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Burned Bridges

Page 95

So he did not follow up that conversational lead. He was not going to

bare his soul offhand to gratify any woman's curiosity. It would be very

easy to make a blithering ass of himself again--with her--because of

her. Already he was on his guard against that. His pride was alert.

Sophie stowed the canvas tool roll under the seat cushion. She climbed

to her seat behind the steering column and turned to Thompson.

"Which way are you bound?" she asked. "I'll give you a lift, and we can

talk."

"I'm on my way to San Francisco," he said. "But time is no object in my

young life right now, or I'd take the Interurban instead of walking. It

would be demoralizing to me, I'm afraid, to whiz down these roads in a

machine like this."

Sophie shoved the opposite door open.

"Get in," she let a flavor of reproof creep into her tone. "Don't talk

that sort of nonsense."

Thompson hesitated. He was suddenly uncomfortable, conscious of his

dusty clothes somewhat the worse for wear, his shoes from which the

pristine freshness had long vanished, the day-old stubble on his chin.

There was a depressing contrast between his outward condition and that

of the smartly dressed girl whose gray eyes were resting curiously on

him now.

"Do you make a practice of picking up tramps along the road?" he parried

with an effort at lightness. He wanted to refuse outright, yet could not

utter the words. "I'm not very presentable."

"Get in. Don't be silly," she said impatiently. "You don't think I've

become a snob just because chance has pitchforked me into the ranks of

the idle rich, do you?"

Thompson laughed awkwardly. There was real feeling in her tone, as if

she had read correctly his hesitation and resented it. After all, why

not? It would merely be an incident to Sophie Carr, and it would save

him some hot and dusty miles. He got in.

"I'm quite curious to know where you've been and what you've been doing

for the last year," she said, when the red car was once more rolling

toward the city at a sedate pace. "And by the way, where did you learn

to change a tire so smartly?"

"My last job," Thompson told her truthfully, "was washing cars,

greasing up, and changing tires in a country garage down in the San

Juan." He paused for a moment. "Before that I was chaperon to a stable

full of horses on a Salinas ranch. I've tried being a carpenter's

helper, an assistant gardener, understudy to a suburban plumber--and

other things too numerous to mention--in the last three months. I think

the most satisfactory thing I've tackled was the woods up north, last

fall."

"You must have acquired experience, at least, even if none of those

things proved an efficient method of making money," she returned

lightly.

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