Burned Bridges - Bertrand W. Sinclair (best ereader for academics txt) 📗

In His Attitude Toward Women. Technically He

Was Aware Of Sex,  Advised As To Its Pitfalls And Temptations; Actually

He Could Grasp Nothing Of The Sort. A Very Small Child Is Incapable Of

Associating Pain With A Hot Iron Until The Hot Iron Has Burned Him. Even

Then He Can Scarcely Correlate Cause And Effect. Neither Could Thompson.

No Woman Had Ever Before Stirred His Pulse To An Added Beat.

 

But This--This Subtle,  Mysterious Emanation From A Smiling Girl At His

Elbow Singed Him Like A Flame. If He Had Been Asleep He Was Now In A

Moment Breathlessly,  Confusedly Awake.

 

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 28

The Commotion Was All Inward,  Mental. Outwardly He Kept His Composure,

And The Only Sign Of That Turmoil Was A Tinge Of Color That Rose In His

Face. And As If There Was Some Mysterious Mode Of Communication

Established Between Them A Faint Blush Deepened The Delicate Tint Of

Sophie Carr's Cheeks. Thompson Rose. So Did Tommy Ashe With Some Haste

When He Perceived Her There.          

 

"No,  No," She Protested. "Keep Your Chairs,  Please."

 

"Mr. Thompson," Carr's Keen Old Eyes Flickered Between The Two Men And

The Girl. "My Daughter. Mr. Thompson Is The Latest Leader Of The

Forlorn Hope At Lone Moose,  Sophie."

 

Mr. Thompson Murmured Some Conventional Phrase. He Was Mightily

Disturbed Without Knowing Why He Was So Disturbed,  And Rather Fearful Of

Showing This Incomprehensible State. The Girl's Manner Put Him A Little

At His Ease. She Gave Him Her Hand,  Soft Warm Fingers That He Had A Mad

Impulse To Press. He Wondered Why He Felt Like That. He Wondered Why

Even The Tones Of Her Voice Gave Him A Thrill Of Pleasure.

 

"So You Are The Newest Missionary To Lone Moose?" She Said. "I Wish You

Luck."

 

Although Her Voice Was Full,  Throaty Like A Meadow Lark's,  Her Tone

Carried The Same Sardonic Inflection He Had Noticed In Her Father's

Comment On His Mission. It Pained Thompson. He Had No Available Weapon

Against That Sort Of Attack. But The Girl Did Not Pursue The Matter. She

Said To Her Father:

 

"Crooked Tree's Oldest Son Is In The Kitchen And Wants To Speak To You,

Dad."

 

Carr Rose. So Did Thompson. He Wanted To Get Away,  To Think,  To Fortify

Himself Somehow Against This Siren Call In His Blood. He Was Sadly

Perplexed. Measured By His Own Standards,  Even To Harbor Such Thoughts

As Welled Up In His Mind Was A Sinful Weakness Of The Flesh. He Was In

As Much Anxiety To Get Away From Carr's As He Had Been To Find A Welcome

There.

 

"I Think I Shall Be Moving Along," He Said To Carr. "I'll Say Good-Day,

Sir."

 

Carr Thrust Out A Brown Sinewy Hand With The First Trace Of Heartinerown,  It Is The Story,  Not Of The Sixties In Particular,  But

Of Any Decade Of Social New York.

 

It May Be Worth While To Follow The Critic From Up-State In Some Of His

Venturesome Explorations Of Other Parts Of New York. Those To Whom He

Was To Return,  Those For Whose Entertainment And Instruction His Book

Was Written,  Wanted To Hear Of The Shadows As Well As The Sunshine. It

Was The Picture Of A Very Sinful Metropolis That They Demanded,  And The

Author Was Bound That He Was Not Going To Disappoint Them.

 

[Illustration: Madison Square. Yesterday It Was The Home Of The Flora

Mc Flimsies Of The William Allen Butler Poem "Nothing To Wear." To-Day,

In The Eyes Of The Manhattanite,  It Is The Centre Of The Universe.]

 

The Frontispiece Of The Book Shows The Stewart Mansion At The Corner

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 29

Of Thirty-Fourth Street And Fifth Avenue,  And By Contrast,  The Old

Brewery At The Five Points. Before The Mission Was Opened The Five

Points Was A Dangerous Locality,  The Resort Of Burglars,  Thieves,  And

Desperadoes,  With Dark,  Underground Chambers,  Where Murderers Often Hid,

Where Policemen Seldom Went,  And Never Unarmed. A Good Citizen Going

Through The Neighbourhood After Dark Was Sure To Be Assaulted,  Beaten,

And Probably Robbed. Nightly The Air Was Filled With The Sound Of

Brawling. Wretchedness,  Drunkenness,  And Suffering Stalked Abroad. There

Were Such Rookeries As Cow Bay And Murderer's Alley,  The Latter Of Which

Continued To Exist,  Though Its Sinister Glory Had Long Since Departed,

Until Fifteen Or Twenty Years Ago. The Lodging Houses Of The Section

Were Underground,  Without Ventilation,  Without Windows,  Overrun With

Rats And Vermin.

 

For Diversion The Miserable Denizens Of The Quarter Sought The Near-By

Bowery,  With Its Brilliantly Lighted Drinking Dens,  Its Concert Halls,

Where Negro Minstrelsy Was Featured,  And Its Theatres Where The Plays

Were Immoral Comedies Or Melodramas Glorifying The Exploits Of

Picturesque Criminals. News-Boys,  Street-Sweepers,  Rag-Pickers,  Begging

Girls Filled The Galleries Of These Places Of Amusement. Here Is The

Clerical Visitor's Description Of The Thoroughfare That Was Then The

Second Principal Street Of The City: "Leaving The City Hall About Six

O'clock On Sunday Night,  And Walking Through Chatham Square To The

Bowery,  One Would Not Believe That New York Had Any Claim To Be A

Christian City,  Or That The Sabbath Had Any Friends. The Shops Are Open,

And Trade Is Brisk. Abandoned Females Go In Swarms,  And Crowd The

Sidewalk. Their Dress,  Manner,  And Language Indicate That Depravity Can

Go No Lower. Young Men Known As Irish-Americans,  Who Wear As A Badge

Long Frock-Coats,  Crowd The Corners Of The Streets,  And Insult The

Passer-By. Women From The Windows Arrest Attention By Loud Calls To The

Men On The Sidewalk,  And Jibes,  Profanity,  And Bad Words Pass Between

The Parties. Sunday Theatres,  Concert-Saloons,  And Places Of Amusement

Are In Full Blast. The Italians And Irish Shout Out Their Joy From The

Rooms They Occupy. The Click Of The Billiard Ball,  And The Booming Of

The Ten-Pin Alley,  Are Distinctly Heard. Before Night,  Victims Watched

For Will Be Secured; Men Heated With Liquor,  Or Drugged,  Will Be Robbed,

And Many Curious And Bold Explorers In This Locality Will Curse The Hour

In Which They Resolved To Spend A Sunday In The Bowery."

 

To Find Adventure And Danger The Rural Visitor Did Not Have To Seek Out

The Bowery And The Adjacent Streets To The East And West. Adroit Rogues

Were Everywhere. Bland Gentlemen Introduced Themselves To Unwary

Strangers. Instead Of The Mining Stock Or The Sick Engineer's Story Of

Our More Enlightened And Refined Age,  These Pleasant Urbanites Resorted

To The Cruder Weapon Of Blackmail. The Art Was Reduced To A System.

Terrible Warnings Were Conveyed To The Innocent Country-Side By The

Chronicler In Such Sub-Heads As "A Widower Blackmailed," "A Minister

Falls Among Thieves," "Blackmailers At A Wedding," "A Bride Called On."

 

Darkly The Investigator Painted The Gambling Evil Of The New Yoccomplished Nothing Because,  Like Archimedes,  He

Lacked A Foothold From Which To Apply His Leverage. He Had The

Intelligence To Perceive That These People Had No Pressing Wants Which

They Looked To Him To Supply,  That They Were Apparently Impervious To

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 30

Any Message He Could Deliver. His Power To Deliver A Message Was

Vitiated By This Utter Absence Of Receptivity. He Was,  And Realized That

He Was,  As Superfluous In Lone Moose As Sterling Silver And Cut Glass In

A House Where There Is Neither Food Nor Drink.

 

Also He Was No Longer So Secure In The Comfortable Belief That All

Things Work For An Ultimate Good. He Was Not So Sure That A Sparrow,  Or

Even An Ordained Servant Of God,  Might Not Fall And The Almighty Be None

The Wiser. The Material Considerations Which He Had Always Scorned

Pressed Upon Him In An Unescapable Manner. There Was No Getting Away

From Them. Thrown At Last Upon His Own Resources He Began To Take Stock

Of His Needs,  His Instincts,  His Impulses,  And To Compare Them With The

Needs And Instincts And Impulses Of A More Godless Humanity,--And He

Could Not Escape Certain Conclusions. Faith May Move Mountains,  But

Chiefly Through The Medium Of A Shovel. When A Man Is Hungry His Need Is

For Food. When He Is Lonely He Craves Companionship. When He Grieves He

Desires Sympathy. And The Providence Mr. Thompson Had Been Taught To

Lean So Hard Upon Did Not Chop His Wood,  Cook His Meals,  Furnish Him

With Congenial Society,  Comfort Him When He Was Sad.

 

"Religion Or Nonreligion,  Belief In A Personal,  Immanent God Or A Rank

Materialism That Holds To A Purely Mechanical Theory Of The Universe,  It

Doesn't Make Much Difference Which You Hold To If You Do Not Set

Yourself Up As The Supreme Authority And Insist That The Other Fellow

Must Believe As You Do.

 

"Because,  My Dear Sir,  You Cannot Escape Material Factors. The Human

Organism Can't Exist Without Food,  Clothing,  And Shelter. Society Cannot

Attain To A Culture Which Tends To Soften The Harshnesses Of Existence,

Without Leisure In Which To Develop That Culture. Machinery And Science

And Art Weren't Handed To Humanity Done Up In A Package. Man Only

Attained To These Things Through A Long Process Of Evolution,  And He

Only Attained Them By The Use Of His Muscle And The Exercise Of His

Intellect. Strength And Skill--Plus Application. Nothing Else Gets

Either An Individual Or A Race Forward. Don't You See The Force Of That?

Here Is Man With His Fundamental,  Undeniable Needs. Here Is The Earth

With The Fullness Thereof. There's Nothing Mysterious Or Supernatural

About It. Brain And Brawn Applied To The Problems Of Living. That's All.

And You Can't Dodge It. The First,  Pressing Requirements Of Any Man Can

Only Be Filled In Two Ways. First By Working And Planning And Getting

For Himself. Second By Being Able To Compel The Strength And Skill Of

Others To Function For Him So That His Needs Will Be Supplied; In Other

Words,  By Some Turn Of Circumstances,  Or Some Dominant Quality In

Himself,  To Get Something For Nothing."

 

Sam Carr Had Delivered Himself Of This As A Wind-Up To A Conversation

With Thompson The Evening Before. Now,  While His Forgotten Biscuits

Scorched And He Listened To Tommy Ashe And Sophie Carr Taking Their Toll

Of Meat From The Flocks Of Waterfowl,  He Was Thinking Over What Carr Had

Said. He Dissented. Oh,  He Dissented With A Vigor That Was Almost

Bitterness,  Because The Smiling Quirk Of Sam Carr's Lips When He Uttered

The Last Sentence Gave It Something Of A Personal Edge. However It Was

Meant,  Thompson Could Not Help Taking It That Way. And Mr. Thompson's

Desire Was To Give--To Give