Vol 3 Section 0483

1900                                                                          429

There was plenty of humor in the hearing, however. Marshal Roche, dressed in a shiny cutaway coat, was overwhelmed with his judicial dignity before the hearing commenced. His small office was more crowded than the Costermongers’ theater in the Whitechapel district, London on a holiday night.

Marshal Roche welcomed the reporters ten minutes before the hour set for the hearing. Twenty crowded into an office which would comfortably accommodate ten museum midgets. A throng in the doorway stretched their necks to see the humorist.

“The accommodations is meagre, gents,” announced Marshal Roche with courtly grace.

“Say, the boss could make Chauncy M. Depew pull up lame in the stretch,” said one of the clerks as he bent over his work.

“I beg of you let each and every gentleman of the press seat himself as he wished. I will ascertain if this man Twain has come or not. His name’s Clemens, ain’t it? the other is an alias. What?”

Marshal Roche, as he uttered the last word, hid four fingers between the buttons of his coat, took a deep breath, and pushed out his chest. At that moment a figure in a high hat was ushered through the throng.

“He doesn’t look as funny as Martin Engel,” said one Tammany officeholder.

The room became suddenly quiet as Mr. Clemens got within the zone of the dignity with which Marshal Roche had surrounded himself.

“This is indeed an honor,” said Roche bending low. Beads of perspiration trickled down his face.

Mark Twain looked with a cold, steely eye from under his bushy brows at the official. Marshal Roche seemed to shiver as if a sudden arctic draught had been wafted into the room. It became apparent at once that Mr. Clemens would have no joking at his expense.

“Have a chair, Mr. Clemens,” blurted out Marshal Roche.

Mr. Clemens found a vacant chair in an out-of-the-way corner, but every one in the room and those who crowded the doorway again stretched necks to have a good look.

“Is the driver of Cab No. 191 in attendance? Say, where is that feller, anyway? He’s got a right to show up,” and then Marshal Roche jumped up and made a rush for an anteroom. He reappeared and at his heels was a sheepish-looking cabman and a red-faced livery stable owner. The latter announced:

“I’m Michael Byrnes, an’ I’m the man hires this driver. I’m here for a square deal.” “An’ he’ll get it,” said the Tammany clerk.

At this point a camera in the hands of a newspaper photographer was leveled at Mark Twain, who looked at that time innocent of all humor.

“Would Mr. Clemens here relate the circumstances in point,” said Marshal Roche, with the air of a Chesterfield.

“Ain’t he a burd?” said the man at the books.

At this time Mr. Twain, with his woman servant, Kate Leary, beside him, sat facing Employer Byrnes and the Jehu whose name proved to be William Beck. Mr. Clemens began with his customary drawl. The salient features are these:

“The maid servant came into my study on the evening of Nov. 20 and said that she had been driven by this cabman from the Grand Central Station to my house, at 14 West Tenth Street. The hackman demanded $1.50 for that service. I went down to see him, and he also asked $1.50 of me.”

“That is thirty-two blocks. The legal fare is $1,” said Marshal Roche.

“I have not finished yet,” said Mr. Clemens. “When I asked for his number he gave me a false one.” “How did you learn the right one?” asked Marshal Roche. “Through my other witness.”

The other witness was a colored butler, who hustled after the fast disappearing cab and found that the number was 2,581.

Jehu Beck then told his story and acknowledged that he had made an overcharge.

“Well, this man refused to show his license, therefore we will have to suspend you, my dear man,” said Marshal Roche.

Secretary Winston of the Public Hack Owners’ Union said they were trying to reform the abuses in the cab system in New York.

Then Employer Byrnes said, in a sarcastic tone:

“I don’t think the matter warrants this publicity and notoriety.”

This remark seemed to grate on Mark Twain’s ear. He said:

SLC used mourning border for most letters from Susy’s death on, then from Livy’s death on.