Mark Twain that year was working pretty steadily on ’The Yankee at King Arthur’s Court’, a book which he had begun two years before.  He had published nothing since the Huck Finn story, and his company was badly in need of a new book by an author of distinction.  Also it was highly desirable to earn money for himself; wherefore he set to work to finish the Yankee story.  He had worked pretty steadily that summer in his Elmira study, but on his return to Hartford found a good deal of confusion in the house, so went over to Twichell’s, where carpenter work was in progress.  He seems to have worked there successfully, though what improvement of conditions he found in that numerous, lively household, over those at home it would be difficult to say.

          To Theodore W. Crane, at Quarry Farm, Elmira, N. Y.

Friday, Oct.,5, ’88.  Dear Theo,—­I am here in Twichell’s house at work, with the noise of the children and an army of carpenters to help.  Of course they don’t help, but neither do they hinder.  It’s like a boiler-factory for racket, and in nailing a wooden ceiling onto the room under me the hammering tickles my feet amazingly sometimes, and jars my table a good deal; but I never am conscious of the racket at all, and I move my feet into position of relief without knowing when I do it.  I began here Monday morning, and have done eighty pages since.  I was so tired last night that I thought I would lie abed and rest, to-day; but I couldn’t resist.  I mean to try to knock off tomorrow, but it’s doubtful if I do.  I want to finish the day the machine finishes, and a week ago the closest calculations for that indicated Oct. 22—­but experience teaches me that their calculations will miss fire, as usual.

The other day the children were projecting a purchase, Livy and I to furnish the money—­a dollar and a half.  Jean discouraged the idea.  She said:  “We haven’t got any money.  Children, if you would think, you would remember the machine isn’t done.”

It’s billiards to-night.  I wish you were here. 
                    With love to you both
                                             S. L. C.

P. S. I got it all wrong.  It wasn’t the children, it was Marie.  She wanted a box of blacking, for the children’s shoes.  Jean reproved her —­and said: 

“Why, Marie, you mustn’t ask for things now.  The machine isn’t done.”

S. L. C.

The letter that follows is to another of his old pilot friends, one who was also a schoolmate, Will Bowen, of Hannibal.  There is today no means of knowing the occasion upon which this letter was written, but it does not matter; it is the letter itself that is of chief value.

To Will Bowen, in Hannibal, Mo.: