"It is a humdrum world," he said, "in which we now abide! alas! the
good old times are dead when brave knights used to ride to war upon
their armored steeds; then bloodshed was in style; then men could do
heroic deeds, and life was worth the while. If I should go with lance
and sword to enemy of mine--to one by whom I've long been bored, and
cleave him to the chine, there'd be no plaudits long and loud, no
wreaths from ladies pale; the cops would seek me in a crowd, and hustle
me to jail. If down the highway I should press, beneath the summer
skies, to rescue damsels in distress and wipe their weeping eyes, I'd
win no praises from the sports; they'd call me a galoot; I'd have to
answer in the courts to breach-of-promise suit. Adventure is a thing
that's dead, we've reached a low estate, and I was born, alas!" he
said, "five hundred years too late."
He took the morning paper then, which reeked with thrilling things,
with tales of fighting modern men; the strife of money kings; the
eager, busy, human streams throughout this mundane hive; the struggle
of the baseball teams, which for the pennant strive; the polar hero and
his sled; the race of motor cars; the flight of aernauts o'erhead,
outlined against the stars.
"It is a humdrum age," he sighed, "of avarice the fruit. Upon a steed
I'd like to ride, and wear a cast iron suit, and live as lived the
knights of old, the heroes of romance; I'd like to carry spurs of gold
and wield a sword and lance; but in this drear and pallid age, from
Denver to Des Moines, there's naught to stir a noble rage--there's
nothing counts but coin!"