There were two or three things that I wanted to know. —
I do not care about a mystery. —
So I began to inquire.
It took me two weeks to find out what women carry in dress suit cases. —
And then I began to ask why a mattress is made in two pieces. —
This serious query was at first received with suspicion because it sounded like a conundrum. —
I was at last assured that its double form of construction was designed to make lighter the burden of woman, who makes up beds. —
I was so foolish as to persist, begging to know why, then, they were not made in two equal pieces; whereupon I was shunned.
The third draught that I craved from the fount of knowledge was enlightenment concerning the character known as A Man About Town. He was more vague in my mind than a type should be. —
We must have a concrete idea of anything, even if it be an imaginary idea, before we can comprehend it. —
Now, I have a mental picture of John Doe that is as clear as a steel engraving. —
His eyes are weak blue; he wears a brown vest and a shiny black serge coat.
He stands always in the sunshine chewing something; —
and he keeps half-shutting his pocket knife and opening it again with his thumb. —
And, if the Man Higher Up is ever found, take my assurance for it, he will be a large, pale man with blue wristlets showing under his cuffs, and he will be sitting to have his shoes polisbed within sound of a bowling alley, and there will be somewhere about him turquoises.
But the canvas of my imagination, when it came to limning the Man About Town, was blank. —
I fancied that he bad a detachable sneer (like the smile of the Cheshire cat) and attached cuffs; —
and that was all. Whereupon I asked a newspaper reporter about him.
“Why,” said he, “a ‘Man About Town’ something between a ‘rounder’ and a ‘clubman.’ He isn’t exactly–well, he fits in between Mrs. Fish’s receptions and private boxing bouts. —
He doesn’t–well, he doesn’t belong either to the Lotos Club or to the Jerry McGeogheghan Galvanised Iron Workers’ Apprentices’ Left Hook Chowder Association. —
I don’t exactly know how to describe him to you. —
You’ll see him everywhere there’s anything doing. —
Yes, I suppose he’s a type. —
Dress clothes every evening; knows the ropes; —
calls every policeman and waiter in town by their first names. No; —
he never travels with the hydrogen derivatives. —
You generally see him alone or with another man.”
My friend the reporter left me, and I wandered further afield. —
By this time the 3126 electric lights on the Rialto were alight. —
People passed, but they held me not. —
Paphian eyes 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 by me; —
but I took no note of them. I knew them all; —
I had read their hearts; —
they had served. —
I wanted my Man About Town. He was a type, and to drop him would be an error–a typograph–but no! —
let us continue.
Let us continue with a moral digression. —
To see a family reading the Sunday paper gratifies. —
The sections have been separated. —
Papa is earnestly scanning the page that pictures the young lady exercising before an open window, and bending–but there, there! —
Mamma is interested in trying to guess the missing letters in the word Nw Yok. The oldest girls are eagerly perusing the financial reports, for a certain young man remarked last Sunday night that he had taken a flyer in Q., X. & Z. Willie, the eighteen-year-old son, who attends the New York public school, is absorbed in the weekly article describing how to make over an old skirt, for he hopes to take a prize in sewing on graduation day.
Grandma is holding to the comic supplement with a two-hours’ grip; —
and little Tottie, the baby, is rocking along the best she can with the real estatc transfers. —
This view is intended to be reassuring, for it is desirable that a few lines of this story be skipped. —
For it introduces strong drink.
I went into a cafe to – and while it was being mixed I asked the man who grabs up your hot Scotch spoon as soon as you lay it down what he undcrstood by the term, epithet, description, designation, characterisation or appellation, viz.: a “Man About Town.”
“Why,” said he, carefully, “it means a fly guy that’s wise to the all-night push–see? —
It’s a hot sport that you can’t bump to the rail anywhere between the Flatirons–see? —
I guess that’s about what it means.”
I thanked him and departed.
On the sidewalk a Salvation lassie shook her contribution receptacle gently against my waistcoat pocket.
“Would you mind telling me,” I asked her, “if you ever meet with the character commonly denominated as ‘A Man About Town’ during your daily wanderings?”
“I think I know whom you mean,” she answered, with a gentle smile. “We see them in the same places night after night. —
They are the devil’s body guard, and if the soldiers of any army are as faithful as they are, their commanders are well served. —
We go among them, diverting a few pennies from their wickedness to the Lord’s service.”
She shook the box again and I dropped a dime into it.
In front of a glittering hotel a friend of mine, a critic, was climbing from a cab. —
He seemed at leisure; —
and I put my question to him. —
He answered me conscientiously, as I was sure he would.
“There is a type of ‘Man About Town’ in New York,” he answered. —
“The term is quite familiar to me, but I don’t think I was ever called upon to define the character before. —
It would be difficult to point you out an exact specimen. —
I would say, offhand, that it is a man who had a hopeless case of the peculiar New York disease of wanting to see and know. —
At 6 o’clock each day life begins with him. —
He follows rigidly the conventions of dress and manners; —
but in the business of poking his nose into places where he does not belong he could give pointers to a civet cat or a jackdaw. —
He is the man who has chased Bohemia about the town from rathskeller to roof garden and from Hester street to Harlem until you can’t find a place in the city where they don’t cut their spaghetti with a knife. —
Your ‘Man About Town’ has done that. —
He is always on the scent of something new. —
He is curiosity, impudence and omnipresence. —
Hansoms were made for him, and gold-banded cigars; —
and the curse of music at dinner. —
There are not so many of him; —
but his minority report is adopted everywhere.
“I’m glad you brought up the subject; —
I’ve felt the influence of this nocturnal blight upon our city, but I never thought to analyse it before. —
I can see now that your ‘Man About Town’ should havc been classified long ago. —
In his wake spring up wine agents and cloak models; —
and the orchestra ‘p1ays ‘Let’s All Go Up to Maud’s’ for him, by request, instead of Handel. He makes his rounds every evening; —
while you and I see the elephant once a week. —
When the cigar store is raided, he winks at the officer, familiar with his ground, and walks away immune, while you and I search among the Presidents for names, and among the stars for addresses to give the desk sergeant.”
My friend, the critic, paused to acquire breath for fresh eloquence. —
I seized my advantage.
“You have classified him,” I cried with joy. —
“You have painted his portrait in the gallery of city types. —
But I must meet one face to face. —
I must study the Man About Town at first hand. —
Where shall I find him? How shall I know him?”
Without seeming to hear me, the critic went on. —
And his cab-driver was waiting for his fare, too.
“He is the sublimated essence of Butt-in; —
the refined, intrinsic extract of Rubber; —
the concentrated, purified, irrefutable, unavoidable spirit of Curiosity and Inquisitiveness. —
A new sensation is the breath in his nostrils; —
when his experience is exhausted he explores new fields with the indefatigability of a–”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “but can you produce one of this type? —
It is a new thing to me. —
I must study it. —
I will search the town over until I find one. —
Its habitat must be here on Broadway.”
“I am about to dine here,” said my friend. “Come inside, and if there is a Man About Town present I will point him out to you. —
I know most of the regular patrons here.”
“I am not dining yet,” I said to him. “You will excuse me. —
I am going to find my Man About Town this night if I have to rake New York from the Battery to Little Coney Island.”
I left the hotel and walked down Broadway. —
The pursuit of my type gave a pleasant savour of life and interest to the air I breathed. —
I was glad to be in a city so great, so complex and diversified. —
Leisurely and with something of an air I strolled along with my heart expanding at the thought that I was a citizen of great Gotham, a sharer in its magnificence and pleasures, a partaker in its glory and prestige.
I turned to cross the street. —
I heard something buzz like a bee, and then I took a long, pleasant ride with Santos-Dumont.
When I opened my eyes I remembered a smell of gasoline, and I said aloud: “Hasn’t it passed yet?”
A hospital nurse laid a hand that was not particularly soft upon my brow that was not at all fevered. —
A young doctor came along, grinned, and handed me a morning newspaper.
“Want to see how it happened?” he asked cheerily. I read the article. —
Its headlines began where I heard the buzzing leave off the night before. —
It closed with these lines:
Bellevue Hospital, where it was said that his injuries were not serious. —
He appeared to be a typica1 Man About Town.”