Three men were waiting in the reading-room as the two went in, three grizzled, important personages, who rose up and greeted Jack’s large m’sieur as one entitled to consideration.
“I want to present Mr. Vance to you,” said Bradlee. “Mr. Howell—Judge Carroll—Mr. Fitzhugh.”
And Jack, gripping the hands held out with his friendly, bone-breaking hand-clasp, failed to see the wonder at his youth on the men’s faces, for the wonder in his own mind that the large m’sieur had found him worthy to meet these bully old chaps, who were quite evidently somebodys. Somebodys—who? He wondered further. Shortly he found out.
“I asked you three here,” Bradlee began, waving a comprehensive oyster-fork, “to meet Mr. Vance, for a purpose.”
A bar of red crept up the clear brown of the boy’s cheeks. He had not realized that these dignified persons had come to meet him! He would have described himself as “rattled.”
Bradlee went on: “It will advance the purpose if I mention who you all are. Jack, Mr. Howell is the president of the I. S. I. & O. Z. D.; Judge Carroll, whom I luckily caught in town for the day, is on the Interstate Commerce Commission; and Mr. Fitzhugh is general counsel of four railways in the West and South. If anybody knows what you want to find out, these gentlemen do.”
“Holy mackerel!” said Jack simply, and flushed scarlet having said it, and murmured etiquettically something about “Certainly am mighty grateful.” But the four, at the awe in the tone, at the untrammelled expletive, at something winning and indescribable in the lad’s embarrassment, broke into sudden laughter, and Bradlee, well pleased, knew that the charm which he had felt in the youngster was working. With that he was telling, what most men like to hear, a fish story—the story of the Scarlet Ibis. Plenty of raps for his autocratic ways the boy got as the large m’sieur told the tale, and once or twice the deep-toned young laughter rang out in a shout which made people all over the dining-room turn and stare and smile. Jack did not see that, but the elder men saw, and laughed too, and loved the boy for it, as older men do love youth and unconsciousness and joy of living.
“So you see,” Mr. Bradlee finished, “Izaak Walton Vance slipped up on the fly and the humble scholar guessed right. But the lad gave me the best time I’ve had for twenty years, bar none, and he taught me how to fish—I consider that worth anywhere from ten to forty million. So I’m his debtor to a large amount, and I want you three gentlemen to help me to pay an instalment on my debt. I want you to help the boy win his case in his moot court up at the Harvard Law School. That’s what you’re here for.”
“Speaking for myself, it will be a pleasure if I can help Mr. Vance,” Fitzhugh enunciated with elaborate Southern courtesy. “And speaking for people in general, they certainly are likely to do what Billion Bradlee asks.”
The lad swung about and flashed a startled look at his host. “Are you—” he began and stopped.