Another hot-weather corroboration of the flat theory is the fact that all of life, as we know it, moves in little, unavailing circles.  More justly than to anything else, it can be likened to the game of baseball.  Crack! we hit the ball, and away we go.  If we earn a run (in life we call it success) we get back to the home plate and sit upon a bench.  If we are thrown out, we walk back to the home plate—­and sit upon a bench.

The circumnavigators of the alleged globe may have sailed the rim of a watery circle back to the same port again.  The truly great return at the high tide of their attainments to the simplicity of a child.  The billionaire sits down at his mahogany to his bowl of bread and milk.  When you reach the end of your career, just take down the sign “Goal” and look at the other side of it.  You will find “Beginning Point” there.  It has been reversed while you were going around the track.

But this is humour, and must be stopped.  Let us get back to the serious questions that arise whenever Sociology turns summer boarder.  You are invited to consider the scene of the story—­wild, Atlantic waves, thundering against a wooded and rock-bound shore—­in the Greater City of New York.

The town of Fishampton, on the south shore of Long Island, is noted for its clam fritters and the summer residence of the Van Plushvelts.

The Van Plushvelts have a hundred million dollars, and their name is a household word with tradesmen and photographers.

On the fifteenth of June the Van Plushvelts boarded up the front door of their city house, carefully deposited their cat on the sidewalk, instructed the caretaker not to allow it to eat any of the ivy on the walls, and whizzed away in a 40-horse-power to Fishampton to stray alone in the shade—­Amaryllis not being in their class.  If you are a subscriber to the Toadies’ Magazine, you have often—­You say you are not?  Well, you buy it at a news-stand, thinking that the newsdealer is not wise to you.  But he knows about it all.  HE knows—­HE knows!  I say that you have often seen in the Toadies’ Magazine pictures of the Van Plushvelts’ summer home; so it will not be described here.  Our business is with young Haywood Van Plushvelt, sixteen years old, heir to the century of millions, darling of the financial gods and great grandson of Peter Van Plushvelt, former owner of a particularly fine cabbage patch that has been ruined by an intrusive lot of downtown skyscrapers.

One afternoon young Haywood Van Plushvelt strolled out between the granite gate posts of “Dolce far Niente”—­that’s what they called the place; and it was an improvement on dolce Far Rockaway, I can tell you.

Haywood walked down into the village.  He was human, after all, and his prospective millions weighed upon him.  Wealth had wreaked upon him its direfullest.  He was the product of private tutors.  Even under his first hobby-horse had tan bark been strewn.  He had been born with a gold spoon, lobster fork and fish-set in his mouth.  For which I hope, later, to submit justification, I must ask your consideration of his haberdashery and tailoring.