urringly.

This was wormwood to Jim. He was really a brave spirit.

"I would too," he said, "and I will if you say that again."

"Why, Jim, of course you wouldn't dare to go out there. You might catch
cold."

"You wait and see," said Jim Wolfe.

He grabbed a pair of yarn stockings for his feet, raised the window, and
crept out on the snowy roof. There was a crust of ice on the snow, but
Jim jabbed his heels through it and stood up in the moonlight, his legs
bare, his single garment flapping gently in the light winter breeze. Then
he started slowly toward the cats, sinking his heels in the snow each
time for a footing, a piece of lath in his hand. The cats were on the
corner of the roof above the arbor, and Jim cautiously worked his way in
that direction. The roof was not very steep. He was doing well enough
until he came to a place where the snow had melted until it was nearly
solid ice. He was so intent on the cats that he did not notice this, and
when he struck his heel down to break the crust nothing yielded. A
second later Jim's feet had shot out from under him, and he vaulted like
an avalanche down the icy roof out on the little vine-clad arbor, and
went crashing through among those candypullers, gathered there with their
pans of cooling taffy. There were wild shrieks and a general flight.
Neither Jim nor Sam ever knew how he got back to their room, but Jim was
overcome with the enormity of his offense, while Sam was in an agony of
laughter.

"You did it splendidly, Jim," he drawled, when he could speak. "Nobody
could have done it better; and did you see how those cats got out of
there? I never had any idea when you started that you meant to do it
that way. And it was such a surprise to the folks down-stairs. How did
you ever think of it?"

It was a fearful ordeal for a boy like Jim Wolfe, but he stuck to his
place in spite of what he must have suffered. The boys made him one of
them soon after that. His initiation was thought to be complete.

An account of Jim Wolfe and the cats was the first original story Mark
Twain ever told. He told it next day, which was Sunday, to Jimmy
McDaniel, the baker's son, as they sat looking out over the river, eating
gingerbread. His hearer laughed immoderately, and the story-teller was
proud and happy in his success.

XVIII

THE BEGINNING OF A LITERARY LIFE

Orion's paper continued to go downhill. Following some random counsel,
he changed the name of it and adva