Led by Steve Gillis, the Enterprise force used to devise tricks to set him going.  One of these was to hide articles from his desk.  He detested the work necessary to the care of a lamp, and wrote by the light of a candle.  To hide “Sam’s candle” was a sure way to get prompt and vigorous return.  He would look for it a little; then he would begin a slow, circular walk—­a habit acquired in the limitations of the pilot-house —­and his denunciation of the thieves was like a great orchestration of wrong.  By and by the office boy, supposedly innocent, would find another for him, and all would be forgotten.  He made a placard, labeled with fearful threats and anathemas, warning any one against touching his candle; but one night both the placard and the candle were gone.

Now, amoung his Virginia acquaintances was a young minister, a Mr. Rising, “the fragile, gentle new fledgling” of the Buck Fanshaw episode.  Clemens greatly admired Mr. Rising’s evident sincerity, and the young minister had quickly recognized the new reporter’s superiority of mind.  Now and then he came to the office to call on him.  Unfortunately, he happened to step in just at that moment when, infuriated by the latest theft of his property, Samuel Clemens was engaged in his rotary denunciation of the criminals, oblivious of every other circumstance.  Mr. Rising stood spellbound by this, to him, new phase of genius, and at last his friend became dimly aware of him.  He did not halt in his scathing treadmill and continued in the slow monotone of speech: 

“I know, Mr. Rising, I know it’s wicked to talk like this; I know it is wrong.  I know I shall certainly go to hell for it.  But if you had a candle, Mr. Rising, and those thieves should carry it off every night, I know that you would say, just as I say, Mr. Rising, G-d d—­n their impenitent souls, may they roast in hell for a million years.”

The little clergyman caught his breath.

“Maybe I should, Mr. Clemens,” he replied, “but I should try to say, ‘Forgive them, Father, they know not what they do.’”

“Oh, well! if you put it on the ground that they are just fools, that alters the case, as I am one of that class myself.  Come in and we’ll try to forgive them and forget about it.”

Mark Twain had a good many experiences with young ministers.  He was always fond of them, and they often sought him out.  Once, long afterward, at a hotel, he wanted a boy to polish his shoes, and had rung a number of times without getting any response.  Presently, he thought he heard somebody approaching in the hall outside.  He flung open the door, and a small, youngish-looking person, who seemed to have been hesitating at the door, made a movement as though to depart hastily.  Clemens grabbed him by the collar.

“Look here,” he said, “I’ve been waiting and ringing here for half an hour.  Now I want you to take those shoes, and polish them, quick.  Do you hear?”

The slim, youthful person trembled a good deal, and said:  “I would, Mr. Clemens, I would indeed, sir, if I could.  But I’m a minister of the Gospel, and I’m not prepared for such work.”