Clemens attended few public functions now.  He was beset with invitations, but he declined most of them.  He told the dog story one night to the Pleiades Club, assembled at the Brevoort; but that was only a step away, and we went in after the dining was ended and came away before the exercises were concluded.

He also spoke at a banquet given to Andrew Carnegie—­Saint Andrew, as he called him—­by the Engineers Club, and had his usual fun at the chief guest’s expense.

I have been chief guest at a good many banquets myself, and I know what brother Andrew is feeling like now.  He has been receiving compliments and nothing but compliments, but he knows that there is another side to him that needs censure.

I am going to vary the complimentary monotony.  While we have all been listening to the complimentary talk Mr. Carnegie’s face has scintillated with fictitious innocence.  You’d think he never committed a crime in his life.  But he has.

Look at his pestiferous simplified spelling.  Imagine the calamity on two sides of the ocean when he foisted his simplified spelling on the whole human race.  We’ve got it all now so that nobody could spell . . . .

    If Mr. Carnegie had left spelling alone we wouldn’t have had any
    spots on the sun, or any San Francisco quake, or any business
    depression.

There, I trust he feels better now and that he has enjoyed my abuse more than he did his compliments.  And now that I think I have him smoothed down and feeling comfortable I just want to say one thing more—­that his simplified spelling is all right enough, but, like chastity, you can carry it too far.

As he was about to go, Carnegie called his attention to the beautiful souvenir bronze and gold-plated goblets that stood at each guest’s plate.  Carnegie said: 

“The club had those especially made at Tiffany’s for this occasion.  They cost ten dollars apiece.”

Clemens sand:  “Is that so?  Well, I only meant to take my own; but if that’s the case I’ll load my cab with them.”

We made an attempt to reform on the matter of billiards.  The continued strain of late hours was doing neither of us any particular good.  More than once I journeyed into the country on one errand and another, mainly for rest; but a card saying that he was lonely and upset, for lack of his evening games, quickly brought me back again.  It was my wish only to serve him; it was a privilege and an honor to give him happiness.

Billiards, however, was not his only recreation just then.  He walked out a good deal, and especially of a pleasant Sunday morning he liked the stroll up Fifth Avenue.  Sometimes we went as high as Carnegie’s, on Ninety-second Street, and rode home on top of the electric stage—­always one of Mark Twain’s favorite diversions.

From that high seat he liked to look down on the panorama of the streets, and in that free, open air he could smoke without interference.  Oftener, however, we turned at Fifty-ninth Street, walking both ways.