The Venturers

"The Venturers" by O. Henry is a charming short story that follows two adventurous characters, a man and a woman, as they navigate the complexities of love and ambition. Set against the backdrop of a bustling city, the narrative intertwines themes of hope, chance encounters, and the unexpected turns of life. With O. Henry's signature wit and clever twist ending, the story explores the idea of venturing into the unknown, both in romance and in the quest for personal fulfillment. Through engaging dialogue and vivid characterization, the tale captures the essence of human connection amid the uncertainties of urban life.

• Short story

								
Let the story wreck itself on the spreading rails of the Non Sequitur
Limited, if it will; first you must take your seat in the observation
car “Raison d’être” for one moment. It is for no longer than to
consider a brief essay on the subject—let us call it: “What’s Around
the Corner.”

Omne mundus in duas partes divisum est—men who wear rubbers and pay
poll-taxes, and men who discover new continents. There are no more
continents to discover; but by the time overshoes are out of date and
the poll has developed into an income tax, the other half will be
paralleling the canals of Mars with radium railways.

Fortune, Chance, and Adventure are given as synonymous in the
dictionaries. To the knowing each has a different meaning. Fortune is a
prize to be won. Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurk
in the shadows at the roadside. The face of Fortune is radiant and
alluring; that of Adventure is flushed and heroic. The face of Chance
is the beautiful countenance—perfect because vague and dream-born—that
we see in our tea-cups at breakfast while we growl over our chops and
toast.

The VENTURER is one who keeps his eye on the hedgerows and wayside
groves and meadows while he travels the road to Fortune. That is the
difference between him and the Adventurer. Eating the forbidden fruit
was the best record ever made by a Venturer. Trying to prove that it
happened is the highest work of the Adventuresome. To be either is
disturbing to the cosmogony of creation. So, as bracket-sawed and
city-directoried citizens, let us light our pipes, chide the children
and the cat, arrange ourselves in the willow rocker under the
flickering gas jet at the coolest window and scan this little tale of
two modern followers of Chance.

“Did you ever hear that story about the man from the West?” asked
Billinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate
the interior of the Powhatan Club.

“Doubtless,” said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the room.

Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again long
before this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of the
air (as Hamlet says). Billinger was used to having his stories insulted
and would not mind. Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go
away from anywhere. A man, in order to get on good terms with himself,
must have his opinions corroborated and his moods matched by some one
else. (I had written that “somebody”; but an A. D. T. boy who once took
a telegram for me pointed out that I could save money by using the
compound word. This is a vice versa case.)

Forster’s favorite mood was that of greatly desiring to be a follower
of Chance. He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth,
tradition and the narrowing influences of the tribe of Manhattan had
denied him full privilege. He had trodden all the main-traveled
thoroughfares and many of the side roads that are supposed to relieve
the tedium of life. But none had sufficed. The reason was that he knew
what was to be found at the end of every street. He knew from
experience and logic almost precisely to what end each digression from
routine must lead. He found a depressing monotony in all the variations
that the music of his sphere had grafted upon the tune of life. He had
not learned that, although the world was made round, the circle has
been squared, and that it’s true interest is to be in “What’s Around
the Corner.”

Forster walked abroad aimlessly from the Powhatan, trying not to tax
either his judgment or his desire as to what streets he traveled. He
would have been glad to lose his way if it were possible; but he had no
hope of that. Adventure and Fortune move at your beck and call in the
Greater City; but Chance is oriental. She is a veiled lady in a sedan
chair, protected by a special traffic squad of dragonians. Crosstown,
uptown, and downtown you may move without seeing her.

At the end of an hour’s stroll, Forster stood on a corner of a broad,
smooth avenue, looking disconsolately across it at a picturesque old
hotel softly but brilliantly lit. Disconsolately, because he knew that
he must dine; and dining in that hotel was no venture. It was one of
his favorite caravansaries, and so silent and swift would be the
service and so delicately choice the food, that he regretted the hunger
that must be appeased by the “dead perfection” of the place’s cuisine.
Even the music there seemed to be always playing da capo.

Fancy came to him that he would dine at some cheap, even dubious,
restaurant lower down in the city, where the erratic chefs from all
countries of the world spread their national cookery for the omnivorous
American. Something might happen there out of the routine—he might come
upon a subject without a predicate, a road without an end, a question
without an answer, a cause without an effect, a gulf stream in life’s
salt ocean. He had not dressed for evening; he wore a dark business
suit that would not be questioned even where the waiters served the
spaghetti in their shirt sleeves.

So John Reginald Forster began to search his clothes for money; because
the more cheaply you dine, the more surely must you pay. All of the
thirteen pockets, large and small, of his business suit he explored
carefully and found not a penny. His bank book showed a balance of five
figures to his credit in the Old Ironsides Trust Company, but—

Forster became aware of a man nearby at his left hand who was really
regarding him with some amusement. He looked like any business man of
thirty or so, neatly dressed and standing in the attitude of one
waiting for a street car. But there was no car line on that avenue. So
his proximity and unconcealed curiosity seemed to Forster to partake of
the nature of a personal intrusion. But, as he was a consistent seeker
after “What’s Around the Corner,” instead of manifesting resentment he
only turned a half-embarrassed smile upon the other’s grin of
amusement.

“All in?” asked the intruder, drawing nearer.

“Seems so,” said Forster. “Now, I thought there was a dollar in—”

“Oh, I know,” said the other man, with a laugh. “But there wasn’t. I’ve
just been through the same process myself, as I was coming around the
corner. I found in an upper vest pocket—I don’t know how they got
there—exactly two pennies. You know what kind of a dinner exactly two
pennies will buy!”

“You haven’t dined, then?” asked Forster.

“I have not. But I would like to. Now, I’ll make you a proposition. You
look like a man who would take up one. Your clothes look neat and
respectable. Excuse personalities. I think mine will pass the scrutiny
of a head waiter, also. Suppose we go over to that hotel and dine
together. We will choose from the menu like millionaires—or, if you
prefer, like gentlemen in moderate circumstances dining extravagantly
for once. When we have finished we will match with my two pennies to
see which of us will stand the brunt of the house’s displeasure and
vengeance. My name is Ives. I think we have lived in the same station

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes