I was
crazed and helpless. I let the day slip away without doing anything at
all. The next morning the same paper had this--nothing more:
SIGNIFICANT.--Mr. Twain, it will be observed, is suggestively
silent about the Cochin China perjury.
[Mem.--During the rest of the campaign this paper never referred to me in
any other way than as "the infamous perjurer Twain."]
Next came the Gazette, with this:
WANTED TO KNOW.--Will the new candidate for Governor deign to
explain to certain of his fellow-citizens (who are suffering to vote
for him!) the little circumstance of his cabin-mates in Montana
losing small valuables from time to time, until at last, these
things having been invariably found on Mr. Twain's person or in his
"trunk" (newspaper he rolled his traps in), they felt compelled to
give him a friendly admonition for his own good, and so tarred and
feathered him, and rode him on a rail; and then advised him to leave
a permanent vacuum in the place he usually occupied in the camp.
Will he do this?
Could anything be more deliberately malicious than that? For I never was
in Montana in my life.
[After this, this journal customarily spoke of me as, "Twain, the Montana
Thief."]
I got to picking up papers apprehensively--much as one would lift a
desired blanket which he had some idea might have a rattlesnake under it.
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