On one occasion, however, Blake had been allowed to go to New York over Saturday and Sunday to attend to some urgent business, as he said, he on his honor having promised to avoid the white lights.  Nevertheless he did not manage so to do but instead, in some comfortable section of that region, was seen drinking enough to last him until perhaps he should have another opportunity to return to the city.

On his return to the “shop” on Monday morning or late Sunday night, Culhane pretended not to see him until noonday lunch, when, his jog over the long block done with and his bath taken, he came dapperly into the dining-room, wishing to look as innocent and fit as possible.  But Culhane was there before him at his little table in the center of the room, and patting the head of one of the two pure-blooded collies that always followed him about on the grounds or in the house, began as follows: 

“A dog,” he said very distinctly and in his most cynical tone and apparently apropos of nothing, which usually augured that the lightning of his criticism was about to strike somewhere, “is so much better than the average man that it’s an insult to the dog to compare them.  The dog’s really decent.  He has no sloppy vices.  You set a plate of food before a regularly-fed, blooded dog, and he won’t think of gorging himself sick or silly.  He eats what he needs, and then stops.  So does a cat” (which is of course by no means true, but still—­).  “A dog doesn’t get a red nose from drinking too much.”  By now all eyes were turning in the direction of Blake, whose nose was faintly tinged.  “He doesn’t get gonorrhea or syphilis.”  The united glances veered in the direction of three or four young scapegraces of wealth, all of whom were suspected of these diseases.  “He doesn’t hang around hotel bars and swill and get his tongue thick and talk about how rich he is or how old his family is.”  (This augured that Blake did such things, which I doubt, but once more all eyes were shifted to him.) “He doesn’t break his word.  Within the limits of his poor little brain he’s faithful.  He does what he thinks he’s called upon to do.

“But you take a man—­more especially a gentleman—­one of these fellows who is always very pointed in emphasizing that he is a gentleman” (which Blake never did).  “Let him inherit eight or ten millions, give him a college education, let him be socially well connected, and what does he do?  Not a damned thing if he can help it except contract vices—­run from one saloon to another, one gambling house to another, one girl to another, one meal to another.  He doesn’t need to know anything necessarily.  He may be the lowest dog physically and in every other way, and still he’s a gentleman—­because he has money, wears spats and a high hat.  Why I’ve seen fifty poor boob prize fighters in my time who could put it all over most of the so-called gentlemen I have ever seen.  They kept their word.  They tried to be physically fit.  They tried to stand up