There were two or three things that I wanted to know. Ido not care about a mystery. So I began to inquire.
It took me two weeks to find out what women carry indress suit cases. And then I began to ask why a mattress ismade in two pieces. This serious query was at first receivedwith suspicion because it sounded like a conundrum. Iwas at last assured that its double form of constructionwas designed to make lighter the burden of woman， whomakes up beds. I was so foolish as to persist， begging toknow why， then， they were not made in two equal pieces；whereupon I was shunned.
The third draught that I craved from the fount ofknowledge was enlightenment concerning the characterknown as A Man About Town. He was more vague in mymind than a type should be. We must have a concrete ideaof anything， even if it be an imaginary idea， before wecan comprehend it. Now， I have a mental picture of JohnDoe that is as clear as a steel engraving. His eyes are weakblue； he wears a brown vest and a shiny black serge coat. Hestands always in the sunshine chewing something； and hekeeps half-shutting his pocket knife and opening it againwith his thumb. And， if the Man Higher Up is ever found，take my assurance for it， he will be a large， pale man withblue wristlets showing under his cuffs， and he will be sittingto have his shoes polished within sound of a bowling alley，and there will be somewhere about him turquoises.
But the canvas of my imagination， when it came tolimning the Man About Town， was blank. I fancied that hehad a detachable sneer （like the smile of the Cheshire cat）and attached cuffs； and that was all. Whereupon I asked anewspaper reporter about him.
“Why，” said he， “a ‘Man About Town’ somethingbetween a ‘rounder’ and a ‘clubman.’ He isn’t exactly—well，he fits in between Mrs. Fish’s receptions and private boxingbouts. He doesn’t—well， he doesn’t belong either to theLotos Club or to the Jerry McGeogheghan Galvanised IronWorkers’ Apprentices’ Left Hook Chowder Association. Idon’t exactly know how to describe him to you. You’ll seehim everywhere there’s anything doing. Yes， I suppose he’sa type. Dress clothes every evening； knows the ropes； callsevery policeman and waiter in town by their first names.
No； he never travels with the hydrogen derivatives. Yougenerally see him alone or with another man.”
My friend the reporter left me， and I wandered furtherafield. By this time the 3126 electric lights on the Rialtowere alight. People passed， but they held me not. Paphianeyes rayed upon me， and left me unscathed. Diners，heimgangers， shop-girls， confidence men， panhandlers，actors， highwaymen， millionaires and outlanders hurried，skipped， strolled， sneaked， swaggered and scurried byme； but I took no note of them. I knew them all； I hadread their hearts； they had served. I wanted my ManAbout Town. He was a type， and to drop him would be anerror—a typograph—but no！ let us continue.
Let us continue with a moral digression. To see a familyreading the Sunday paper gratifies. The sections havebeen separated. Papa is earnestly scanning the page thatpictures the young lady exercising before an open window，and bending—but there， there！ Mamma is interested intrying to guess the missing letters in the word N_w Yo_k.
The oldest girls are eagerly perusing the financial reports，for a certain young man remarked last Sunday night thathe had taken a flyer in Q.， X. & Z. Willie， the eighteenyear-old son， who attends the New York public school，is absorbed in the weekly article describing how to makeover an old skirt， for he hopes to take a prize in sewing ongraduation day.
Grandma is holding to the comic supplement with atwo-hours’ grip； and little Tottie， the baby， is rocking alongthe best she can with the real estate transfers. This view isintended to be reassuring， for it is desirable that a few linesof this story be skipped. For it introduces strong drink.
I went into a café to—and while it was being mixed Iasked the man who grabs up your hot Scotch spoon assoon as you lay it down what he understood by the term，epithet， description， designation， characterisation orappellation， viz.： a “Man About Town.”
“Why，” said he， carefully， “it means a fly guy that’s wiseto the all-night push—see？ It’s a hot sport that you can’tbump to the rail anywhere between the Flatirons—see？ Iguess that’s about what it means.”
I thanked him and departed.
On the sidewalk a Salvation lassie shook her contributionreceptacle gently against my waistcoat pocket.
