Then I went through a long passageway and
into a little room, and there before my eyes was a big St. Bernard dog
lying on a bench. There was another door beyond and I went there, and
was met by a big, fierce man with a fur cap on and coat off, who
remarked, "Phwat do yez want?" I told him I wanted to see Mr. Daly.
"Yez can't see Mr. Daly this time of night," he responded. I urged that
I had an appointment with Mr. Daly, and gave him my card, which did not
seem to impress him much. "Yez can't get in and yez can't shmoke here.
Throw away that cigar. If yez want to see Mr. Daly, yez 'll have to be
after going to the front door and buy a ticket, and then if yez have luck
and he's around that way yez may see him." I was getting discouraged,
but I had one resource left that had been of good service in similar
emergencies. Firmly but kindly I told him my name was Mark Twain, and I
awaited results. There was none. He was not fazed a bit. "Phwere's
your order to see Mr. Daly?" he asked. I handed him the note, and he
examined it intently. "My friend," I remarked, "you can read that better
if you hold it the other side up.
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