“Therefore,” he had written, “I give and bequeath to the said Adrian Van Reypen Egerton Jones, the residue of my property, the principal to be taken over by him at such time as he shall have completed five years of continuous residence in New York City. After such time the virus of the metropolis will have worked through his entire being. He will squander his unearned and undeserved fortune, thus completing the vicious circle, and returning the millions acquired by my political activities, in a poisoned shower upon the city, for which, having bossed, bullied and looted it, I feel no sentiment other than contempt.” “And now,” remarked Waldemar in his heavy, rumbling voice, “you aspire to disappoint that good old man.” “It’s only human nature, you know,” said Average Jones. “When a man puts a ten-million-dollar curse on you and suggests that you haven’t the backbone of a shrimp, you—you—” “—naturally yearn to prove him a liar,” supplied Bertram. “Exactly. Anyway, I’ve no taste for dissipation, either moral or financial. I want action; something to do. I’m bored in this infernal city.” “The wail of the unslaked romanticist,” commented Bertram. “Romanticist nothing!” protested the other. “My ambitions are practical enough if I could only get ’em stirred up.” “Exactly. Boredom is simply romanticism with a morning-after thirst. You’re panting for romance, for something bizarre. Egypt and St. Petersburg and Buenos Ayres and Samoa have all become commonplace to you. You’ve overdone them. That’s why you’re back here in New York waiting with stretched nerves for the Adventure of Life to cat-creep up from behind and toss the lariat of rainbow dreams over your shoulders.” Waldemar laughed. “Not a bad diagnosis. Why don’t you take up a hobby, Mr. Jones?” “What kind of a hobby?” “Any kind. The club is full of hobby-riders. Of all people that I know, they have the keenest appetite for life. Look at old Denechaud; he was a misanthrope until he took to gathering scarabs. Fenton, over there, has the finest collection of circus posters in the world. Bellerding’s house is a museum of obsolete musical instruments. De Gay collects venomous insects from all over the world; no harmless ones need apply. Terriberry has a mania for old railroad tickets. Some are really very curious. I’ve often wished I had the time to be a crank. It’s a happy life.” “What line would you choose?” asked Bertram languidly. “Nobody has gone in for queer advertisements yet, I believe,” replied the older man. “If one could take the time to follow them up—-but it would mean all one’s leisure.” “Would it be so demanding a career?” said Average Jones, smiling. “Decidedly. I once knew a man who gave away twenty dollars daily on clues from the day’s news. He wasn’t bored for lack of occupation.” “But the ordinary run of advertising is nothing more than an effort to sell something by yelling in print,” objected Average Jones. “Is it? Well perhaps you don’t look in the right place.”