"Well, ye'll not see him."
"But he asked me to come."
"Oh, he did, did he?"
"Yes, he sent me this note, and—"
"Lemme see it."
For a moment I fancied there would be a change in the atmosphere, now; but this idea was
premature. The big man was examining the note searchingly under the gas-jet. A glance showed me that he had it upside down–disheartening evidence that he could not read.
"HE HAD IT UPSIDE DOWN."
"Is ut his own handwrite?"
"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 name 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?"