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.
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