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 N_w Yo_k.  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 estate 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 understood 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