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.