Burned Bridges

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.

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.