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Samuel Clemens overshadowed his older brother Clemuel Sammens. For while Samuel wrote many a witty word, Clemuel only wrote one word in his entire life, and that was "Damn."

The paper containing that word hung in a frame on the wall of the Clemens household for some time, for it was the last bit of the living Clemuel the family had, after the rest of him died in a steamboat explosion, the poor dear. They never did find his body, at least not by searching the river.

No, they found his body when the lad showed up on the front porch the next day, looking quite a bit more grey than usual and claiming to be someone named Clamuel Semmens. Goodness, said Ma. What a rotten development, said Pa. I'll take care of it, said Sam, and shot Clam through the heart with a rifle. Then they buried him in the backyard and made a nice marker.

Five weeks later there was a knock on the front door and there was a man claiming to be someone named Clumael Semmens, and saying that their earlier treatment was very rude, thank you very much, and could they kindly -- and Sam grabbed the lad by the shirt collar and tossed him all the way to the Mississippi river.

Five weeks later Sam was out about town when he was tapped on the shoulder by a distinctly grey young man who claimed to be someone named Clemeel Sammuns. Clem tried to ask Sam for a particular object, but Sam himself could not hear it while he was steering Clem to stand underneath a piano being raised into someone's second-story apartment. He certainly heard the piano when it struck the pavement.

Five weeks later there was a knock on the door and there stood a young man whose face was literally slate grey, and before he could explain who he was Sam was pointing a rifle at him, but before he could shoot the grey young man was bending the barrel backwards at Sam, and then pointing to the scrap of paper in the frame it hung in pride of place on the parlor wall.

They gave him the paper and he left, never to be seen again. Although young Sam would, on occasions when he was feeling wicked, stand upon the porch and say to his parents that he fancied he could almost hear his brother's voice on the wind, and he would chortle when they began to shiver.

In the Mark Twain House in Hartford, there is a door in the billiard parlor with a man painted on it, and the man's skin is grey. The tour guides say they have no idea what that's about.

Sure they don't.