“Yes—­he wrote it himself.”

“He did, did he?”

“Yes.”

“H’m.  Well, then, why ud he write it like that?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mane, why wudn’t he put his naime to ut?”

“His name is to it.  That’s not it—­you are looking at my name.”

I thought that that was a home shot, but he did not betray that he had been hit.  He said: 

“It’s not an aisy one to spell; how do you pronounce ut?”

“Mark Twain.”

“H’m.  H’m.  Mike Train.  H’m.  I don’t remember ut.  What is it ye want to see him about?”

“It isn’t I that want to see him, he wants to see me.”

“Oh, he does, does he?”

“Yes.”

“What does he want to see ye about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ye don’t know!  And ye confess it, becod!  Well, I can tell ye wan thing—­ye’ll not see him.  Are ye in the business?”

“What business?”

“The show business.”

A fatal question.  I recognized that I was defeated.  If I answered no, he would cut the matter short and wave me to the door without the grace of a word—­I saw it in his uncompromising eye; if I said I was a lecturer, he would despise me, and dismiss me with opprobrious words; if I said I was a dramatist, he would throw me out of the window.  I saw that my case was hopeless, so I chose the course which seemed least humiliating:  I would pocket my shame and glide out without answering.  The silence was growing lengthy.

“I’ll ask ye again.  Are ye in the show business yerself?”

“Yes!”

I said it with splendid confidence; for in that moment the very twin of that grand New Haven dog loafed into the room, and I saw that Irishman’s eye light eloquently with pride and affection.

“Ye are?  And what is it?”

“I’ve got a bench-show in New Haven.”

The weather did change then.

“You don’t say, sir!  And that’s your show, sir!  Oh, it’s a grand show, it’s a wonderful show, sir, and a proud man I am to see your honor this day.  And ye’ll be an expert, sir, and ye’ll know all about dogs—­more than ever they know theirselves, I’ll take me oath to ut.”

I said, with modesty: 

“I believe I have some reputation that way.  In fact, my business requires it.”

“Ye have some reputation, your honor!  Bedad I believe you!  There’s not a jintleman in the worrld that can lay over ye in the judgmint of a dog, sir.  Now I’ll vinture that your honor’ll know that dog’s dimensions there better than he knows them his own self, and just by the casting of your educated eye upon him.  Would you mind giving a guess, if ye’ll be so good?”

I knew that upon my answer would depend my fate.  If I made this dog bigger than the prize-dog, it would be bad diplomacy, and suspicious; if I fell too far short of the prizedog, that would be equally damaging.  The dog was standing by the table, and I believed I knew the difference between him and the one whose picture I had seen in the newspaper to a shade.  I spoke promptly up and said: