III
In spite of Henderson’s sweeping declaration that he needn’t waste time calling on architects, that Freeman would take care of him, Bruce spent the next morning visiting the offices of the architects on his list. Several of these were out of town; the others received him amiably; one of them promised him some work a little later, but was rather vague about it. When he returned to the hotel at noon he found Henderson waiting for him. He had nothing to do, he declared, but to keep Bruce amused. Everything was a little incidental with Henderson, but he seemed to get what he wanted without effort, even buyers for the Plantagenet. Bruce related the results of his visits to the offices of the architects and Henderson pursed his lips and emitted a cluck of disapproval.
“Next time mind your Uncle Dudley. Bill Freeman’s the bird for you. You just leave every little thing to me. Now what else is troubling you?”
“Well, I want a place to live; not too expensive, but a few of the minor comforts.”
Two hours later Bruce was signing the lease for a small bachelor apartment that Henderson had found for him with, apparently, no effort. He had also persuaded some friends of his who lived across the street to give the young architect breakfast and provide a colored woman to keep his place in order.
Henderson’s acquaintance with his fellow citizens appeared to be unlimited. He took Bruce to the State House to call on the Governor—brought that official from a conference from which he emerged good-naturedly to shake hands and hear a new story. From this interruption of affairs of state Henderson convoyed Bruce to a barber shop in the midst of an office building where there was a venerable negro workman who told a story about a mule which Henderson said was the funniest story in the world. The trimming of a prominent citizen’s hair was somewhat delayed by the telling of the yarn, but he, like everyone else, seemed to be tolerant of Henderson’s idiosyncrasies; and the aged barber’s story was unquestionably a masterpiece. Henderson began telephoning acquaintances who had offices in the building to come forthwith to meet an old college friend. When two men actually appeared—one an investment broker and the other a middle-aged lawyer—Henderson organized a quartette and proceeded to “get harmony.” Neighboring tenants assembled, attracted by the unwonted sounds, and Henderson introduced Bruce to them as a new man in town who was entitled to the highest consideration.
“This is a sociable sort of village,” he said as they left the shop. “I could see you made a hit with those fellows. You’re bound to get on, my son.”
At noon on Saturday Henderson drove Bruce to the Freemans’, where with the utmost serenity he exercised all the rights of proprietorship. The house, of the Dutch Colonial type, was on the river in a five-acre tract. A real estate operator had given Freeman the site with the stipulation that he build himself a home to establish a social and artistic standard for the neighborhood.
“Don’t be afraid of these people,” remarked Henderson reassuringly. “Take your cue from me and act as though you had a deed for the house in your pocket. Bill’s a dreamy sort of cuss, but Dale’s a human dynamo. She looks fierce, but responds to kind treatment.”
Bruce never knew when Henderson was serious, and when a diminutive young lady ran downstairs whistling he assumed that he was about to be introduced to the daughter of the house.
“Dale, this is old Bruce Storrs, one of the meanest men out of jail. I know you’ll hate each other; that’s why I brought him. At the first sign of any flirtation between you two I’ll run you both through the meat chopper and take a high dive into the adjacent stream.”
Mrs. Freeman was absurdly small and slight, and the short skirt of her simple linen dress and her bobbed hair exaggerated her diminutive stature. Having gathered from Henderson an idea that Mrs. Freeman was an assertive masculine person, Bruce was taken aback as the little woman smiled up at him and shook hands.
“It really isn’t my fault that I broke in,” he protested. “It was this awful Henderson person who told me you’d be heart-broken if I didn’t come.”
“I should have been! He’d have come alone and bored me to death. How is every little thing, Bud?”
“Soaring!” mumbled Henderson, who had chosen a book from the rack on the table and, sprawling on a couch, became immediately absorbed in it.
“That’s the way Bud shows his noble breeding,” remarked Mrs. Freeman, “but he is an easy guest to entertain. I suppose you’re used to him?”
“Oh, we lived together for a couple of years! Nothing he does astonishes me.”
“Then I needn’t apologize for him. Bud’s an acquired taste, but once you know him, he’s highly diverting.”
“When I began rooming with him in Boston I thought he wasn’t all there, but finally decided he was at least three-quarters sane.”
“One thing’s certain; he’s mastered the art of not being bored, which is some accomplishment!” said Mrs. Freeman, as Henderson rose suddenly and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, whence proceeded presently a sound as of cracking ice.
Mrs. Freeman had something of Henderson’s air of taking things for granted, and she talked to Bruce quite as though he were an old friend. She spoke amusingly of the embarrassments of housekeeping in the new quarter; they were pioneers, she said, and as servants refused to bury themselves so far from the bright lights, she did most of her own housework, which was lots of fun when you had everything electric to play with. There was an old colored man who did chores and helped in the kitchen. She told several stories to illustrate his proneness to error and his ingenuity in excusing his mistakes.
“You’ve never lived here? Bud gave me that idea, but you never know when he’s telling the truth.”
“I never saw the town before, but I hope to stay.”
“It’s up to us to make you want to stay,” she said graciously.
She had settled herself in the largest chair in the room, sitting on one foot like a child. She smoked a cigarette as she talked, one arm thrown back of her head. She tactfully led Bruce to talk of himself and when he spoke of his year-long tramp her eyes narrowed as she gave him a more careful inspection.
“That sounds like a jolly lark. I want to know more about it, but we must wait for Bill. It’s the sort of thing he’d adore doing.”
Freeman appeared a moment later. He had been cleaning up after a morning’s work in the garden. He was thirty-five, short and burly, with a thick shock of unruly chestnut hair over which he passed his hand frequently, smoothing it only to ruffle it again. He greeted Bruce cordially and began talking of the Tech and men he assumed Bruce might have known there. He produced pipe and tobacco from the pockets of his white flannel trousers and smoked fitfully. Mrs. Freeman answered the telephone several times and reappeared to report the messages. One had to do with changes in a house already under construction. Freeman began explaining to his wife the impossibility of meeting the client’s wishes; the matter had been definitely settled before the letting of the contract and it would be expensive to alter the plans now. He appealed to Bruce for support; people might be sane about everything else in the world, but they became maddeningly unreasonable when they began building houses.
“Oh, you’d better fix it for them, Bill,” advised Mrs. Freeman quietly. “They pay the bills; and I’m not sure but you were wrong in holding out against them in the first place.”
“Oh, well, if you say so, Dale!” and Freeman resumed his talk.
Henderson reappeared wearing an apron and bearing a tray with a cocktail-shaker and four glasses.
“Don’t flinch, Bill,” he said; “it’s my gin. You pay for the oranges. I say, Dale, I told Tuck to peel some potatoes. And you wanted those chops for lunch, didn’t you? There’s nothing else in the icebox and I told Tuck to put ’em on.”
“He’ll probably ruin them,” said Mrs. Freeman. “Excuse me, Mr. Storrs, while I get some work out of Bud.”
It was some time before Bruce got accustomed to Freeman’s oddities. He was constantly moving about with a quick, catlike step; or, if he sat down, his hands were never quiet. But he talked well, proved himself a good listener, and expressed approval by slapping his knee when Bruce made some remark that squared with his own views. He was pleased in a frank, boyish way when Bruce praised some of his houses which Henderson had pointed out.
“Yes; clients didn’t bother me; I had my own way in those cases. I’ve got some plans under way now that I want to show you. Dale said you were thinking of starting in here. Well, I need some help right away. My assistant is leaving me—going to Seattle. Suppose you drop in Monday. We might be able to fix up something.”