“Interesting personality,” said Bruce carelessly. But Mills had fixed himself in his mind—he had even fashioned a physical embodiment for the traits Henderson had described. On the whole, Bruce’s dominant feeling was one of relief and satisfaction. Franklin Mills was as remote from him as though they were creatures of different planets, separated by vast abysses of time and space.
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.”