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

Been Concluded,  A Contract,  Which Owing To The Fact That

Ingigerd Was A Minor,  Was No More Valid Than The Contract With Webster

And Forster. Samuelson Showed That He Was Informed Of All The Details Of

The Case Of Hahlstroem _Vs._ Webster And Forster. When The Question Of

Their Demands Arose,  He Merely Smiled With An Air Of Great Disdain And

Said:

 

"We Will Quietly Lie Low And Let Them Make The Advance."

 

When Ingigerd And Frederick Were Sitting Alone Together In A Closed Cab

On The Way Home,  He Put His Arms About Her Passionately.

 

"If You Dance On The Stage,  Ingigerd,  I'll Go Out Of My Mind. I Feel As

If You And I And Our Love Would Be Exposed In The Pillory. If It Were I

Instead Of You,  It Would Not Be Half So Hard To Stand."

 

The Poor Young Scholar Began Again To Pour Out Before The Little Vampire

All The Anguish He Had Been Suffering,  This Time With Hot Kisses And

Embraces.

 

"I Am A Drowning Man. If You Do Not Hold Your Hand Out To Me I Shall Sink

Forever. You Are Stronger Than I Am. You Can Save Me. The World Is

Nothing To Me. What I Lost Is Nothing,  Was Nothing And Will Always Be

Nothing To Me,  If Only I Can Exchange It For You. Come With Me,  And You

Shall Be All In All To Me,  The One Thing Of Significance In My Life."

 

"You Are Not Weak," The Girl Whispered With A Dying-Away Look In Her

Eyes. She Breathed Heavily,  Her Narrow Lips Parted,  And That Fatal,

Seductive Smile Spread Over Her Languishing Face,  Like A Mask.

 

"Take Me! Run Away With Me!"

 

For A Time They Were Silent As The Cab Rolled Along Easily On Its Rubber

Tires.

 

"They Can Wait A Long While For You,  Ingigerd," Frederick At Length Said.

"To-Morrow We Shall Be With Peter Schmidt In Meriden."

 

But She Laughed. Yes,  She Laughed At Him,  And Frederick Clearly Saw He

Had Melted Her Body,  Not Her Soul; Or A Soul Was A Thing This Girl Did

Not Possess.

 

The Cab Came To A Halt In Front Of The Club-House. Frederick Seemed To

Have Lost His Speech. Without Saying A Word,  He Escorted Ingigerd To The

Door,  Pressed Her Hand,  And Returned To The Cab. He Chose A Place At

Random,  And Called To The Coachman To Drive Him There.

 

 

Chapter 19 (And The Match That Lit The Fuse) Pg 133

Frederick Crouched In A Corner Of The Cab. In A Passion Of Shame,  He

Called Himself The Vilesk Crou A Lot Of

Stuff. Mind You,  Over There You Hear About A Lot Of Things You Never

See. The Only Thing _I_ Saw Was Children With Their Hands Hacked Off At

The Wrist."                   

 

"Good God," Thompson Uttered. "You Actually Saw That With Your Own

Eyes."

 

"Sure," The Man Responded. "Nine Of 'Em In One Village.

 

"Why,  In The Name Of God,  Would Men Do Such A Thing?" Thompson Demanded.

"Was Any Reason Ever Given?"

 

"No. I Suppose They Were Drunk Or Something. Fritz Was Pretty Bad In

Spots,  All Right. Maybe They Just Wanted To Put The Fear Of God In Their

Hearts. A Pal Of Mine In Flanders Told Me Of A Woman--In A Place They

Took By A Night Raid--She Had Her Breast Slashed Open. She Said A Boche

Officer Did It With His Sword."

 

The Man Spoke Of These Things In A Detached,  Impersonal Manner,  As One

Who States Commonplace Facts. He Had Not Particularly Desired To Speak

Of Them. For Him Those Gruesome Incidents Of War And Invasion Held No

Special Horror. They Might Have Rested Heavily Enough On His Mind Once.

But He Had Come Apparently To Accept Them As The Grim Collateral Of War,

Without Reacting Emotionally To Their Terrible Significance. And When

Thompson Ceased To Question Him He Ceased To Talk.

 

But In Thompson These Calmly Recounted Horrors Worked Profound Distress.

His Imagination Became Immediately Shot With Sinister Pictures. All

These Things Which He Had Read And Doubted,  Which Had Left Him Unmoved,

Now Took On A Terrible Reality. He Could See These Things About Which

The Returned Soldier Spoke,  And Seeing Them Believed. Believing,  There

Rose Within Him A Protest That Choked Him With Its Force As He Sat In

The Cockpit Beside This Veteran Of Flanders.

 

The Man Had Fallen Silent,  Staring Into The Green Depths Overside.

Thompson Sat Silent Beside Him. But There Was In Thompson None Of The

Other's Passivity. Unlike The Returned Soldier,  Who Had Seen Blood And

Death Until He Was Surfeited With It,  Until He Wanted Nothing But Peace

And Quietness,  And A Chance To Rest His Shrapnel-Torn Body And

Shell-Shocked Nerves,  Thompson Quivered With A Swift,  Hot Desire To Kill

And Destroy,  To Inflict Vengeance. He Burned For Reprisal. For A

Passionate Moment He Felt As If He Could Rend With His Bare Hands A Man

Or Men Who Could Wantonly Mutilate Women And Children. He Could Find No

Fit Name For Such Deeds.

 

And,  Responding So Surely To That Unexpected Stimulus,  He Had No

Stomach For Crossing The Inlet As Tommy's Guest,  To View The Scene Of

Chapter 19 (And The Match That Lit The Fuse) Pg 134

Tommy's Industrial Triumph-To-Be. He Wasn't Interested In That Now.

 

Sitting Under The Awning,  Brooding Over These Things,  He Remembered How

Sophie Carr Had Reacted To The Story Of The Belgian Refugee That

Afternoon A Year And A Half Ago. He Understood At Last. He Divined How

Sophie Felt That Day. And He Had Blandly Discounted Those Things. He Had

Gone About His Individual Concerns Insulated Against Any Call To Right

Wrongs,  To Fight Oppression,  To Abolish That Terror Which Loomed Over

Europe--And Which Might Very Well Lay Its Sinister Hand On America,  If

The Germans Were Capable Of These Things,  And If The German's Military

Power Prevailed Over France And England. When He Envisaged Canada As

Another Belgium His Teeth Came Together With A Little Click.

 

He Clambered Out Of The _Alert's_ Cockpit To The Float.

 

"Tell Mr. Ashe I Changed My Mind About Going Over With Him," He Said

Abruptly,  And Walked Off The Float,  Up The Sloping Bank To The Street,

Got In His Car And Drove Away.

 

As He Drove He Felt That He Had Failed To Keep Faith With Something Or

Other. He Felt Bewildered. Those Little Children,  Shorn Of Their

Hands--So That They Could Never Lift A Sword Against Germany--Cried

Aloud To Him. They Held Up Their Bloody Stumps For Him To See.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 20 (And The Bomb The Fuse Fired) Pg 135

It Took Thompson Approximately Forty-Eight Hours To Arrange His Affairs.

He Managed Things With A Precipitancy That Would Have Shocked A Sound,

Practical Business Man,  For He Put Out No Anchors To Windward Nor

Troubled Himself About The Future. He Paid His Bills,  Transferred The

Summit Agency To His Head Salesman--Who Had Amassed Sufficient Capital

To Purchase The Stock Of Cars And Parts At Cost. Thus,  Having

Deliberately Sacrificed A Number Of Sound Assets For The Sake Of Being

Free Of Them Without Delay,  Thompson Found Himself Upon The Morning Of

The Third Day Without A Tie To Bind Him To Vancouver,  And A Cash Balance

Of Twenty Thousand Dollars To His Credit In The Bank.

 

He Did Not Know How,  Or In What Capacity He Was Going To The Front,  But

He Was Going,  And The Manner Of His Going Did Not Concern Him Greatly.

It Mattered Little How He Went,  So Long As He Went In The Service Of His

Country. A Little Of His Haste Was Born Of The Sudden Realization That

He Had A Country Which Needed His Services--And That He Desired To

Serve. It Had Passed An Emotional Phase With Him. He Saw It Very Clearly

As A Duty. He Did Not Foresee Or Anticipate Either Pleasure Or Glory In

The Undertaking. He Had No Illusions About War. It Was Quite On The

Cards That He Might Never Come Back. But He Had To Go.

 

So Then He Had Only To Determine How He Should Go.

Chapter 20 (And The Bomb The Fuse Fired) Pg 136

That Problem,  Which Was Less A Problem Than A Matter Of Making Choice,

Was Solved That Very Day At Luncheon. As He Sat At A Table In A Downtown

Cafe There Came To Him A Figure In Khaki,  Wearing A Short,  Close-Fitting

Jacket With An Odd Emblem On The Left Sleeve--A Young Fellow Who Hailed

Thompson With A Hearty Grip And A Friendly Grin. He Sat Himself In A

Chair Vis-A-Vis,  Laying His Funny,  Wedge-Shaped Cap On The Table.

 

"I've Been Wondering What Had Become Of You,  Jimmie," Thompson Said. "I

See Now. Where Have You Been Keeping Yourself?"

 

"East," The Other Returned Tersely. "Training. Got My Wings. Off To

England Day After To-Morrow. How's Everything With You,  These Days?"

 

Thompson Looked His Man Over Thoroughly. Jimmie Wells Was The Youngest

Of The Four Sons Of A Wealthy Man. The Other Three Were At The Front,

One Of Them Already Taking His Long Rest Under A White,  Wooden Cross

Somewhere In France. Jimmie Looked Brown And Fit. A Momentary Pang Of

Regret Stung Thompson. He Wished He Too Were Standing In Uniform,  Ready

For Overseas.

 

"I've Just Wound Up My Business," He Said. "I'm Going To The Front

Myself,  Jimmie."

 

"Good," Wells Approved. "What Branch?"

 

"I Don't Know Yet," Thompson Replied. "I Made Up My Mind In A Hurry. I'm

Just Setting Out To Find Where I'll Fit In Best."

 

"Why Don't You Try Aviation?" Jimmie Wells Suggested. "You Ought To

Make Good In That. There Are A Lot Of Good Fellows Flying. If You Want

Action,  The R.F.C. Is The Sportiest Lot Of All."

 

"I Might. I Didn't Think Of That," Thompson