The appetite for adventure grows by being fed. There was a night when Morley Smith, clubman and close to fifty years old, spurred by a chance book of fiction, let the check-boy at the club ease him into his eight-hundred-dollar fur-lined coat and sallied forth in a taxicab to seek adventure in a house chosen at random. Trivial as the adventure had been, it was a stirring event in Morley Smith’s placid, well-groomed life. For a week he munched it in his mind and was satisfied. He glowed with a feeling that he had seen life. Then came the urge to further adventure. When he had finished his ample dinner at the club, washed down by a half-pint of good sauterne (his favorite dinner-wine), Morley…
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