the cruise of the jasper b[1].(杰斯帕·b·之游)-第2章
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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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THE CRUISE OF THE JASPER B。
〃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； 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
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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 th
