It was then that the long correspondence began.  A letter came back, by order of the President, furnishing me the names of the members-thirty-two in number.  With it came a copy of the Constitution and By-Laws, in pamphlet form, and artistically printed.  The initiation fee and dues were in their proper place; also, schedule of meetings—­monthly—­for essays upon works of mine, followed by discussions; quarterly for business and a supper, without essays, but with after-supper speeches also, there was a list of the officers:  President, Vice-President, Secretary, Treasurer, etc.  The letter was brief, but it was pleasant reading, for it told me about the strong interest which the membership took in their new venture, etc., etc.  It also asked me for a photograph —­a special one.  I went down and sat for it and sent it—­with a letter, of course.

Presently came the badge of the Club, and very dainty and pretty it was; and very artistic.  It was a frog peeping out from a graceful tangle of grass-sprays and rushes, and was done in enamels on a gold basis, and had a gold pin back of it.  After I had petted it, and played with it, and caressed it, and enjoyed it a couple of hours, the light happened to fall upon it at a new angle, and revealed to me a cunning new detail; with the light just right, certain delicate shadings of the grass-blades and rush-stems wove themselves into a monogram—­mine!  You can see that that jewel was a work of art.  And when you come to consider the intrinsic value of it, you must concede that it is not every literary club that could afford a badge like that.  It was easily worth $75, in the opinion of Messrs. Marcus and Ward of New York.  They said they could not duplicate it for that and make a profit.  By this time the Club was well under way; and from that time forth its secretary kept my off-hours well supplied with business.  He reported the Club’s discussions of my books with laborious fullness, and did his work with great spirit and ability.  As a, rule, he synopsized; but when a speech was especially brilliant, he short-handed it and gave me the best passages from it, written out.  There were five speakers whom he particularly favored in that way:  Palmer, Forbes, Naylor, Norris, and Calder.  Palmer and Forbes could never get through a speech without attacking each other, and each in his own way was formidably effective—­Palmer in virile and eloquent abuse, Forbes in courtly and elegant but scalding satire.  I could always tell which of them was talking without looking for his name.  Naylor had a polished style and a happy knack at felicitous metaphor; Norris’s style was wholly without ornament, but enviably compact, lucid, and strong.  But after all, Calder was the gem.  He never spoke when sober, he spoke continuously when he wasn’t.  And certainly they were the drunkest speeches that a man ever uttered.  They were full of good things, but so incredibly mixed up and wandering that it made one’s head swim to follow him.  They were not intended to be funny, but they were,—­funny for the very gravity which the speaker put into his flowing miracles of incongruity.  In the course of five years I came to know the styles of the five orators as well as I knew the style of any speaker in my own club at home.