I said to a friend, “I want to know if you can direct me to an honest tobacco merchant who will tell me what is the worst cigar in the New York market, excepting those made for Chinese consumption—­I want real tobacco.  If you will do this and I find the man is as good as his word, I will guarantee him a regular market for a fair amount of his cigars.”

We found a tobacco dealer who would tell the truth—­who, if a cigar was bad, would boldly say so.  He produced what he called the very worst cigars he had ever had in his shop.  He let me experiment with one then and there.  The test was satisfactory.

This was, after all, the real thing.  I negotiated for a box of them and took them away with me, so that I might be sure of having them handy when I want them.

I discovered that the “worst cigars,” so called, are the best for me, after all.

BILLIARDS

          Mr. Clemens attended a billiard tourney on the evening of April
          24, 1906, and was called on to tell a story.

The game of billiards has destroyed my naturally sweet disposition.  Once, when I was an underpaid reporter in Virginia City, whenever I wished to play billiards I went out to look for an easy mark.  One day a stranger came to town and opened a billiard parlor.  I looked him over casually.  When he proposed a game, I answered, “All right.”

“Just knock the balls around a little so that I can get your gait,” he said; and when I had done so, he remarked:  “I will be perfectly fair with you.  I’ll play you left-handed.”  I felt hurt, for he was cross-eyed, freckled, and had red hair, and I determined to teach him a lesson.  He won first shot, ran out, took my half-dollar, and all I got was the opportunity to chalk my cue.

“If you can play like that with your left hand,” I said, “I’d like to see you play with your right.”

“I can’t,” he said.  “I’m left-handed.”

THE UNION RIGHT OR WRONG

          Reminiscencesof Nevada

I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that Nevada had lively newspapers in those days.

My great competitor among the reporters was Boggs, of the Union, an excellent reporter.

Once in three or four months he would get a little intoxicated; but, as a general thing, he was a wary and cautious drinker, although always ready to damp himself a little with the enemy.

He had the advantage of me in one thing:  he could get the monthly public-school report and I could not, because the principal hated my sheet —­the ‘Enterprise’.

One snowy night, when the report was due, I started out, sadly wondering how I was to get it.

Presently, a few steps up the almost deserted street, I stumbled on Boggs, and asked him where he was going.

“After the school report.”