orge made
failure after failure. His fury increased with each failure as he
scored it. With each defeat he flung off one or another rag of his
raiment, and every time he started on a fresh inning he made it "double
or quits" once more. Twice he reached thirty and broke down; once he
reached thirty-one and broke down. These "nears" made him frantic, and I
believe I was never so happy in my life, except the time, a few years
later, when the Rev. J. H. Twichell and I walked to Boston and he had
the celebrated conversation with the hostler at the Inn at Ashford,
Connecticut.

At last, when we were notified that Patrick was at the door to drive him
to his train, George owed me five thousand cigars at twenty-five cents
apiece, and I was so sorry I could have hugged him. But he shouted,

"Give me ten minutes more!" and added stormily, "it's double or quits
again, and I'll win out free of debt or owe you ten thousand cigars, and
you'll pay the funeral expenses."

He began on his final effort, and I believe that in all my experience
among both amateurs and experts, I have never seen a cue so carefully
handled in my lifetime as George handled his upon this intensely
interesting occasion. He got safely up to twenty-five, and then ceased
to breathe. So did I. He labored along, and added a point, another
point, still another point, and finally reached thirty-one. He stopped
there, and we took a breath. By this time the balls were scattered all
down the cushions, about a foot or two apart, and there wasn't a shot in
sight anywhere that any man might hope to make. In a burst of anger and
confessed defeat, he sent his ball flying around the table at random,
and it crotched a ball that was packed against the cushion and sprang
across to a ball against the bank on the opposite side, and counted!

His luck had set him free, and he didn't owe me anything. He had used up
all his spare time, but we carried his clothes to the carriage, and he
dressed on his way to the station, greatly wondered at and admired by
the ladies, as he drove along--but he got his train.

I am very fond of Mr. Dooley, and shall await his coming with
affectionate and pecuniary interest.

_P.S. Saturday._ He has been here. Let us not talk about it.

MARK TWAIN.

(_To be Continued._)

FOOTNOTE:

[7] Robert Richardson, deceased, of Australia.

NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW

No. DCXII