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Updated: May 28, 2025
For a moment he felt himself to be a copyreader again on the New York Enterprise. But only for a moment! The star of romance, clouded temporarily by fact, rose serene and bright again in the wide heaven of the unusual spirit, the barber's basin gleamed once more the helmet of Mambrino. Cleggett began to see the matter in its proper light.
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 Cleggett with gray sprinkled in his hair, sober of face and precise of manner, as the world knew him lived a hidden life which was one long, wild adventure. Nobody had ever suspected it.
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. Cleggett Old Clegg, the copyreader Clegg, the commonplace C. J. Cleggett, the Brooklynite-this person whom young reporters conceived of as the staid, dry prophet of the dusty Fact was secretly a mighty reservoir of unwritten, unacted, unlived, unspoken romance.
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