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.