But this was a mistake.  Clemens in his next letter declared that Rice’s reports might be parliamentary enough, but that they covered with glittering technicalities the most festering mass of misstatement, and even crime.  He avowed that they were wholly untrustworthy; dubbed the author of them “The Unreliable,” and in future letters never referred to him by any other term.  Carson and the Comstock and the papers of the Coast delighted in this burlesque journalistic warfare, and Rice was “The Unreliable” for life.

Rice and Clemens, it should be said, though rivals, were the best of friends, and there was never any real animosity between them.

Clemens quickly became a favorite with the members; his sharp letters, with their amusing turn of phrase and their sincerity, won general friendship.  Jack Simmons, speaker of the house, and Billy Clagget, the Humboldt delegation, were his special cronies and kept him on the inside of the political machine.  Clagget had remained in Unionville after the mining venture, warned his Keokuk sweetheart, and settled down into politics and law.  In due time he would become a leading light and go to Congress.  He was already a notable figure of forceful eloquence and tousled, unkempt hair.  Simmons, Clagget, and Clemens were easily the three conspicuous figures of the session.

It must have been gratifying to the former prospector and miner to come back to Carson City a person of consequence, where less than a year before he had been regarded as no more than an amusing indolent fellow, a figure to smile at, but unimportant.  There is a photograph extant of Clemens and his friends Clagget and Simmons in a group, and we gather from it that he now arrayed himself in a long broadcloth cloak, a starched shirt, and polished boots.  Once more he had become the glass of fashion that he had been on the river.  He made his residence with Orion, whose wife and little daughter Jennie had by this time come out from the States.  “Sister Mollie,” as wife of the acting governor, was presently social leader of the little capital; her brilliant brother-in-law its chief ornament.  His merriment and songs and good nature made him a favorite guest.  His lines had fallen in pleasant places; he could afford to smile at the hard Esmeralda days.

He was not altogether satisfied.  His letters, copied and quoted all along the Coast, were unsigned.  They were easily identified with one another, but not with a personality.  He realized that to build a reputation it was necessary to fasten it to an individuality, a name.

He gave the matter a good deal of thought.  He did not consider the use of his own name; the ‘nom de plume’ was the fashion of the time.  He wanted something brief, crisp, definite, unforgettable.  He tried over a good many combinations in his mind, but none seemed convincing.  Just then—­this was early in 1863—­news came to him that the old pilot he had wounded by his satire, Isaiah Sellers, was dead.  At once the pen-name of Captain Sellers recurred to him.  That was it; that was the sort of name he wanted.  It was not trivial; it had all the qualities—­Sellers would never need it again.  Clemens decided he would give it a new meaning and new association in this far-away land.  He went up to Virginia City.