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.”