I never was as glad to see a ten-ounce nugget as I was that book. And
Idaho took at his like a kid looks at a stick of candy.

Mine was a little book about five by six inches called "Herkimer's
Handbook of Indispensable Information." I may be wrong, but I think
that was the greatest book that ever was written. I've got it to-day;
and I can stump you or any man fifty times in five minutes with the
information in it. Talk about Solomon or the New York _Tribune_!
Herkimer had cases on both of 'em. That man must have put in fifty
years and travelled a million miles to find out all that stuff. There
was the population of all cities in it, and the way to tell a girl's
age, and the number of teeth a camel has. It told you the longest
tunnel in the world, the number of the stars, how long it takes for
chicken pox to break out, what a lady's neck ought to measure, the
veto powers of Governors, the dates of the Roman aqueducts, how many
pounds of rice going without three beers a day would buy, the average
annual temperature of Augusta, Maine, the quantity of seed required to
plant an acre of carrots in drills, antidotes for poisons, the number
of hairs on a blond lady's head, how to preserve eggs, the height of
all the mountains in the world, and the dates of all wars and battles,
and how to restore drowned persons, and sunstroke, and the number of
tacks in a pound, and how to make dynamite and flowers and beds, and
what to do before the doctor comes--and a hundred times as many things
besides. If there was anything Herkimer didn't know I didn't miss it
out of the book.

I sat and read that book for four hours. All the wonders of education
was compressed in it. I forgot the snow, and I forgot that me and old
Idaho was on the outs. He was sitting still on a stool reading away
with a kind of partly soft and partly mysterious look shining through
his tan-bark whiskers.

"Idaho," says I, "what kind of a book is yours?"

Idaho must have forgot, too, for he answered moderate, without any
slander or malignity.

"Why," says he, "this here seems to be a volume by Homer K. M."

"Homer K. M. what?" I asks.

"Why, just Homer K. M.," says he.

"You're a liar," says I, a little riled that Idaho should try to put
me up a tree. "No man is going 'round signing books with his initials.
If it's Homer K. M. Spoopendyke, or Homer K. M. McSweeney, or
Homer K. M. Jones, why don't you say so like a man instead of biting
off the end of it like