“‘I am the doubter and the doubt—­’

and ca’mly bunched the hands and went to shuffling for a new layout.  Says he: 

          “’They reckon ill who leave me out;
          They know not well the subtle ways I keep. 
          I pass and deal again!’

Hang’d if he didn’t go ahead and do it, too!  Oh, he was a cool one!  Well, in about a minute things were running pretty tight, but all of a sudden I see by Mr. Emerson’s eye he judged he had ’em.  He had already corralled two tricks, and each of the others one.  So now he kind of lifts a little in his chair and says: 

          “’I tire of globes and aces! 
          Too long the game is played!’

—­and down he fetched a right bower.  Mr. Longfellow smiles as sweet as pie and says: 

          “’Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
          For the lesson thou hast taught,’

—­and blamed if he didn’t down with another right bower!  Emerson claps his hand on his bowie, Longfellow claps his on his revolver, and I went under a bunk.  There was going to be trouble; but that monstrous Holmes rose up, wobbling his double chins, and says he, ’Order, gentlemen; the first man that draws, I’ll lay down on him and smother him!’ All quiet on the Potomac, you bet!

“They were pretty how-come-you-so’ by now, and they begun to blow.  Emerson says, ‘The nobbiest thing I ever wrote was “Barbara Frietchie."’ Says Longfellow, ‘It don’t begin with my “Biglow Papers."’ Says Holmes, ’My “Thanatopsis” lays over ’em both.’  They mighty near ended in a fight.  Then they wished they had some more company—­and Mr. Emerson pointed to me and says: 

          “’Is yonder squalid peasant all
          That this proud nursery could breed?’

He was a-whetting his bowie on his boot—­so I let it pass.  Well, sir, next they took it into their heads that they would like some music; so they made me stand up and sing “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” till I dropped-at thirteen minutes past four this morning.  That’s what I’ve been through, my friend.  When I woke at seven, they were leaving, thank goodness, and Mr. Longfellow had my only boots on, and his’n under his arm.  Says I, ’Hold on, there, Evangeline, what are you going to do with them?’ He says, ’Going to make tracks with ’em; because: 

          “’Lives of great men all remind us
          We can make our lives sublime;
          And, departing, leave behind us
          Footprints on the sands of time.’

“As I said, Mr. Twain, you are the fourth in twenty-four hours—­and I’m going to move; I ain’t suited to a littery atmosphere.”

I said to the miner, “Why, my dear sir, these were not the gracious singers to whom we and the world pay loving reverence and homage; these were impostors.”

The miner investigated me with a calm eye for a while; then said he, “Ah! impostors, were they?  Are you?”