However, Mr. Clemens showed no sign of being ready to bring the evening to a conclusion. He ordered brandy and coffee, and he and Mr. Kipling began “swapping yarns,” as my employer called it. As always when Mr. Clemens dined in public, he had been recognized by many of the restaurant’s patrons, and he was enjoying the spotlight. A number of them had come to the table to extend their good wishes, or to express their appreciation for something he had written, and Mr. Clemens returned their attentions by playing to the crowd: telling his best stories, with a wealth of colorful detail, and in a rich variety of accents and voices.
Mr. Kipling held up his own end of the conversation in fine style, as well—I was almost ready to believe Mr. Clemens’s declaration that he knew everything there was to know. His brief residence in Vermont (barely five years) had given him a surprising familiarity with New England life. He told stories about the fishing boats and their sailors that made me wonder how I had spent almost my entire life within five miles of the Atlantic without learning even half of what this Englishman seemed to know as well as the palm of his hand.
But it was his tales of India (he pronounced it In-ja) that brought out his true wealth of knowledge. After hearing him tell of teeming cities and primeval wilderness, beggars and maharajahs, Hindus and Moslems, deadly cobras and royal white elephants, and all the variety of life in that populous British colony, I promised myself that some day I would visit that mysterious land. If only half of what Mr. Kipling said of it were true, then it outstripped my wildest imagination. Even Mr. Clemens seemed impressed. After the Englishman told a fantastic tale of a boy raised in the jungle by wolves, my employer remarked, “I can see I’m going to have to make it my business to go see India, if only to find out whether Kipling’s a better storyteller than I am, or just a better liar.”
“It would be presumptuous of me to claim superiority to Mark Twain in either respect,” replied Mr. Kipling, smiling broadly. Mr. Clemens and Mrs. Kipling laughed, as did the eavesdroppers at several nearby tables, and the storytelling continued.
Finally Mr. Clemens recounted the tale of our trip down the Mississippi, and our stay in New Orleans, with special emphasis on how he and I had brought two murderers to justice. “Now that’s what I call an incredible story,” said Mr. Kipling. He leaned his elbows on the table and peered at Mr. Clemens with an envious expression. “It’s rare enough that anyone not a policeman has anything to do with solving a murder case, let alone two of them in the space of a few weeks. It’s unprecedented, I tell you. Will you be giving up writing and become the American Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Clemens?”
“If I thought there was any money in it, I might,” said my employer, leaning back in his chair. “But I haven’t gotten a nickel for my detecting, and I reckon I won’t anytime soon. As far as the glory, I can do without it. There’s only so much excitement a man my age can take. Maybe a young rascal like Cabot can enjoy fistfights and getting thrown in jail, but I’d just as soon save my energy for something a little less strenuous. Smoking cigars, for example.”
Finally, we were ready to return to our hotel. And while the restaurant owner had undoubtedly been pleased to see us ordering up his best brandy, and keeping other diners buying food and drink while they stayed to listen to Mr. Clemens, it was clear he was ready to close his doors for the evening. But when we came to the front of the restaurant, we discovered several of the other patrons huddled in the entryway, peering anxiously into the street. The reason was not far to seek: Rain was falling in sheets, and a flash of lightning threw the empty streets into stark relief. “We’ll never find a cab in this weather,” said Mr. Clemens. “Anyone with a lick of sense is going to be indoors. We’ll have to wait it out.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Kipling. “And we’ll have to wait our turn after these people already here. If I know the signs, this storm won’t let up any time soon.”
Even as he finished speaking, a stylish double brougham—clearly someone’s private conveyance—stopped in front of the restaurant, pulled by a nicely matched span of bays. The driver, dressed in oilskins against the weather, leapt down from the seat, holding a large umbrella for his passengers, a prosperous-looking middle-aged couple who were standing in the doorway just in front of us. “It’s too bad that one’s not for hire,” said Mr. Clemens. “There’d be room for all four of us, and we’d be at the hotel in five minutes.”
“Five minutes?” The gentleman had begun to step forward toward his coach, but now he turned to look at us. “Why, I think I can solve your problem. Louise, would you be willing to wait ten minutes while Roger takes Mr. Clemens and his party to their hotel?”
“I could hardly object, seeing as how he’s been so kind as to provide our evening’s entertainment,” said the lady, smiling at my employer. She wore a fox coat and matching cap; the head of one of the animals peered over her shoulder, glassy-eyed.
“Well, that’s settled, then,” said the gentleman. “Roger, take Mr. Clemens and his friends wherever they’re going, and then come straight back for me and Mrs. Babson.”
“I hardly expected this, but I’m mighty pleased,” said Mr. Clemens, extending his right hand. “You have my hearty thanks, Mr. . . . ?”
“Julius Babson, of Philadelphia,” said the gentleman, shaking Mr. Clemens’s hand. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man, and his silk top hat made him appear even taller. “The pleasure is all mine, believe me.”
“Well, if I can return the favor in any way, be sure to let me know,” said my employer. “Much obliged, Mr. Babson.” With the driver holding an umbrella for us, we thanked our benefactor and hurried into the coach. We managed to get back to our hotel without getting more than a little damp. Not for the first time, I reflected on the benefits of having a well-loved celebrity for my employer, and decided that I had made the right choice of career, after all.
3
The next few days passed rapidly. Mr. Clemens was finishing a magazine article about our journey down the Mississippi, and I was kept busy running errands connected with our upcoming sea voyage. I had never had a passport, and I spent more time than I would have thought possible at a government office, filling out forms and waiting. Luckily, Mr. Clemens had a few acquaintances he could call on to expedite matters, and I eventually had my papers well before our sailing date. Meanwhile, I was responsible for getting our baggage to the ship before sailing, for arranging mail forwarding, and for finding accommodations at the other end of our voyage. My experience as Mr. Clemens’s secretary on our Mississippi tour stood me well, but there were whole new dimensions called up by international travel. I was greatly relieved when we finally found ourselves on the dock at Pier 43, ready to board the City of Baltimore en route to Southampton, England.
You could easily have persuaded me that the entire population of New York City had taken a holiday to come down to the docks that morning. The crowd was so thick that one could barely breathe, and little mountains of luggage spaced about the pier made free movement for more than a few steps in any direction an impossibility. Every few minutes another cart or cab would pull up and discharge more passengers and luggage, with their retinues of porters and servants, all of whom crowded forward in the deluded expectation that they would be allowed to board the boat the instant they arrived. And without exception, when they learned they would be required to wait their turn, they began to complain bitterly—whether anyone would listen or not.
Mr.