Suppose you should be walking down Broadway afterdinner， with ten minutes allotted to the consummationof your cigar while you are choosing between a divertingtragedy and something serious in the way of vaudeville.
Suddenly a hand is laid upon your arm. You turn to lookinto the thrilling eyes of a beautiful woman， wonderfulin diamonds and Russian sables. She thrusts hurriedlyinto your hand an extremely hot buttered roll， flashesout a tiny pair of scissors， snips off the second buttonof your overcoat， meaningly ejaculates the one word，“parallelogram！” and swiftly flies down a cross street，looking back fearfully over her shoulder.
That would be pure adventure. Would you accept it？
Not you. You would flush with embarrassment； you wouldsheepishly drop the roll and continue down Broadway，fumbling feebly for the missing button. This you would dounless you are one of the blessed few in whom the purespirit of adventure is not dead.
True adventurers have never been plentiful. They whoare set down in print as such have been mostly businessmen with newly invented methods. They have been outafter the things they wanted—golden fleeces， holy grails，lady loves， treasure， crowns and fame. The true adventurergoes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greetunknown fate. A fine example was the Prodigal Son—whenhe started back home.
Half-adventurers—brave and splendid figures—havebeen numerous. From the Crusades to the Palisades theyhave enriched the arts of history and fiction and the tradeof historical fiction. But each of them had a prize to win， agoal to kick， an axe to grind， a race to run， a new thrust intierce to deliver， a name to carve， a crow to pick—so theywere not followers of true adventure.
In the big city the twin spirits Romance and Adventureare always abroad seeking worthy wooers. As we roamthe streets they slyly peep at us and challenge us intwenty different guises. Without knowing why， we lookup suddenly to see in a window a face that seems tobelong to our gallery of intimate portraits； in a sleepingthoroughfare we hear a cry of agony and fear comingfrom an empty and shuttered house； instead of at ourfamiliar curb， a cab-driver deposits us before a strangedoor， which one， with a smile， opens for us and bids usenter； a slip of paper， written upon， flutters down to ourfeet from the high lattices of Chance； we exchange glancesof instantaneous hate， affection and fear with hurryingstrangers in the passing crowds； a sudden douse of rain—and our umbrella may be sheltering the daughter of theFull Moon and first cousin of the Sidereal System； at everycorner handkerchiefs drop， fingers beckon， eyes besiege，and the lost， the lonely， the rapturous， the mysterious， theperilous， changing clues of adventure are slipped into ourfingers. But few of us are willing to hold and follow them.
We are grown stiff with the ramrod of convention downour backs. We pass on； and some day we come， at the endof a very dull life， to reflect that our romance has been apallid thing of a marriage or two， a satin rosette kept ina safe-deposit drawer， and a lifelong feud with a steamradiator.
Rudolf Steiner was a true adventurer. Few were theevenings on which he did not go forth from his hallbedchamber in search of the unexpected and the egregious.
The most interesting thing in life seemed to him to bewhat might lie just around the next corner. Sometimes hiswillingness to tempt fate led him into strange paths. Twicehe had spent the night in a station-house； again and againhe had found himself the dupe of ingenious and mercenarytricksters； his watch and money had been the price of oneflattering allurement. But with undiminished ardour hepicked up every glove cast before him into the merry listsof adventure.
One evening Rudolf was strolling along a crosstownstreet in the older central part of the city. Two streams ofpeople filled the sidewalks—the home-hurrying， and thatrestless contingent that abandons home for the speciouswelcome of the thousand-candle-power table d’h？te.
The young adventurer was of pleasing presence， andmoved serenely and watchfully. By daylight he was asalesman in a piano store. He wore his tie drawn througha topaz ring instead of fastened with a stick pin； and oncehe had written to the editor of a magazine that “Junie’sLove Test” by Miss Libbey， had been the book that hadmost influenced his life.
During his walk a violent chattering of teeth in a glasscase on the sidewalk seemed at first to draw his attention（with a qualm）， to a restaurant before which it was set； buta second glance revealed the electric letters of a dentist’ssign high above the next door. A giant negro， fantasticallydressed in a red embroidered coat， yellow trousers and amilitary cap， discreetly distributed cards to those of thepassing crowd who consented to take them.
This mode of dentistic advertising was a common sightto Rudolf. Usually he passed the dispenser of the dentist’scards without reducing his store； but tonight the Africanslipped one into his hand so deftly that he retained itthere smiling a little at the successful feat.
When he had travelled a few yards further he glancedat the card indifferently. Surprised， he turned it over andlooked again with interest. One side of the card was blank；on the other was written in ink three words， “The GreenDoor.” And then Rudolf saw， three steps in front of him，a man throw down the card the negro had given him ashe passed. Rudolf picked it up. It was printed with thedentist’s name and address and the usual schedule of “platework” and “bridge work” and “crowns，” and speciouspromises of “painless” operations.
