Omne mundus in duas partes divisum est—­men who wear rubbers and pay poll-taxes, and men who discover new continents.  There are no more continents to discover; but by the time overshoes are out of date and the poll has developed into an income tax, the other half will be paralleling the canals of Mars with radium railways.

Fortune, Chance, and Adventure are given as synonymous in the dictionaries.  To the knowing each has a different meaning.  Fortune is a prize to be won.  Adventure is the road to it.  Chance is what may lurk in the shadows at the roadside.  The face of Fortune is radiant and alluring; that of Adventure is flushed and heroic.  The face of Chance is the beautiful countenance—­perfect because vague and dream-born—­that we see in our tea-cups at breakfast while we growl over our chops and toast.

The VENTURER is one who keeps his eye on the hedgerows and wayside groves and meadows while he travels the road to Fortune.  That is the difference between him and the Adventurer.  Eating the forbidden fruit was the best record ever made by a Venturer.  Trying to prove that it happened is the highest work of the Adventuresome.  To be either is disturbing to the cosmogony of creation.  So, as bracket-sawed and city-directoried citizens, let us light our pipes, chide the children and the cat, arrange ourselves in the willow rocker under the flickering gas jet at the coolest window and scan this little tale of two modern followers of Chance.

“Did you ever hear that story about the man from the West?” asked Billinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate the interior of the Powhatan Club.

“Doubtless,” said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the room.

Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again long before this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of the air (as Hamlet says).  Billinger was used to having his stories insulted and would not mind.  Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go away from anywhere.  A man, in order to get on good terms with himself, must have his opinions corroborated and his moods matched by some one else. (I had written that “somebody”; but an A. D. T. boy who once took a telegram for me pointed out that I could save money by using the compound word.  This is a vice versa case.)

Forster’s favorite mood was that of greatly desiring to be a follower of Chance.  He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth, tradition and the narrowing influences of the tribe of Manhattan had denied him full privilege.  He had trodden all the main-traveled thoroughfares and many of the side roads that are supposed to relieve the tedium of life.  But none had sufficed.  The reason was that he knew what was to be found at the end of every street.  He knew from experience and logic almost precisely to what end each digression from routine must lead.  He found a depressing monotony in all the variations that the music of his sphere had grafted upon the tune of life.  He had not learned that, although the world was made round, the circle has been squared, and that it’s true interest is to be in “What’s Around the Corner.”