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?”