Burned Bridges

That sounded rather cynical and Thompson said so. Carr laughed genially.

One couldn't escape obvious conclusions, he declared. Perhaps youth and

enthusiasm saw it differently.

Thompson, through sleep-heavy eyes, saw Carr hold a glass of port wine,

glowing like a ruby, up between himself and the light and sip it slowly.

Carr was partial to that wine. Wonder if the old chap didn't get

properly lit up sometimes? He looked as if--well, as if he enjoyed easy

living--easy drinking. There was brandy and soda and a bottle of Scotch

on the sideboard too.--And Sophie was beautiful. All the little

feminine artifices of civilization accentuated the charm that had been

potent enough in the woods. Silk instead of gingham. Dainty shoes

instead of buckskin moccasins.--What an Aladdin's lamp money was,

anyway. Funny that they had settled upon Vancouver for a home. Tommy was

there too. Of course. Should a fellow stick to his hunch? Vancouver

might give birth to an opportunity. Profitable undertakings.--At any

rate he would see her now and then. But would he--working? Did he want

to? Would a cat continue to stare at a king if the king's crown rather

dazzled the cat's eyes? Suppose--just suppose-Thompson sat up in bed with a start. It seemed to him that he had just

lain down, that the train of his thought was still racing. But it was

broad day, a dull morning, gloomy with that high fog which in spring

often rides over the city and the bay till near noon.

He stretched his arms, yawning. All at once he recollected that he had

something to do, a call to make upon Mr. John P. Henderson at ten

o'clock. Groya Motors--he wondered what significance that held. At any

rate he proposed to see.

It lacked just forty minutes of the appointed time. Thompson bounced out

of bed. Within twenty minutes he had swallowed a cup of coffee at a

near-by lunch counter and was on his way up Van Ness.

The corner of Van Ness and Potter revealed a six-story concrete

building, its plate-glass frontage upon the sidewalk displaying three or

four beautifully finished automobiles upon a polished oak floor. The

sign across the front bore the heraldry of the card. He walked in,

accosted the first man he saw, and was waved to a flight of stairs

reaching a mezzanine floor. Gaining that he discovered in a short

corridor a door bearing upon its name-plate the legend: Mr. John P. Henderson.

Private.

Thompson looked at his watch. It lacked but two minutes of ten. He

knocked, and a voice bade him enter. He found himself face to face with

the master of the gray car. Mr. John P. Henderson looked more imposing

behind a mahogany desk than he did on the street. He had a heavy jaw and

a forehead-crinkling way of looking at a man. And--although Thompson

knew nothing of the fact and at the moment would not have cared a

whoop--John P. was just about the biggest toad in San Francisco's

automobile puddle. He had started in business on little but his nerve

and made himself a fortune. It was being whispered along the Row that

John P. was organizing to manufacture cars as well as sell them--and

that was a long look ahead for the Pacific coast.