the cruise of the jasper b.-第1章

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The　Cruise　of　the　Jasper　B。　



by　Don　Marquis　







TO　ALL　THE　COPYREADERS　ON　ALL　THE　NEWSPAPERS　OF　AMERICA







CHAPTER　I



A　BRIGHT　BLADE　LEAPS　FROM　A　RUSTY　SCABBARD



On　an　evening　in　April；　191…；　Clement　J。　Cleggett　walked　sedately

into　the　news　room　of　the　New　York　Enterprise　with　a　drab…colored

walking…stick　in　his　hand。　　He　stood　the　cane　in　a　corner；

changed　his　sober　street　coat　for　a　more　sober　office　jacket；

adjusted　a　green　eyeshade　below　his　primly　brushed　grayish　hair；

unostentatiously　sat　down　at　the　copy　desk；　and　unobtrusively

opened　a　drawer。



From　the　drawer　he　took　a　can　of　tobacco；　a　pipe；　a　pair　of

scissors；　a　paste…pot　and　brush；　a　pile　of　copy　paper；　a　penknife

and　three　half…lengths　of　lead　pencil。



The　can　of　tobacco　was　not　remarkable。　　The　pipe　was　not

picturesque。　　The　scissors　were　the　most　ordinary　of　scissors。　

The　copy　paper　was　quite　undistinguished　in　appearance。　　The　lead

pencils　had　the　most　untemperamental　looking　points。



Cleggett　himself；　as　he　filled　and　lighted　the　pipe；　did　it　in

the　most　matter…of…fact　sort　of　way。　Then　he　remarked　to　the　head

of　the　copy　desk；　in　an　average　kind　of　voice：



〃H'lo；　Jim。〃



〃H'lo；　Clegg；〃　said　Jim；　without　looking　up。　〃Might　as　well　begin

on　this　bunch　of　early　copy；　I　guess。〃



For　more　than　ten　years　Cleggett　had　done　the　same　thing　at　the

same　time　in　the　same　manner；　six　nights　of　the　week。



What　he　did　on　the　seventh　night　no　one　ever　thought　to　inquire。　

If　any　member　of　the　Enterprise　staff　had　speculated　about　it　at

all　he　would　have　assumed　that　Cleggett　spent　that　seventh

evening　in　some　way　essentially　commonplace；　sober；　unemotional；

quiet；　colorless；　dull　and　Brooklynitish。



Cleggett　lived　in　Brooklyn。　　The　superficial　observer　might　have

said　that　Cleggett　and　Brooklyn　were　made　for　each　other。



The　superficial　observer！　　How　many　there　are　of　him！　　And　how

much　he　misses！　　He　misses；　in　fact；　everything。



At　two　o'clock　in　the　morning　a　telegraph　operator　approached　the

copy　desk　and　handed　Cleggett　a　sheet　of　yellow　paper；　with　the

remark：



〃Cleggettpersonal　wire。〃



It　was　a　night　letter；　and　glancing　at　the　signature　Cleggett　saw

that　it　was　from　his　brother　who　lived　in　Boston。　　It　ran：



Uncle　Tom　died　yesterday。　　Don't　faint　now。　　　　　　

He　splits　bulk　fortune　between　you　and　me。　　　　　　

Lawyers　figure　nearly　500；000　each。　　Mostly　　　　　　

easily　negotiable　securities。　　New　will　made　　　　　　

month　ago　while　sore　at　president　temperance　　　　　　

outfit。　　Blood　thicker　than　Apollinaris　after　all。　　　　　　

Poor　Uncle　Tom。　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　



　　　Edward。



Despite　Edward's　thoughtful　warning；　Cleggett　did　nearly　faint。　

Nothing　could　have　been　less　expected。　　Uncle　Tom　was　an

irascible　prohibitionist；　and　one　of　the　most　deliberately

disobliging　men　on　earth。　　Cleggett　and　his　brother　had　long

ceased　to　expect　anything　from　him。　　For　twenty　years　it　had　been

thoroughly　understood　that　Uncle　Tom　would　leave　his　entire

estate　to　a　temperance　society。　　Cleggett　had　ceased　to　think　of

Uncle　Tom　as　a　possible　factor　in　his　life。　　He　did　not　doubt

that　Uncle　Tom　had　changed　the　will　to　gain　some　point　with　the

officials　of　the　temperance　society；　intending　to　change　it　once

again　after　he　had　been　deferred　to；　cajoled；　and　flattered

enough　to　placate　his　vanity。　　But　death　had　stepped　in　just　in

time　to　disinherit　the　enemies　of　the　Demon　Rum。



Cleggett　read　the　wire　through　twice；　and　then　folded　it　and　put

it　into　his　pocket。　　He　rose　and　walked　toward　the　managing

editor's　room。　　As　he　stepped　across　the　floor　there　was　a　little

dancing　light　in　his　eyes；　there　was　a　faint　smile　upon　his　lips；

that　were　quite　foreign　to　the　staid　and　sober　Cleggett　that　the

world　knew。　　He　was　quiet；　but　he　was　almost　jaunty；　too；　he　felt

a　little　drunk；　and　enjoyed　the　feeling。



He　opened　the　managing　editor's　door　with　more　assurance　than　he

had　ever　displayed　before。　　The　managing　editor；　a　pompous；　tall；

thin　man　with　a　drooping　frosty　mustache；　and　cold　gray　eyes　in　a

cold　gray　face　that　somehow　reminded　one　of　the　visage　of　a

walrus；　was　preparing　to　go　home。



〃Well？〃　he　said；　shortly。



He　was　a　man　for　whom　Cleggett　had　long　felt　a　secret　antipathy。　

The　man　was；　in　short；　the　petty　tyrant　of　Cleggett's　little

world。



〃Can　you　spare　me　a　couple　of　minutes；　Mr。　Wharton？〃　said

Cleggett。　　But　he　did　not　say　it　with　the　air　of　a　person　who

really　sues　for　a　hearing。



〃Yes；　yesgo　on。〃　　Mr。　Wharton；　who　had　risen　from　his　chair；

sat　down　again。　　He　was　distinctly　annoyed。　　He　was　ungracious。　

He　was　usually　ungracious　with　Cleggett。　　His　face　set　itself　in

the　expression　it　always　took　when　he　declined　to　consider

raising　a　man's　salary。　　Cleggett；　who　had　been　refused　a　raise

regularly　every　three　months　for　the　past　two　years；　was　familiar

with　the　look。



〃Go　on；　go　onwhat　is　it？〃　asked　Mr。　Wharton　unpleasantly；

frowning　and　stroking　the　frosty　mustache；　first　one　side　and

then　the　other。



〃I　just　stepped　in　to　tell　you；〃　said　Cleggett　quietly；　〃that　I

don't　think　much　of　the　way　you　are　running　the　Enterprise。〃



Wharton　stopped　stroking　his　mustache　so　quickly　and　so　amazedly

that　one　might　have　thought　he　had　run　into　a　thorn　amongst　the

hirsute　growth　and　pricked　a　finger。　　He　glared。　He　opened　his

mouth。　　But　before　he　could　speak　Cleggett　went　on：



〃Three　years　ago　I　made　a　number　of　suggestions　to　you。　　You

treated　me　contemptuouslyvery　contemptuously！〃



Cleggett　paused　and　drew　a　long　breath；　and　his　face　became　quite

red。　　It　was　as　if　the　anger　in　which　he　could　not　afford　to

indulge　himself　three　years　before　was　now　working　in　him　with

cumulative　effect。　　Wharton；　only　partially　recovered　from　the

shock　of　Cleggett's　sudden　arraignment；　began　to　stammer　and

bluster；　using　the　words　nearest　his　tongue：



〃You　d…damned　im…p…pertinent〃



〃Just　a　moment；〃　Cleggett　interrupted；　growing　visibly　angrier；

and　seeming　to　enjoy　his　anger　more　and　more。　　〃Just　a　word　more。



I　had　intended　to　conclude　my　remarks　by　telling　you　that　my

contempt　for　YOU；　personally；　is　unbounded。　　It　is　boundless；

sir！　　But　since　you　have　sworn　at　me；　I　am　forced　to　conclude

this　interview　in　another　fashion。〃



And　with　a　gesture　which　was　not　devoid　of　dignity　Cleggett　drew

from　an　upper　waistcoat　pocket　a　card　and　flung　it　on　Wharton's

desk。　　After　which　he　stepped　back　and　made　a　formal　bow。



Wharton　looked　at　the　card。　　Bewilderment　almost　chased　the　anger

from　his　face。



〃Eh；〃　he　said；　〃what's　this？〃



〃My　card；　sir！　　A　friend　will　wait　on　you　tomorrow！〃



〃Tomorrow？　　A　friend？　　What　for？〃



Cleggett　folded　his　arms　and　regarded　the　managing　editor　with　a

touch　of　the　supercilious　in　his　manner。



〃If　you　were　a　gentleman；〃　he　said；　〃you　would　have　no　difficulty

in　understanding　these　things。　　I　have　just　done　you　the　honor　of

challenging　you　to　a　duel。〃



Mr。　Wharton's　mouth　opened　as　if　he　were　about　to　explode　in　a

roar　of　incredulous　laughter。　　But　meeting　Cleggett's　eyes；　which

were；　indeed；　sparkling　with　a　most　remarkable　light；　his　jaw

dropped；　and　he　turned　slightly　pale。　　He　rose　from　his　chair　and

put　the　desk　between　himself　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。



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　from　a　rusty　scabbard！





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。