He made the Enterprise office his headquarters, and fairly reveled in the company he found there.  He and Mark Twain became boon companions.  Each recognized in the other a kindred spirit.  With Goodman, De Quille, and McCarthy, also E. E. Hingston—­Ward’s agent, a companionable fellow—­they usually dined at Chaumond’s, Virginia’s high-toned French restaurant.

Those were three memorable weeks in Mark Twain’s life.  Artemus Ward was in the height of his fame, and he encouraged his new-found brother-humorist and prophesied great things of him.  Clemens, on his side, measured himself by this man who had achieved fame, and perhaps with good reason concluded that Ward’s estimate was correct, that he too could win fame and honor, once he got a start.  If he had lacked ambition before Ward’s visit, the latter’s unqualified approval inspired him with that priceless article of equipment.  He put his soul into entertaining the visitor during those three weeks; and it was apparent to their associates that he was at least Ward’s equal in mental stature and originality.  Goodman and the others began to realize that for Mark Twain the rewards of the future were to be measured only by his resolution and ability to hold out.  On Christmas Eve Artemus lectured in Silver City and afterward came to the Enterprise office to give the boys a farewell dinner.  The Enterprise always published a Christmas carol, and Goodman sat at his desk writing it.  He was just finishing as Ward came in: 

“Slave, slave,” said Artemus.  “Come out and let me banish care from you.”

They got the boys and all went over to Chaumond’s, where Ward commanded Goodman to order the dinner.  When the cocktails came on, Artemus lifted his glass and said: 

“I give you Upper Canada.”

The company rose, drank the toast in serious silence; then Goodman said: 

“Of course, Artemus, it’s all right, but why did you give us Upper Canada?”

“Because I don’t want it myself,” said Ward, gravely.

Then began a rising tide of humor that could hardly be matched in the world to-day.  Mark Twain had awakened to a fuller power; Artemus Ward was in his prime.  They were giants of a race that became extinct when Mark Twain died.  The youth, the wine, the whirl of lights and life, the tumult of the shouting street-it was as if an electric stream of inspiration poured into those two human dynamos and sent them into a dazzling, scintillating whirl.  All gone—­as evanescent, as forgotten, as the lightnings of that vanished time; out of that vast feasting and entertainment only a trifling morsel remains.  Ward now and then asked Goodman why he did not join in the banter.  Goodman said: 

“I’m preparing a joke, Artemus, but I’m keeping it for the present.”

It was near daybreak when Ward at last called for the bill.  It was two hundred and thirty-seven dollars.

“What"’ exclaimed Artemus.