He liked better to sit on the grass-grown, rocky arch above and look down into it, and let his talk follow his mood.  He liked to contemplate the geology of his surroundings, the record of the ageless periods of construction required to build the world.  The marvels of science always appealed to him.  He reveled in the thought of the almost limitless stretches of time, the millions upon millions of years that had been required for this stratum and that—­he liked to amaze himself with the sounding figures.  I remember him expressing a wish to see the Grand Canon of Arizona, where, on perpendicular walls six thousand feet high, the long story of geological creation is written.  I had stopped there during my Western trip of the previous year, and I told him something of its wonders.  I urged him to see them for himself, offering to go with him.  He said: 

“I should enjoy that; but the railroad journey is so far and I should have no peace.  The papers would get hold of it, and I would have to make speeches and be interviewed, and I never want to do any of those things again.”

I suggested that the railroads would probably be glad to place a private car at his service, so that he might travel in comfort; but he shook his head.

“That would only make me more conspicuous.”

“How about a disguise?”

“Yes,” he said, “I might put on a red wig and false whiskers and change my name, but I couldn’t disguise my drawling speech and they’d find me out.”

It was amusing, but it was rather sad, too.  His fame had deprived him of valued privileges.

He talked of many things during these little excursions.  Once he told how he had successively advised his nephew, Moffett, in the matter of obtaining a desirable position.  Moffett had wanted to become a reporter.  Clemens devised a characteristic scheme.  He said: 

“I will get you a place on any newspaper you may select if you promise faithfully to follow out my instructions.”

The applicant agreed, eagerly enough.  Clemens said: 

“Go to the newspaper of your choice.  Say that you are idle and want work, that you are pining for work—­longing for it, and that you ask no wages, and will support yourself.  All that you ask is work.  That you will do anything, sweep, fill the inkstands, mucilage-bottles, run errands, and be generally useful.  You must never ask for wages.  You must wait until the offer of wages comes to you.  You must work just as faithfully and just as eagerly as if you were being paid for it.  Then see what happens.”

The scheme had worked perfectly.  Young Moffett had followed his instructions to the letter.  By and by he attracted attention.  He was employed in a variety of ways that earned him the gratitude and the confidence of the office.  In obedience to further instructions, he began to make short, brief, unadorned notices of small news matters that came under his eye and laid them on the city editor’s desk.  No pay was asked; none was expected.  Occasionally one of the items was used.  Then, of course, it happened, as it must sooner or later at a busy time, that he was given a small news assignment.  There was no trouble about his progress after that.  He had won the confidence of the management and shown that he was not afraid to work.