We own the whole field—­every inch of it—­and nothing can dislodge us.

Now then, above is my preachment, and here follows the reason and purpose of it.  I want you to run over here, roost over the machine a week and satisfy yourself, and then go to John P. Jones or to whom you please, and sell me a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of this property and take ten per cent in cash or the “property” for your trouble—­the latter, if you are wise, because the price I ask is a long way short of the value.

What I call “property” is this.  A small part of my ownership consists of a royalty of $500 on every machine marketed under the American patents.  My selling-terms are, a permanent royalty of one dollar on every American-marketed machine for a thousand dollars cash to me in hand paid.  We shan’t market any fewer than 5,000 machines in 15 years—­a return of fifteen thousand dollars for one thousand.  A royalty is better than stock, in one way—­it must be paid, every six months, rain or shine; it is a debt, and must be paid before dividends are declared.  By and by, when we become a stock company I shall buy these royalties back for stock if I can get them for anything like reasonable terms.

I have never borrowed a penny to use on the machine, and never sold a penny’s worth of the property until the machine was entirely finished and proven by the severest tests to be what she started out to be—­perfect, permanent, and occupying the position, as regards all kindred machines, which the City of Paris occupies as regards the canvas-backs of the mercantile marine.

It is my purpose to sell two hundred dollars of my royalties at the above price during the next two months and keep the other $300.

Mrs. Clemens begs Mrs. Goodman to come with you, and asks pardon for not writing the message herself—­which would be a pathetically-welcome spectacle to me; for I have been her amanuensis for 8 months, now, since her eyes failed her.  Yours as always
          
                              mark.

While this letter with its amazing contents is on its way to astonish Joe Goodman, we will consider one of quite a different, but equally characteristic sort.  We may assume that Mark Twain’s sister Pamela had been visiting him in Hartford and was now making a visit in Keokuk.

To Mrs. Moffett, in Keokuk: 

Hartford, Oct 9, ’89.  Dear Pamela,—­An hour after you left I was suddenly struck with a realizing sense of the utter chuckle-headedness of that notion of mine:  to send your trunk after you.  Land! it was idiotic.  None but a lunatic would, separate himself from his baggage.

Well, I am soulfully glad the baggage fetcher saved me from consummating my insane inspiration.  I met him on the street in the afternoon and paid him again.  I shall pay him several times more, as opportunity offers.

I declined the invitation to banquet with the visiting South American Congress, in a polite note explaining that I had to go to New York today.  I conveyed the note privately to Patrick; he got the envelope soiled, and asked Livy to put on a clean one.  That is why I am going to the banquet; also why I have disinvited the boys I thought I was going to punch billiards with, upstairs to-night.