Burned Bridges - Bertrand W. Sinclair (best ereader for academics txt) 📗
- Author: Bertrand W. Sinclair
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They Found Between Them And Fortune.
The Sweep Of Spring's Progress Across The Land Found Them West Of The
Coast Range By May, In A Wild And Forbidding Region Where Three Major
Streams--The Skeena, The Stikine, And The Naas--Take Their Rise. For
Many Days Their Advance Was Through Grim Canyons, Over Precipitous
Slopes, Across Glaciers, Bearing Always Westward, Until The Maps With
Which Tommy Ashe Was Equipped Showed Them They Were Descending The
Stikine. Here They Rested In A Country Full Of Game Animals And Birds
And Fish, Until The Height Of The Spring Torrents Had Passed. During
This Time They Fashioned A Canoe Out Of A Cedar Tree, Big Enough To
Carry Them And The Dogs Which Had Served So Faithfully As Pack Animals
Over That Last Mountainous Stretch. The Stikine Was Swift And
Forbidding, But Navigable. Thus At Last, In The First Days Of The Salmon
Run, They Came Out Upon Tidewater, Down To Wrangel By The Sea.
There Was In Thompson's Mind No More Thought Of Burned Bridges, No
Heartache And Empty Longing, Only An Eagerness Of Anticipation. He Had
Come A Long Way, In A Double Sense. He Had Learned Something Of The
Essential Satisfaction Of Striving. A Tough Trail Had Served To Toughen
The Mental And Moral As Well As The Physical Fiber Of Him. He Did Not
Know What Lay Ahead, But Whatever Did So Lie Would Never Dismay Him
Again As Things Had Done In The Past, In That Too-Recent Vivid Past.
He Was Quite Sure Of This. His Mood Was Tinctured With Recklessness When
He Summed It Up In Words. A Man Must Stand On His Own Feet!
He Would Never Forget That Sentence. It Was Burned Into His Memory. He
Was Beginning To Understand What Sophie Carr Meant By It. Looking
Backward He Could See That He Never Had Stood On His Own Feet Like A
Man. Always He Had Required Props. And They Had Been Forthcoming From
The Time The Prim Spinster Aunts Took His Training In Hand Until He Came
To Lone Moose Self-Consciously, Rather Flauntingly, Waving The Banner Of
Righteousness. Thompson Could Smile Wryly At Himself Now. He Could See
The Unreckonable Element Of Chance Functioning Largely In A Man's Life.
And In The Meantime He Went About Wrangel Looking For A Job!
Chapter 9 (The Restless Foot) Pg 77
Being In A Town That Was At Once A Frontier Camp And A Minor Seaport,
And Being There At A Season When The Major Industry Of Salmon-Packing
Was At Its Height, The Search Of Tommy Ashe And Thompson For A Job Was
Soon Ended. They Were Taken On As Cannery Hands--A "Hand" Being The Term
For Unskilled Laborers As Distinguished From Fishermen, Can Machine
Experts, Engineers And The Like. As Such They Were Put To All Sorts Of
Chapter 9 (The Restless Foot) Pg 78Tasks, Work That Usually Found Them At The Day's End Weary, Dirty With
Fish Scales And Gurry, And More Than A Little Disgusted. But They Were
Getting Three Dollars And A Half A Day, And It Was Practically Clear,
Which Furnished A Strong Incentive To Stick It Out As Long As The Season
Lasted--A Matter Of Two More Months.
"By That Time," Said Tommy Ashe, "We'll Have Enough Coin To Venture Into
Fresh Fields. My Word, But We Do Earn This Money. It's The Nastiness I
Object To, Not The Work. I Shan't Forget This First Hundred Dollars I've
Earned By The Sweat Of My Manly Brow."
In The Fullness Of Time The Salmon Run Came To An End. The Pack Being
Finished The Hands Were Paid Off. In Company With Half A Hundred Others,
Ashe And Thompson Were Shipped From The Suchoi Bay Canneries Back To
Wrangel Again.
In Wrangel, Before They Had Been There Four Hours, Thompson Got The
Offer Of Work In A Pile Camp. He Took His Prospective Job Under
Advisement And Hunted Up Tommy Ashe. Tommy Dangled His Legs Over The
Edge Of The Bed In Their Room, And Considered The Matter.
"No," He Said Finally. "I Don't Believe I'll Take It On. I Think I'll Go
Down To Vancouver. I'm About Two Hundred Dollars Strong, And I Don't
Really See Anything But A Poor Sort Of Living In This Laboring-Man
Stuff. I'm Going To Try Some Business Proposition. I've Got A Pretty
Fair Acquaintance With Motor Cars. I Might Be Able To Get In On The
Selling End Of The Game, And There Is Good Money In That In The Way Of
Commissions. I Know Some People There Who Should Be Able To Show Me The
Ropes. In A Big Live Seaport Like That There Must Be Chances. Yes, I
Think I'll Try Vancouver. You'd Better Come Too, Wes."
Thompson Shook His Head. He Knew Nothing Of Business. He Had No Trade.
For A Time--Until He Came Face To Face With An Opportunity He Could
Recognize As Such--He Shrank From Tackling A City. He Had Not Quite
Tommy's Confidence In Himself.
"No," He Said. "I'd Like To--But I Don't Believe I'd Make Good. And I
Don't Want To Get In A Position Where I'd Have To Be Looking For
Somebody To Throw Me A Life Line. I Don't Seem To Mind Common Hard Work
So Much. I Don't Imagine I Could Jump Right Into A Town And Be Any
Better Off Than I Would Be Here. When I Get A Little More Money Ahead
I'll Be Tempted To Take A Chance On A City. But Not Yet."
From This Position Tommy's Persuasion Failed To Move Him. Tommy Was
Earnest Enough, And Perfectly Sincere In Promising To See Him Through.
But That Was Not What Thompson Wanted. He Was Determined That In So Far
As He Was Able He Would Make His Own Way Unaided. He Wanted To Be
Through With Props Forever. That Had Become A Matter Of Pride With Him.
He Went Back And Told The Pile-Camp Boss That He Would Report In Two
Days.
A Southbound Steamer Sailed Forty-Eight Hours Later. She Backed Away
From The Wrangel Wharf With Tommy Waving His Hand To His Partner On The
Pierhead. Thompson Went Back To Their Room Feeling A Trifle Blue, As One
Does At Parting From A Friend. But It Was Not The Moodiness Of
Uncertainty. He Knew What He Was Going To Do. He Had Simply Got Used To
Tommy Being At His Elbow, To Chatting With Him, To Knowing That Some One
Chapter 9 (The Restless Foot) Pg 79Was Near With Whom He Could Try To Unravel A Knotty Problem Or Hold His
Peace As He Chose. He Missed Tommy. But He Knew That Although They Had
Been Partners Over A Hard Country, Had Bucked A Hard Trail Like Men And
Grown Nearer To Each Other In The Stress Of It, They Could Not Be
Siamese Twins. His Road And Tommy's Road Was Bound To Fork. A Man Had To
Follow His Individual Inclination, To Live His Own Life According To His
Lights. And Tommy's Was For Town And The Business World, While His--As
Yet--Was Not.
So For The Next Four Months Thompson Lived And Worked On A Wooded
Promontory A Few Miles North Of Wrangel, Very Near The Mouth Of The
River Down Which He And Tommy Ashe Had Come To The Sea. He Was Housed
With Thirty Other Men In A Bunkhouse Of Hand-Split Cedar; He Labored
Every Day Felling And Trimming Tall Slender Poles For Piling That Would
Ultimately Hold Up Bridges And Wharves. The Crew Was A Cosmopolitan Lot
So Far As Nationality Went. In Addition They Were A Tougher Lot Than
Thompson Had Ever Encountered. He Never Quite Fitted In. They Knew Him
For Something Of A Tenderfoot, And They Had Not The Least Respect For
His Size--Until He Took On And Soundly Whipped Two Of Them In Turn
Before The Bunkhouse Door, With The Rest Of The Thirty, The Boss And The
Cook For Spectators. Thompson Did Not Come Off Scathless, But He Did
Come Off Victor, Although He Was A Bloody Sight At The Finish. But He
Fought In Sheer Desperation, Because Otherwise He Could Not Live In The
Camp. And He Smiled To Himself More Than Once After That Fracas, When He
Noted The Different Attitude They Took Toward Him. Might Was Perhaps Not
Right, But Unless A Man Was Both Willing And Able To Fight For His
Rights In The Workaday World That Was Opening Up To Him, He Could Never
Be Very Sure That His Rights Would Be Respected.
Along With This Incidental Light Upon The Ways Of His Fellow Working-Men
He Learned Properly How To Swing An Axe; He Grew Accustomed To Dragging
All Day On The End Of A Seven-Foot Crosscut Saw, To Lift And Strain With
A Cant Hook. The Hardening Process, Begun At Lone Moose, Continued
Unceasingly. If Mere Physical Hardihood Had Been His End, He Could
Easily Have Passed For A Finished Product. He Could Hold His Own With
Those Broad-Shouldered Swedes And Michigan Loggers At Any Turn Of The
Road. And That Was A Long Way For A Man Like Thompson To Come In The
Course Of Twelve Months. If He Could Have Been As Sure Of A Sound,
Working Philosophy Of Life As He Was Of The Fitness Of His Muscles He
Would Have Been Well Satisfied. Sometimes It Was A Puzzle To Him Why Men
Existed, Why The Will To Live Was Such A Profound Force, When Living Was
A Struggle, A Vexation, An Aimless Eating And Sleeping And Working Like
A Carthorse. Where Was There Any Plan, Any Universal Purpose At All?
Having Never Learned Dissipation As A Form Of Amusement, Nor Having Yet
Been Driven To It By The Sheer Deadliness Of Incessant, Monotonous
Labor, Thompson Was Able To Save His Money. When He Went To Wrangel Once
A Month He Got A Bath, A Hair-Cut, And Some Magazines To Read, Perhaps
An Article Or Two Of Necessary Clothing. That Was All His Financial
Outlay. He Came Back As Clear-Eyed As When He Left, With The Bulk Of His
Wages In His Pocket, Where Some Of His Fellows Returned With Empty
Pockets And Aching Heads.
Wherefore, When The Winter Snows At Last Closed Down The Pile Camp
Thompson Had
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