It took Thompson approximately forty-eight hours to arrange his affairs.
He managed things with a precipitancy that would have shocked a sound,
practical business man, for he put out no anchors to windward nor
troubled himself about the future. He paid his bills, transferred the
Summit agency to his head salesman--who had amassed sufficient capital
to purchase the stock of cars and parts at cost. Thus, having
deliberately sacrificed a number of sound assets for the sake of being
free of them without delay, Thompson found himself upon the morning of
the third day without a tie to bind him to Vancouver, and a cash balance
of twenty thousand dollars to his credit in the bank.
He did not know how, or in what capacity he was going to the front, but
he was going, and the manner of his going did not concern him greatly.
It mattered little how he went, so long as he went in the service of his
country. A little of his haste was born of the sudden realization that
he had a country which needed his services--and that he desired to
serve. It had passed an emotional phase with him. He saw it very clearly
as a duty. He did not foresee or anticipate either pleasure or glory in
the undertaking. He had no illusions about war. It was quite on the
cards that he might never come back. But he had to go.
So then he had only to determine how he should go.
That problem, which was less a problem than a matter of making choice,
was solved that very day at luncheon. As he sat at a table in a downtown
café there came to him a figure in khaki, wearing a short, close-fitting
jacket with an odd emblem on the left sleeve--a young fellow who hailed
Thompson with a hearty grip and a friendly grin. He sat himself in a
chair vis-à-vis, laying his funny, wedge-shaped cap on the table.
"I've been wondering what had become of you, Jimmie," Thompson said. "I
see now. Where have you been keeping yourself?"
"East," the other returned tersely. "Training. Got my wings. Off to
England day after to-morrow. How's everything with you, these days?"
Thompson looked his man over thoroughly. Jimmie Wells was the youngest
of the four sons of a wealthy man. The other three were at the front,
one of them already taking his long rest under a white, wooden cross
somewhere in France. Jimmie looked brown and fit. A momentary pang of
regret stung Thompson. He wished he too were standing in uniform, ready
for overseas.
"I've just wound up my business," he said. "I'm going to the front
myself, Jimmie."
"Good," Wells approved. "What branch?"
"I don't know yet," Thompson replied. "I made up my mind in a hurry. I'm
just setting out to find where I'll fit in best."