A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

but as soon as I took my hand away, its heel slipped

from under it, and down it came again with another bang.

I shrunk together and listened a moment in silent fury–

no harm done, everything quiet. With the most painstaking

care and nicety, I stood the umbrella up once more,

took my hand away, and down it came again.

I have been strictly reared, but if it had not been

so dark and solemn and awful there in that lonely,

vast room, I do believe I should have said something

then which could not be put into a Sunday-school book

without injuring the sale of it. If my reasoning powers

had not been already sapped dry by my harassments,

I would have known better than to try to set an umbrella

on end on one of those glassy German floors in the dark;

it can’t be done in the daytime without four failures

to one success. I had one comfort, though–Harris was

yet still and silent–he had not stirred.

The umbrella could not locate me–there were four

standing around the room, and all alike. I thought I

would feel along the wall and find the door in that way.

I rose up and began this operation, but raked down

a picture. It was not a large one, but it made noise

enough for a panorama. Harris gave out no sound, but I

felt that if I experimented any further with the pictures

I should be sure to wake him. Better give up trying to

get out. Yes, I would find King Arthur’s Round Table once

more–I had already found it several times–and use it

for a base of departure on an exploring tour for my bed;

if I could find my bed I could then find my water pitcher;

I would quench my raging thirst and turn in. So I started

on my hands and knees, because I could go faster that way,

and with more confidence, too, and not knock down things.

By and by I found the table–with my head–rubbed the

bruise a little, then rose up and started, with hands

abroad and fingers spread, to balance myself. I found

a chair; then a wall; then another chair; then a sofa;

then an alpenstock, then another sofa; this confounded me,

for I had thought there was only one sofa. I hunted

up the table again and took a fresh start; found some

more chairs.

It occurred to me, now, as it ought to have done before,

that as the table was round, it was therefore of no

value as a base to aim from; so I moved off once more,

and at random among the wilderness of chairs and sofas–

wandering off into unfamiliar regions, and presently knocked

a candlestick and knocked off a lamp, grabbed at the lamp

and knocked off a water pitcher with a rattling crash,

and thought to myself, “I’ve found you at last–I

judged I was close upon you.” Harris shouted “murder,”

and “thieves,” and finished with “I’m absolutely drowned.”

The crash had roused the house. Mr. X pranced in,

in his long night-garment, with a candle, young Z after him

with another candle; a procession swept in at another door,

with candles and lanterns–landlord and two German guests

in their nightgowns and a chambermaid in hers.

I looked around; I was at Harris’s bed, a Sabbath-day’s

journey from my own. There was only one sofa; it was against

the wall; there was only one chair where a body could get

at it–I had been revolving around it like a planet,

and colliding with it like a comet half the night.

I explained how I had been employing myself, and why.

Then the landlord’s party left, and the rest of us set

about our preparations for breakfast, for the dawn was

ready to break. I glanced furtively at my pedometer,

and found I had made 47 miles. But I did not care, for I

had come out for a pedestrian tour anyway.

CHAPTER XIV

[Rafting Down the Neckar]

When the landlord learned that I and my agents were artists,

our party rose perceptibly in his esteem; we rose still

higher when he learned that we were making a pedestrian