“You haven’t dined, then?” asked Forster.

“I have not.  But I would like to.  Now, I’ll make you a proposition.  You look like a man who would take up one.  Your clothes look neat and respectable.  Excuse personalities.  I think mine will pass the scrutiny of a head waiter, also.  Suppose we go over to that hotel and dine together.  We will choose from the menu like millionaires—­or, if you prefer, like gentlemen in moderate circumstances dining extravagantly for once.  When we have finished we will match with my two pennies to see which of us will stand the brunt of the house’s displeasure and vengeance.  My name is Ives.  I think we have lived in the same station of life—­before our money took wings.”

“You’re on,” said Forster, joyfully.

Here was a venture at least within the borders of the mysterious country of Chance—­anyhow, it promised something better than the stale infestivity of a table d’hote.

The two were soon seated at a corner table in the hotel dining room.  Ives chucked one of his pennies across the table to Forster.

“Match for which of us gives the order,” he said.

Forster lost.

Ives laughed and began to name liquids and viands to the waiter with the absorbed but calm deliberation of one who was to the menu born.  Forster, listening, gave his admiring approval of the order.

“I am a man,” said Ives, during the oysters, “Who has made a lifetime search after the to-be-continued-in-our-next.  I am not like the ordinary adventurer who strikes for a coveted prize.  Nor yet am I like a gambler who knows he is either to win or lose a certain set stake.  What I want is to encounter an adventure to which I can predict no conclusion.  It is the breath of existence to me to dare Fate in its blindest manifestations.  The world has come to run so much by rote and gravitation that you can enter upon hardly any footpath of chance in which you do not find signboards informing you of what you may expect at its end.  I am like the clerk in the Circumlocution Office who always complained bitterly when any one came in to ask information.  ’He wanted to know, you know!’ was the kick he made to his fellow-clerks.  Well, I don’t want to know, I don’t want to reason, I don’t want to guess—­I want to bet my hand without seeing it.”

“I understand,” said Forster delightedly.  “I’ve often wanted the way I feel put into words.  You’ve done it.  I want to take chances on what’s coming.  Suppose we have a bottle of Moselle with the next course.”

“Agreed,” said Ives.  “I’m glad you catch my idea.  It will increase the animosity of the house toward the loser.  If it does not weary you, we will pursue the theme.  Only a few times have I met a true venturer—­one who does not ask a schedule and map from Fate when he begins a journey.  But, as the world becomes more civilized and wiser, the more difficult it is to come upon an adventure the end of which you cannot foresee.  In the Elizabethan days you could assault the watch, wring knockers from doors and have a jolly set-to with the blades in any convenient angle of a wall and ‘get away with it.’  Nowadays, if you speak disrespectfully to a policeman, all that is left to the most romantic fancy is to conjecture in what particular police station he will land you.”