It happened in this way: Mark Twain had never outgrown his love for the game of billiards, though he had not owned a table since the closing of the Hartford house, fifteen years before. Mrs. Henry Rogers had proposed to present him with a table for Christmas, but when he heard of the plan, boylike, he could not wait, and hinted that if he had the table "right now" he could begin to use it sooner. So the table came--a handsome combination affair, suitable to all games--and was set in place. That morning when the dictation ended he said: "Have you any special place to lunch, to-day?" I replied that I had not. "Lunch here," he said, "and we'll try the new billiard-table." I acknowledged that I had never played more than a few games of pool, and those very long ago. "No matter," he said "the poorer you play the better I shall like it." So I remained for luncheon, and when it was over we began the first game ever played on the "Christmas" table. He taught me a game in which caroms and pockets both counted, and he gave me heavy odds. He beat me, but it was a riotous, rollicking game, the beginning of a closer relation between us. We played most of the afternoon, and he suggested that I "come back in the evening and play some more." I did so, and the game lasted till after midnight. I had beginner's luck--"nigger luck," as he called it--and it kept him working feverishly to win. Once when I had made a great fluke--a carom followed by most of the balls falling into the pockets, he said: "When you pick up that cue this table drips at every pore." The morning dictations became a secondary interest. Like a boy, he was looking forward to the afternoon of play, and it seemed never to come quickly enough to suit him. I remained regularly for luncheon, and he was inclined to cut the courses short that we might the sooner get up-stairs for billiards. He did not eat the midday meal himself, but he would come down and walk about the dining-room, talking steadily that marvelous, marvelous talk which little by little I trained myself to remember, though never with complete success. He was only killing time, and I remember once, when he had been earnestly discussing some deep question, he suddenly noticed that the luncheon was ending. "Now," he said, "we will proceed to more serious matters--it's your --shot." My game improved with practice, and he reduced my odds. He was willing to be beaten, but not too often. We kept a record of the games, and he went to bed happier if the tally-sheet showed a balance in his favor.