It has always been interesting to me to see in what awe men of this type or profession are held by many in the more intellectual walks of life as well as by those whose respectful worship is less surprising,—­those who revere strength, agility, physical courage, so-called, brute or otherwise.  There is a kind of retiring worshipfulness, especially in men and children of the lower walks, for this type, which must be flattering in the extreme.

However, in so far as Culhane was concerned at this time, the case was different.  Whatever he had been in his youth he was not that now, or at least his earlier rawness had long since been glazed over by other experiences.  Self-education, an acquired politeness among strangers and a knowledge of the manners and customs of the better-to-do, permitted him to associate with them and to accept if not copy their manners and to a certain extent their customs in his relations with them.  Literally, he owned hundreds of the best acres of the land about him, in one of the most fashionable residence sections of the East.  He had already given away to some Sisters of Mercy a great estate in northern New York.  His stables contained every type of fashionable vehicle and stalled and fed sixty or seventy of the worst horses, purposely so chosen, for the use of his “guests.”  Men of all professions visited his place, paid him gladly the six hundred dollars in advance which he asked for the course of six weeks’ training, and brought, or attempted to, their own cars and retinues, which they lodged in the vicinity but could not use.  I myself was introduced or rather foisted upon him by my dear brother, whose friend if not crony—­if such a thing could have been said to exist in his life—­he was.  I was taken to him in a very somber and depressed mood and left; he rarely if ever received guests in person or at once.  On the way, and before I had been introduced, I was instructed by my good brother as to his moods, methods, airs and tricks, supposed or rumored to be so beneficial in so many cases.  They were very rough—­purposely so.

The day I arrived, and before I saw him, I was very much impressed with the simplicity yet distinction of the inn or sanitarium or “repair shop,” as subsequently I learned he was accustomed to refer to it, perched upon a rise of ground and commanding a quite wonderful panorama.  It was spring and quite warm and bright.  The cropped enclosure which surrounded it, a great square of green fenced with high, well-trimmed privet, was good to look upon, level and smooth.  The house, standing in the center of this, was large and oblong and gray, with very simple French windows reaching to the floor and great wide balustraded balconies reaching out from the second floor, shaded with awnings and set with rockers.  The land on which this inn stood sloped very gradually to the Sound, miles away to the southeast, and the spires of churches and the gables of villages rising in between, as well as various toy-like sails