Mark Twain loved to brag about his hunting and fishing exploits. He once spent three weeks fishing in the Maine woods, regardless of the fact that it was the state’s closed season for fishing. Relaxing in the lounge car of the train on his return journey to New York, his catch iced down in the baggage car, he looked for someone to whom he could relate the story of his successful holiday.
The stranger to whom he began to boast of his sizable catch appeared at first unresponsive, then positively grim. “By the way, who are you, sir?” inquired Twain airily. “I’m the state game warden,” was the unwelcome response. “Who are you?” Twain nearly swallowed his cigar. “Well, to be perfectly truthful, warden,” he said hastily, “I’m the biggest damn liar in the whole United States.”