Twelve Men

more or less in evidence, were servants, ostlers, waiting-maids and always a decidedly large company of men of practically all professions, ages, and one might almost say nationalities. That is as nationalities are represented in America, by first and second generations.

The day I arrived I did not see my prospective host or manager or trainer for an hour or two after I came, being allowed to wait about until the very peculiar temperament which he possessed would permit him to come and see me. When he did show up, a more savage and yet gentlemanly-looking animal in clothes de rigueur I have never seen. He was really very princely in build and manner, shapely and grand, like those portraits that have come down to us of Richelieu and the Duc de Guise—fawn-colored riding trousers, bright red waistcoat, black-and-white check riding coat, brown leather riding boots and leggings with the essential spurs, and a riding quirt. And yet really, at that moment he reminded me not so much of a man, in his supremely well- tailored riding costume, as of a tiger or a very ferocious and yet at times purring cat, beautifully dressed, as in our children’s storybooks, a kind of tiger in collar and boots. He was so lithe, silent, cat-like in his tread. In his hard, clear, gray animal eyes was that swift, incisive, restless, searching glance which sometimes troubles us in the presence of animals. It was hard to believe that he was all of sixty, as I had been told. He looked the very well- preserved man of fifty or less. The short trimmed mustache and goatee which he wore were gray and added to his grand air. His hair, cut a close pompadour, the ends of his heavy eyebrow hairs turned upward, gave him a still more distinguished air. He looked very virile, very intelligent, very indifferent, intolerant and even threatening.

“Well,” he exclaimed on sight, “you wish to see me?”

I gave him my name.

“Yes, that’s so. Your brother spoke to me about you. Well, take a seat. You will be looked after.”

He walked off, and after an hour or so I was still waiting, for what I scarcely knew—a room, something to eat possibly, some one to speak a friendly word to me, but no one did.

While I was waiting in this rather nondescript antechamber, hung with hats, caps, riding whips and gauntlets, I had an opportunity to study some of the men with whom presumably I was to live for a number of weeks. It was between two and three in the afternoon, and many of them were idling about in pairs or threes, talking, reading, all in rather commonplace athletic costumes—soft woolen shirts, knee trousers, stockings and running or walking shoes. They were in the main evidently of the so-called learned professions or the arts—doctors, lawyers, preachers, actors, writers, with a goodly sprinkling of merchants, manufacturers and young and middle-aged society men, as well as politicians and monied idlers, generally a little the worse for their pleasures or weaknesses. A distinguished judge of one of the superior courts of New York and an actor known everywhere in the English- speaking world were instantly recognized by me. Others, as I was subsequently informed, were related by birth or achievement to some one fact or another of public significance. The reason for the presence of so many people rather above than under the average in intellect lay, as I came to believe later, in their ability or that of some one connected with them to sincerely appreciate or to at least be amused and benefited by the somewhat different theory of physical repair which the lord of the manor had invented, or for which at least he had become famous.

I have remarked that I was not inclined to be impressed. Sanitariums with their isms and theories did not appeal to me. However, as I was waiting here an incident occurred which stuck in my mind. A smart conveyance drove up, occupied by a singularly lean and haughty-looking individual, who, after looking about him, expecting some one to come out to him no doubt, clambered cautiously out, and after seeing that his various grips and one trunk were properly deposited on the gravel square outside, paid and feed his driver, then walked in and remarked:

“Ah—where is Mr. Culhane?”

“I don’t know, sir,” I replied, being the only one present. “He was here, but he’s gone. I presume some one will show up presently.”

He walked up and down a little while, and then added: “Um—rather peculiar method of receiving one, isn’t it? I wired him I’d be here.” He walked restlessly and almost waspishly to and fro, looking out of the window at times, at others commenting on the rather casual character of it all. I agreed.

Thus, some fifteen minutes having gone by without any one approaching us, and occasional servants or “guests” passing through the room or being seen in the offing without even so much as vouchsafing a word or appearing to be interested in us, the new arrival grew excited.

“This is very unusual,” he fumed, walking up and down. “I wired him only three hours ago. I’ve been here now fully three-quarters of an hour! A most unheard-of method of doing business, I should say!”

Presently our stern, steely-eyed host returned. He seemed to be going somewhere, to be nowise interested in us. Yet into our presence, probably into the consciousness of this new “guest,” he carried that air of savage strength and indifference, eyeing the stranger quite sharply and making no effort to apologize for our long wait.

“You wish to see me?” he inquired brusquely once more.

Like a wasp, the stranger was vibrant with rage. Plainly he felt himself insulted or terribly underrated.

“Are you Mr. Culhane?” he asked crisply.

“Yes.”

“I am Mr. Squiers,” he exclaimed. “I wired you from Buffalo and ordered a room,” this last with an irritated wave of the hand.

“Oh, no, you didn’t order any room,” replied the host sourly and with an obvious desire to show his indifference and contempt even. “You wired to know if you could engage a room.”

He paused. The temperature seemed to drop perceptibly. The prospective guest seemed to realize that he had made a mistake somewhere, had been misinformed as to conditions here.

“Oh! Um—ah! Yes! Well, have you a room?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. We don’t take every one.” His eyes seemed to bore into the interior of his would-be guest.

“Well, but I was told—my friend, Mr. X----,” the stranger began a rapid, semi-irritated, semi-apologetic explanation of how he came to be here.

“I don’t know anything about your friend or what he told you. If he told you you could order a room by telegraph, he’s mistaken. Anyhow, you’re not dealing with him, but with me. Now that you’re here, though, if you want to sit down and rest yourself a little I’ll see what I can do for you. I can’t decide now whether I can let you stay. You’ll have to wait a while.” He turned and walked off.