Relinquishing to a groom his fast-trotting team, the second relay in his
two hours' drive from San Francisco, he leaped to the ground to meet the
architect, already awaiting his orders in the courtyard. With his eyes
still fixed upon the irregular building before him, he mingled his
greeting and his directions.
"Look here, Barker, we'll have a wing thrown out here, and a
hundred-foot ballroom. Something to hold a crowd; something that can be
used for music--sabe?--a concert, or a show."
"Have you thought of any style, Mr. Rushbrook?" suggested the architect.
"No," said Rushbrook; "I've been thinking of the time--thirty days, and
everything to be in. You'll stop to dinner. I'll have you sit near Jack
Somers. You can talk style to him. Say I told you."
"You wish it completed in thirty days?" repeated the architect,
dubiously.
"Well, I shouldn't mind if it were less. You can begin at once. There's
a telegraph in the house. Patrick will take any message, and you can
send up to San Francisco and fix things before dinner.
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