I will guarantee him a regular market for a fair amount of his cigars.”
We found a tobacco dealer who would tell the truth–who, if a cigar was
bad, would boldly say so. He produced what he called the very worst
cigars he had ever had in his shop. He let me experiment with one then
and there. The test was satisfactory.
This was, after all, the real thing. I negotiated for a box of them and
took them away with me, so that I might be sure of having them handy when
I want them.
I discovered that the “worst cigars,” so called, are the best for me,
after all.
BILLIARDS
Mr. Clemens attended a billiard tourney on the evening of April
24, 1906, and was called on to tell a story.
The game of billiards has destroyed my naturally sweet disposition.
Once, when I was an underpaid reporter in Virginia City, whenever I
wished to play billiards I went out to look for an easy mark. One day a
stranger came to town and opened a billiard parlor. I looked him over
casually. When he proposed a game, I answered, “All right.”
“Just knock the balls around a little so that I can get your gait,” he
said; and when I had done so, he remarked: “I will be perfectly fair with
you. I’ll play you left-handed.” I felt hurt, for he was cross-eyed,
freckled, and had red hair, and I determined to teach him a lesson. He
won first shot, ran out, took my half-dollar, and all I got was the
opportunity to chalk my cue.
“If you can play like that with your left hand,” I said, “I’d like to see
you play with your right.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I’m left-handed.”
THE UNION RIGHT OR WRONG
REMINISCENCES OF NEVADA
I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that Nevada had lively newspapers
in those days.
My great competitor among the reporters was Boggs, of the Union, an
excellent reporter.
Once in three or four months he would get a little intoxicated; but, as a
general thing, he was a wary and cautious drinker, although always ready
to damp himself a little with the enemy.
He had the advantage of me in one thing: he could get the monthly public-
school report and I could not, because the principal hated my sheet–the
‘Enterprise’.
One snowy night, when the report was due, I started out, sadly wondering
how I was to get it.
Presently, a few steps up the almost deserted street, I stumbled on
Boggs, and asked him where he was going.
“After the school report.”
“I’ll go along with you.”
“No, Sir. I’ll excuse you.”
“Have it your own way.”
A saloon-keeper’s boy passed by with a steaming pitcher of hot punch, and
Boggs snuffed the fragrance gratefully.
He gazed fondly after the boy, and saw him start up the Enterprise
stairs.
I said:
“I wish you could help me get that school business, but since you can’t,
I must run up to the Union office and see if I can get a proof of it
after it’s set up, though I don’t begin to suppose I can. Good night.”
“Hold on a minute. I don’t mind getting the report and sitting around
with the boys a little while you copy it, if you’re willing to drop down
to the principal’s with me.”
“Now you talk like a human being. Come along.”
We ploughed a couple of blocks through the snow, got the report–a short
document–and soon copied it in our office.
Meantime, Boggs helped himself to the punch.
I gave the manuscript back to him, and we started back to get an inquest.
At four o’clock in the morning, when we had gone to press and were having
a relaxing concert as usual (for some of the printers were good singers
and others good performers on the guitar and on that atrocity the
accordion), the proprietor of the Union strode in and asked if anybody
had heard anything of Boggs or the school report.
We stated the case, and all turned out to help hunt for the delinquent.
We found him standing on a table in a saloon, with an old tin lantern in