"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?