Burned Bridges

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.

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

café 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-à-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."