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:

"Cleggett--personal wire."