Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1886-08-04
"Inn0cents Abroad
ANECDOTES OF MARK TWAIN BY HIS ROOM
MATE.

Mr.. Steve ellis, q printer and Journalist,
was the friend and roommate of Mark
Twain in the old days when the latter was
a reporter on the Call, of this city. They
had likewise suffered and triumphed to-
gether in the sage brush, the dusty green
foliage of which they frequently succeeded
in turning to a bright red. Mark was, and
is, a very nervous man. Small annoyances
robbed his life of sweetness and light. Ste
phen had no nerves, and it gave him ma
ignant pleasure to experiment upon those
of Mr.. Clemens.
'Steve," cried Mark, in an agonized
voice, shaking his bedfellow out of an ap-
parently profound slumber, f'do you hear
that mouse-that internal, gnawing mouse?
It's driving me wild"
''Oh, hang the mouse" .growled ellis,
turning over and snoring ostentatiously.
1t wasn't mouse, but little machine
which Stephen was privately working with
string for the benevolent purpose of ter
rorizing his friend.
Mark lay and writhed, and cursed, and
CRASHED his teeth. He cried so, and beat
upon the headboard. He got up and threw
things under the bed, and walked around
the room and wrung his hands and moist
ened his profanity with tears OF impotent
rage. The mouse still gnawed, and Twain
put on his clothes and went forth and paced
the streets till morning, leaving his tor
menter to revel in bed.
Hello, Sam; what in Gods name have
you been doing?" asked ellis another
night, startled out Of real sleep this time,
and sitting up in bed. Aud no wonder he
was startled. Mark, undressed. had just
entered the room. In his hand he held a
c1, .,
priced gift from Bayard Taylor. This
weapon was dripping with blood. The
clock struck midnight.
BLANK him, he'll never crow again., ex-
ulted the assassin, but even as he crawled
into bed the offending rooster sent forth a
cock-a- doodle-do that caused Mark to give
howl of foiled vengeance and bury his
head under the blankets. In the morning
it was discovered that his one furious stroke
in the chicken-house had bereft eight hens
of their heads, but the rooster had escaped
He owed his life to the fortunate circum-
stance that he slept-or, rather, crowed-at
the end of the perch farthest from the door
of the coop.
''Steve! Steve, l say Curse you, wake
up" came in hoarse and furious whisper
at 2 A. M.
Mr.. ellis awoke and beheld Mr.. Glenn
ems, clad only in his shirt, standing by the
open window. The night was cold, and
Mr.. Clemens was shivering violently. In
his shaking hand was revolver.
"Steve," he pleaded, ''you're warm and
your nerve is good. For Gods sake, get
up and shoot this Cat for me. I've been
out in the yard for an hour, trying to get a
bead on the brute, and now that he's there
on the fence I can't kill him-oh, know
that l can't kill him, blank him! Get up,
Steve, do"
ooh, let the cat alone"
"What? lou won't get-up? Then, by
the Creator that made NE, Steve ellis, FL
shoot you. I'm shaky, but [ can do that
if can't hit the cat!''
And Mr.. ellis arose and slew the cat il
self-defense, and Mark Twain went out and
brought in a bottle and sat up till sunrise
to celebrate the execution.-San Francisco
Post.