Give me a chance.  Get me the thanks of Congress.  Don’t wait for others —­there isn’t time.  I have stayed away and let Congress alone for seventy-one years and I am entitled to thanks.  Congress knows it perfectly well, and I have long felt hurt that this quite proper and earned expression of gratitude has been merely felt by the House and never publicly uttered.  Send me an order on the Sergeant-at-Arms quick.  When shall I come? 
              With love and a benediction;
                                   Mark Twain.

We went over to the Capitol now to deliver to “Uncle Joe” this characteristic letter.  We had picked up Clemens’s nephew, Samuel E. Moffett, at the Library, and he came along and led the way to the Speaker’s room.  Arriving there, Clemens laid off his dark overcoat and stood there, all in white, certainly a startling figure among those clerks, newspaper men, and incidental politicians.  He had been noticed as he entered the Capitol, and a number of reporters had followed close behind.  Within less than a minute word was being passed through the corridors that Mark Twain was at the Capitol in his white suit.  The privileged ones began to gather, and a crowd assembled in the hall outside.

Speaker Cannon was not present at the moment; but a little later he “billowed” in—­which seems to be the word to express it—­he came with such a rush and tide of life.  After greetings, Clemens produced the letter and read it to him solemnly, as if he were presenting a petition.  Uncle Joe listened quite seriously, his head bowed a little, as if it were really a petition, as in fact it was.  He smiled, but he said, quite seriously: 

“That is a request that ought to be granted; but the time has gone by when I am permitted any such liberties.  Tom Reed, when he was Speaker, inaugurated a strict precedent excluding all outsiders from the use of the floor of the House.”

“I got in the other time,” Clemens insisted.

“Yes,” said Uncle Joe; “but that ain’t now.  Sunset Cox could let you in, but I can’t.  They’d hang me.”  He reflected a moment, and added:  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do:  I’ve got a private room down-stairs that I never use.  It’s all fitted up with table and desk, stationery, chinaware, and cutlery; you could keep house there, if you wanted to.  I’ll let you have it as long as you want to stay here, and I’ll give you my private servant, Neal, who’s been here all his life and knows every official, every Senator and Representative, and they all know him.  He’ll bring you whatever you want, and you can send in messages by him.  You can have the members brought down singly or in bunches, and convert them as much as you please.  I’d give you a key to the room, only I haven’t got one myself.  I never can get in when I want to, but Neal can get in, and he’ll unlock it for you.  You can have the room, and you can have Neal.  Now, will that do you?”