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

On A Shoestring And Make Half A Million Apiece

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 152

Rather 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 154

Cruise 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 155

Mark. 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.