Burned Bridges

"There you are," Carr went on. "Myself, I have put philosophic

consideration in abeyance for the time. I've got primitive again. Damn

the Central Powers! If I had seven sons I'd send them all to the front."

They had another drink.

"Did you go and say good-by to Sophie?" Carr demanded suddenly.

"I saw her, but I don't think I said good-by," Thompson said absently.

He was thinking about Carr's surprising outburst. He agreed precisely

with what the old man said. But he had not suspected the old radical of

such intensity. "I didn't tell her I was going."

"You didn't tell her," Carr persisted. "Why not?"

"For a variety of reasons." He found it hard to assume lightness with

those shrewd old eyes searchingly upon him. "You can tell her good-by

for me. Well, let's have a last one. It'll be a good many moons before

you and I look over a glass at each other again. If I don't come back

I'll be in honorable company. And I'll give them hell while I last."

Carr walked with him down to the train.

"When the war broke out," he said to Thompson at the coach steps, "if

you had proposed to go I should privately have considered you a damned

idealistic fool. Now I envy you. You will never have to make apologies

to yourself for yourself, nor to your fellows. If I strike a blow that a

free people may remain free to work out their destiny in their own

fashion, I must do it by proxy. I wish you all the luck there is, Wes

Thompson. I hope you come back safe to us again."

They shook hands. A voice warned all and sundry that the train was about

to leave, and over the voice rose the strident notes of a gong. Thompson

climbed the steps, passed within, thrust his head through an open window

as the Imperial Limited gathered way. His last glimpse of a familiar

face was of Carr standing bareheaded, looking wistfully after the

gliding coaches.

* * * * * The grandfather clock in the hall was striking nine when Sam Carr came

home. He hung his hat on the hall-tree and passed with rather unsteady

steps into the living room. He moved circumspectly, with the peculiar

caution of the man who knows that he is intoxicated and governs his

movements accordingly. Carr's legs were very drunk and he was aware of

this, but his head was perfectly clear. He managed to negotiate passage

to a seat near his daughter.

Sophie was sitting in a big chair, engulfed therein, one might say. A

reading lamp stood on the table at her elbow. A book lay in her lap. But

she was staring at the wall absently, and beyond a casual glance at her

father she neither moved nor spoke, nor gave any sign of being stirred

out of this profound abstraction.