declared that it was both. Certain it was that unqualified
commercial success crowned and dignified his method. A few
survivors of the old native families came to see his strange
machinery, that did the work of so many idle men and horses. It is
said that he offered to "run" the distant estate of Joaquin Padilla
from his little office amidst the grain of San Antonio. Some shook
their heads, and declared that he only sucked the juices of the
land for a few brief years to throw it away again; that in his
fierce haste he skimmed the fatness of ages of gentle cultivation
on a soil that had been barely tickled with native oaken
plowshares.

His own personal tastes and habits were as severe and practical as
his business: the little wing he inhabited contained only his
office, his living room or library, his bedroom, and a bath-room.
This last inconsistent luxury was due to a certain cat-like
cleanliness which was part of his nature. His iron-gray hair--a
novelty in this country of young Americans--was always scrupulously
brushed, and his linen spotless. A slightly professional and
somewhat old-fashioned respectability in his black clothes was also
characteristic. His one concession to the customs of his neighbors
was the possession of two or three of the half-broken and spirited
mustangs of the country, which he rode with the fearlessness, if
not the perfect security and ease, of a native. Whether the
subjection of this lawless and powerful survival of a wild and
unfettered nature around him was part of his plan, or whether it
was only a lingering trait of some younger prowess, no one knew;
but his grim and decorous figure, contrasting with the picturesque
and flowing freedom of the horse he bestrode, was a frequent
spectacle in road and field.