Average Jones by Samuel Hopkins Adams Contents CHAPTER I. THE B-FLAT TROMBONE CHAPTER II. RED DOT CHAPTER III. OPEN TRAIL CHAPTER IV. THE MERCY SIGN—ONE CHAPTER V. THE MERCY SIGN—TWO CHAPTER VI. BLUE FIRES CHAPTER VII. PIN-PRICKS CHAPTER VIII. BIG PRINT CHAPTER IX. THE MAN WHO SPOKE LATIN CHAPTER X. THE ONE BEST BET CHAPTER XI. THE MILLION-DOLLAR DOG CHAPTER I. THE B-FLAT TROMBONE Three men sat in the Cosmic Club discussing the question: “What’s the matter with Jones?” Waldemar, the oldest of the conferees, was the owner, and at times the operator, of an important and decent newspaper. His heavy face wore the expression of good-humored power, characteristic of the experienced and successful journalist. Beside him sat Robert Bertram, the club idler, slender and languidly elegant. The third member of the conference was Jones himself. Average Jones had come by his nickname inevitably. His parents had foredoomed him to it when they furnished him with the initials A. V. R. E. as preface to his birthright of J for Jones. His character apparently justified the chance concomitance. He was, so to speak, a composite photograph of any thousand well-conditioned, clean-living Americans between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. Happily, his otherwise commonplace face was relieved by the one unfailing characteristic of composite photographs, large, deep-set and thoughtful eyes. Otherwise he would have passed in any crowd, and nobody would have noticed him pass. Now, at twenty-seven, he looked back over the five years since his graduation from college and wondered what he had done with them; and at the four previous years of undergraduate life and wondered how he had done so well with those and why he had not in some manner justified the parting words of his favorite professor. “You have one rare faculty, Jones. You can, when you choose, sharpen the pencil of your mind to a very fine point. Specialize, my boy, specialize.” If the recipient of this admonition had specialized in anything, it was in life. Having twenty-five thousand a year of his own he might have continued in that path indefinitely, but for two influences. One was an irruptive craving within him to take some part in the dynamic activities of the surrounding world. The other was the “freak” will of his late and little-lamented uncle, from whom he had his present income, and his future expectations of some ten millions. Adrian Van Reypen Egerton had, as Waldemar once put it, “—one into the mayor’s chair with a good name and come out with a block of ice stock.” In a will whose cynical humor was the topic of its day, Mr. Egerton jeered posthumously at the public which he had despoiled, and promised restitution, of a sort, through his heir.