, 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.

Once he wrote: "It was fearful drudgery--soulless drudgery--and almost
destitute of interest. It was an awful slavery for a lazy man."

It must have been so. There was little chance for original work. He had
become just a part of a news machine. He saw many public abuses that he
wished to expose, but the policy of the paper opposed him. Once,
however, he found a policeman asleep on his beat. Going to a near-by
vegetable stall, he borrowed a large cabbage-leaf, came back, and stood
over the sleeper, gently fanning him. He knew the paper would not
publish the policeman's negligence, but he could advertise it in his own
way. A large crowd soon collected, much amused. When he thought the
audience large enough, he went away. Next day the joke was all over the
city.

He grew indifferent to the "Call" work, and, when an assistant was
allowed him to do part of the running for items, it was clear to
everybody that presently the assistant would be able to do it all.

But there was a pleasant and profitable side to the San Francisco life.
There were real literary people there--among them a young man, with rooms
upstairs in the "Call" office, Francis Bret Harte, editor of the
"Californian,