ut, especially when the pleasant weather came.
Sometimes we walked up Fifth Avenue, and I must admit that for a good
while I could not get rid of a feeling of self-consciousness, for most
people turned to look, though I was fully aware that I did not in the
least come into their scope of vision. They saw only Mark Twain. The
feeling was a more comfortably one at The Players, where we sometimes
went for luncheon, for the acquaintance there and the democracy of that
institution had a tendency to eliminate contrasts and incongruities. We
sat at the Round Table among those good fellows who were always so glad
to welcome him.

Once we went to the "Music Master," that tender play of Charles Klein's,
given by that matchless interpreter, David Warfield. Clemens was
fascinated, and said more than once:

"It is as permanent as 'Rip Van Winkle.' Warfield, like Jefferson, can
go on playing it all his life."

We went behind when it was over, and I could see that Warfield glowed
with Mark Twain's unstinted approval. Later, when I saw him at The
Players, he declared that no former compliment had ever made him so
happy.

There were some billiard games going on between the champions Hoppe
and Sutton, at the Madison Square Garden, and Clemens, with his eager
fondness for the sport, was anxious to attend them. He did not like to
go anywhere alone, and one evening he invited me to accompany him.
Just as he stepped into the auditorium there was a vigorous round of
applause. The players stopped, somewhat puzzled, for no especially
brilliant shot had been made. Then they caught the figure of Mark
Twain and realized that the game, for the moment, was not the chief
attraction. The audience applauded again, and waved their handkerchiefs.
Such a tribute is not often paid to a private citizen.

Clemens had a great admiration for the young champion Hoppe, which the
billiardist's extreme youth and brilliancy invited, and he watched his
game with intense eagerness. When it was over the referee said a
few words and invited Mark Twain to speak. He rose and told them a
story-probably invented on the instant. He said:

"Once in Nevada I dropped into a billiard-room casually, and picked
up a cue and began to knock the balls around. The proprietor, who
was a red-haired man, with such hair as I have never seen anywhere
except on a torch, asked me if I would like to play. I said, 'Yes.'
He said, 'Knock the balls around a little and