ollars in debt. Friends stepped in and offered to lend
him money, but he declined these offers. Through Mr. Rogers a basis of
settlement at fifty cents on the dollar was arranged, and Mark Twain
said, "Give me time, and I will pay the other fifty."

No one but his wife and Mr. Rogers, however, believed that at his age he
would be able to make good the promise. Many advised him not to attempt
it, but to settle once and for all on the legal basis as arranged.
Sometimes, in moments of despondency, he almost surrendered. Once he
said:

"I need not dream of paying it. I never could manage it."

But these were only the hard moments. For the most part he kept up good
heart and confidence. It is true that he now believed again in the
future of the type-setter, and that returns from it would pay him out of
bankruptcy. But later in the year this final hope was taken away. Mr.
Rogers wrote to him that in the final test the machine had failed to
prove itself practical and that the whole project had been finally and
permanently abandoned. The shock of disappointment was heavy for the
moment, but then it was over--completely over--for that old mechanical
demon, that vampire of invention that had sapped his fortune so long, was
laid at last. The worst had happened; there was nothing more to dread.
Within a week Mark Twain (he was now back in Paris with the family) had
settled down to work once more on the "Recollections of Joan," and all
mention and memory of the type-setter was forever put away. The machine
stands to-day in the Sibley College of Engineering, where it is exhibited
as the costliest piece of mechanism for its size ever constructed. Mark
Twain once received a letter from an author who had written a book to
assist inventors and patentees, asking for his indorsement. He replied:

"DEAR SIR,--I have, as you say, been interested in patents and
patentees. If your book tells how to exterminate inventors, send me
nine editions. Send them by express.

"Very truly yours,

"S. L. CLEMENS."

Those were economical days. There was no income except from the old
books, and at the time this was not large. The Clemens family, however,
was cheerful, and Mark Twain was once more in splendid working form. The
story of Joan hurried to its tragic conclusion. Each night he read to
the family what he had written that day, and Susy, who was easily moved,
would say, "Wait--wait till I get my handkerchief," and one night when