They were written on foolscap, 600 words to the page, and usually about twenty-five pages in a report--a good 15,000 words, I should say,--a solid week's work.

The reports were absorbingly entertaining, long as they were; but, unfortunately for me, they did not come alone.

They were always accompanied by a lot of questions about passages and purposes in my books, which the Club wanted answered; and additionally accompanied every quarter by the Treasurer's report, and the Auditor's report, and the Committee's report, and the President's review, and my opinion of these was always desired; also suggestions for the good of the Club, if any occurred to me.
By and by I came to dread those things; and this dread grew and grew and grew; grew until I got to anticipating them with a cold horror.

For I was an indolent man, and not fond of letter-writing, and whenever these things came I had to put everything by and sit down--for my own peace of mind--and dig and dig until I got something out of my head which would answer for a reply.

I got along fairly well the first year; but for the succeeding four years the Mark Twain Club of Corrigan Castle was my curse, my nightmare, the grief and misery of my life.