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and Cleggett； picking up as he did so a long pair of shears。
〃Put down the scissors；〃 said Cleggett； with a wave of his hand。 〃I do
not propose to attack you now。〃
And he turned and left the managing editor's little office； closing the
door behind him。
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THE CRUISE OF THE JASPER B。
The managing editor tiptoed over to the door and； with the scissors
still grasped in one hand； opened it about a quarter of an inch。 Through
this crack Wharton saw Cleggett walk jauntily towards the corner where
his hat and coat were hanging。 Cleggett took off his worn office jacket；
rolled it into a ball； and flung it into a waste paper basket。 He put on his
street coat and hat and picked up the drab…colored cane。 Swinging the
stick he moved towards the door into the hall。 In the doorway he paused；
cocked his hat a trifle； turned towards the managing editor's door； raised
his hand with his pipe in it with the manner of one who points a dueling
pistol； took careful aim at the second button of the managing editor's
waistcoat； and clucked。 At the cluck the managing editor drew back
hastily； as if Cleggett had actually presented a firearm； Cleggett's manner
was so rapt and fatal that it carried conviction。 Then Cleggett laughed；
cocked his hat on the other side of his head and went out into the corridor
whistling。 Whistling； and； since faults as well as virtues must be told；
swaggering just a little。
When the managing editor had heard the elevator come up； pause； and
go down again； he went out of his room and said to the city editor：
〃Mr。 Herbert； don't ever let that man Cleggett into this office again。
He is offoff mentally。 He's a dangerous man。 He's a homicidal maniac。
More'n likely he's been a quiet； steady drinker for years； and now it's
begun to show on him。〃
But nothing was further from Cleggett than the wish ever to go into the
Enterprise office again。 As he left the elevator on the ground floor he
stabbed the astonished elevator boy under the left arm with his cane as a
bayonet； cut him harmlessly over the head with his cane as a saber； tossed
him a dollar； and left the building humming：
〃Oh； the Beau Sabreur of the Grande Armee Was the
Captain Tarjeanterre！〃
It is thus； with a single twitch of her playful fingers； that Fate will
sometimes pluck from a man the mask that has obscured his real identity
for many years。 It is thus that Destiny will suddenly draw a bright blade
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THE CRUISE OF THE JASPER B。
from a rusty scabbard！
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THE CRUISE OF THE JASPER B。
CHAPTER II
THE ROOM OF ILLUSION
That part of Brooklyn in which Cleggett lived overlooks a wide sweep
of water where the East River merges with New York Bay。 From his
windows he could gaze out upon the bustling harbor craft and see the
ships going forth to the great mysterious sea。
He walked home across the Brooklyn Bridge； and as he walked he still
hummed tunes。 Occasionally； still with the rapt and fatal manner which
had daunted the managing editor； he would pause and flex his wrist； and
then suddenly deliver a ferocious thrust with his walking…stick。
The fifth of these lunges had an unexpected result。 Cleggett directed
it toward the door of an unpainted toolhouse； a temporary structure near
one of the immense stone pillars from which the bridge is swung。 But； as
he lunged； the toolhouse door opened； and a policeman； who was coming
out wiping his mouth on the back of his hand； received a jab in the pit of a
somewhat protuberant stomach。
The officer grunted and stepped backward； then he came on； raising
his night…stick。
〃Why； it'sit's McCarthy！〃 exclaimed Cleggett； who had also sprung
back； as the light fell on the other's face。
〃Mr。 Cleggett； by the powers！〃 said the officer； pausing and lowering
his lifted club。 〃Are ye soused； man？ Or is it your way of sayin' good
avenin' to your frinds？〃
Cleggett smiled。 He had first known McCarthy years before when he
was a reporter； and more recently had renewed the acquaintance in his
walks across the bridge。
〃I didn't know you were there； McCarthy；〃 he said。
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〃No？〃 said the officer。 〃And who were ye jabbin' at； thin？〃
〃I was just limbering up my wrist；〃 said Cleggett。
〃'Tis a quare thing to do；〃 persisted McCarthy； albeit good…humoredly。
〃And now I mind I've seen ye do the same before； Mr。 Cleggett。 You're
foriver grinnin' to yersilf an' makin' thim funny jabs at nothin' as ye cross
the bridge。 Are ye subjict to stiffness in the wrists； Mr。 Cleggett？〃
〃Perhaps it's writer's cramp；〃 said Cleggett； indulging the pleasant
humor that was on him。 He was really thinking that； with 500；000 of his
own； he had written his last headline； edited his last piece of copy；
sharpened his last pencil。
〃Writer's cramp？ Is it so？〃 mused McCarthy。 〃Newspapers is great
things； ain't they now？ And so's writin' and readin'。 Gr…r…reat things！
But if ye'll take my advise； Mr。 Cleggett； ye'll kape that writin' and readin'
within bounds。 Too much av thim rots the brains。〃
〃I'll remember that；〃 said Cleggett。 And he playfully jabbed the
officer again as he turned away。
〃G'wan wid ye！〃 protested McCarthy。 〃Ye're soused！ The scent av
it's in the air。 If I'm compilled to run yez in f'r assaultin' an officer ye'll
get the cramps out av thim wrists breakin' stone； maybe。 Cr…r…r…amps；
indade！〃
Cramps； indeed！ Oh； Clement J。 Cleggett； you liar！ And yet； who
does not lie in order to veil his inmost； sweetest thoughts from an
unsympathetic world？
That was not an ordinary jab with an ordinary cane which Cleggett had
directed towards the toolhouse door。 It was a thrust en carte； the thrust of
a brilliant swordsman； the thrust of a master； a terrible thrust。 It was
meant for as pernicious a bravo as ever infested the pages of romantic
fiction。 Cleggett had been slaying these gentry a dozen times a day for
years。 He had pinked four of them on the way across the bridge； before
McCarthy； with his stomach and his realism； stopped the lunge intended
for the fifth。 But this is not exactly the sort of thing one finds it easy to
confide to a policeman； be he ever so friendly a policeman。
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CleggettOld Clegg； the copyreaderClegg； the commonplaceC。 J。
Cleggett； the Brooklynite…this person whom young reporters conceived of
as the staid； dry prophet of the dusty Factwas secretly a mighty reservoir
of unwritten； unacted； unlived； unspoken romance。 He ate it； he drank it；
he breathed it； he dreamed it。 The usual copyreader； when he closes his
eyes and smiles upon a pleasant inward vision； is thinking of starting a
chicken…farm in New Jersey。 But Cleggettwith gray sprinkled in his
hair； sober of face and precise of manner； as the world knew himlived a
hidden life which was one long； wild adventure。
Nobody had ever suspected it。 But his room might have given to the
discerning a clue to the real man behind the mask which he assumed
which he had been forced to assume in order to earn a living。 When he
reached the apartment； a few minutes after his encounter on the bridge；
and switched the electric light on； the gleams fell upon an astonishing
clutter of books and arms。 。 。 。
Stevenson； cavalry sabers； W。 Clark Russell； pistols； and Dumas； Jack
London；