ed interest. He
wrote an indignant article criticizing the city government and raking
the police. In Virginia City this would have been a welcome delight; in
San Francisco it did not appear.

At another time he found a policeman asleep on his beat. Going to a
near-by vegetable stall he borrowed a large cabbage-leaf, came back and
stood over the sleeper, gently fanning him. It would be wasted effort
to make an item of this incident; but he could publish it in his own
fashion. He stood there fanning the sleeping official until a large
crowd collected. When he thought it was large enough he went away. Next
day the joke was all over the city.

Only one of the several severe articles he wrote criticizing officials
and institutions seems to have appeared--an attack on an undertaker
whose establishment formed a branch of the coroner's office. The
management of this place one day refused information to a Call reporter,
and the next morning its proprietor was terrified by a scathing
denunciation of his firm. It began, "Those body-snatchers" and continued
through half a column of such scorching strictures as only Mark Twain
could devise. The Call's policy of suppression evidently did not include
criticisms of deputy coroners.

Such liberty, however, was too rare for Mark Twain, and he lost
interest. He confessed afterward that he became indifferent and lazy,
and that George E. Barnes, one of the publishers of the Call, at last
allowed him an assistant. He selected from the counting-room a big,
hulking youth by the name of McGlooral, with the acquired prefix of
"Smiggy." Clemens had taken a fancy to Smiggy McGlooral--on account of
his name and size perhaps--and Smiggy, devoted to his patron, worked
like a slave gathering news nights--daytimes, too, if necessary--all
of which was demoralizing to a man who had small appetite for his
place anyway. It was only a question of time when Smiggy alone would be
sufficient for the job.

There were other and pleasanter things in San Francisco. The personal
and literary associations were worth while. At his right hand in the
Call office sat Frank Soule--a gentle spirit--a graceful versifier who
believed himself a poet. Mark Twain deferred to Frank Soule in those
days. He thought his verses exquisite in their workmanship; a word of
praise from Soule gave him happiness. In a luxurious office up-stairs
was another congenial spirit--a gifted, handsome fellow of twenty-four,
who was secretary