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

Penny. The Contracts Are On A Basis Of Cost,  Plus Chapter 18 ( The Fuse) Pg 128

Ten Per Cent. You See? If We Go Above Or Under The Estimate It Doesn't

Matter Much. Our Profit Is Fixed. The Main Consideration Is Speed. The

Only Thing We Can Be Penalized For Is Failure To Launch And Deliver

Within Specified Dates."

 

Thompson Did A Rough Bit Of Mental Figuring.

 

"I Should Say It Was A Cinch," He Said Dryly. "Nobody Can Accuse You Of

Profiteering. Yet Your Undertaking Is Both Patriotic And Profitable. I

Suppose You Had No Trouble Financing A Thing Like That?"

 

"I Should Say Not. The Banks," Tommy Replied With Cynical Emphasis,

"Would Fall Over Themselves To Get Their Finger In Our Pie. But They

Won't. Hedley And I Have Some Money. Sam Carr Is Letting Us Have Fifty

Thousand Dollars At Seven Per Cent. No Bank Is Going To Charge Like The

Old Guard At Waterloo On Overdrafts And Advances--And Dictate To Us

Besides. I'm Too Wise For That. I'm Not In The Game For My Health. I See

A Big Lump Of Money,  And I'm After It."

 

"I Suppose We All Are," Thompson Reflected Absently.

 

"Certainly," Tommy Responded Promptly. "And We'd Be Suckers If We

Weren't."

 

He Took A Puff Or Two At His Cigar And Rose.

 

"Run Over To The Plant On The North Shore With Me To-Morrow If You Have

The Time. We'll Give It The Once Over,  And Take A Look At The Wallace

Yard Too. They're Starting On Steel Tramps There Now. I'm Going Over

About Two O'clock. Will You?"

 

"Sure. I'll Take Time," Thompson Agreed.

 

"Come Down To Macfee's Wharf And Go Over With Me On The _Alert_," Tommy

Went On. "That's The Quickest And Easiest Way To Cross The Inlet. Two

O'clock. Well,  I'm Off To Bed. Good Night,  Old Man."

 

"Good Night."

 

The Hall Door Clicked Behind Ashe. Thompson Sat Deep In Thought For A

Long Time. Then He Fished A Note Pad Out Of A Drawer And Began

Pencilling Figures.

 

Ten Times Three Hundred Thousand Was Three Million. Ten Per Cent. On

Three Million Was Three Hundred Thousand Dollars. And No Chance To Lose.

The Ten Per Cent. On Construction Cost Was Guaranteed By The Imperial

Munitions Board,  Behind Which Stood The British Empire.

 

Didn't Tommy Say The Ten Schooners Were To Be Completed In Eight Months?

Then In Eight Months Tommy Ashe Was Going To Be Approximately One

Hundred And Fifty Thousand Dollars Richer.

 

Thompson Wondered If That Was Why Sam Carr Looked At Tommy With That

Ambiguous Expression When Tommy Was Chanting His Work Or Fight

Philosophy. Carr Knew The Ins And Outs Of The Deal If He Were Loaning

Money On It.

 

And Thompson Did Not Like To Think He Had Read Carr's Look Aright,

Chapter 18 ( The Fuse) Pg 129

Because He Was Uncomfortably Aware That He,  Wes Thompson,  Was Following

Pretty Much In Ashe's Footsteps,  Only On A Smaller Scale.

 

He Tore The Figured Sheet Into Little Strips,  And Went To Bed.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 19 (And The Match That Lit The Fuse) Pg 130

At A Minute Or Two Of Ten The Next Morning Thompson Stopped His Car

Before The Canadian Bank Of Commerce. The Bolt-Studded Doors Were Still

Closed,  And So He Kept His Seat Behind The Steering Column,  Glancing

Idly Along Hastings At The Traffic That Flowed About The Gray Stone Pile

Of The Post-Office,  While He Waited The Bank's Opening For Business.

 

A Tall Young Man,  A Bit Paler-Faced Perhaps Than A Normal Young Fellow

Should Be,  But Otherwise A Fine-Looking Specimen Of Manhood,  Sauntered

Slowly Around The Corner Of The Bank,  And Came To A Stop On The Curb

Just Abreast The Fore End Of Thompson's Motor. He Took Out A Cigarette

And Lighted It With Slow,  Deliberate Motions. And As He Stood There,

Gazing With A Detached Impersonal Air At The Front Of The Summit

Roadster,  There Approached Him A Recruiting Sergeant.

 

"How About Joining Up This Morning?" He Inquired Briskly.

 

"Oh,  I Don't Know," The Young Man Responded Casually. "I Hadn't Thought

About It."

 

"Every Man Should Be Thinking About It," The Sergeant Declared. "The

Army Needs Men. Now A Well-Set-Up Young Fellow Like You Would Get On

Capitally At Soldiering. It's A Great Life. When We Get The Germans

Whipped Every Man Will Be Proud To Say He Had A Hand In It. If A Man

Struck You You Wouldn't Stand Back And Let Some Other Fellow Do Your

Fighting For You,  Now Would You? More Than That,  Between You And Me,  It

Won't Be Long Before An Able-Bodied Man Can't Walk These Streets In

Civvies,  Without The Girls Hooting Him. It's A Man's Duty To Get Into

This War. Better Walk Along With Me To Headquarters And Sign On."

 

The Young Man Gazed Across The Street With The Same Immobility Of

Expression.

 

"What's The Inducement?" He Asked Presently.

 

The Sergeant,  Taking His Cue From This,  Launched Forth Upon A Glowing

Description Of Army Life,  The Pay,  The Glory,  The Manifold Advantages

That Would Certainly Accrue. He Painted A Rosy Picture,  A Gallant

Picture. One Gathered From His Talk That A Private In Khaki Was Greater

Than A Captain Of Industry In Civilian Clothes. He Dwelt Upon The

Brotherhood,  The Democracy Of Arms. He Spilled Forth A Lot Of The

Chapter 19 (And The Match That Lit The Fuse) Pg 131

Buncombe That Is Swallowed By Those Who Do Not Know From Bitter

Experience That War,  At Best,  Is A Ghastly Job In Its Modern Phases,  A

Thing That The Common Man May Be Constrained To Undertake If Need

Arises,  But Which Brings Him Little Pleasure And Less Glory--Beyond The

Consciousness That He Has Played His Part As A Man Should.

 

The Young Man Heard The Recruiting Sergeant To An End. And When That

Worthy Had Finished He Found Fixed Steadily Upon Him A Pair Of Coldly

Speculative Gray-Green Eyes.

 

"How Long Have You Been In The Army?" He Asked.

 

"About Eighteen Months," The Sergeant Stated.

 

"Have You Been Over There?"

 

"No," The Sergeant Admitted. "I Expect To Go Soon,  But For The Present

I'm Detailed To Recruiting."

 

The Young Man Had A Flower In The Lapel Of His Coat. He Removed It,  The

Flower,  And Thrust The Lapel In The Sergeant's Face. The Flower Had

Concealed A Bronze Button.

 

"I've Been Over There," The Young Man Said Calmly. "There's My Button,

And My Discharge Is In My Pocket--With The Names Of Places On It That

You'll Likely Never See. I Was In The Princess Pats--You Know What

Happened To The Pats. You Have Hinted I Was A Slacker,  That Every Man

Not In Uniform Is A Slacker. Let Me Tell You Something. I Know Your

Gabby Kind. The Country's Full Of Such As You. So's England. The War's

Gone Two Years And You're Still Here,  Going Around Telling Other Men To

Go To The Front. Go There Yourself,  And Get A Taste Of It. When You've

Put In Fourteen Months Iity. "You Make Entirely Too Much Of

It." He Looked Frederick Straight In The Face In A Peculiar Way With A

Significant Expression In His Large Round Eyes. Then He Continued: "For

An Engagement Of Twenty Evenings In Cities To Be Decided Upon,  I Offer

You One Hundred And Fifty Dollars More Per Evening Than Anybody Else Has

Yet Offered You,  The Engagement To Begin Inside Of Four Days. If You Are

Agreed,  We Can Go To The Lawyer This Minute."

 

Within Less Than Half An Hour Frederick And Ingigerd Were Standing In A

Huge Elevator,  Which Was To Take Them To The Fifth Floor Of A New York

City Office Building. Ingigerd Was The Only Woman In The Elevator,  And It

Pleased Her That For Her Sake The Nineteen Gentlemen In The Car Held

Their Hats In Their Hands.

 

"If You Have Never Before Seen Such A Thing," Lilienfeld Said To

Frederick,  "The Offices Of A Big American Lawyer Will Astonish You. This

Is A Law Firm,  Two Partners,  Brown And Samuelson; But Brown's A

Nincompoop And Samuelson Is The Whole Thing."

 

The Offices Of The Famous New York Lawyer,  Samuelson,  Were Partitioned

Off With Wood And Ground Glass From An Immense Hall,  A Writing Factory,

In Which There Was A Horde Of Assistants Working Typewriters. Samuelson

Made The Impression Of A Man Of Nearly Forty. He Was Not Very Tall,  Had A

Bad,  Pallid Complexion,  And Wore A Short,  Pointed Beard. The Clothes Of

Chapter 19 (And The Match That Lit The Fuse) Pg 132

This Man,  Whose Share Of The Firm's Income Was Estimated At Three Hundred

Thousand Dollars A Year,  Though Of The Correct Cut,  Were By No Means New;

In Fact,  They Were Rather Shabby,  And His Entire Appearance Suggested

That He Was Scarcely A Model Of American Cleanliness. He Spoke In A Very

Low,  Thick Voice,  As If Suffering From A Sore Throat.

 

Within Less Than Fifteen Minutes,  The Contract Between Lilienfeld And

Ingigerd Had