henry morgan, the philosopher, who had been a pirate in a previous life, stood looking out the window of his cigar store on a cloudy afternoon.
he saw a figure striding in a purposeful manner toward the store from across the street.
the person looked familiar to henry but he could not quite place him.
the little bell above the door rang, and the person entered, displaying a grim face beneath the brim of his gray hat.
are you perkins?
perkins? no sir, my name is morgan, henry morgan. no perkins here.
do you own this establishment?
as a matter of fact i do, sir, and have for the past six years, selling the finest cigars on the block, if i may say so myself. perhaps i could interest you in one, or even in a box of some.
do you have some way of proving to me that you are not perkins?
well, if my sainted mother were here, and not in heaven, she could probably vouch for me - but look here, one of my good customers is coming through the door - none other than old joe mcduff.
the bell rang and the door opened behind the ill-mannered customer, and he immediately turned to the newcomer and demanded -
look here, do you know this fellow?
you mean henry? of course i know henry - henry morgan, who has been selling the finest cigars in chicago in this very spot since i was young enough to walk without a cane.
hmmm. very strange - very strange. i am sorry to have bothered you, sir.
the stranger turned and brushed against old joe mcduff and went out the door, but as he did he turned back to henry and said -
we may meet again, sir.
and in that moment henry remembered where he had seen the man before.
he had been pointed out to him on clark street as the legendary trope - the world’s deadliest assassin!
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