With the exception of a short talk he had once given at a printer’s dinner in Keokuk, it was Mark Twain’s first appearance as a speaker, and the beginning of a lifelong series of triumphs on the platform.  The building was packed—­the aisles full.  The audience was ready for fun, and he gave it to them.  Nobody escaped ridicule; from beginning to end the house was a storm of laughter and applause.

Not a word of this first address of Mark Twain’s has been preserved, but those who heard it always spoke of it as the greatest effort of his life, as to them it seemed, no doubt.

For his Third House address, Clemens was presented with a gold watch, inscribed “To Governor Mark Twain.”  Everywhere, now, he was pointed out as a distinguished figure, and his quaint remarks were quoted.  Few of these sayings are remembered to-day, though occasionally one is still unforgotten.  At a party one night, being urged to make a conundrum, he said: 

“Well, why am I like the Pacific Ocean?”

Several guesses were made, but he shook his head.  Some one said: 

“We give it up.  Tell us, Mark, why are you like the Pacific Ocean?”

“I—­don’t—­know,” he drawled.  “I was just—­asking for information.”

The governor of Nevada was generally absent, and Orion Clemens was executive head of the territory.  His wife, who had joined him in Carson City, was social head of the little capital, and Brother Sam, with his new distinction and now once more something of a dandy in dress, was society’s chief ornament—­a great change, certainly, from the early months of his arrival less than three years before.

It was near the end of May, 1864, when Mark Twain left Nevada for San Francisco.  The immediate cause of his going was a duel—­a duel elaborately arranged between Mark Twain and the editor of a rival paper, but never fought.  In fact, it was mainly a burlesque affair throughout, chiefly concocted by that inveterate joker, Steve Gillis, already mentioned in connection with the pipe incident.  The new dueling law, however, did not distinguish between real and mock affrays, and the prospect of being served with a summons made a good excuse for Clemens and Gillis to go to San Francisco, which had long attracted them.  They were great friends, these two, and presently were living together and working on the same paper, the “Morning Call,” Clemens as a reporter and Gillis as a compositor.

Gillis, with his tendency to mischief, was a constant exasperation to his room-mate, who, goaded by some new torture, would sometimes denounce him in feverish terms.  Yet they were never anything but the closest friends.

Mark Twain did not find happiness in his new position on the “Call.”  There was less freedom and more drudgery than he had known on the “Enterprise.”  His day was spent around the police court, attending fires, weddings, and funerals, with brief glimpses of the theaters at night.