Burned Bridges - Bertrand W. Sinclair (best ereader for academics txt) 📗
- Author: Bertrand W. Sinclair
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Through Him. His Reply Was An Earnest, If Ill-Directed Blow. This Tommy
Dodged By The Simplest Expedient Of Twisting His Head Sidewise Without
Moving His Body, And Launched At The Same Time A Return Jab Which Neatly
Smacked Against Thompson's Jaw.
Tommy Ashe Was Wonderfully Quick On His Feet And A Powerful Man To Boot.
Moreover He Had A Certain Dexterity With His Fists. He Was In Deadly
Earnest, As A Man Is When Matters Of Sex Lead Him To A Personal Clash.
But He Found Pitted Against Him A Man Equally Powerful, A Man Whose
Extra Reach And Weight Offset The Advantage In Skill, A Man Who Gave And
Took Blows With Silent Ferocity.
Thompson, In All His Carefully Ordered Life, Had Never Fought. He Fought
Now As If His Life Depended Upon It. Each Blow He Gave And Took Brought
To The Surface A Furious Determination. He Was Not Conscious Of Real
Pain, Although He Knew That His Lips Were Cut And Bleeding, That His
Cheeks Were Bruised And Cut Where Tommy Ashe's Hard-Knuckled Fists
Landed With Impressive Force, That His Heart Pounded Sickeningly Against
His Ribs, And That Every Breath Was A Rasping Gasp. Nor Was He Conscious
Of Pity When He Saw That Tommy Ashe Was In No Better Case. It Seemed Fit
And Proper That They Should Struggle Like That. There Was A Strange Sort
Of Pleasure In It. It Seemed Natural, As Natural An Act As He Had Ever
Performed. The Shock Of His Clenched Fist Driven With All His Force
Against The Other Man's Body Thrilled Him, Gave Him A Curious
Satisfaction. And That Satisfaction Took On A Keener Edge When Ashe
Clinched And They Fell To The Earth A Struggling, Squirming Heap--For
Thompson Felt A Tremendous Power In His Arms, In Those Arms Covered With
Flat Elastic Bands Of Muscle Hardened By Weeks Of Axe-Slinging, Of
Heaving On Heavy Logs. He Wrapped His Arms About Ashe And Tried To Crush
Chapter 5 (Universal Attributes) Pg 49Him.
One Trial Of That Fierce Grip Enlightened Tommy Ashe. He Broke Loose
From Thompson By A Trick Known To Every Man Who Has Ever Wrestled, And
Clawed Away To His Feet. Thereafter He Kept Clear Of Grips. Quick, With
Some Skill At Boxing, He Could Get Home Two Blows To Thompson's One. But
He Could Not Down His Man. Nor Could Thompson. They Struck And Parried,
Circling And Dodging, Till Their Lungs Were On Fire, And Neither Had
Strength Enough Left To Strike A Telling Blow.
The Rage Had Gone Out Of Them By Then. It Had Become A Dogged Struggle
For Mastery. And Failing That, There Came A Moment When They Staggered
Apart And Stood Glaring At Each Other, Choking For Breath. As They
Stood, Tommy Ashe Spoke First.
"You're A Tough Bird--For A Parson."
He Gasped The Words.
With The Dying Out Of That Senseless Fury A Peculiar Feeling Of Elation
Came To Thompson, As If He Had Proved Himself Upon A Doubtful Matter. He
Was Ready To Go On. But Why? That Question Urged Itself Upon Him. He
Recalled That He Had Struck The First Blow.
"I Think--I Started This, Didn't I?" He Said. "I'm Willing To Finish It,
If You Want To--But Isn't It--Isn't It Rather Foolish?"
"No End Foolish. Don't Think We'd Ever Finish," Ashe Said With A Gleam
Of His Old Humor. "Let's Call It A Draw. I Feel A Bit Ashamed Of Myself
By Now."
Somewhere, Sometime, Mr. Thompson Had Heard That Men Who Fought Shook
Hands When The Struggle Was Ended--A Little Ceremony That Served To
Restore The _Status Quo_. He Had Not The Least Rancor Against Tommy
Ashe. It Had All Seeped Away In The Blind Fury Of That Clash. He Thrust
Out A Hand Upon Which The Knuckles Were Cut And Bloody. And The Man Upon
Whose Countenance He Had Bruised Those Knuckles Took It With A Wry
Self-Conscious Smile.
Then They Drew A Little Apart And Squatted On The Bank Of The Creek To
Lave Their Battered Faces In The Cold Water.
For A Period Of Possibly Five Minutes They Sat Dabbling Water-Soaked
Handkerchiefs Upon Their Faces. The Blood Ceased To Ooze From Thompson's
Nostrils. Tommy Ashe Looked Over At His Late Antagonist And Remarked
Casually.
"We're A Pair Of Capital Idiots, Eh, Thompson?"
Mr. Thompson Tried To Smile. But His Countenance Was Swelling Rapidly
And Was In No Condition For Smiling. He Mustered Up A Grimace, Nodding
Assent.
"I Hope Sophie Didn't See Us Making Such Asses Of Ourselves," Tommy
Continued Ruefully.
"I Hardly Think She Would," Thompson Returned. "It Couldn't Have Been
The Sort Of Spectacle A Woman Would Care To Watch."
Chapter 5 (Universal Attributes) Pg 50"You Never Can Tell About A Woman," Ashe Observed Thoughtfully. "Nor,"
He Added, "A Man. I Could Never Have Imagined Myself Going Off
Half-Cocked Like That. I Suppose The Primitive Brute In Us Is Never
Really Far From The Surface. Especially In This Country. There's
Something," He Looked Up At The Surrounding Depths Of Forest, Down Along
The Dusky Channel Of Lone Moose, Curving Away Among The Spruce, "There's
Something About This Infernal Solitude That Brings Out The Savage. I've
Noticed It In Little Things. We're Loosed, In A Way, From All Restraint,
Except What We Put Upon Ourselves. Funny World, Eh? You Couldn't
Imagine Two Chaps Like Us Mauling Each Other Like A Pair Of Bruisers In
Mrs. Grundy's Drawing-Room, Could You? Over A Girl--Oh, Well, It'll Be
All The Same A Hundred Years From Now."
There Was Nothing Apologetic In Either Tommy's Tone Or Words. Thompson
Understood. Tommy Ashe Was Thinking Out Loud, That Was All. And
Presently, After Another Silent Interva Yorkers, Who Like The Present
Writer, Not Having Considered The Subject Very Deeply, Have Held To The
Vague Idea That The Club Was An Invention Of A Certain Dr. Samuel
Johnson. Also That It Came About In Some Such Way As This. The Doctor
Had Grown Weary Of Bullying The Patient Boswell, And Browbeating The
Acquaintance Met By Chance In Fleet Street Or The Strand Did Not
Entirely Satisfy Him. So One Day, Storming Out Of The Cheshire Cheese,
After Roundly Abusing The Larkpie Of Which He Had Consumed An Enormous
Quantity, He Founded The First Club, With The Object Of Gathering
Together A Number Of His Fellow-Mortals In One Place, And Upon Them
Pouring Out The Vials Of His Pompous And Splenetic Wrath.
One Day, However, The "De Senectute" That Had Been Long Forgotten Was
Recalled By A Passage In Mr. James W. Alexander's "History Of The
University Club Of New York." There It Was Pointed Out, That As Far Back
As 200 B.C., Cicero Represented Cato As Saying: "To Begin With, I Have
Always Remained A Member Of A 'Club.' Clubs, As You Know, Were
Established In My _Quaestorship_ On The Reception Of The Magna Mater
From Ida. So _I Used To Dine At Their Feast_ With Members Of My Club--On
The Whole With Moderation." But, Except As A Point Of Historical
Interest, Whether Stern Cato Or Voluble Johnson Was The Inventor Does
Not Matter Greatly To The New York Club Member Who Is Airing His Weekly
Grievance By Drawing Up A Petition, Or Writing A Scorching Letter A Day
To The House Committee.
If You Will Listen To The Manhattanite Of The Older Generation, You Are
Likely To Derive The Impression That Club Life In New York Is A Matter
Of The Last Half-Century At Most. He Is Rather Inclined To Fleer At Any
Pretension To American Club Life Of Earlier Date. In One Sense He Is
Right. The Club As We Know It Now Is Essentially A British Institution
Modelled On British Lines. More And More Is The British Idea Being
Carried To The Extreme, Until We Are Associating Club Life With The Vast
Club-House Of Spacious Lounges And Marble Swimming Pools, And A Cuisine
Rivalling That Of One Of The Great New Hotels. The Fifth Avenue Club Of
Half A Century Ago Had Little Magnificence As We Now Understand The
Word. It Was A Simpler And More Limited Hospitality That Was Offered To
The Friend Or The Distinguished Stranger From Overseas. Yet That
Hospitality Must Have Had A Rare Flavour And Atmosphere. There Must Have
Been Something About It That Went Far To Make Up For Mere Material
Deficiencies, If We Are To Credit The Verdicts Of Those Who Were In A
Chapter 5 (Universal Attributes) Pg 51Position To Compare American Club Life With Club Life In England And On
The Continent. Thackeray Was As Fine A Judge Of The Matter As Any Man
Who Ever Strutted Through St. James's Park And Scowled Back At The
Barnes Newcomeses And Captain Heavysideses In The Club Windows Along
Pall Mall, And There Was What He Said And Wrote About The Century.
It Was In The Middle Of The Sixth Decade Of The Last Century That The
Clubs Began To Find Their Way Into Fifth Avenue. One Of The First Was
The Union Club. Writing Of That Organization In 1906, M. Charles Huard,
In "New York Comme Je L'ai Vu," Volunteered The Puzzling Information
That It Was "_Fondé En 1836 Par Les Descendants De Knickerbocker, Le
Plus Vieux Donc Des Grand Clubs De New York_." If The Frenchman Was To
Be Taken Literally He Apparently Regarded The Offspring Of Washington
Irving's Creation As An Exceedingly Prolific Race. The Union, In 1855,
Moved From Broadway Near Fourth Street Into A House On The Northwest
Corner Of Fifth Avenue And Twenty-First Street. That Home, Which The
Union Occupied Until Fifteen Or Twenty Years Ago, Was Described As "A
Superb Structure Which Cost Three Hundred Thousand Dollars." It Was The
First Building Erected In The City Solely For Club Purposes. Almost To
The Day Of Its Demolition, Although The Neighbourhood About It Was
Changing Rapidly, The Old House Wore An Aspect Of Dignity. To The Corner
The Habitués Of Other Years Seldom Come Today. Instead, At The Noon
H
Thinkers Long Enough To Become Incorporated In A Great Deal That Has
Been Written Upon Philosophy And Theology.
Sophie Didn't Believe In His God, Nor His Work; He Stopped Short Of
Asking If He Himself Any Longer Had Full And Implicit Belief In These
Things, Or If He Had Simply Accepted Them Without Question As He Had
Accepted So Many Other Things In His Brief Career. But She Believed In
_Him_ And Cared For Him. He Took That For Granted Too. And Love Covers
A Multitude Of Sins. He Had Often Had Occasion To Discourse Upon Various
Sorts Of Love--Fatherly Love And Brotherly Love And Maternal
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