Free Point of No Return by John P. Marquand

toward him.
    â€œHere’s an unlisted company from a place called Clyde, Massachusetts—a block of five thousand shares at twenty dollars a share.”
    That was how Clyde came into the conference room, suddenly, out of nowhere. It came because Tony Burton’s mind had been on a loan when he should have been discussing trust business. It came like an unexpected gust of wind through an open window, except that there were no windows in the conference room—nothing but scientific air conditioning.
    â€œI remember that five thousand shares,” Roger Blakesley said, “but he has enough without it, hasn’t he? We ought not to disappoint him. He’s just the sort of person who in different ways controls a lot of business.”
    â€œThe Nickerson Cordage Company, Clyde, Massachusetts,” Mr. Burton read. “Five thousand shares. Now of course we don’t want to disappoint Mr. Eaton, but has anyone here ever heard of the Nickerson Cordage Company? Wait a minute—” Tony’s glance had turned toward Charles. “Clyde. Let’s see. Charles, didn’t you come from a place called Clyde?”
    Mr. Burton had a good memory. As far as Charles could recall, he had only mentioned Clyde to him once and that was years ago when the Burtons were going to take a vacation trip to Maine. Mr. Burton had shown him a road map marked by the AAA and Charles had told him that Clyde was a pretty place, that he did not know about accommodations now but that he had once lived in Clyde.
    â€œYes, sir,” Charles said. “I was born there but I haven’t been there for quite a while.”
    â€œWell, what about the Nickerson Cordage Company?”
    â€œThey used to make rope,” Charles said, “and twine and fish nets. They were near the Wright-Sherwin Company in Clyde.” Charles cleared his throat. It did not seem appropriate to say any more, but Mr. Burton was still listening.
    â€œThey used to build a lot of sailing ships in Clyde,” Charles said, “and they needed ropes for them.”
    He could see as he spoke the sheds of the Nickerson Cordage Company beside the river, a small and shabby plant, and he could remember the smell of tar and hemp that came from it. Mr. Burton was still looking at him and it seemed necessary to go on.
    â€œI didn’t know it was incorporated,” Charles said. “It must have grown.”
    â€œIf Godfrey Eaton has money in it, it must be good,” Roger said. He spoke as an authority, as a golf partner and an intimate personal friend of Mr. Godfrey Eaton.
    â€œWell, we’ll leave this for now,” Mr. Burton said. His voice was resonant and agreeable, but it seemed to Charles that it had changed slightly.
    Charles relaxed in his leather-seated mahogany chair. It was peculiar that the name of Clyde should have cropped up at the table. Things happened all at once. You thought of a name or a face and then it would appear.
    â€œI remember Clyde,” Stephen Merry said. “The road to Bar Harbor used to go through it but it’s by-passed now. It’s a pretty little town, something like Wiscasset in Maine. Nice houses but not much of a hotel. Elm trees. I never knew you came from there, Charles.”
    â€œWell,” Charles said, “that was quite a while ago.”
    Mr. Burton picked up another paper but it seemed to Charles that he was still disturbed about the Nickerson Cordage Company.
    â€œNever mind it now,” he said. “It’s getting on towards lunch time.”
    Charles only half heard him. The mention of Clyde was taking his attention from the meeting. It was not that he was daydreaming, it was not that he was not listening carefully. He could see the faces about him very clearly and the papers on the table and the inevitable memorandum pads and newly sharpened pencils that were conventionally on every conference table, though you hardly ever used them except to draw