Burned Bridges

The fourth man of the party, the lean, suave, enterprising head of a

local trust company, nodded approval, eyeing Tommy with new interest.

"Good business," he commented. "We've got to beat those U-boats."

"Yes," Tommy agreed, "and until the Admiralty devises some effectual

method of coping with them, the only way we can beat the subs is to

build ships faster than they can sink them. It's quite some undertaking,

but it has to be done. If we fail to keep supplies pouring into England

and France. Well--"

He spread his hands in an expressive gesture. Tommy was that type of

Englishman in which rugged health and some generations of breeding and

education have combined to produce what Europe calls a "gentleman." He

was above middle height, very stoutly and squarely built, ruddy

faced--the sort of man one may safely prophesy will acquire a paunch and

double chin with middle age. But Tommy was young and vigorous yet. He

looked very capable, almost aggressive, as he sat there speaking with

the surety of patriotic conviction.

"We're all in it now," he said simply. "It's no longer our army and navy

against their army and navy and the rest of us looking on from the side

lines. It's our complete material resources and man power against their

complete resources and man power. If they win, the world won't be

worth living in, for the Anglo-Saxon. So we've got to beat them. Every

man's job from now on is going to be either fighting or working. We've

got to have ships. I'm organizing that yard to work top-speed. I'm

trying to set a pace. Watch us on the North Shore. The man in the

trenches won't say we didn't back him up."

It sounded well. To Thompson it gave a feeling of dissatisfaction which

was nowise lessened by the momentary gleam in Sophie's eyes as they

rested briefly on Tommy and passed casually to him--and beyond.

He was growing slowly to understand that the war had somehow--in a

fashion beyond his comprehension--bitten deep into Sophie Carr's soul.

She thought about it, if she seldom talked. What was perhaps more vital,

she felt about it with an intensity Thompson could not fathom, because

he had not experienced such feeling himself. He only divined this.

Sophie never paraded either her thoughts or her feelings. And divining

this uneasily he foresaw a shortening of his stature in her eyes by

comparison with Tommy Ashe--who had become a doer, a creator in the

common need, while he remained a gleaner in the field of

self-interest. Thompson rather resented that imputation. Privately he

considered Tommy's speech a trifle grandiloquent. He began to think he

had underestimated Tommy, in more ways than one.

Nor did he fail to wonder at the dry smile that hovered about Sam Carr's

lips until that worthy old gentleman put his hand over his mouth to hide

it, while his shrewd old eyes twinkled with inner amusement. There was

something more than amusement, too. If Wes Thompson had not known that

Sam Carr liked Tommy, rather admired his push and ability to hold his

own in the general scramble, he would have said Carr's smile and eyes

tinged the amusement with something like contempt.