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[44] === From Western Carpetbagger: The Extraordinary Memoirs of “Senator” Tom Fitch (1978) Tom Fitch Twain disliked practical jokes when he was their butt, but his own humor was often self-deprecating. Tom Fitch elsewhere remembered several situations in Virginia City ripe with comedy, as in the case of the serial novel Twain planned to write for the Virginia City Weekly Occidental in collaboration with Roland Daggett, his wife, and Fitch himself. Unfortunately, the Occidental, published between 29 October 1864 and 15 April 1865, suspended publication before Twain could contribute his installment. Twain also discussed the collaborative novel in chapter 51 of Roughing It (339–47). mark twain was as humorous in his private correspondence and private speech as in his published writings. He gave a friend a strong endorsement as an eloquent lecturer and accompanied it with a note saying, “Now try and not put the audience to sleep, and don’t be the heedless cause of my first lie.” A letter from his mother contained a pathetic appeal: “Samuel,” said she, “why do you always begin your letters to me by asking conundrums ? I am an old woman and have no taste for them.” He had such a dislike for pharisaical pretension that he was ever making mocking jests upon his own truthfulness, integrity, and habits. As a matter of fact, he was free from the vices of a frontier community and an honorable and upright man in his dealings—except in one particular. He was the most accomplished midnight mince pie thief that ever upset the calculations of our widow caterer. He had, besides, a habit, when things went wrong, of crashing together the crockery in his room, not so as to actually break it, but so as to make everyone nervous with apprehension. One Christmas Eve all of us, except Mark, were seated in the smokingroom awaiting the announcement of dinner, when there arrived a lad with a package for Mr. Clemens, which he was directed to take to the smoking- [45] room. After his departure we examined the bundle, for we were communists in spirit, and found that it contained a pretty knitted woolen scarf and a card bearing the inscription, “Mr. Samuel L. Clemens, from his friend Etta.” “I can improve upon that message,” suggested Daggett, who was the wag and philosophical disputant and cribbage player of the club, and, obtaining a sheet of note paper, he wrote in a fine female hand the following note: “Mr. Clemens: The accompanying scarf having been prepared as a Christmas gift for you, it has been determined not to divert it from its original destination, although a knowledge of your late conduct having come to the ears of the writer your own conscience will tell you that this must close all communication between us, in which decision my father and mother concur. Your former friend, Etta.” The scarf was rewrapped and with this note tied to it was placed in Sam’s room. Shortly afterward he made his appearance and proceeded to his room to prepare for dinner. Soon we heard the crockery going. “What is the matter, Sam?” said Daggett. Thereupon entered Mark Twain, with coat and collar off, and, throwing the package upon the table, he burst forth: “Read that,” said he, flourishing the note from Etta, “read that. That’s just my infernal luck. You hounds can run the town night after night and nobody ever says a word, but I am found out at once.” Mark Twain, Daggett, my wife and I agreed to collaborate in writing a novel. It was concluded that there should be no concert of action, plot, or plan between us; that either should have the right to introduce as many characters as he or she desired; that neither should have the right to kill, maim, imprison, or exile for life any character introduced by another, but might make such disposition as he pleased of characters of his own creation. The novel was christened by me The Silver Fiend, a Tale of Washoe, and I began the great work with a thrilling description of a runaway team on a mountain road in the Sierras, stopped by a lariat in the hands of a college athlete, who, while on a prospecting tour, had camped on the mountain side. Daggett commenced his chapter with the statement that while the horses stopped, the young man who held the lariat went on; that the sudden stop jerked him three miles over the mountain into...

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