Other billiardists came from time to time:  Colonel Harvey, Mr. Duneka, and Major Leigh, of the Harper Company, and Peter Finley Dunne (Mr. Dooley); but they were handicapped by their business affairs, and were not dependable for daily and protracted sessions.  Any number of his friends were willing, even eager, to come for his entertainment; but the percentage of them who could and would devote a number of hours each day to being beaten at billiards and enjoy the operation dwindled down to a single individual.  Even I could not have done it—­could not have afforded it, however much I might have enjoyed the diversion—­had it not been contributory to my work.  To me the association was invaluable; it drew from him a thousand long-forgotten incidents; it invited a stream of picturesque comments and philosophies; it furnished the most intimate insight into his character.

He was not always glad to see promiscuous callers, even some one that he might have met pleasantly elsewhere.  One afternoon a young man whom he had casually invited to “drop in some day in town” happened to call in the midst of a very close series of afternoon games.  It would all have been well enough if the visitor had been content to sit quietly on the couch and “bet on the game,” as Clemens suggested, after the greetings were over; but he was a very young man, and he felt the necessity of being entertaining.  He insisted on walking about the room and getting in the way, and on talking about the Mark Twain books he had read, and the people he had met from time to time who had known Mark Twain on the river, or on the Pacific coast, or elsewhere.  I knew how fatal it was for him to talk to Clemens during his play, especially concerning matters most of which had been laid away.  I trembled for our visitor.  If I could have got his ear privately I should have said:  “For heaven’s sake sit down and keep still or go away!  There’s going to be a combination of earthquake and cyclone and avalanche if you keep this thing up.”

I did what I could.  I looked at my watch every other minute.  At last, in desperation, I suggested that I retire from the game and let the visitor have my cue.  I suppose I thought this would eliminate an element of danger.  He declined on the ground that he seldom played, and continued his deadly visit.  I have never been in an atmosphere so fraught with danger.  I did not know how the game stood, and I played mechanically and forgot to count the score.  Clemens’s face was grim and set and savage.  He no longer ventured even a word.  By and by I noticed that he was getting white, and I said, privately, “Now, this young man’s hour has come.”

It was certainly by the mercy of God just then that the visitor said: 

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.  I’d like to stay longer, but I’ve got an engagement for dinner.”

I don’t remember how he got out, but I know that tons lifted as the door closed behind him.  Clemens made his shot, then very softly said: