The aggressive one plunged into the Connecticut woods and began his search for possible mosquito-breeding spots.  He was the “Mosquito Man,” the self-appointed guardian of the Connecticut coast from Stamford to Westport.

He was not born a Mosquito Man at all—­in fact, he did not become one until he was forty years old and had retired from business because he had made enough money to rest and “enjoy life.”  But he did not rest, and did not get enjoyment, for the mosquitoes had likewise leased his place on the Sound and were making good their title.

Came then big fat mosquitoes from the swamp.  Came mosquitoes from the salt marshes.  Some lighted on the owner’s nose and some looked for his ankles, and found them.  Three days of this sort of rest made him decide to move away.  Then, because he was aggressive, he became the Mosquito Man.  The idea occurred to him when he had gone over to a distant island and was watching the building of houses.

“This place,” he said to the head carpenter, “is going to be a little heaven.”

“More like a little other place,” growled the head carpenter.  “Here they’ve dug out the centre of the island and carted it to the beach to make hills for the houses to be built on.  One good rain will fill their little heaven with mosquitoes.  Why don’t the people around here drain their country?”

That night the Mosquito Man telephoned to a drainage expert in New York and demanded that he come out the next day.

“I don’t like to work on Sunday,” the expert objected.

“It is absolutely essential that you come at once,” he was told.  “Can you take the first train?”

The first train and the expert arrived in Darien at 5:51.  Before the day was over a contract had been drawn up to the purport that the expert would drain the salt marshes between Stamford and South Norwalk for $4,000.

The Mosquito Man now began to talk mosquitoes to every one who would listen and to many who did not want to listen.  “That bug,” the old settlers called him at the time—­for old settlers are very settled in their ways.  The young women at the Country Club, whenever they saw him coming, made bets as to whether he would talk mosquitoes—­and he always did.  Every property-owner in the township was asked for a subscription, and some gave generously and some gave niggardly and some did not give at all.  The subscriptions were voluntary, for no one could be forced to remove a mosquito-breeding nuisance from his property.  This was in 1911, and only in 1915 has a mosquito law been passed in Connecticut.  The Mosquito Man was forced to use “indirect influence,” which does not expedite matters.

A subscription of $1,000 came from the big land corporation of the neighborhood, after the “indirect influence” had rather forcibly expressed itself.

“I want $1,000 from you,” said the Mosquito Man to the representative of the president—­the president was in South America.  The representative laughed, so the Mosquito Man spent several days explaining to him why property is more valuable when it is not infested with pests.  But every time that the $1,000 was mentioned, the representative could not restrain the smile.