By O. Henry
Suppose you should be walking down Broadway afterdinner， with ten minutes allotted to the consummation of yourcigar while you are choosing between a diverting tragedy andsomething serious in the way of vaudeville. Suddenly a hand islaid upon your arm. You turn to look into the thrilling eyes of abeautiful woman， wonderful in diamonds and Russian sables.
She thrusts hurriedly into your hand an extremely hot butteredroll， flashes out a tiny pair of scissors， snips off the secondbutton of your overcoat， meaningly ejaculates the one word，“parallelogram！” and swiftly flies down a cross street， lookingback fearfully over her shoulder.
That would be pure adventure. Would you accept it？ Not you.
You would flush with embarrassment； you would sheepishlydrop the roll and continue down Broadway， fumbling feebly forthe missing button. This you would do unless you are one of theblessed few in whom the pure spirit of adventure is not dead.
True adventurers have never been plentiful. They who areset down in print as such have been mostly business men withnewly invented methods. They have been out after the thingsthey wanted—golden fleeces， holy grails， lady loves， treasure，crowns and fame. The true adventurer goes forth aimless anduncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate. A fine examplewas the Prodigal Son—when he started back home.
Half-adventurers—brave and splendid figures—have beennumerous. From the Crusades to the Palisades they haveenriched the arts of history and fiction and the trade of historicalfiction. But each of them had a prize to win， a goal to kick， anaxe to grind， a race to run， a new thrust in tierce to deliver， aname to carve， a crow to pick—so they were not followers oftrue adventure.
In the big city the twin spirits Romance and Adventure arealways abroad seeking worthy wooers. As we roam the streetsthey slyly peep at us and challenge us in twenty differentguises. Without knowing why， we look up suddenly to see in awindow a face that seems to belong to our gallery of intimateportraits； in a sleeping thoroughfare we hear a cry of agonyand fear coming from an empty and shuttered house； instead ofat our familiar curb， a cab-driver deposits us before a strangedoor， which one， with a smile， opens for us and bids us enter；a slip of paper， written upon， flutters down to our feet from thehigh lattices of Chance； we exchange glances of instantaneoushate， affection and fear with hurrying strangers in the passingcrowds； a sudden douse of rain—and our umbrella may besheltering the daughter of the Full Moon and first cousin of theSidereal System； at every corner handkerchiefs drop， fingersbeckon， eyes besiege， and the lost， the lonely， the rapturous，the mysterious， the perilous， changing clues of adventure areslipped into our fingers. But few of us are willing to hold andfollow them. We are grown stiff with the ramrod of conventiondown our backs. We pass on； and some day we come， at theend of a very dull life， to reflect that our romance has been apallid thing of a marriage or two， a satin rosette kept in a safedepositdrawer， and a lifelong feud with a steam radiator.
Rudolf Steiner was a true adventurer. Few were the eveningson which he did not go forth from his hall bedchamber in searchof the unexpected and the egregious. The most interesting thingin life seemed to him to be what might lie just around the nextcorner. Sometimes his willingness to tempt fate led him intostrange paths. Twice he had spent the night in a station-house；again and again he had found himself the dupe of ingeniousand mercenary tricksters； his watch and money had been theprice of one flattering allurement. But with undiminishedardour he picked up every glove cast before him into the merrylists of adventure.
One evening Rudolf was strolling along a crosstown street inthe older central part of the city. Two streams of people filledthe sidewalks—the home-hurrying， and that restless contingentthat abandons home for the specious welcome of the thousandcandle-power table d’h？te.
The young adventurer was of pleasing presence， and movedserenely and watchfully. By daylight he was a salesman in apiano store. He wore his tie drawn through a topaz ring insteadof fastened with a stick pin； and once he had written to theeditor of a magazine that “Junie’s Love Test” by Miss Libbey，had been the book that had most influenced his life.
During his walk a violent chattering of teeth in a glass caseon the sidewalk seemed at first to draw his attention （with aqualm）， to a restaurant before which it was set； but a secondglance revealed the electric letters of a dentist’s sign highabove the next door. A giant negro， fantastically dressed ina red embroidered coat， yellow trousers and a military cap，discreetly distributed cards to those of the passing crowd whoconsented to take them.
This mode of dentistic advertising was a common sight toRudolf. Usually he passed the dispenser of the dentist’s cardswithout reducing his store； but tonight the African slipped oneinto his hand so deftly that he retained it there smiling a littleat the successful feat.
When he had travelled a few yards further he glanced atthe card indifferently. Surprised， he turned it over and lookedagain with interest. One side of the card was blank； on theother was written in ink three words， “The Green Door.” Andthen Rudolf saw， three steps in front of him， a man throwdown the card the negro had given him as he passed. Rudolfpicked it up. It was printed with the dentist’s name and addressand the usual schedule of “plate work” and “bridge work” and“crowns，” and specious promises of “painless” operations.
The adventurous piano salesman halted at the corner andconsidered. Then he crossed the street， walked down a block，recrossed and joined the upward current of people again.