the cruise of the jasper b.-第2部分

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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。



〃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。



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

assumedwhich　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；　poignards；　bowie　knives；　Stanley　Weyman；　Captain

Marryat；　and　Dumas；　sword　canes；　Scottish　claymores；　Cuban

machetes；　Conan　Doyle；　Harrison　Ainsworth；　dress　swords；　and

Dumas；　stilettos；　daggers；　hunting　knives；　Fenimore　Cooper；　G。　P。

R。　James；　broadswords；　Dumas；　Gustave　Aimard；　Rudyard　Kipling；

dueling　swords；　Dumas；　F。　Du　Boisgobey；　Malay　krises；　Walter

Scott；　stick　pistols；　scimitars；　Anthony　Hope；　single　sticks；

foils；　Dumas；　jungles　of　arms；　jumbles　of　books；　arms　of　all

makes　and　periods；　arms　on　the　walls；　in　the　corners；　over　the

fireplace；　leaning　against　the　bookshelves；　lying　in　ambush　under

the　bed；　peeping　out　of　the　wardrobe；　propping　the　windows　open；

serving　as　paper　weights；　pictures；　warlike　and　romantic　prints

and　engravings；　pinned　to　the　walls　with　daggers；　in　the

wardrobe；　coats　and　hats　hanging　from　poignards　and　stilettos

thrust　into　the　wood　instead　of　from　nails　or　hooks。　　But　of　all

the　weapons　it　was　the　rapiers；　of　all　the　books　it　was　Dumas；

that　he　loved。　　There　was　Dumas　in　French；　Dumas　in　English；

Dumas　with　pictures；　Dumas　unillustrated；　Dumas　in　cloth；　Dumas

in　leather；　Dumas　in　boards；　Dumas　in　paper　covers。　　Cleggett　had

been　twenty　years　getting　these　arms　and　books　together；　often　he

had　gone　without　a　dinner　in　order　to　make　a　payment　on　some

blade　he　fancied。　　And　each　weapon　was　also　a　book　to　him；　he

sensed　their　stories　as　he　handled　them；　he　felt　the

personalities　of　their　former　owners　stirring　in　him　when　he

picked　them　up。　　It　was　in　that　room　that　he　dreamed；　which　is　to

say；　it　was　in　that　room　that　he　lived　his　real　life。



Cleggett　walked　over　to　his　writing　desk　and　pulled　out　a　bulky

manuscript。　　It　was　his　own　work。　　Is　it　necessary　to　hint　that

it　was　a　tale　essentially　romantic　in　character？



He　flung　it　into　the　grate　and　set　fire　to　it。　　It　represented

the　labor　of　two　years；　but　as　he　watched　it　burn；　stirring　the

sheets　now　and　then　so　the　flames　would　catch　them　more　readily；

he　smiled；　unvisited　by　even　the　most　shadowy　second　thought　of

regret。



For　why　the　deuce　should　a　man　with　500；000　in　his　pocket　write

romances？　　Why　should　anyone　write　anything　who　is　free　to　live？　

For　the　first　time　in　his　existence　Cleggett　was　free。



He　picked　up　a　sword。　　It　was　one　of　his　favorite　rapiers。　

Sometimes　people　came　out　of　the　bookssometimes　shadowy　forms

came　back　to　claim　the　weapons　that　had　been　theirsand　Cleggett

fought　them。　　There　was　not　an　unscarred　piece　of　furniture　in

the　place。　　He　bent　the　flexible　blade　in　his　hands；　tried　the

point　of　it；　formally　saluted；　brought　the　weapon　to　parade；

dallied　with　his　imaginary　opponent's　sword　for　an　instant。　。　。　。



It　seemed　as　if　one　of　those　terrible；　but　brilliant；　duels；　with

which　that　room　was　so　familiar；　was　about　to　be　enacted。　。　。　。　

But　he　laid　the　rapier　down。　　After　all；　the　rapier　is　scarcely　a

thing　of　this　century。　　Cleggett；　for　the　first　time；　felt　a

little　impatient　with　the　rapier。　　It　is　all　very　well　to　DREAM

with　a　rapier。　　But　now；　he　was　free；　reality　was　before　him；　the

world　of　actual　adventure　called。　　He　had　but　to　choose！



He　considered。　　He　tried　to　look　into　that　bright；　adventurous

future。　　Presently　he　went　to　the　window；　and　gazed　out。　　Tides

of　night　and　mystery；　flooding　in　from　the　farther；　dark；

mysterious　ocean；　all　but　submerged　lower　Manhattan；　high　and

beautiful　above　these　waves　of　shadow；　triumphing　over　them　and

accentuating　them；　shone　a　star　from　the　top　of　the　Woolworth

building；　flecks　of　light　indicated　the　noble　curve　of　that　great

bridge　which　soars　like　a　song　in　stone　and　steel　above　the

shifting　waters；　the　river　itself　was　dotted　here　and　there　with

moving　lights；　it　was　a　nocturne　waiting　for　its　Whistler；　here

sea　and　city　met　in　glamour　and　beauty　and　illusion。



But　it　was　not　the　city　which　called　to　Cleggett。　It　was　the　sea。



A　breeze　blew　in　from　the　bay　and　stirred　his　window　curtains；　it

was　salt　in　his　nostrils。　。　。　。And；　staring　out　into　the

breathing　night；　he　saw　a　succession　of　pictures。　。　。　。



Stripped　to　a　pair　of　cotton　trousers；　with　a　dripping　cutlass　in

one　hand　and　a　Colt's　revolver　in　the　other；　an　adventurer　at　the

head　of　a　bunch　of　dogs　as　desperate　as　himself　fought　his　way

across　the　reeking　decks　of　a　Chinese　junk；　to　close　in　single

combat　with　a　gigantic　one…eyed　pirate　who　stood　by　the　helm　with

a　ring　of　dead　men　about　him　and　a　great　two…handed　sword

upheaved。　。　。　。　　This　adventurer　wasClement　J。　Cleggett！　。　。　。



Through　the　phosphorescent　waters　of　a　summer　sea；　reckless　of

cruising　sharks；　a　sailor's　clasp　knife　in　his　teeth；　glided

noiselessly　a　strong　swimmer；　he　reached　the　side　of　a　schooner

yacht　from　which　rose　the　wild　cries　of　beauty　in　distress；

swarmed　aboard　with　a　muttered　prayer　that　was　half　a　curse；

swept　the　water　from　his　eyes；　and　with　pale；　stern　face　went

about　the　bloody　business　of　a　hero。　。　。　。　　Again；　this

adventurer　was　Clement　J。　Cleggett！



Cleggett　turned　from　the　window。



〃I'll　do　it；〃　he　cried。　　〃I'll　do　it！〃



He　grasped　a　cutlass。