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

Bursts Of Temper. It Was As If He

Had Been Holding Himself In And The Self-Contained Pressure Had Grown

Acute When The Insolent Chauffeur Presented Himself As A Relief Valve.

He Felt A Little Ashamed Now.

 

Sophie Swung The Roadster In To The Curb Before The Express Office.

Thompson Got Out.

 

"Good-By Till This Evening,  Then," He Said. "I'll Be There If The Police

Don't Get Me."

 

"If They Do," She Smiled,  "Telephone And Dad Will Come Down And Bail You

Out. Good-By,  Mr. Thompson."

 

Ten Minutes Or So Later He Emerged From The Express Office With A

Suitcase,  A Canvas Bag,  And A Roll Of Blankets. He Had No False Pride

About People Seeing Him With His Worldly Goods Upon His Back,  So To

Speak,  Wherefore He Crossed The Street And Trudged Half A Block To A

Corner Where He Could Catch A Car That Would Carry Him Out Market To His

Old Rooming Place.

 

And,  Since This Was A Day In Which Events Trod Upon Each Other's Heels

To Reach Him,  It Befell That As He Loitered On The Curb A Gray Touring

Car Rolled Up,  Stopped,  And A Short,  Stout Man Emerging Therefrom

Disappeared Hurriedly Within The Portals Of An Office Building.

Thompson's Gaze Rested Speculatively On The Machine. Gray Cars Were

Common Enough. But Without A Doubt This Was The Same Vehicle. The

Chauffeur In The Peaked Cap Was Not Among Those Present--But Thompson

Could Take Oath On The Other Two. The Young Man Sat Behind The Steering

Wheel.

Chapter 12 (The Reproof Courteous) Pg 99

He,  Too,  It Presently Transpired,  Was Spurred By Recognition. His Roving

Eyes Alighted Upon Thompson With A Reminiscent Gleam. He Edged Over In

His Seat. Thompson Stood Almost At The Front Fender.

 

"I Say," The Man In The Car Addressed Him Bluntly,  "Weren't You In A Red

Roadster Back At Third And Market About Fifteen Or Twenty Minutes Ago?"

 

"I Was," Thompson Admitted.

 

Was He To Be Arrested Forthwith On A Charge Of Assault And Battery?

Policemen Were Plentiful Enough In That Quarter. All One Had To Do Was

Crook His Finger. People Could Not Be Expected To Take Kindly To Having

Their Chauffeur Mauled And Disabled Like That. But Thompson Stood His

Ground Indifferently.

 

"Well,  I Must Say," The Young Man Drawled,  Producing A Cigarette Case As

He Spoke,  "You Squashed Pebbles With Neatness And Despatch,  And Pebbles

Was Supposed To Be Some Scrapper,  Too. What Do You Weigh?"

 

Thompson Laughed Outright. He Had Expected A Complaint,  Perhaps

Prosecution. He Was Handed A Compliment.

 

"I Don't Know," He Smiled. "About A Hundred And Eighty-Five,  I Think."

 

"You Must Be Pretty Fit To Handle A Man Like That," The Other Observed.

"The Beggar Had It Coming,  All Right. He Gets An Overnight Jag,  And Is

Surly All The Next Day. I Was Going To Apologize To The Lady,  But You

Were Too Quick For Me. By The Way,  Are You A Working-Man--Or A

Capitalist In Disguise?"

 

Before Thompson Quite Decided How He Should Answer This Astonishingly

Personal Inquiry,  The Young Man's Companion Strode Out Of The Lobby And

Entered The Car. At Least He Had His Hand On The Open Door And One Foot

On The Running Board. And There He Halted And Turned About At Something

His Son Said--Thompson Assumed They Were Father And Son. The Likeness Of

Feature Was Too Well-Defined To Permit Of Any Lesser Relation.

 

The Older Man Took His Foot Off The Running Board,  And Made A Deliberate

Survey Of Thompson.

 

"Just A Second,  Fred," He Muttered,  And Took A Step Toward Thompson. His

Eyes Traveled Swiftly From Thompson's Face Down Over The Suitcase And

Blanket Roll,  And Came Back To That Deliberate Matching Of Glances.

 

"Do You Happen To Be Looking For A Position That Requires Energy,

Ability,  And A Fair Command Of The English Language?" He Demanded

Abruptly.

 

"Yes," Thompson Answered Briefly.

 

He Wondered What Was Coming. Were They Going To Offer Him The

Chauffeur's Job? Did They Require A Bruiser To Drive The Gray Car?

 

"Know Anything About Motors?"

Chapter 12 (The Reproof Courteous) Pg 100

"Not The First Principles,  Even." Thompson Declared Himself Frankly. He

Did Possess A Little Such Knowledge,  But Held A Little Knowledge To Be A

Dangerous Admission.

 

"So Much The Better," The Stout Man Commented.

 

He Fished Out A Cardcase,  And Handed His Card To Thompson.

 

"Call On Me At Ten O'clock To-Morrow Morning," He Said Briskly. "I'll

Make You A Proposition."

 

He Did Not Permit Inquiry Into His Motive Or Anything Else,  In Fact,  For

He Got Quickly Into The Car And It Started Off Instantly,  Leaving Mr.

Wesley Thompson,  A Little Bewildered By The Rapidity Of These

Proceedings,  Staring At The Card,  Which Read:

 

    John P. Henderson,  Inc.

 

    Van Ness At Potter   Groya Motors

 

A Westbound Street Car Bore Down On The Corner. Thompson Gave Over

Reflecting Upon This Latest Turn Of Affairs,  Gathered Up His Things,

Boarded The Car,  And Was Set Off A Few Minutes Later Near The Globe

Rooms.

 

At Precisely 8 P.M. He Arrived At The Address Sophie Had Given

Him And Found It To Be An Apartment House Covering Half A Block,  An

Enormous Structure Clinging Upon The Slope Which Dips From Nob Hill Down

To The Heart Of The City. An Elevator Shot Him Silently Aloft To The

Fifth Floor. As Silently The Elevator Man Indicated The Location Of

Apartment 509. The Whole Place Seemed Pitched To That Subdued Note,  As

If It Were A Sanctuary From The Clash And Clamor Without Its Walls.

Thompson Walked Down A Hushed Corridor Over A Velvet Carpet That

Muffled His Footfalls And So Came At Last To The Proper Door,  Where He

Pressed A Black Button In The Center Of A Brass Plate. The Door Opened

Almost Upon The Instant. A Maid Eyed Him Interrogatively. He Mentioned

His Name.

 

"Oh Yes," The Maid Answered. "This Way,  Please."

 

She Relieved Him Of His Hat And Led Him Down A Short,  Dusky Hall Into A

Bright-Windowed Room,  In Which,  From The Depths Of Two Capacious Leather

Chairs,  Sophie And Her Father Rose To Greet Him.

 

 

Chapter 13 ( Mr. Henderson's Proposition) Pg 101

Late That Evening Thompson Walked Into His Room At The Globe. He Seated

Himself In A Rickety Chair Under A Fly-Specked Incandescent Lamp,  Beside

A Bed That Was Clean And Comfortable If Neither Stylish Nor Massive.

Over Against The Opposite Wall Stood A Dresser Which Had Suffered At The

Hands Of Many Lodgers. Altogether It Was A Cheap And Cheerless Abode,  A

Place Where A Man Was Protected From The Weather,  Where He Could Lie

Down And Sleep. That Was All.

 

Thompson Smiled Sardonically. With Hands Clasped Behind His Head He

Surveyed The Room Deliberately,  And The Survey Failed To Please Him.

 

"Hell," He Exploded Suddenly. "I'd Ten Times Rather Be Out In The Woods

With A Tent Than Have To Live Like This--Always."

 

He Had Spent A Pleasant Three Hours In Surroundings That Approximated

Luxutter Empties His First Glass On The Table-Cloth,

We'll Soon Be Lying Stretched Out Under The Table."

 

The Cook Had Seated Himself Decorously And Was Holding The Mandolin In

Position. With His Cap Of White Linen And His White Linen Jacket And

Apron,  He Cut A Droll Figure Among Those Correctly Dressed Young Men.

Willy Snyders Poured Some _Vino Nero_ For Him Into A Tumbler,  And He

Struck A Few Notes By Way Of Prelude,  Though Hesitating To Interrupt

Franck And Begin. He Kept His Face,  Glowing From The Kitchen Fire,  Turned

Toward Franck With An Expression Of Courteous Waiting And Politely

Besought Him In Italian To Keep On Singing. Finally,  Since Franck,

Instead Of Answering,  Arose,  Gave Him A Comically Commanding Look,  And

Waved His Fork Like A Baton,  He Began,  Striking Up An Accompaniment

With A Catching Rhythm,  Which Titillated His Auditors' Nerves. He Was An

Excellent Singer And A Master-Hand At Playing The Mandolin. He Gave Those

Well-Known Street-Ballads Which One Hears Everywhere In Italy,  Especially

In Naples: "_Addio Mia Bella Napoli_," "_Funiculi Funicula_," "_L'altro

Ieri A Piedigrotta_," "_Margherita Di Parete Era Sarta Delle Signore_,"

And Also More Serious Songs,  Such As The Languishing "_Ogni Sera Di

Sotto All' Mio Balcone Sento Cantar Una Canzon D' Amore_."

 

The Cook's Melodies Undoubtedly Charmed Back His Home To Him,  Though

In Colours Less Glorious And Alluring To Himself,  Perhaps,  Than To The

Artists,  Whether They Had Been In Italy Or Not. Frederick Leaned His Head

Back And Closed His Eyes. The Dining-Room Was Filled With The Fumes Of

Cigars And Cigarettes,  And The Electric Bulbs Shone As In A Mist.

Frederick's Thoughts Carried Him Far,  Far Away. His Arm Hung At His Side

Limply,  While A Simon Arzt Cigarette Burned To A Stump Between His

Fingers--Throughout His Adventures,  His Silver Cigarette Case Had

Remained Safe In His Pocket.

 

Before His Inner Vision Rose The Coasts And Blue Gulfs Of Italy,  The

Brown Doric Temples Of Paestum And The Cliffs Of Amalfi,  Sorrento,  And

Capri. He Was Standing On The Posilipo. He Was With Doctor Dorn In The

Loggia Of The Zoologic Station For Deep-Sea Researches,  Which Hans Von

Marees Had Decorated. In Rome,  Frederick Had Sat Over Many A Bottle Of

Wine With Hans Von Marees And Otto,  Who Died While Working On The Luther

Memorial In Berlin. He Saw Himself In The Famous Est Est Cafe In Rome,

Or Visiting The Malaria Patients In The Hospital On The Capitol,  Or

Chapter 13 ( Mr. Henderson's Proposition) Pg 102

Promenading In The Sunshine On Monte Pincio With A Deaf And Dumb

Sculptor,  With Whom He Then Went To An Afternoon Concert. He Had Laughed

Because The Artist Explained That He Did Not Hear The Music With His

Ears,  But Felt It,  Or Rather Felt The Drum Alone,  In His Belly.

 

In That Period Of His Life,  Frederick Had Been Undergoing A Crisis. But

A Little More And His