"Go on, go on--what 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 contemptuously--very 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 threeyears 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 off--off 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 bladefrom a rusty scabbard!
