Burned Bridges by Bertrand W. Sinclair (bearly read books txt) 📕

Fluke. It Seemed To Him He Was Getting An Entirely

Disproportionate Reward For Mauling An Insolent Chauffeur. That Moved

Him To Wonder What Became Of Pebbles. He Felt Sorry For Pebbles. The Man

Had Probably Lost His Job For Good Measure. Poor Devil!

 

As He Walked His Thought Short-Circuited To Sophie Carr. Whereat He

Turned Into A Drugstore Containing A Telephone Booth And Rang Her Up.

 

Sophie Herself Answered.

 

"I Guess My Saying Good-By Last Night Was A Little Premature," He Told

Her. "I'm Not Going North After All. In Fact,  If Things Go On All Right

I May Be In San Francisco Indefinitely. I've Got A Job."

 

"What Sort Of A Job?" Sophie Inquired.

 

Chapter 13 ( Mr. Henderson's Proposition) Pg 106

He Hadn't Told Her About The Ten O'clock Appointment With Henderson. Nor

Did He Go Into That Now.

 

"I've Been Taken On In An Automobile Plant On Van Ness," He Said. "A

Streak Of Real Luck. I'm To Have A Chance To Learn The Business. So I

Won't See You In Vancouver. Remember Me To Tommy. I Suppose You'll Be

Busy Getting Ready To Go,  So I'll Wish You A Pleasant Voyage."

 

"Thanks," She Answered. "Wouldn't It Be More Appropriate If You Wished

That On Us In Person Before We Sail?"

 

"I Don't Know," He Mumbled. "I--"

 

A Perfectly Mad Impulse Seized Him.

 

"Sophie," He Said Sharply Into The Receiver.

 

"Yes."

 

He Heard The Quick Intake Of Her Breath At The Other End,  Almost A Gasp.

And The Single Word Was Slightly Uncertain.

 

"What Did You Mean By A Man Standing On His Own Feet?"

 

She Did Not Apparently Have A Ready Answer. He Pictured Her,  Receiver In

Hand,  And He Did Not Know If She Were Startled,  Or Surprised--Or Merely

Amused. That Last Was Intolerable. And Suddenly He Felt Like A Fool.

Before That Soft,  Sweet Voice Could Lead Him Into Further Masculine

Folly He Hung Up And Walked Out Of The Booth. For The Next Twenty

Minutes His Opinion Of John P. Henderson's Judgment Of Men Was Rather

Low. He Did Not Feel Himself To Be An Individual With Any Force Of

Character. In Homely Language He Said To Himself That He,  Wesley

Thompson,  Was Nothing But A Pot Of Mush.

 

However,  There In The Offing Loomed The Job. He Turned Into The First

Clothing Store He Found,  And Purchased One Of Those All-Covering Duck

Garments Affected By Motor-Car Workers. By That Time He Had Recovered

Sufficiently To Note That An Emotional Disturbance Does Not Always

Destroy A Man's Appetite For Food.

 

 

Chapter 14 ( A Widening Horizon) Pg 107

This Is Not A History Of The Motor Car Business,  Nor Even Of The

Successive Steps Wes Thompson Took To Win Competent Knowledge Of That

Beanstalk Among Modern Industries. If It Were There Might Be Sound

Reasons For Recounting The Details Of His Tutelage Under Fred Henderson.

No Man Ever Won Success Without Knowing Pretty Well What He Was About.

No One Is Born With A Workable Fund Of Knowledge. It Must Be Acquired.

Chapter 14 ( A Widening Horizon) Pg 108

That,  Precisely,  Is What Thompson Set Out To Do In The Groya Shop. In

Which Purpose He Was Aided,  Abetted,  And Diligently Coached By Fred

Henderson. The Measure Of Thompson's Success In This Endeavor May Be

Gauged By What Young Henderson Said Casually To His Father On A Day Some

Six Months Later.

 

"Thompson Soaks Up Mechanical Theory And Practice As A Dry Sponge Soaks

Up Water."

 

"Wasted Talent," John P. Rumbled. "I Suppose You'll Have Him A Wild-Eyed

Designer Before You're Through."

 

"No," Henderson Junior Observed Thoughtfully. "He'll Never Design. But

He Will Know Design When He Sees It. Thompson Is Learning For A Definite

Purpose--To Sell Cars--To Make Money. Knowing Motor Cars Thoroughly Is

Incidental To His Main Object."

 

John P. Cocked His Ears.

 

"Yes," He Said. "That So? Better Send That Young Man Up To Me,  Fred."

 

"I've Been Expecting That," Young Henderson Replied. "He's Ripe. I Wish

You Hadn't Put That Sales Bug In His Ear To Start With. He'd Make Just

The Man I Need For An Understudy When We Get That Oakland Plant Going."

 

"Tush," Henderson Snorted Inelegantly. "Salesmen Are Born,  Not Made--The

Real High-Grade Ones. And The Factories Are Turning Out Mechanical

Experts By The Gross."

 

"I Know That," His Son Grinned. "But I Like Thompson. He Gives You The

Feeling That You Can Absolutely Rely On Him."

 

"Send Him Up To Me," John P. Repeated--And When John P. Issued A Fiat

Like That,  Even His Son Did Not Dispute It.

 

And Thompson Was Duly Sent Up. He Did Not Go Back To The Shop On The Top

Floor Where For Six Months He Had Been An Eager Student,  Where He Had

Learned Something Of The Labor Of Creation--For Fred Henderson Was

Evolving A New Car,  A Model That Should Have Embodied In It Power And

Looks And Comfort At The Minimum Of Cost. And In Pursuance Of That Ideal

He Built And Discarded,  Redesigned And Rebuilt,  Putting His Motors To

The Acid Test On The Block And His Assembled Chassis On The Road.

Indeed,  Many A Wild Ride He And Thompson Had Taken Together On Quiet

Highways Outside Of San Francisco During That Testing Process.

 

No,  Thompson Never Went Back To That After His Interview With John P.

Henderson. He Was Sorry,  In A Way. He Liked The Work. It Was Fascinating

To Put Shafting And Gears And A Motor And A Set Of Insentient Wheels

Together And Make The Assembled Whole A Thing Of Pulsing Power That

Leaped Under The Touch Of A Finger. But--A Good Salesman Made Thousands

Where A Good Mechanic Made Hundreds. And Money Was The Indispensable

Factor--To Such As He,  Who Had None.

 

Fred Henderson Had The Satisfaction Of Seeing His Theory Verified.

Thompson Made Good From The Start. In Three Months His Sales Were Second

In Volume Only To Monk White,  Who Was John P.'S One Best Bet In The

Selling Line. Henderson Chuckled Afresh Over This Verification Of His

Chapter 14 ( A Widening Horizon) Pg 109

Original Estimate Of A Man,  And Fred Henderson Smiled And Said Nothing.

From Either Man's Standpoint Wes Thompson Was A Credit To The House. An

Asset,  Besides,  Of Reckonable Value In Cold Cash.

 

"New Blood Counts," John P. Rumbled In Confidence To His Son. "Keeps Us

From Going Stale,  Fred."

 

When A Twelvemonth Had Elapsed From The Day Sophie Carr's Red Roadster

Blew A Tire On The San Mateo Road And Set Up That Sequence Of Events

Which Had Landed Him Where He Was,  Thompson Had Left His Hall Bedroom At

The Globe For Quarters In A Decent Bachelor Apartment. He Had A

Well-Stocked Wardrobe,  A Dozen Shelves Of Miscellaneous Books,  And Three

Thousand Dollars In The Bank. Considering His Prospects He Should Have

Been A Fairly Sanguine And Well-Contented Young Man.

 

As A Matter Of Fact He Had Become So,  Within Certain Limits. A Man Whose

Time Is Continuously And Profitably Occupied Does Not Brood. Thompson

Had Found A Personal Satisfaction In Living Up To John P. Henderson's

First Judgment Of Him. Through Fred Henderson And Through His Business

Activities He Had Formed A Little Group Of Pleasant Acquaintances.

Sophie Carr Was Growing Shadowy--A Shadow That Sometimes Laid Upon Him

Certain Regrets,  It Is True,  But The Mere Memory Of Her No Longer

Produced The Old Overpowering Reactions,  The Sense Of Sorry Failure,  Of

A Dear Treasure Lost Because He Lacked A Man's Full Stature In All But

Physical Bulk.

 

It Could Easily Have Happened That Thompson Would Have Embraced With

Enthusiasm A Future Bounded By San Francisco,  A Future In Which He Would

Successfully Sell Groya Cars Until His Amassed Funds Enabled Him To

Expand Still Further His Material Success. If That Future Embraced A

Comfortable Home,  If A Mate And Affection Suggested Themselves As

Possibilities Well Within His Reach,  The Basis Of Those Tentative

Yearnings Rested Upon The Need That Dwells Within Every Normal Human

Being,  And Upon What He Saw Happening Now And Then To Other Young

Men--And Young Women--Within The Immediate Radius Of His Observation.

 

But Upon This Particular May Morning His Mind Was Questing Far Afield.

The Prime Cause Of That Mental Projection Was A Letter In His Hand,  A

Letter From Tommy Ashe. Thompson Had A Lively Imagination,  Tempered By

The Sort Of Worldly Experience No Moderately Successful Man Can Escape. And

Tommy's Letter--The Latest In A Series Of Renewed Correspondence--Opened

Up Certain Desirable Eventualities. The First Page Of Tommy's Screed Was

Devoted To Personal Matters. The Rest Ran Thus:

 

     Candidly,  Old Man,  Your Description Of The Contemplated Henderson

     Car Makes A Hit With Me. The Line I Handle Now Is A Fair Seller.

     But Fair Isn't Good Enough For Me. I Really Need--In Addition--To

     Have A Smaller Machine,  To Supply A Pretty Numerous Class Of

     Prospects. I Should Like To Get Hold Of Just Such A Car As You

     Describe. I Am Feeling Around For The Agency Of A Small,  _Good_

     Car. Send Me All The Dope On This One,  And When It Will Be On The

     Market. There Is A Tremendous Market Here For Something Like That.

     I'd Prefer To Take Up A Line With An Established Reputation Behind

     It. But The Main Thing Is To Have A Car That Will Sell When You

     Push It. And This Listens Good.