“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.
The other stared. “Well,” he commented to me after a time, walking and twisting, “if a man wants to come here I suppose he has to put up with such things, but it’s certainly unusual, isn’t it?” He sat down, wilted, and waited.
Later a clerk in charge of the registry book took us in hand, and then I heard him explaining that his lungs were not in good shape. He had come a long way—Denver, I believe. He had heard that all one needed to do was to wire, especially one in his circumstances.
“Some people think that way,” solemnly commented the clerk, “but they don’t know Mr. Culhane. He does about as he pleases in these matters. He doesn’t do this any more to make money but rather to amuse himself, I think. He always has more applicants than he accepts.”
I began to see a light. Perhaps there was something to this place after all. I did not even partially sense the drift of the situation, though, until bedtime when, after having been served a very frugal meal and shown to my very simple room, a kind of cell, promptly at nine o’clock lights were turned off. I lit a small candle and was looking over some things which I had placed in a grip, when I heard a voice in the hall outside: “Candles out, please! Candles out! All guests in bed!” Then it came to me that a very rigorous regime was being enforced here.
The next morning as I was still soundly sleeping at five-thirty a loud rap sounded at my door. The night before I had noticed above my bed a framed sign which read: “Guests must be dressed in running trunks, shoes and sweater, and appear in the gymnasium by six sharp.” “Gymnasium at six! Gymnasium at six!” a voice echoed down the hall. I bounced out of bed. Something about the very air of the place made me feel that it was dangerous to attempt to trifle with the routine here. The tiger-like eyes of my host did not appeal to me as retaining any softer ray in them for me than for others. I had paid my six hundred … I had better earn it. I was down in the great room in my trunks, sweater, dressing-gown, running shoes in less than five minutes.
And that room! By that time as odd a company of people as I have ever seen in a gymnasium had already begun to assemble. The leanness! the osseosity! the grandiloquent whiskers parted in the middle! the mustachios! the goatees! the fat, Hoti-like stomachs! the protuberant knees! the thin arms! the bald or semi-bald pates! the spectacles or horn glasses or pince-nezes!—laid aside a few moments later, as the exercises began. Youth and strength in the pink of condition, when clad only in trunks, a sweater and running shoes, are none too acceptable—but middle age! And out in the world, I reflected rather sadly, they all wore the best of clothes, had their cars, servants, city and country houses perhaps, their factories, employees, institutions. Ridiculous! Pitiful! As lymphatic and flabby as oysters without their shells, myself included. It was really painful.
Even as I meditated, however, I was advised, by many who saw that I was a stranger, to choose a partner, any partner, for medicine ball practice, for it might save me being taken or called by him. I hastened so to do. Even as we were assembling or beginning to practice, keeping two or three light medicine balls going between each pair, our host entered—that iron man, that mount of brawn. In his cowled dressing-gown he looked more like some great monk or fighting abbot of the medieval years than a trainer. He walked to the center, hung up his cowl and revealed himself lithe and lion-like and costumed like ourselves. But how much more attractive as he strode about, his legs lean and sturdy, his chest full, his arms powerful and graceful! At once he seized a large leather-covered medicine ball, as had all the others, and calling a name to which responded a lean whiskerando with a semi-bald pate, thin legs and arms, and very much caricatured, I presume, by the wearing of trunks and sweater. Taking his place opposite the host, he was immediately made the recipient of a volley of balls and brow-beating epithets.
“Hurry up now! Faster! Ah, come on! Put the ball back to me! Put the ball back! Do you want to keep it all day? Great God! What are you standing there for? What are you standing there for? What do you think you’re doing—drinking tea? Come on! I haven’t all morning for you alone. Move! Move, you ham! You call yourself an editor! Why, you couldn’t edit a handbill! You can’t even throw a ball straight! Throw it straight! Throw it straight! For Christ’s sake where do you think I am—out in the office? Throw it straight! Hell!” and all the time one and another ball, grabbed from anywhere, for the floor was always littered with them, would be thrown in the victim’s direction, and before he could well appreciate what was happening to him he was being struck, once in the neck and again on the chest by the rapidly delivered six ounce air-filled balls, two of which at least he and the host were supposed to keep in constant motion between them. Later, a ball striking him in the stomach, he emitted a weak “Ooph!” and laying his hands over the affected part ceased all effort. At this the master of the situation only smirked on him leoninely and holding up a ball as if to throw it continued, “What’s the matter with you now? Come on! What do you want to stop for? What do you want to stand there for? You’re not hurt. How do you expect to get anywhere if you can’t keep two silly little balls like these going between us?” (There had probably been six or eight.) “Here I am sixty and you’re forty, and you can’t even keep up with me. And you pretend to give the general public advice on life! Well, go on; God pity the public, is all I say,” and he dismissed him, calling out another name.
Now came a fat, bald soul, with dewlaps and a protruding stomach, who later I learned was a manufacturer of clothing—six hundred employees under him—down in health and nerves, really all “shot to pieces” physically. Plainly nervous at the sound of his name, he puffed quickly into position, grabbing wildly after the purposely eccentric throws which his host made and which kept him running to left and right in an all but panicky mood.
“Move! Move!” insisted our host as before, and, if anything, more irritably. “Say, you work like a crab! What a motion! If you had more head and less guts you could do this better. A fine specimen you are! This is what comes of riding about in taxis and eating midnight suppers instead of exercising. Wake up! Wake up! A belt would have kept your stomach in long ago. A little less food and less sleep, and you wouldn’t have any fat cheeks. Even your hair might stay on! Wake up! Wake up! What do you want to do—die?” and as he talked he pitched the balls so quickly that his victim looked at times as though he were about to weep. His physical deficiencies were all too plain in every way. He was generally obese and looked as though he might drop, his face a flaming red, his hands trembling and missing, when a “Well, go on,” sounded and a third victim was called. This time it was a well-known actor who responded, a star, rather spry and well set up, but still nervous, for he realized quite well what was before him. He had been here for weeks and was in pretty fair trim, but still he was plainly on edge. He ran and began receiving and tossing as swiftly as he could, but as with the others so it was his turn now to be given such a grilling and tongue-lashing as falls to few of us in this world, let alone among the successful in the realm of the footlights. “Say, you’re not an actor—you’re a woman! You’re a stewed onion! Move! Move! Come on! Come on! Look at those motions now, will you? Look at that one arm up! Where do you suppose the ball is? On the ceiling? It’s not a lamp! Come on! Come on! It’s a wonder when you’re killed as Hamlet that you don’t stay dead. You are. You’re really dead now, you know. Move! Move!” and so it would go until finally the poor thespian, no match for his master and beset by flying balls, landing upon his neck, ear, stomach, finally gave up and cried: