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The Mysterious Gentleman
EVERYBODY who rides our ten o'clock bus is curious about the strikingly handsome gentleman who disembarks, every morning except Monday, at the city's busiest midtown intersection. Those of us who happen to be riding uptown between five and six in the evening on the same days, see him board the bus in front of the concert hall near the same intersection.
He is so tall that he has to stoop so as not to bump his head on the bus ceiling. As he does this, he always smiles with a sort of happy pride, which is infectious. The rest of us smile, and are proud, too. The bus driver always raises two fingers to his cap and says "Good morning, sir," or "Good evening, sir."
The gentleman has powerful shoulders, and fills a seat regally. Though people always make room for him, he is careful to give the impression that he does not wish to crowd anyone.
His head has the monumental characteristics of a fine piece of classical sculpture. His eyes are small, and would be rather lost under the bristling black brows and over the massive, ruddy, close-shaven cheeks, were it not that they twinkle so constantly.
He is always elegantly tailored. He wears gloves of dove-gray kid. His black top-coat has a velvet collar. And a black Homburg rides the rich clusters of his silver hair.
Business men take him for a bank president, and lady shoppers for a philosophic millionaire who prefers crowded buses to his own velvet-upholstered town car. Stenographers and librarians sigh furtively into their best-sellers. Tiny girls smile up into his face when he smiles down into theirs, and little boys become voluntarily subdued in his presence. The university students who see him board in front of the concert hall at night, take him for a visiting symphony conductor or a famous operatic baritone.
When he rises, people automatically make way for him, and he walks down the bus aisle like a benevolent king advancing along a crimson carpet.
On Sundays, when his transportation routine is the same as during the week, except Mondays, people find themselves speculating as to which of the several churches in the vicinity may be that of his choice. They feel then that all about him may be an impenetrable mystery — except the fact that he is a faithful church-goer.
Actually, he is not a bank president. He rides the bus because he does not own a car. He has no musical talent whatever. And unfortunately, his working hours do not permit him to attend any church service.
If the people who ride our bus were more observant, they would recall that the Art Museum is located just south of the concert hall, and that it is open daily except Monday from ten till five.
If they were to visit the Renaissance Gallery there, they would notice a portly gentleman with clusters of silver hair framing his noble head, and wearing the blue-drab uniform of a Museum guard.
And they would see that as he paces back and forth between the rich tapestries, before the jewel-tinted paintings, and past the shelves aglow with silver-gilt and crystal plate, he smiles with happy pride, and walks like a king.
— Clara Lederer