Once Keeler came eagerly
to the hotel and made his way up to Clemens's room.
"Come with me," he said. "Quick!"
"What is it? What's happened?"
"Don't wait to talk. Come with me."
They tramped briskly through the streets till they reached the public
library, entered, Keeler leading the way, not stopping till he faced a
row of shelves filled with books. He pointed at one of them, his face
radiant with joy.
"Look," he said. "Do you see it?"
Clemens looked carefully now and identified one of the books as a
still-born novel which Keeler had published.
"This is a library," said Keeler, eagerly, "and they've got it!"
His whole being was aglow with the wonder of it. He had been
investigating; the library records showed that in the two years the book
had been there it had been taken out and read three times! It never
occurred to Clemens even to smile. Knowing Mark Twain, one would guess
that his eyes were likely to be filled with tears.
In his book about Mark Twain, Howells tells of a luncheon which Keeler
gave to his more famous associates--Aldrich, Fields, Harte, Clemens, and
Howells himself--a merry informal occasion. Says Howells:
Nothing remains to me of the happy time but a sense of idle and
aimless and joyful talk--play, beginning and ending nowhere, of
eager laughter, of countless good stories from Fields, of a heat-
lightning shimmer of wit from Aldrich, of an occasional
concentration of our joint mockeries upon our host, who took it
gladly; and amid the discourse, so little improving, but so full of
good-fellowship, Bret Harte's leering dramatization of Clemens's
mental attitude toward a symposium of Boston illuminates.
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