That last sad journey of Rudolph Valentino across the continent increased my respect for the human heart of the American public. Crowds don’t wait patiently in the rain at four o’clock in the morning out of idle curiosity. The roots of such action strike deeper than that. All the way, from New York City to Los Angeles, the throngs that assembled for a glimpse of the funeral train paid their one greatest tribute to his memory – the tribute of silence. Somewhere on the prairies of Iowa as the dawn which “Rudy” was leaving behind forever began to grey the east, the train paused for a moment on a tiny hamlet. An elderly woman rushed up and thrust a bouquet of flowers into the hands of the porter. “For him” she expolained and then the train was on its way. Reverence not curiosity, does things like that.