In his racy description of the owners of the houses they passed, their ancestry, the skeletons in their closets, their wealth and how it was attained, Henderson shone effulgently. Bruce, marveling that one head could carry so much local history, was almost equally astonished by the sins and foibles of the citizens as Henderson pictured them.
“Great Scott! Are there no perfectly normal people in this town?” he demanded.
“A few, maybe,” Henderson replied, lifting his hand from the wheel to stroke his chin. “But they’re not what you’d call conspicuous.”
Pausing before a handsome colonial house, the presence of an elderly gentleman calmly perusing a newspaper on the veranda, inspired Henderson to a typical excursion in biography. The owner, thinking visitors impended, pattered down the steps and stared belligerently at the car.
“Note the carpet slippers,” remarked Henderson as the gentleman, satisfied that his privacy was not to be invaded, returned to his chair. “Here we have Bill Fielding, one of the most delightful old scoundrels in town. Observe his pants—sleeps in ’em to avoid the fatigue of disrobing. To keep off evil spirits he wears the first nickel he ever earned on a string around his neck. He’s the smoothest tax-dodger in America. His wife starved to death and his three children moved to California to get as far away from the old skunk as possible. Why does he live in a house like that? Bless your simple soul, he took it on a mortgage and camps in two rooms while he waits for a buyer.”
“I don’t believe I’d like him! If you’ve got many such birds I’d better try another town,” laughed Bruce as Henderson started the car.
“Oh, don’t worry! He’s the last of his school. Now we’re approaching a different proposition—one that baffles even my acute analytical powers.”
He drew up before a handsome Georgian house that stood lengthwise to the street in a broad lot in which a dozen towering forest trees had been preserved when the land was subdivided. There were no frivolous lines in this residence, Bruce noted, surveying it with a professional eye; it was beyond criticism in its fidelity to type. The many windows were protected by awnings of deep orange and the ledges were adorned with boxes of flowers. The general effect was one of perfect order and uniformity. Bruce, with his interest in houses as an expression of the character of their owners whetted by Henderson’s slangy lectures before other establishments, turned expectantly to his friend.
“Wind up the machine and put on the record! That’s a sound piece of architecture, anyhow, and I can see that you are dying to turn out the skeletons.”
“Painful as it is for me to confess it, the truth is that in this case I can only present a few bald facts and leave you to make your own deductions.” Henderson lighted a fresh cigarette and drew a deep draught of smoke into his lungs. “Franklin Mills,” he said, and crossed his legs. “Mills is around fifty, maybe a shade more. The first of the tribe settled here in 1820 and Frank is the fourth of the name. The family always had money and this bird’s father never lost a cent in his life. Now Frank’s rich—nothing spectacular, but recognized as a rich man. His pop left him well fixed and he’s piled up considerable mazuma on his own hook. Does this interest you?”