Then began a rising tide of humor that could hardly be matched in the world to-day. Mark Twain had awakened to a fuller power; Artemus Ward was in his prime. They were giants of a race that became extinct when Mark Twain died. The youth, the wine, the whirl of lights and life, the tumult of the shouting street-it was as if an electric stream of inspiration poured into those two human dynamos and sent them into a dazzling, scintillating whirl. All gone—as evanescent, as forgotten, as the lightnings of that vanished time; out of that vast feasting and entertainment only a trifling morsel remains. Ward now and then asked Goodman why he did not join in the banter. Goodman said:
“I'm preparing a joke, Artemus, but I'm keeping it for the present.”
It was near daybreak when Ward at last called for the bill. It was two hundred and thirty-seven dollars.
“What”' exclaimed Artemus.
“That's my joke.” said Goodman.
“But I was only exclaiming because it was not twice as much,” returned Ward.
He paid it amid laughter, and they went out into the early morning air. It was fresh and fine outside, not yet light enough to see clearly. Artemus threw his face up to the sky and said:
“I feel glorious. I feel like walking on the roofs.”
Virginia was built on the steep hillside, and the eaves of some of the houses almost touched the ground behind them.
“There is your chance, Artemus,” Goodman said, pointing to a row of these houses all about of a height.