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's--it'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.

"No?" said the officer. "And who were ye jabbin' at, thin?"