Miss Ordway intercepted him on his way out to ask what she should do about a claim for damages to a car belonging to a man named Smythe, which had been scratched in the garage. The owner threatened to sue, and Miss Ordway expressed the belief that the valued patron was not bluffing. “We took the stand it wasn’t done in our shop and we can’t weaken,” said Henderson. “Also, we don’t want a row. Were my eyes deceiving me or have I seen Smythe looking longingly at that blue touring car in our front window? Yes? Well, suppose we send Briggs to call on him, carrying the olive branch. Tell him to roll home in the blue car and we’ll take his old junk and seven hundred berries cash on the counter.” “I think we could get eight hundred on the deal.” Miss Ordway’s tones were crisp and businesslike. “Sold! I despise Smythe, but it’s worth a thousand to have him riding in a Plantagenet. I’ll look in again at five.” II Henderson spent the morning exhibiting the city’s industries and wound up at the University Club for luncheon. “Now I’ll show you where the big frogs of our little puddle live,” he said as they started off again. 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.”