Forthright Competitive Struggle To Make Himself A Master In This Sort Of

Environment.

 

How He Should Go About It He Had No Definite Idea. He Would Have To Be

An Opportunist,  He Foresaw. He Had No Illusions About His Funds In Hand

Being A Prime Lever To Success. That Four Hundred Dollars Would Not Last

Forever,  Nor Would It Be Replenished By Any Effort Save His Own. It

Afforded Him A Breathing Spell,  A Chance To Look About,  To Discover

Where And How He Should Begin At The Task Of Proving Himself Upon The

World.

 

He Had No Misgivings About Making A Living. He Could Always Fall Back

On Common Labor. But A Common Laborer Is Socially Of Little Worth,

Financially Of Still Less Value. Thompson Had To Make Money--Using The

Phrase In Its Commonly Accepted Sense. He Subscribed To That Doctrine,

Because He Was Beginning To See That In A World Where Purchasing Power

Is The Prime Requisite A Man Without Money Is The Slave Of Every

Untoward Circumstance. Money Loomed Before Thompson As The Key To

Freedom,  Decent Surroundings,  A Chance To Pursue Knowledge,  To So Shape

His Life That He Could Lend A Hand Or A Dollar To The Less Fortunate.

 

He Still Had Those Stirrings Of Altruism,  A Ready Sympathy,  An Instinct

To Help. Only He Saw Very Clearly That He Could Not Be Of Any Benefit To

Even A Limited Circle Of His Fellow Men When At Every Turn Of His Hand

Economic Pressure Bore So Hard Upon Him As An Individual. He Began To

See That Getting On In The World Called For Complete Concentration Of

His Efforts

Farther Along In Their Newly Acquired Lives. The Ladies Were Feasted From

The Cargo Of Tropical Fruit In The Hold Of The Vessel,  Which Had A

Carrying Capacity Of Some Two Thousand Register Tons. Often The Men For

Ingigerd's Amusement Would Use The Oranges For Playing Ball. The Atlantic

Ocean About The _Hamburg_ Seemed A Very Different Thing From That