his hand.

"Will you tell me why you gave me these cards and what they mean?" he
asked.

In a broad, good-natured grin the negro exhibited a splendid
advertisement of his master's profession.

"Dar it is, boss," he said, pointing down the street. "But I 'spect you
is a little late for de fust act."

Looking the way he pointed Rudolf saw above the entrance to a theatre
the blazing electric sign of its new play, "The Green Door."

"I'm informed dat it's a fust-rate show, sah," said the negro. "De agent
what represents it pussented me with a dollar, sah, to distribute a few
of his cards along with de doctah's. May I offer you one of de doctah's
cards, sah?"

At the corner of the block in which he lived Rudolf stopped for a glass
of beer and a cigar. When he had come out with his lighted weed he
buttoned his coat, pushed back his hat and said, stoutly, to the lamp
post on the corner:

"All the same, I believe it was the hand of Fate that doped out the way
for me to find her."

Which conclusion, under the circumstances, certainly admits Rudolf
Steiner to the ranks of the true followers of Romance and Adventure.

FROM THE CABBY'S SEAT

The cabby has his point of view. It is more single-minded, perhaps, than
that of a follower of any other calling. From the high, swaying seat
of his hansom he looks upon his fellow-men as nomadic particles, of no
account except when possessed of migratory desires. He is Jehu, and you
are goods in transit. Be you President or vagabond, to cabby you are
only a Fare, he takes you up, cracks his whip, joggles your vertebrae
and sets you down.

When time for payment arrives, if you exhibit a familiarity with legal
rates you come to know what contempt is; if you find that you have left
your pocketbook behind you are made to realise the mildness of Dante's
imagination.

It is not an extravagant theory that the cabby's singleness of purpose
and concentrated view of life are the results of the hansom's peculiar
construction. The cock-of-the-roost sits aloft like Jupiter on an
unsharable seat, holding your fate between two thongs of inconstant
leather. Helpless, ridiculous, confined, bobbing like a toy mandarin,
you sit like a rat in a trap--you, before whom butlers cringe on solid
land--and must squeak upward through a slit in your peripatetic
sarcophagus to make your feeble wishes known.

Then, in a cab, you are not even an occupant; you are contents. You are
a cargo at sea,