we reached the street I found I had left my arctics in the box.  I had to have them, so Simmons said he would go back & get them, & I didn’t dissuade him.  I wouldn’t see how he was going to make his way a single yard into that solid incoming wave of people—­yet he must plow through it full 50 yards.  He was back with the shoes in 3 minutes!

    How do you reckon he accomplished that miracle?  By saying: 

    “Way, gentlemen, please—­coming to fetch Mr. Corbett’s overshoes.”

    The word flew from mouth to mouth, the Red Sea divided, & Simmons
    walked comfortably through & back, dry-shod.  This is Fire-escape
    Simmons, the inveterate talker, you know:  Exit—­in case of Simmons.

I had an engagement at a beautiful dwelling close to The Players for 10.30; I was there by 10.45.  Thirty cultivated & very musical ladies & gentlemen present—­all of them acquaintances & many of them personal friends of mine.  That wonderful Hungarian band was there (they charge $500 for an evening).  Conversation and band until midnight; then a bite of supper; then the company was compactly grouped before me & I told them about Dr. B. E. Martin & the etchings, & followed it with the Scotch-Irish christening.  My, but the Martin is a darling story!  Next, the head tenor from the Opera sang half a dozen great songs that set the company wild, yes, mad with delight, that nobly handsome young Damrosch accompanying on the piano.

Just a little pause, then the band burst out into an explosion of weird and tremendous dance-music, a Hungarian celebrity & his wife took the floor; I followed—­I couldn’t help it; the others drifted in, one by one, & it was Onteora over again.

By half past 4.  I had danced all those people down—­& yet was not tired; merely breathless.  I was in bed at 5 & asleep in ten minutes.  Up at 9 & presently at work on this letter to you.  I think I wrote until 2 or half past.  Then I walked leisurely out to Mr. Rogers’s (it is called 3 miles, but is short of it), arriving at 3.30, but he was out—­to return at 5.30—­so I didn’t stay, but dropped over and chatted with Howells until five.

—­[Two Mark Twain anecdotes are remembered of that winter at The Players: 

Just before Christmas a member named Scott said one day: 

“Mr. Clemens, you have an extra overcoat hanging in the coatroom.  I’ve got to attend my uncle’s funeral and it’s raining very hard.  I’d like to wear it.”

The coat was an old one, in the pockets of which Clemens kept a melancholy assortment of pipes, soiled handkerchiefs, neckties, letters, and what not.

“Scott,” he said, “if you won’t lose anything out of the pockets of that coat you may wear it.”

An hour or two later Clemens found a notice in his mail-box that a package for him was in the office.  He called for it and found a neat bundle, which somehow had a Christmas look.  He carried it up to the reading-room with a showy, air.