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<h1 align="center">THE ADVENTURES <small>OF</small> HUCKLEBERRY FINN</h1>
<br>
<h2 align="center">(TOM SAWYER'S COMRADE)</h2>
<br><br>
<p class="pg1">SCENE: The Mississippi Valley<br>
TIME: Forty to Fifty Years Ago</p>
<br><br>
<h2 align="center"><small>BY</small> Mark Twain</h2>
<br><br>
<p class="pg1">ILLUSTRATED</p>
<br><br>
<p class="pg1"><i>NEW EDITION FROM NEW PLATES</i></p>
<br><br>
<br><br>
<p class="pg1">HARPER &amp; BROTHERS PUBLISHERS</p>
<p class="pg1"><small>NEW YORK AND LONDON</small></p>
<br><br>
<p class="pg1">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</p>
<br><br>
<p class="pg1"><small>Books by</small><br><br>
MARK TWAIN</p>
<br>
<p class="pg1"><small>
ST. JOAN OF ARC<br>
THE INNOCENTS ABROAD<br>
ROUGHING IT<br>
THE GILDED AGE<br>
A TRAMP ABROAD<br>
FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR<br>
PUDD'NHEAD WILSON<br>
SKETCHES NEW AND OLD<br>
THE AMERICAN CLAIMANT<br>
CHRISTIAN SCIENCE<br>
A CONNECTICUT YANKEE AT THE COURT OF<br>
   KING ARTHUR<br>
THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN<br>
PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC<br>
LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI<br>
THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED HADLEYBURG<br>
THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER<br>
THE $30,000 BEQUEST<br>
THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER<br>
TOM SAWYER ABROAD<br>
WHAT IS MAN?<br>
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER<br>
ADAM'S DIARY<br>
A DOG'S TALE<br>
A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE STORY<br>
EDITORIAL WILD OATS<br>
EVE'S DIARY<br>
IN DEFENSE OF HARRIET SHELLY AND<br>
   OTHER ESSAYS<br>
IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?<br>
CAPT. STORMFIELD'S VISIT TO HEAVEN<br>
A HORSE'S TALE<br>
THE JUMPING FROG<br>
THE &pound;1,000,000 BANK-NOTE<br>
TRAVELS AT HOME<br>
TRAVELS IN HISTORY<br>
MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS<br>
MARK TWAIN'S SPEECHES<br></small>
</p>
<p class="pg1">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</p>
<p class="pg1">HARPER &amp; BROTHERS, NEW YORK</p>
<p class="pg1">[Established 1817]</p>
<p class="pg1"><small>The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
<br>
&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
<br>
Copyright, 1884. by Samuel L. Clemens
<br>
&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
<br>
Copyright. 1896 and 1899. by Harper &amp; Brothers
<br>
&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
<br>
Copyright. 1912, by Clara Gabrilowitsch
<br>
&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
<br>
Printed in the United States of America</small>
</p>
<br><br>
<br><br>
<br><br>
<h2 align="center">CONTENTS</h2>
<br><br>
<br><br>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_Notice" href="#a_Notice">Notice</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_Explanatory" href="#a_Explanatory">Explanatory</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_I" href="#a_I">I. I Discover Moses and the Bulrushers</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_II" href="#a_II">II. Our Gang's Dark Oath</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_III" href="#a_III">III. We Ambuscade the A-rabs</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_IV" href="#a_IV">IV. The Hair-ball Oracle</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_V" href="#a_V">V. Pap Starts in on a New Life</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_VI" href="#a_VI">VI. Pap Struggles with the Death Angel</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_VII" href="#a_VII">VII. I Fool Pap and Get Away</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_VIII" href="#a_VIII">VIII. I Spare Miss Watson's Jim</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_IX" href="#a_IX">IX. The House of Death Floats By</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_X" href="#a_X">X. What Comes of Handlin' Snake-skin</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XI" href="#a_XI">XI. They're After Us!</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XII" href="#a_XII">XII. "Better Let Blame Well Alone"</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XIII" href="#a_XIII">XIII. Honest Loot from the "Walter Scott"</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XIV" href="#a_XIV">XIV. Was Solomon Wise?</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XV" href="#a_XV">XV. Fooling Poor Old Jim</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XVI" href="#a_XVI">XVI. The Rattlesnake-skin Does Its Work</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XVII" href="#a_XVII">XVII. The Grangerfords Take Me In</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XVIII" href="#a_XVIII">XVIII. Why Harney Rode Away for His Hat</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XIX" href="#a_XIX">XIX. The Duke and the Dauphin Come Aboard</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XX" href="#a_XX">XX. What Royalty Did to Parkville</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXI" href="#a_XXI">XXI. An Arkansaw Difficulty</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXII" href="#a_XXII">XXII. Why the Lynching Bee Failed</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXIII" href="#a_XXIII">XXIII. The Orneriness of Kings</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXIV" href="#a_XXIV">XXIV. The King Turns Parson</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXV" href="#a_XXV">XXV. All Full of Tears and Flapdoodle</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXVI" href="#a_XXVI">XXVI. I Steal the King's Plunder</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXVII" href="#a_XXVII">XXVII. Dead Peter has His Gold</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXVIII" href="#a_XXVIII">XXVIII. Overreaching Don't Pay</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXIX" href="#a_XXIX">XXIX. I Light Out in the Storm</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXX" href="#a_XXX">XXX. The Gold Saves the Thieves</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXXI" href="#a_XXXI">XXXI. You Can't Pray a Lie</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXXII" href="#a_XXXII">XXXII. I Have a New Name</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXXIII" href="#a_XXXIII">XXXIII. The Pitiful Ending of Royalty</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXXIV" href="#a_XXXIV">XXXIV. We Cheer Up Jim</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXXV" href="#a_XXXV">XXXV. Dark, Deep-laid Plans</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXXVI" href="#a_XXXVI">XXXVI. Trying to Help Jim</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXXVII" href="#a_XXXVII">XXXVII. Jim Gets His Witch-pie</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXXVIII" href="#a_XXXVIII">XXXVIII. "Here a Captive Heart Busted"</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XXXIX" href="#a_XXXIX">XXXIX. Tom Writes Nonnamous Letters</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XL" href="#a_XL">XL. A Mixed-up and Splendid Rescue</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XLI" href="#a_XLI">XLI. "Must 'a' Been Sperits"</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_XLII" href="#a_XLII">XLII. Why They Didn't Hang Jim</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_sub_CHL" href="#a_CHL">Chapter the Last. Nothing More to Write</a></p>
<br><br>
<br><br>
<br><br>
<h2 align="center">ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
<br>
<p class="pg1">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</p>
<br>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_twain" href="#twain">Portrait of the Author&mdash;Frontispiece</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_huck" href="#huck">Huckleberry Finn</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_chaw" href="#chaw">"'Gimme a Chaw'"</a></p>
<p class="pg1"><a name="a_pie" href="#pie">Tom Advises a Witch Pie</a></p>
<br><br>
<br><br>
<a name="a_Notice"></a>
<p class="pg1">
<big>
NOTICE
</big>
</p><br><p>
Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative
will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a
moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to
find a plot in it will be shot.<br><br>
&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;By Order of the Author,<br>
&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;Per G. G., Chief of Ordnance.
</p>
<br><br>
<br><br>
<a name="a_Explanatory"></a>
<p class="pg1">
<big>
EXPLANATORY
</big>
</p><br>
<p>
In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit:
the Missouri negro dialect; the extremest form of
the backwoods Southwestern dialect; the ordinary
"Pike County" dialect; and four modified varieties
of this last. The shadings have not been done in
a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly,
and with the trustworthy guidance and
support of personal familiarity with these several
forms of speech.</p>
<p>
I make this explanation for the reason that without
it many readers would suppose that all these characters
were trying to talk alike and not succeeding.<br><br>
&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;The Author.
</p>
<br><br>
<br><br>
<h2 align="center"><big>HUCKLEBERRY FINN</big></h2>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_I"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER I</h2>
<br>
<p>
You don't know about me without you have read
a book by the name of <i>The Adventures of Tom
Sawyer;</i> but that ain't no matter. That book was
made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth,
mainly. There was things which he stretched, but
mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never
seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it
was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary.
Aunt Polly&mdash;Tom's Aunt Polly, she is&mdash;and Mary,
and the Widow Douglas is all told about in that
book, which is mostly a true book, with some
stretchers, as I said before.
</p><p>
Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom
and me found the money that the robbers hid in the
cave, and it made us rich. We got six thousand
dollars apiece&mdash;all gold. It was an awful sight of
money when it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher
he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us
a dollar a day apiece all the year round&mdash;more than
a body could tell what to do with. The Widow
Douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she
would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the
house all the time, considering how dismal regular
and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so
when I couldn't stand it no longer I lit out. I got
into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and
was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted
me up and said he was going to start a band of
robbers, and I might join if I would go back to the
widow and be respectable. So I went back.
</p><p>
The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor
lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names,
too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me
in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing
but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well,
then, the old thing commenced again. The widow
rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time.
When you got to the table you couldn't go right to
eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck
down her head and grumble a little over the victuals,
though there warn't really anything the matter with
them&mdash;that is, nothing only everything was cooked
by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different;
things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps
around, and the things go better.
</p><p>
After supper she got out her book and learned me
about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat
to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out
that Moses had been dead a considerable long time;
so then I didn't care no more about him, because I
don't take no stock in dead people.
</p><p>
Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the
widow to let me. But she wouldn't. She said it
was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and I must try
to not do it any more. That is just the way with
some people. They get down on a thing when they
don't know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering
about Moses, which was no kin to her, and
no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a
power of fault with me for doing a thing that had
some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course
that was all right, because she done it herself.
</p><p>
Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid,
with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and
took a set at me now with a spelling-book. She
worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then
the widow made her ease up. I couldn't stood it
much longer. Then for an hour it was deadly dull,
and I was fidgety. Miss Watson would say, "Don't
put your feet up there, Huckleberry"; and "Don't
scrunch up like that, Huckleberry&mdash;set up straight";
and pretty soon she would say, "Don't gap and
stretch like that, Huckleberry&mdash;why don't you try to
behave?" Then she told me all about the bad place,
and I said I wished I was there. She got mad then,
but I didn't mean no harm. All I wanted was to go
somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn't
particular. She said it was wicked to say what I said;
said she wouldn't say it for the whole world; she was
going to live so as to go to the good place. Well, I
couldn't see no advantage in going where she was
going, so I made up my mind I wouldn't try for it.
But I never said so, because it would only make
trouble, and wouldn't do no good.
</p><p>
Now she had got a start, and she went on and told
me all about the good place. She said all a body
would have to do there was to go around all day long
with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn't
think much of it. But I never said so. I asked her if
she reckoned Tom Sawyer would go there, and she
said not by a considerable sight. I was glad about
that, because I wanted him and me to be together.
</p><p>
Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got
tiresome and lonesome. By and by they fetched the
niggers in and had prayers, and then everybody was
off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of
candle, and put it on the table. Then I set down in a
chair by the window and tried to think of something
cheerful, but it warn't no use. I felt so lonesome I
most wished I was dead. The stars were shining, and
the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and
I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody
that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying
about somebody that was going to die; and the
wind was trying to whisper something to me, and I
couldn't make out what it was, and so it made the
cold shivers run over me. Then away out in the
woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost
makes when it wants to tell about something that's
on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so
can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that
way every night grieving. I got so downhearted
and scared I did wish I had some company. Pretty
soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I
flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before I
could budge it was all shriveled up. I didn't need
anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign
and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared
and most shook the clothes off of me. I got up
and turned around in my tracks three times and
crossed my breast every time; and then I tied up a
little lock of my hair with a thread to keep witches
away. But I hadn't no confidence. You do that
when you've lost a horseshoe that you've found,
instead of nailing it up over the door, but I hadn't
ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off
bad luck when you'd killed a spider.
</p><p>
I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out
my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as
death now, and so the widow wouldn't know. Well,
after a long time I heard the clock away off in the
town go boom&mdash;boom&mdash;boom&mdash;twelve licks; and
all still again&mdash;stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard
a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees&mdash;something
was a-stirring. I set still and listened.
Directly I could just barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!"
down there. That was good! Says I, "me-yow! me-yow!"
as soft as I could, and then I put
out the light and scrambled out of the window on to
the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and
crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there
was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_II"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER II</h2>
<br>
<p>
We went tiptoeing along a path amongst the
trees back toward the end of the widow's
garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't
scrape our heads. When we was passing by the
kitchen I fell over a root and made a noise. We
scrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson's big
nigger, named Jim, was setting in the kitchen door;
we could see him pretty clear, because there was a
light behind him. He got up and stretched his neck
out about a minute, listening. Then he says:
</p><p>
"Who dah?"
</p><p>
He listened some more; then he came tiptoeing down
and stood right between us; we could 'a' touched
him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes
that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close
together. There was a place on my ankle that got to
itching, but I dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun
to itch; and next my back, right between my shoulders.
Seemed like I'd die if I couldn't scratch. Well,
I've noticed that thing plenty times since. If you are
with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to
sleep when you ain't sleepy&mdash;if you are anywheres
where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch
all over in upward of a thousand places. Pretty soon
Jim says:
</p><p>
"Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats
ef I didn' hear sumf'n. Well, I know what I's gwyne
to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I
hears it ag'in."
</p><p>
So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom.
He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched
his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine.
My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come
into my eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun
to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching underneath.
I didn't know how I was going to set still.
This miserableness went on as much as six or seven
minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I
was itching in eleven different places now. I
reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer,
but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just
then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun
to snore&mdash;and then I was pretty soon comfortable
again.
</p><p>
Tom he made a sign to me&mdash;kind of a little noise
with his mouth&mdash;and we went creeping away on our
hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom
whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for
fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a disturbance,
and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then
Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would
slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want
him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come.
But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and
got three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the
table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat
to get away; but nothing would do Tom but he
must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and
knees, and play something on him. I waited, and
it seemed a good while, everything was so still and
lonesome.
</p><p>
As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path,
around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on
the steep top of the hill the other side of the house.
Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung
it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little,
but he didn't wake. Afterward Jim said the witches
bewitched him and put him in a trance, and rode him
all over the state, and then set him under the trees
again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done
it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him
down to New Orleans; and, after that, every time he
told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he
said they rode him all over the world, and tired him
most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils.
Jim was monstrous proud about it, and he got so he
wouldn't hardly notice the other niggers. Niggers
would come miles to hear Jim tell about it, and he was
more looked up to than any nigger in that country.
Strange niggers would stand with their mouths open
and look him all over, same as if he was a wonder.
Niggers is always talking about witches in the dark by
the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and
letting on to know all about such things, Jim would
happen in and say, "Hm! What you know 'bout
witches?" and that nigger was corked up and had to
take a back seat. Jim always kept that five-center
piece round his neck with a string, and said it was a
charm the devil give to him with his own hands, and
told him he could cure anybody with it and fetch
witches whenever he wanted to just by saying something
to it; but he never told what it was he said to it.
Niggers would come from all around there and give
Jim anything they had, just for a sight of that five-center
piece; but they wouldn't touch it, because the
devil had had his hands on it. Jim was most ruined
for a servant, because he got stuck up on account of
having seen the devil and been rode by witches.
</p><p>
Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hilltop
we looked away down into the village and could
see three or four lights twinkling, where there was
sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling
ever so fine; and down by the village was the
river, a whole mile broad, and awful still and grand.
We went down the hill and found Joe Harper and Ben
Rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid in the
old tanyard. So we unhitched a skiff and pulled
down the river two mile and a half, to the big scar
on the hillside, and went ashore.
</p><p>
We went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made
everybody swear to keep the secret, and then showed
them a hole in the hill, right in the thickest part of the
bushes. Then we lit the candles, and crawled in on
our hands and knees. We went about two hundred
yards, and then the cave opened up. Tom poked
about amongst the passages, and pretty soon ducked
under a wall where you wouldn't 'a' noticed that there
was a hole. We went along a narrow place and got
into a kind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold,
and there we stopped. Tom says:
</p><p>
"Now, we'll start this band of robbers and call it
Tom Sawyer's Gang. Everybody that wants to join
has got to take an oath, and write his name in blood."
Everybody was willing. So Tom got out a sheet of
paper that he had wrote the oath on, and read it. It
swore every boy to stick to the band, and never tell
any of the secrets; and if anybody done anything to
any boy in the band, whichever boy was ordered to
kill that person and his family must do it, and he
mustn't eat and he mustn't sleep till he had killed
them and hacked a cross in their breasts, which was
the sign of the band. And nobody that didn't belong
to the band could use that mark, and if he did he
must be sued; and if he done it again he must be
killed. And if anybody that belonged to the band
told the secrets, he must have his throat cut, and then
have his carcass burnt up and the ashes scattered all
around, and his name blotted off the list with blood
and never mentioned again by the gang, but have a
curse put on it and be forgot forever.
</p><p>
Everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and
asked Tom if he got it out of his own head. He said
some of it, but the rest was out of pirate-books and
robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned
had it.
</p><p>
Some thought it would be good to kill the <i>families</i>
of boys that told the secrets. Tom said it was a good
idea, so he took a pencil and wrote it in. Then Ben
Rogers says:
</p><p>
"Here's Huck Finn, he hain't got no family; what
you going to do 'bout him?"
</p><p>
"Well, hain't he got a father?" says Tom Sawyer.
</p><p>
"Yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find
him these days. He used to lay drunk with the hogs
in the tanyard, but he hain't been seen in these parts
for a year or more."
</p><p>
They talked it over, and they was going to rule me
out, because they said every boy must have a family
or somebody to kill, or else it wouldn't be fair and
square for the others. Well, nobody could think of
anything to do&mdash;everybody was stumped, and set
still. I was most ready to cry; but all at once I
thought of a way, and so I offered them Miss Watson&mdash;they
could kill her. Everybody said:
</p><p>
"Oh, she'll do. That's all right. Huck can come
in."
</p><p>
Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get
blood to sign with, and I made my mark on the paper.
</p><p>
"Now," says Ben Rogers, "what's the line of
business of this Gang?"
</p><p>
"Nothing only robbery and murder," Tom said.
</p><p>
"But who are we going to rob?&mdash;houses, or cattle,
or&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't robbery;
it's burglary," says Tom Sawyer. "We ain't
burglars. That ain't no sort of style. We are highwaymen.
We stop stages and carriages on the road,
with masks on, and kill the people and take their
watches and money."
</p><p>
"Must we always kill the people?"
</p><p>
"Oh, certainly. It's best. Some authorities think
different, but mostly it's considered best to kill them&mdash;except
some that you bring to the cave here, and
keep them till they're ransomed."
</p><p>
"Ransomed? What's that?"
</p><p>
"I don't know. But that's what they do. I've
seen it in books; and so of course that's what we've
got to do."
</p><p>
"But how can we do it if we don't know what it is?"
</p><p>
"Why, blame it all, we've <i>got</i>  to do it. Don't I tell
you it's in the books?  Do you want to go to doing
different from what's in the books, and get things all
muddled up?"
</p><p>
"Oh, that's all very fine to <i>say,</i> Tom Sawyer, but
how in the nation are these fellows going to be ransomed
if we don't know how to do it to them?&mdash;that's
the thing I want to get at. Now, what do you reckon
it is?"
</p><p>
"Well, I don't know. But per'aps if we keep them
till they're ransomed, it means that we keep them till
they're dead."
</p><p>
"Now, that's something <i>like.</i> That'll answer.
Why couldn't you said that before? We'll keep them
till they're ransomed to death; and a bothersome lot
they'll be, too&mdash;eating up everything, and always
trying to get loose."
</p><p>
"How you talk, Ben Rogers. How can they get
loose when there's a guard over them, ready to shoot
them down if they move a peg?"
</p><p>
"A guard! Well, that <i>is</i> good. So somebody's
got to set up all night and never get any sleep, just so
as to watch them. I think that's foolishness. Why
can't a body take a club and ransom them as soon as
they get here?"
</p><p>
"Because it ain't in the books so&mdash;that's why.
Now, Ben Rogers, do you want to do things regular,
or don't you?&mdash;that's the idea. Don't you reckon
that the people that made the books knows what's the
correct thing to do? Do you reckon <i>you</i> can learn
'em anything? Not by a good deal. No, sir, we'll
just go on and ransom them in the regular way."
</p><p>
"All right. I don't mind; but I say it's a fool
way, anyhow. Say, do we kill the women, too?"
</p><p>
"Well, Ben Rogers, if I was as ignorant as you I
wouldn't let on. Kill the women? No; nobody ever
saw anything in the books like that. You fetch them
to the cave, and you're always as polite as pie to
them; and by and by they fall in love with you, and
never want to go home any more."
</p><p>
"Well, if that's the way I'm agreed, but I don't
take no stock in it. Mighty soon we'll have the cave
so cluttered up with women, and fellows waiting to be
ransomed, that there won't be no place for the robbers.
But go ahead, I ain't got nothing to say."
</p><p>
Little Tommy Barnes was asleep now, and when
they waked him up he was scared, and cried, and said
he wanted to go home to his ma, and didn't want to
be a robber any more.
</p><p>
So they all made fun of him, and called him cry-baby,
and that made him mad, and he said he would
go straight and tell all the secrets. But Tom give him
five cents to keep quiet, and said we would all go
home and meet next week, and rob somebody and
kill some people.
</p><p>
Ben Rogers said he couldn't get out much, only
Sundays, and so he wanted to begin next Sunday;
but all the boys said it would be wicked to do it on
Sunday, and that settled the thing. They agreed to
get together and fix a day as soon as they could, and
then we elected Tom Sawyer first captain and Joe
Harper second captain of the Gang, and so started
home.
</p><p>
I clumb up the shed and crept into my window just
before day was breaking. My new clothes was all
greased up and clayey, and I was dog-tired.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_III"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER III</h2>
<br>
<p>
Well, I got a good going-over in the morning
from old Miss Watson on account of my
clothes; but the widow she didn't scold, but only cleaned
off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry
that I thought I would behave awhile if I could.
Then Miss Watson she took me in the closet and
prayed, but nothing come of it. She told me to pray
every day, and whatever I asked for I would get it.
But it warn't so. I tried it. Once I got a fish-line,
but no hooks. It warn't any good to me without
hooks. I tried for the hooks three or four times, but
somehow I couldn't make it work. By and by, one
day, I asked Miss Watson to try for me, but she said
I was a fool. She never told me why, and I couldn't
make it out no way.
</p><p>
I set down one time back in the woods, and had
a long think about it. I says to myself, if a body can
get anything they pray for, why don't Deacon Winn
get back the money he lost on pork? Why can't the
widow get back her silver snuff-box that was stole?
Why can't Miss Watson fat up? No, says I to myself,
there ain't nothing in it. I went and told the
widow about it, and she said the thing a body could
get by praying for it was "spiritual gifts." This was
too many for me, but she told me what she meant&mdash;I
must help other people, and do everything I could for
other people, and look out for them all the time, and
never think about myself. This was including Miss
Watson, as I took it. I went out in the woods and
turned it over in my mind a long time, but I couldn't
see no advantage about it&mdash;except for the other people;
so at last I reckoned I wouldn't worry about it
any more, but just let it go. Sometimes the widow
would take me one side and talk about Providence in
a way to make a body's mouth water; but maybe
next day Miss Watson would take hold and knock it
all down again. I judged I could see that there was
two Providences, and a poor chap would stand considerable
show with the widow's Providence, but if
Miss Watson's got him there warn't no help for him
any more. I thought it all out, and reckoned I
would belong to the widow's if he wanted me, though
I couldn't make out how he was a-going to be any
better off then than what he was before, seeing I was
so ignorant, and so kind of low-down and ornery.
</p><p>
Pap he hadn't been seen for more than a year, and
that was comfortable for me; I didn't want to see him
no more. He used to always whale me when he was
sober and could get his hands on me; though I used
to take to the woods most of the time when he was
around. Well, about this time he was found in the
river drownded, about twelve mile above town, so
people said. They judged it was him, anyway; said
this drownded man was just his size, and was ragged,
and had uncommon long hair, which was all like pap;
but they couldn't make nothing out of the face, because
it had been in the water so long it warn't much
like a face at all. They said he was floating on his
back in the water. They took him and buried him on
the bank. But I warn't comfortable long, because I
happened to think of something. I knowed mighty
well that a drownded man don't float on his back, but
on his face. So I knowed, then, that this warn't pap,
but a woman dressed up in a man's clothes. So I was
uncomfortable again. I judged the old man would
turn up again by and by, though I wished he
wouldn't.
</p><p>
We played robber now and then about a month,
and then I resigned. All the boys did. We hadn't
robbed nobody, hadn't killed any people, but only
just pretended. We used to hop out of the woods
and go charging down on hog-drivers and women in
carts taking garden stuff to market, but we never
hived any of them. Tom Sawyer called the hogs
"ingots," and he called the turnips and stuff "julery,"
and we would go to the cave and powwow over
what we had done, and how many people we had
killed and marked. But I couldn't see no profit in
it. One time Tom sent a boy to run about town
with a blazing stick, which he called a slogan (which
was the sign for the Gang to get together), and then
he said he had got secret news by his spies that next
day a whole parcel of Spanish merchants and rich
A-rabs was going to camp in Cave Hollow with two
hundred elephants, and six hundred camels, and
over a thousand "sumter" mules, all loaded down
with di'monds, and they didn't have only a guard of
four hundred soldiers, and so we would lay in ambuscade,
as he called it, and kill the lot and scoop
the things. He said we must slick up our swords
and guns, and get ready. He never could go after
even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords and
guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath
and broomsticks, and you might scour at them till you
rotted, and then they warn't worth a mouthful of
ashes more than what they was before. I didn't
believe we could lick such a crowd of Spaniards and
A-rabs, but I wanted to see the camels and elephants,
so I was on hand next day, Saturday, in the ambuscade;
and when we got the word we rushed out of
the woods and down the hill. But there warn't no
Spaniards and A-rabs, and there warn't no camels
nor no elephants. It warn't anything but a Sunday-school
picnic, and only a primer class at that. We
busted it up, and chased the children up the hollow;
but we never got anything but some doughnuts and
jam, though Ben Rogers got a rag doll, and Joe
Harper got a hymn-book and a tract; and then the
teacher charged in, and made us drop everything and
cut. I didn't see no di'monds, and I told Tom
Sawyer so. He said there was loads of them there,
anyway; and he said there was A-rabs there, too,
and elephants and things. I said, why couldn't we
see them, then? He said if I warn't so ignorant, but
had read a book called Don Quixote, I would know
without asking. He said it was all done by enchantment.
He said there was hundreds of soldiers there,
and elephants and treasure, and so on, but we had
enemies which he called magicians, and they had
turned the whole thing into an infant Sunday-school,
just out of spite. I said, all right; then the thing
for us to do was to go for the magicians. Tom
Sawyer said I was a numskull.
</p><p>
"Why," said he, "a magician could call up a lot
of genies, and they would hash you up like nothing
before you could say Jack Robinson. They are as
tall as a tree and as big around as a church."
</p><p>
"Well," I says, "s'pose we got some genies to
help <i>us</i>&mdash;can't we lick the other crowd then?"
</p><p>
"How you going to get them?"
</p><p>
"I don't know. How do <i>they</i> get them?"
</p><p>
"Why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring,
and then the genies come tearing in, with the thunder
and lightning a-ripping around and the smoke
a-rolling, and everything they're told to do they up
and do it. They don't think nothing of pulling a
shot-tower up by the roots, and belting a Sunday-school
superintendent over the head with it&mdash;or any
other man."
</p><p>
"Who makes them tear around so?"
</p><p>
"Why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. They
belong to whoever rubs the lamp or the ring, and
they've got to do whatever he says. If he tells
them to build a palace forty miles long out of
di'monds, and fill it full of chewing-gum, or whatever
you want, and fetch an emperor's daughter
from China for you to marry, they've got to do it&mdash;and
they've got to do it before sun-up next morning,
too. And more: they've got to waltz that
palace around over the country wherever you want
it, you understand."
</p><p>
"Well," says I, "I think they are a pack of flatheads
for not keeping the palace themselves 'stead
of fooling them away like that. And what's more&mdash;if
I was one of them I would see a man in Jericho
before I would drop my business and come to him
for the rubbing of an old tin lamp."
</p><p>
"How you talk, Huck Finn. Why, you'd <i>have</i> to
come when he rubbed it, whether you wanted to
or not."
</p><p>
"What! and I as high as a tree and as big as a
church? All right, then; I <i>would</i> come; but I lay
I'd make that man climb the highest tree there
was in the country."
</p><p>
"Shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, Huck Finn.
You don't seem to know anything, somehow&mdash;perfect
saphead."
</p><p>
I thought all this over for two or three days, and
then I reckoned I would see if there was anything
in it. I got an old tin lamp and an iron ring, and
went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till
I sweat like an Injun, calculating to build a palace
and sell it; but it warn't no use, none of the genies
come. So then I judged that all that stuff was only
just one of Tom Sawyer's lies. I reckoned he
believed in the A-rabs and the elephants, but as
for me I think different. It had all the marks of a
Sunday-school.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_IV"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER IV</h2>
<br>
<p>
Well, three or four months run along, and it
was well into the winter now. I had been to
school most all the time and could spell and read
and write just a little, and could say the multiplication
table up to six times seven is thirty-five, and I
don't reckon I could ever get any further than that
if I was to live forever. I don't take no stock in
mathematics, anyway.
</p><p>
At first I hated the school, but by and by I got
so I could stand it. Whenever I got uncommon
tired I played hookey, and the hiding I got next
day done me good and cheered me up. So the
longer I went to school the easier it got to be. I
was getting sort of used to the widow's ways, too,
and they warn't so raspy on me. Living in a house
and sleeping in a bed pulled on me pretty tight
mostly, but before the cold weather I used to slide
out and sleep in the woods sometimes, and so that
was a rest to me. I liked the old ways best, but
I was getting so I liked the new ones, too, a little
bit. The widow said I was coming along slow but
sure, and doing very satisfactory. She said she
warn't ashamed of me.
</p><p>
One morning I happened to turn over the salt-cellar
at breakfast. I reached for some of it as
quick as I could to throw over my left shoulder and
keep off the bad luck, but Miss Watson was in ahead
of me, and crossed me off. She says, "Take your
hands away, Huckleberry; what a mess you are
always making!" The widow put in a good word
for me, but that warn't going to keep off the bad
luck, I knowed that well enough. I started out,
after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky, and
wondering where it was going to fall on me, and
what it was going to be. There is ways to keep off
some kinds of bad luck, but this wasn't one of them
kind; so I never tried to do anything, but just poked
along low-spirited and on the watch-out.
</p><p>
I went down to the front garden and clumb over
the stile where you go through the high board fence.
There was an inch of new snow on the ground, and
I seen somebody's tracks. They had come up from
the quarry and stood around the stile awhile, and
then went on around the garden fence. It was
funny they hadn't come in, after standing around
so. I couldn't make it out. It was very curious,
somehow. I was going to follow around, but I
stooped down to look at the tracks first. I didn't
notice anything at first, but next I did. There was
a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to
keep off the devil.
</p><p>
I was up in a second and shinning down the hill.
I looked over my shoulder every now and then,
but I didn't see nobody. I was at Judge Thatcher's
as quick as I could get there. He said:
</p><p>
"Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did
you come for your interest?"
</p><p>
"No, sir," I says; "is there some for me?"
</p><p>
"Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night&mdash;over a
hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a fortune for you.
You had better let me invest it along with your
six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it."
</p><p>
"No, sir," I says, "I don't want to spend it. I
don't want it at all&mdash;nor the six thousand, nuther.
I want you to take it; I want to give it to you&mdash;the
six thousand and all."
</p><p>
He looked surprised. He couldn't seem to make
it out. He says:
</p><p>
"Why, what can you mean, my boy?"
</p><p>
I says, "Don't you ask me no questions about
it, please. You'll take it&mdash;won't you?"
</p><p>
He says:
</p><p>
"Well, I'm puzzled. Is something the matter?"
</p><p>
"Please take it," says I, "and don't ask me nothing&mdash;then
I won't have to tell no lies."
</p><p>
He studied awhile, and then he says:
</p><p>
"Oho-o! I think I see. You want to <i>sell</i> all
your property to me&mdash;not give it. That's the
correct idea."
</p><p>
Then he wrote something on a paper and read
it over, and says:
</p><p>
"There; you see it says 'for a consideration.'
That means I have bought it of you and paid you
for it. Here's a dollar for you. Now you sign it."
</p><p>
So I signed it, and left.
</p><p>
Miss Watson's nigger, Jim, had a hair-ball as big
as your fist, which had been took out of the fourth
stomach of an ox, and he used to do magic with it.
He said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed
everything. So I went to him that night and told
him pap was here again, for I found his tracks in the
snow. What I wanted to know was, what he was
going to do, and was he going to stay? Jim got out
his hair-ball and said something over it, and then
he held it up and dropped it on the floor. It fell
pretty solid, and only rolled about an inch. Jim
tried it again, and then another time, and it acted
just the same. Jim got down on his knees, and put
his ear against it and listened. But it warn't no
use; he said it wouldn't talk. He said sometimes it
wouldn't talk without money. I told him I had an
old slick counterfeit quarter that warn't no good
because the brass showed through the silver a little,
and it wouldn't pass nohow, even if the brass didn't
show, because it was so slick it felt greasy, and so
that would tell on it every time. (I reckoned I
wouldn't say nothing about the dollar I got from the
judge.) I said it was pretty bad money, but maybe
the hair-ball would take it, because maybe it wouldn't
know the difference. Jim smelt it and bit it and
rubbed it, and said he would manage so the hair-ball
would think it was good. He said he would
split open a raw Irish potato and stick the quarter
in between and keep it there all night, and next
morning you couldn't see no brass, and it wouldn't
feel greasy no more, and so anybody in town would
take it in a minute, let alone a hair-ball. Well,
I knowed a potato would do that before, but I had
forgot it.
</p><p>
Jim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got
down and listened again. This time he said the
hair-ball was all right. He said it would tell my
whole fortune if I wanted it to. I says, go on. So
the hair-ball talked to Jim, and Jim told it to me.
He says:
</p><p>
"Yo' ole father doan' know yit what he's a-gwyne
to do. Sometimes he spec he'll go 'way, en den
ag'in he spec he'll stay. De bes' way is to res' easy
en let de ole man take his own way. Dey's two
angels hoverin' roun' 'bout him. One uv 'em is
white en shiny, en t'other one is black. De white
one gits him to go right a little while, den de black
one sail in en bust it all up. A body can't tell yit
which one gwyne to fetch him at de las'. But you
is all right. You gwyne to have considable trouble
in yo' life, en considable joy. Sometimes you gwyne
to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick;
but every time you's gwyne to git well ag'in. Dey's
two gals flyin' 'bout you in yo' life. One uv 'em's
light en t'other one is dark. One is rich en t'other
is po'. You's gwyne to marry de po' one fust en
de rich one by en by. You wants to keep 'way
fum de water as much as you kin, en don't run no
resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne to
git hung."
</p><p>
When I lit my candle and went up to my room
that night there sat pap&mdash;his own self!</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_V"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER V</h2>
<br>
<p>
I had shut the door to. Then I turned around,
and there he was. I used to be scared of him
all the time, he tanned me so much. I reckoned I
was scared now, too; but in a minute I see I was
mistaken&mdash;that is, after the first jolt, as you may
say, when my breath sort of hitched, he being so
unexpected; but right away after I see I warn't
scared of him worth bothring about.
</p><p>
He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was
long and tangled and greasy, and hung down, and
you could see his eyes shining through like he was
behind vines. It was all black, no gray; so was his
long, mixed-up whiskers. There warn't no color in
his face, where his face showed; it was white; not
like another man's white, but a white to make a
body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl&mdash;a
tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. As for his clothes&mdash;just
rags, that was all. He had one ankle resting
on t'other knee; the boot on that foot was busted,
and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked
them now and then. His hat was laying on the floor&mdash;an
old black slouch with the top caved in, like a lid.
</p><p>
I stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking
at me, with his chair tilted back a little. I set the
candle down. I noticed the window was up; so he
had clumb in by the shed. He kept a-looking me
all over. By and by he says:
</p><p>
"Starchy clothes&mdash;very. You think you're a good
deal of a big-bug, <i>don't</i> you?"
</p><p>
"Maybe I am, maybe I ain't," I says.
</p><p>
"Don't you give me none o' your lip," says he.
"You've put on considerable many frills since I been
away. I'll take you down a peg before I get done
with you. You're educated, too, they say&mdash;can read
and write. You think you're better'n your father,
now, don't you, because he can't? <i>I'll</i> take it out of
you. Who told you you might meddle with such
hifalut'n foolishness, hey?&mdash;who told you you could?"
</p><p>
"The widow. She told me."
</p><p>
"The widow, hey?&mdash;and who told the widow she
could put in her shovel about a thing that ain't none
of her business?"
</p><p>
"Nobody never told her."
</p><p>
"Well, I'll learn her how to meddle. And looky
here&mdash;you drop that school, you hear? I'll learn
people to bring up a boy to put on airs over his own
father and let on to be better'n what <i>he</i> is. You
lemme catch you fooling around that school again,
you hear? Your mother couldn't read, and she
couldn't write, nuther, before she died. None of the
family couldn't before <i>they</i> died. I can't; and here
you're a-swelling yourself up like this. I ain't the man
to stand it&mdash;you hear? Say, lemme hear you read."
</p><p>
I took up a book and begun something about General
Washington and the wars. When I'd read about
a half a minute, he fetched the book a whack with his
hand and knocked it across the house. He says:
</p><p>
"It's so. You can do it. I had my doubts when
you told me. Now looky here; you stop that putting
on frills. I won't have it. I'll lay for you, my
smarty; and if I catch you about that school I'll tan
you good. First you know you'll get religion, too. I
never see such a son."
</p><p>
He took up a little blue and yaller picture of some
cows and a boy, and says:
</p><p>
"What's this?"
</p><p>
"It's something they give me for learning my
lessons good."
</p><p>
He tore it up, and says:
</p><p>
"I'll give you something better&mdash;I'll give you a
cowhide."
</p><p>
He set there a-mumbling and a-growling a minute,
and then he says:
</p><p>
"<i>Ain't</i> you a sweet-scented dandy, though? A
bed; and bedclothes; and a look'n'-glass; and a piece
of carpet on the floor&mdash;and your own father got to
sleep with the hogs in the tanyard. I never see such a
son. I bet I'll take some o' these frills out o' you
before I'm done with you. Why, there ain't no end to
your airs&mdash;they say you're rich. Hey?&mdash;how's
that?"
</p><p>
"They lie&mdash;that's how."
</p><p>
"Looky here&mdash;mind how you talk to me; I'm
a-standing about all I can stand now&mdash;so don't gimme
no sass. I've been in town two days, and I hain't
heard nothing but about you bein' rich. I heard
about it away down the river, too. That's why I
come. You git me that money to-morrow&mdash;I want
it."
</p><p>
"I hain't got no money."
</p><p>
"It's a lie. Judge Thatcher's got it. You git it.
I want it."
</p><p>
"I hain't got no money, I tell you. You ask Judge
Thatcher; he'll tell you the same."
</p><p>
"All right. I'll ask him; and I'll make him pungle,
too, or I'll know the reason why. Say, how much
you got in your pocket? I want it."
</p><p>
"I hain't got only a dollar, and I want that to&mdash;"
</p><p>
"It don't make no difference what you want it for&mdash;you
just shell it out."
</p><p>
He took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then
he said he was going down-town to get some whisky;
said he hadn't had a drink all day. When he had got
out on the shed he put his head in again, and cussed
me for putting on frills and trying to be better than
him; and when I reckoned he was gone he come back
and put his head in again, and told me to mind about
that school, because he was going to lay for me and
lick me if I didn't drop that.
</p><p>
Next day he was drunk, and he went to Judge
Thatcher's and bullyragged him, and tried to make
him give up the money; but he couldn't, and then he
swore he'd make the law force him.
</p><p>
The judge and the widow went to law to get the
court to take me away from him and let one of them
be my guardian; but it was a new judge that had just
come, and he didn't know the old man; so he said
courts mustn't interfere and separate families if they
could help it; said he'd druther not take a child away
from its father. So Judge Thatcher and the widow
had to quit on the business.
</p><p>
That pleased the old man till he couldn't rest. He
said he'd cowhide me till I was black and blue if I
didn't raise some money for him. I borrowed three
dollars from Judge Thatcher, and pap took it and got
drunk, and went a-blowing around and cussing and
whooping and carrying on; and he kept it up all over
town, with a tin pan, till most midnight; then they
jailed him, and next day they had him before court,
and jailed him again for a week. But he said <i>he</i> was
satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make
it warm for <i>him.</i>
</p><p>
When he got out the new judge said he was a-going
to make a man of him. So he took him to his own
house, and dressed him up clean and nice, and had
him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the
family, and was just old pie to him, so to speak. And
after supper he talked to him about temperance and
such things till the old man cried, and said he'd been
a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he was
a-going to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody
wouldn't be ashamed of, and he hoped the judge
would help him and not look down on him. The
judge said he could hug him for them words; so he
cried, and his wife she cried again; pap said he'd been
a man that had always been misunderstood before,
and the judge said he believed it. The old man said
that what a man wanted that was down was sympathy,
and the judge said it was so; so they cried
again. And when it was bedtime the old man rose
up and held out his hand, and says:
</p><p>
"Look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take a-hold
of it; shake it. There's a hand that was the hand of
a hog; but it ain't so no more; it's the hand of a man
that's started in on a new life, and'll die before he'll
go back. You mark them words&mdash;don't forget I said
them. It's a clean hand now; shake it&mdash;don't be
afeard."
</p><p>
So they shook it, one after the other, all around,
and cried. The judge's wife she kissed it. Then the
old man he signed a pledge&mdash;made his mark. The
judge said it was the holiest time on record, or something
like that. Then they tucked the old man into
a beautiful room, which was the spare room, and in
the night some time he got powerful thirsty and
clumb out on to the porch-roof and slid down a
stanchion and traded his new coat for a jug of forty-rod,
and clumb back again and had a good old time;
and toward daylight he crawled out again, drunk as
a fiddler, and rolled off the porch and broke his left
arm in two places, and was most froze to death when
somebody found him after sun-up. And when they
come to look at that spare room they had to take
soundings before they could navigate it.
</p><p>
The judge he felt kind of sore. He said he reckoned
a body could reform the old man with a shotgun,
maybe, but he didn't know no other way.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_VI"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER VI</h2>
<br>
<p>
Well, pretty soon the old man was up and
around again, and then he went for Judge
Thatcher in the courts to make him give up that
money, and he went for me, too, for not stopping
school. He catched me a couple of times and
thrashed me, but I went to school just the same, and
dodged him or outrun him most of the time. I
didn't want to go to school much before, but I
reckoned I'd go now to spite pap. That law trial
was a slow business&mdash;appeared like they warn't ever
going to get started on it; so every now and then
I'd borrow two or three dollars off of the judge for
him, to keep from getting a cowhiding. Every time
he got money he got drunk; and every time he got
drunk he raised Cain around town; and every time
he raised Cain he got jailed. He was just suited&mdash;this
kind of thing was right in his line.
</p><p>
He got to hanging around the widow's too much,
and so she told him at last that if he didn't quit using
around there she would make trouble for him. Well,
<i>wasn't</i> he mad? He said he would show who was
Huck Finn's boss. So he watched out for me one day
in the spring, and catched me, and took me up the
river about three mile in a skiff, and crossed over to
the Illinois shore where it was woody and there warn't
no houses but an old log hut in a place where the
timber was so thick you couldn't find it if you didn't
know where it was.
</p><p>
He kept me with him all the time, and I never got a
chance to run off. We lived in that old cabin, and he
always locked the door and put the key under his
head nights. He had a gun which he had stole, I
reckon, and we fished and hunted, and that was what
we lived on. Every little while he locked me in and
went down to the store, three miles, to the ferry, and
traded fish and game for whisky, and fetched it home
and got drunk and had a good time, and licked me.
The widow she found out where I was by and by, and
she sent a man over to try to get hold of me; but pap
drove him off with the gun, and it warn't long after
that till I was used to being where I was, and liked
it&mdash;all but the cowhide part.
</p><p>
It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable
all day, smoking and fishing, and no books nor
study. Two months or more run along, and my
clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn't see
how I'd ever got to like it so well at the widow's,
where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb
up, and go to bed and get up regular, and be forever
bothering over a book, and have old Miss Watson
pecking at you all the time. I didn't want to go
back no more. I had stopped cussing, because the
widow didn't like it; but now I took to it again
because pap hadn't no objections. It was pretty
good times up in the woods there, take it all around.
</p><p>
But by and by pap got too handy with his hick'ry,
and I couldn't stand it. I was all over welts. He
got to going away so much, too, and locking me in.
Once he locked me in and was gone three days. It
was dreadful lonesome. I judged he had got
drownded, and I wasn't ever going to get out any
more. I was scared. I made up my mind I would
fix up some way to leave there. I had tried to get
out of that cabin many a time, but I couldn't find
no way. There warn't a window to it big enough
for a dog to get through. I couldn't get up the
chimbly; it was too narrow. The door was thick,
solid oak slabs. Pap was pretty careful not to leave
a knife or anything in the cabin when he was away;
I reckon I had hunted the place over as much as a
hundred times; well, I was most all the time at it,
because it was about the only way to put in the time.
But this time I found something at last; I found an
old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid
in between a rafter and the clapboards of the roof.
I greased it up and went to work. There was an old
horse-blanket nailed against the logs at the far end
of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind
from blowing through the chinks and putting the
candle out. I got under the table and raised the
blanket, and went to work to saw a section of the
big bottom log out&mdash;big enough to let me through.
Well, it was a good long job, but I was getting
toward the end of it when I heard pap's gun in the
woods. I got rid of the signs of my work, and
dropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty
soon pap come in.
</p><p>
Pap warn't in a good humor&mdash;so he was his natural
self. He said he was down-town, and everything was
going wrong. His lawyer said he reckoned he would
win his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got
started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it
off a long time, and Judge Thatcher knowed how to
do it. And he said people allowed there'd be another
trial to get me away from him and give me to the
widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would
win this time. This shook me up considerable, because
I didn't want to go back to the widow's any
more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as they
called it. Then the old man got to cussing, and
cussed everything and everybody he could think of,
and then cussed them all over again to make sure he
hadn't skipped any, and after that he polished off
with a kind of a general cuss all round, including a
considerable parcel of people which he didn't know
the names of, and so called them what's-his-name
when he got to them, and went right along with his
cussing.
</p><p>
He said he would like to see the widow get me.
He said he would watch out, and if they tried to
come any such game on him he knowed of a place
six or seven mile off to stow me in, where they might
hunt till they dropped and they couldn't find me.
That made me pretty uneasy again, but only for a
minute; I reckoned I wouldn't stay on hand till he
got that chance.
</p><p>
The old man made me go to the skiff and fetch
the things he had got. There was a fifty-pound sack
of corn meal, and a side of bacon, ammunition, and
a four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and
two newspapers for wadding, besides some tow. I
toted up a load, and went back and set down on the
bow of the skiff to rest. I thought it all over, and
I reckoned I would walk off with the gun and some
lines, and take to the woods when I run away. I
guessed I wouldn't stay in one place, but just tramp
right across the country, mostly night-times, and
hunt and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away
that the old man nor the widow couldn't ever find
me any more. I judged I would saw out and leave
that night if pap got drunk enough, and I reckoned
he would. I got so full of it I didn't notice how
long I was staying till the old man hollered and asked
me whether I was asleep or drownded.
</p><p>
I got the things all up to the cabin, and then it
was about dark. While I was cooking supper the
old man took a swig or two and got sort of warmed
up, and went to ripping again. He had been drunk
over in town, and laid in the gutter all night, and
he was a sight to look at. A body would 'a' thought
he was Adam&mdash;he was just all mud. Whenever his
liquor begun to work he most always went for the
govment. This time he says:
</p><p>
"Call this a govment! why, just look at it and
see what it's like. Here's the law a-standing ready
to take a man's son away from him&mdash;a man's own
son, which he has had all the trouble and all the
anxiety and all the expense of raising. Yes, just as
that man has got that son raised at last, and ready
to go to work and begin to do suthin' for <i>him</i> and
give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And
they call <i>that</i> govment! That ain't all, nuther.
The law backs that old Judge Thatcher up and helps
him to keep me out o' my property. Here's what
the law does: The law takes a man worth six thousand
dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old
trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in
clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. They call that
govment! A man can't get his rights in a govment
like this. Sometimes I've a mighty notion to just
leave the country for good and all. Yes, and I <i>told</i>
'em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face. Lots of
'em heard me, and can tell what I said. Says I,
for two cents I'd leave the blamed country and never
come a-near it ag'in. Them's the very words. I
says, look at my hat&mdash;if you call it a hat&mdash;but the
lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it's
below my chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at
all, but more like my head was shoved up through
a jint o' stove-pipe. Look at it, says I&mdash;such a hat
for me to wear&mdash;one of the wealthiest men in this
town if I could git my rights.
</p><p>
"Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful.
Why, looky here. There was a free nigger there from
Ohio&mdash;a mulatter, most as white as a white man.
He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and
the shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town
that's got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had
a gold watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane&mdash;the
awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the state.
And what do you think? They said he was a p'fessor
in a college, and could talk all kinds of languages,
and knowed everything. And that ain't the wust.
They said he could <i>vote</i> when he was at home. Well,
that let me out. Thinks I, what is the country
a-coming to? It was 'lection day, and I was just
about to go and vote myself if I warn't too drunk
to get there; but when they told me there was a
state in this country where they'd let that nigger
vote, I drawed out. I says I'll never vote ag'in.
Them's the very words I said; they all heard me;
and the country may rot for all me&mdash;I'll never vote
ag'in as long as I live. And to see the cool way of
that nigger&mdash;why, he wouldn't 'a' give me the road
if I hadn't shoved him out o' the way. I says to
the people, why ain't this nigger put up at auction
and sold?&mdash;that's what I want to know. And what
do you reckon they said? Why, they said he
couldn't be sold till he'd been in the state six months,
and he hadn't been there that long yet. There, now&mdash;that's
a specimen. They call that a govment that
can't sell a free nigger till he's been in the state six
months. Here's a govment that calls itself a govment,
and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is
a govment, and yet's got to set stock-still for six
whole months before it can take a-hold of a prowling,
thieving, infernal, white-shirted free nigger, and&mdash;"
</p><p>
Pap was a-going on so he never noticed where his
old limber legs was taking him to, so he went head
over heels over the tub of salt pork and barked both
shins, and the rest of his speech was all the hottest
kind of language&mdash;mostly hove at the nigger and the
govment, though he give the tub some, too, all along,
here and there. He hopped around the cabin considerable,
first on one leg and then on the other,
holding first one shin and then the other one, and at
last he let out with his left foot all of a sudden and
fetched the tub a rattling kick. But it warn't good
judgment, because that was the boot that had a
couple of his toes leaking out of the front end of it;
so now he raised a howl that fairly made a body's
hair raise, and down he went in the dirt, and rolled
there, and held his toes; and the cussing he done
then laid over anything he had ever done previous.
He said so his own self afterwards. He had heard
old Sowberry Hagan in his best days, and he said it
laid over him, too; but I reckon that was sort of
piling it on, maybe.
</p><p>
After supper pap took the jug, and said he had
enough whisky there for two drunks and one delirium
tremens. That was always his word. I
judged he would be blind drunk in about an hour,
and then I would steal the key, or saw myself out,
one or t'other. He drank and drank, and tumbled
down on his blankets by and by; but luck didn't run
my way. He didn't go sound asleep, but was uneasy.
He groaned and moaned and thrashed around
this way and that for a long time. At last I got so
sleepy I couldn't keep my eyes open all I could do,
and so before I knowed what I was about I was
sound asleep, and the candle burning.
</p><p>
I don't know how long I was asleep, but all of a
sudden there was an awful scream and I was up.
There was pap looking wild, and skipping around
every which way and yelling about snakes. He said
they was crawling up his legs; and then he would
give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him
on the cheek&mdash;but I couldn't see no snakes. He
started and run round and round the cabin, hollering
"Take him off! take him off! he's biting me on
the neck!" I never see a man look so wild in the
eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell
down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful
fast, kicking things every which way, and
striking and grabbing at the air with his hands, and
screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him.
He wore out by and by, and laid still awhile, moaning.
Then he laid stiller, and didn't make a sound.
I could hear the owls and the wolves away off in
the woods, and it seemed terrible still. He was
laying over by the corner. By and by he raised up
part way and listened, with his head to one side.
He says, very low:
</p><p>
"Tramp&mdash;tramp&mdash;tramp; that's the dead; tramp&mdash;tramp&mdash;tramp;
they're coming after me; but I
won't go. Oh, they're here! don't touch me&mdash;don't!
hands off&mdash;they're cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil
alone!"
</p><p>
Then he went down on all fours and crawled off,
begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself
up in his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine
table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying.
I could hear him through the blanket.
</p><p>
By and by he rolled out and jumped up on his
feet looking wild, and he see me and went for me.
He chased me round and round the place with a
clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying
he would kill me, and then I couldn't come for him
no more. I begged, and told him I was only Huck;
but he laughed <i>such</i> a screechy laugh, and roared and
cussed, and kept on chasing me up. Once when I
turned short and dodged under his arm he made a
grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders,
and I thought I was gone; but I slid out of the jacket
quick as lightning, and saved myself. Pretty soon
he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back
against the door, and said he would rest a minute
and then kill me. He put his knife under him, and
said he would sleep and get strong, and then he
would see who was who.
</p><p>
So he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the
old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as I
could, not to make any noise, and got down the gun.
I slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was
loaded, and then I laid it across the turnip-barrel,
pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait
for him to stir. And how slow and still the time did
drag along.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_VII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER VII</h2>
<br>
<p>
"Git up! What you 'bout?"
</p><p>
I opened my eyes and looked around, trying
to make out where I was. It was after sun-up,
and I had been sound asleep. Pap was standing
over me looking sour&mdash;and sick, too. He says:
</p><p>
"What you doin' with this gun?"
</p><p>
I judged he didn't know nothing about what he
had been doing, so I says:
</p><p>
"Somebody tried to get in, so I was laying for
him."
</p><p>
"Why didn't you roust me out?"
</p><p>
"Well, I tried to, but I couldn't; I couldn't budge
you."
</p><p>
"Well, all right. Don't stand there palavering all
day, but out with you and see if there's a fish on the
lines for breakfast. I'll be along in a minute."
</p><p>
He unlocked the door, and I cleared out up the
river-bank. I noticed some pieces of limbs and such
things floating down, and a sprinkling of bark; so I
knowed the river had begun to rise. I reckoned I
would have great times now if I was over at the
town. The June rise used to be always luck for
me; because as soon as that rise begins here comes
cordwood floating down, and pieces of log rafts&mdash;sometimes
a dozen logs together; so all you have to
do is to catch them and sell them to the woodyards
and the sawmill.
</p><p>
I went along up the bank with one eye out for
pap and t'other one out for what the rise might fetch
along. Well, all at once here comes a canoe; just
a beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long,
riding high like a duck. I shot head-first off of the
bank like a frog, clothes and all on, and struck out
for the canoe. I just expected there'd be somebody
laying down in it, because people often done that
to fool folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff
out most to it they'd raise up and laugh at him.
But it warn't so this time. It was a drift-canoe sure
enough, and I clumb in and paddled her ashore.
Thinks I, the old man will be glad when he sees this&mdash;she's
worth ten dollars. But when I got to shore
pap wasn't in sight yet, and as I was running her into
a little creek like a gully, all hung over with vines
and willows, I struck another idea: I judged I'd hide
her good, and then, 'stead of taking to the woods
when I run off, I'd go down the river about fifty
mile and camp in one place for good, and not have
such a rough time tramping on foot.
</p><p>
It was pretty close to the shanty, and I thought
I heard the old man coming all the time; but I got
her hid; and then I out and looked around a bunch
of willows, and there was the old man down the
path a piece just drawing a bead on a bird with his
gun. So he hadn't seen anything.
</p><p>
When he got along I was hard at it taking up a
"trot" line. He abused me a little for being so
slow; but I told him I fell in the river, and that was
what made me so long. I knowed he would see I
was wet, and then he would be asking questions.
We got five catfish off the lines and went home.
</p><p>
While we laid off after breakfast to sleep up, both
of us being about wore out, I got to thinking that if I
could fix up some way to keep pap and the widow
from trying to follow me, it would be a certainer thing
than trusting to luck to get far enough off before
they missed me; you see, all kinds of things might
happen. Well, I didn't see no way for a while, but
by and by pap raised up a minute to drink another
barrel of water, and he says:
</p><p>
"Another time a man comes a-prowling round here
you roust me out, you hear? That man warn't here
for no good. I'd a shot him. Next time you roust
me out, you hear?"
</p><p>
Then he dropped down and went to sleep again;
what he had been saying give me the very idea I
wanted. I says to myself, I can fix it now so nobody
won't think of following me.
</p><p>
About twelve o'clock we turned out and went along
up the bank. The river was coming up pretty fast,
and lots of driftwood going by on the rise. By and
by along comes part of a log raft&mdash;nine logs fast
together. We went out with the skiff and towed it
ashore. Then we had dinner. Anybody but pap
would 'a' waited and seen the day through, so as to
catch more stuff; but that warn't pap's style. Nine
logs was enough for one time; he must shove right
over to town and sell. So he locked me in and took
the skiff, and started off towing the raft about half
past three. I judged he wouldn't come back that
night. I waited till I reckoned he had got a good
start; then I out with my saw, and went to work on
that log again. Before he was t'other side of the
river I was out of the hole; him and his raft was just a
speck on the water away off yonder.
</p>
<br><br>
<a name="huck"></a>
<p class="pg1"><img src="images/huck.jpg" alt="HUCKLEBERRY FINN"></p>
<p class="pg1">HUCKLEBERRY FINN</p>
<br><br>
<p>
I took the sack of corn meal and took it to where
the canoe was hid, and shoved the vines and branches
apart and put it in; then I done the same with the
side of bacon; then the whisky-jug. I took all the
coffee and sugar there was, and all the ammunition;
I took the wadding; I took the bucket and gourd;
took a dipper and a tin cup, and my old saw and two
blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot. I took
fish-lines and matches and other things&mdash;everything
that was worth a cent. I cleaned out the place. I
wanted an ax, but there wasn't any, only the one out
at the woodpile, and I knowed why I was going to
leave that. I fetched out the gun, and now I was
done.
</p><p>
I had wore the ground a good deal crawling out of
the hole and dragging out so many things. So I
fixed that as good as I could from the outside by
scattering dust on the place, which covered up the
smoothness and the sawdust. Then I fixed the piece
of log back into its place, and put two rocks under it
and one against it to hold it there, for it was bent up
at that place and didn't quite touch ground. If you
stood four or five foot away and didn't know it was
sawed, you wouldn't never notice it; and besides,
this was the back of the cabin, and it warn't likely
anybody would go fooling around there.
</p><p>
It was all grass clear to the canoe, so I hadn't left a
track. I followed around to see. I stood on the
bank and looked out over the river. All safe. So I
took the gun and went up a piece into the woods, and
was hunting around for some birds when I see a wild
pig; hogs soon went wild in them bottoms after they
had got away from the prairie-farms. I shot this
fellow and took him into camp.
</p><p>
I took the ax and smashed in the door. I beat it
and hacked it considerable a-doing it. I fetched the
pig in, and took him back nearly to the table and
hacked into his throat with the ax, and laid him down
on the ground to bleed; I say ground because it was
ground&mdash;hard packed, and no boards. Well, next I
took an old sack and put a lot of big rocks in it&mdash;all
I could drag&mdash;and I started it from the pig, and
dragged it to the door and through the woods down
to the river and dumped it in, and down it sunk, out
of sight. You could easy see that something had
been dragged over the ground. I did wish Tom
Sawyer was there; I knowed he would take an
interest in this kind of business, and throw in the
fancy touches. Nobody could spread himself like
Tom Sawyer in such a thing as that.
</p><p>
Well, last I pulled out some of my hair, and blooded
the ax good, and stuck it on the back side, and slung
the ax in the corner. Then I took up the pig and held
him to my breast with my jacket (so he couldn't drip)
till I got a good piece below the house and then
dumped him into the river. Now I thought of something
else. So I went and got the bag of meal and
my old saw out of the canoe, and fetched them to
the house. I took the bag to where it used to stand,
and ripped a hole in the bottom of it with the saw,
for there warn't no knives and forks on the place&mdash;pap
done everything with his clasp-knife about the
cooking. Then I carried the sack about a hundred
yards across the grass and through the willows east
of the house, to a shallow lake that was five mile
wide and full of rushes&mdash;and ducks too, you might
say, in the season. There was a slough or a creek
leading out of it on the other side that went miles
away, I don't know where, but it didn't go to the
river. The meal sifted out and made a little track all
the way to the lake. I dropped pap's whetstone
there too, so as to look like it had been done by
accident. Then I tied up the rip in the meal-sack
with a string, so it wouldn't leak no more, and
took it and my saw to the canoe again.
</p><p>
It was about dark now; so I dropped the canoe
down the river under some willows that hung over the
bank, and waited for the moon to rise. I made fast to
a willow; then I took a bite to eat, and by and by laid
down in the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan.
I says to myself, they'll follow the track of that sackful
of rocks to the shore and then drag the river for
me. And they'll follow that meal track to the lake
and go browsing down the creek that leads out of it to
find the robbers that killed me and took the things.
They won't ever hunt the river for anything but my
dead carcass. They'll soon get tired of that, and
won't bother no more about me. All right; I can
stop anywhere I want to. Jackson's Island is good
enough for me; I know that island pretty well, and
nobody ever comes there. And then I can paddle
over to town nights, and slink around and pick up
things I want. Jackson's Island's the place.
</p><p>
I was pretty tired, and the first thing I knowed I
was asleep. When I woke up I didn't know where I
was for a minute. I set up and looked around, a
little scared. Then I remembered. The river looked
miles and miles across. The moon was so bright I
could 'a' counted the drift-logs that went a-slipping
along, black and still, hundreds of yards out from
shore. Everything was dead quiet, and it looked
late, and <i>smelt</i> late. You know what I mean&mdash;I
don't know the words to put it in.
</p><p>
I took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going
to unhitch and start when I heard a sound away over
the water. I listened. Pretty soon I made it out. It
was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes from
oars working in rowlocks when it's a still night. I
peeped out through the willow branches, and there it
was&mdash;a skiff, away across the water. I couldn't tell
how many was in it. It kept a-coming, and when it
was abreast of me I see there warn't but one man in it.
Thinks I, maybe it's pap, though I warn't expecting
him. He dropped below me with the current, and
by and by he came a-swinging up shore in the easy
water, and he went by so close I could 'a' reached out
the gun and touched him. Well, it <i>was</i> pap, sure
enough&mdash;and sober, too, by the way he laid his oars.
</p><p>
I didn't lose no time. The next minute I was
a-spinning down-stream soft, but quick, in the shade
of the bank. I made two mile and a half, and then
struck out a quarter of a mile or more toward the
middle of the river, because pretty soon I would be
passing the ferry-landing, and people might see me
and hail me. I got out amongst the driftwood, and
then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her
float. I laid there, and had a good rest and a smoke
out of my pipe, looking away into the sky; not a
cloud in it. The sky looks ever so deep when you lay
down on your back in the moonshine; I never knowed
it before. And how far a body can hear on the water
such nights! I heard people talking at the ferry-landing.
I heard what they said, too&mdash;every word
of it. One man said it was getting towards the long
days and the short nights now. T'other one said <i>this</i>
warn't one of the short ones, he reckoned&mdash;and then
they laughed, and he said it over again, and they
laughed again; then they waked up another fellow
and told him, and laughed, but he didn't laugh; he
ripped out something brisk, and said let him alone.
The first fellow said he 'lowed to tell it to his old
woman&mdash;she would think it was pretty good; but he
said that warn't nothing to some things he had said
in his time. I heard one man say it was nearly three
o'clock, and he hoped daylight wouldn't wait more
than about a week longer. After that the talk got
further and further away, and I couldn't make out
the words any more; but I could hear the mumble,
and now and then a laugh, too, but it seemed a long
ways off.
</p><p>
I was away below the ferry now. I rose up, and
there was Jackson's Island, about two mile and a half
down-stream, heavy-timbered and standing up out
of the middle of the river, big and dark and solid, like
a steamboat without any lights. There warn't any
signs of the bar at the head&mdash;it was all under water
now.
</p><p>
It didn't take me long to get there. I shot past the
head at a ripping rate, the current was so swift, and
then I got into the dead water and landed on the side
towards the Illinois shore. I run the canoe into a deep
dent in the bank that I knowed about; I had to part
the willow branches to get in; and when I made fast
nobody could 'a' seen the canoe from the outside.
</p><p>
I went up and set down on a log at the head of the
island, and looked out on the big river and the black
driftwood and away over to the town, three mile
away, where there was three or four lights twinkling.
A monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile upstream,
coming along down, with a lantern in the
middle of it. I watched it come creeping down, and
when it was most abreast of where I stood I heard a
man say, "Stern oars, there! heave her head to stabboard!"
I heard that just as plain as if the man was
by my side.
</p><p>
There was a little gray in the sky now; so I stepped
into the woods, and laid down for a nap before breakfast.</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_VIII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER VIII</h2>
<br>
<p>
The sun was up so high when I waked that I
judged it was after eight o'clock. I laid there
in the grass and the cool shade thinking about things,
and feeling rested and ruther comfortable and satisfied.
I could see the sun out at one or two holes, but
mostly it was big trees all about, and gloomy in there
amongst them. There was freckled places on the
ground where the light sifted down through the
leaves, and the freckled places swapped about a little,
showing there was a little breeze up there. A couple
of squirrels set on a limb and jabbered at me very
friendly.
</p><p>
I was powerful lazy and comfortable&mdash;didn't want
to get up and cook breakfast. Well, I was dozing off
again when I thinks I hears a deep sound of "boom!"
away up the river. I rouses up, and rests on my
elbow and listens; pretty soon I hears it again. I
hopped up, and went and looked out at a hole in
the leaves, and I see a bunch of smoke laying on
the water a long ways up&mdash;about abreast the ferry.
And there was the ferryboat full of people floating
along down. I knowed what was the matter now.
"Boom!" I see the white smoke squirt out of the
ferryboat's side. You see, they was firing cannon
over the water, trying to make my carcass come to
the top.
</p><p>
I was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for
me to start a fire, because they might see the smoke.
So I set there and watched the cannon-smoke and
listened to the boom. The river was a mile wide
there, and it always looks pretty on a summer morning&mdash;so
I was having a good enough time seeing them
hunt for my remainders if I only had a bite to eat.
Well, then I happened to think how they always put
quicksilver in loaves of bread and float them off, because
they always go right to the drownded carcass
and stop there. So, says I, I'll keep a lookout, and
if any of them's floating around after me I'll give
them a show. I changed to the Illinois edge of the
island to see what luck I could have, and I warn't
disappointed. A big double loaf come along, and I
most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped and
she floated out further. Of course I was where the
current set in the closest to the shore&mdash;I knowed
enough for that. But by and by along comes another
one, and this time I won. I took out the plug and
shook out the little dab of quicksilver, and set my
teeth in. It was "baker's bread"&mdash;what the quality
eat; none of your low-down corn-pone.
</p><p>
I got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there
on a log, munching the bread and watching the ferry-boat,
and very well satisfied. And then something
struck me. I says, now I reckon the widow or the
parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find
me, and here it has gone and done it. So there ain't
no doubt but there is something in that thing&mdash;that
is, there's something in it when a body like the
widow or the parson prays, but it don't work for
me, and I reckon it don't work for only just the
right kind.
</p><p>
I lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went
on watching. The ferryboat was floating with the
current, and I allowed I'd have a chance to see who
was aboard when she come along, because she would
come in close, where the bread did. When she'd got
pretty well along down towards me, I put out my pipe
and went to where I fished out the bread, and laid
down behind a log on the bank in a little open place.
Where the log forked I could peep through.
</p><p>
By and by she come along, and she drifted in so
close that they could 'a' run out a plank and walked
ashore. Most everybody was on the boat. Pap, and
Judge Thatcher, and Bessie Thatcher, and Joe Harper,
and Tom Sawyer, and his old Aunt Polly, and Sid and
Mary, and plenty more. Everybody was talking
about the murder, but the captain broke in and says:
</p><p>
"Look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest
here, and maybe he's washed ashore and got tangled
amongst the brush at the water's edge. I hope so,
anyway."
</p><p>
I didn't hope so. They all crowded up and leaned
over the rails, nearly in my face, and kept still, watching
with all their might. I could see them first-rate,
but they couldn't see me. Then the captain sung out:
"Stand away!" and the cannon let off such a blast
right before me that it made me deef with the noise
and pretty near blind with the smoke, and I judged
I was gone. If they'd 'a' had some bullets in, I reckon
they'd 'a' got the corpse they was after. Well, I see I
warn't hurt, thanks to goodness. The boat floated on
and went out of sight around the shoulder of the
island. I could hear the booming now and then,
further and further off, and by and by, after an hour,
I didn't hear it no more. The island was three mile
long. I judged they had got to the foot, and was
giving it up. But they didn't yet awhile. They
turned around the foot of the island and started up
the channel on the Missouri side, under steam, and
booming once in a while as they went. I crossed over
to that side and watched them. When they got
abreast the head of the island they quit shooting and
dropped over to the Missouri shore and went home
to the town.
</p><p>
I knowed I was all right now. Nobody else would
come a-hunting after me. I got my traps out of the
canoe and made me a nice camp in the thick woods.
I made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put
my things under so the rain couldn't get at them. I
catched a catfish and haggled him open with my saw,
and towards sundown I started my camp-fire and had
supper. Then I set out a line to catch some fish for
breakfast.
</p><p>
When it was dark I set by my camp-fire smoking,
and feeling pretty well satisfied; but by and by it got
sort of lonesome, and so I went and set on the bank
and listened to the current swashing along, and
counted the stars and drift-logs and rafts that come
down, and then went to bed; there ain't no better
way to put in time when you are lonesome; you can't
stay so, you soon get over it.
</p><p>
And so for three days and nights. No difference&mdash;just
the same thing. But the next day I went exploring
around down through the island. I was boss of it;
it all belonged to me, so to say, and I wanted to know
all about it; but mainly I wanted to put in the time.
I found plenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and
green summer grapes, and green razberries; and the
green blackberries was just beginning to show. They
would all come handy by and by, I judged.
</p><p>
Well, I went fooling along in the deep woods till I
judged I warn't far from the foot of the island. I had
my gun along, but I hadn't shot nothing; it was for
protection; thought I would kill some game nigh
home. About this time I mighty near stepped on a
good-sized snake, and it went sliding off through the
grass and flowers, and I after it, trying to get a shot
at it. I clipped along, and all of a sudden I bounded
right on to the ashes of a camp-fire that was still
smoking.
</p><p>
My heart jumped up amongst my lungs. I never
waited for to look further, but uncocked my gun and
went sneaking back on my tiptoes as fast as ever I
could. Every now and then I stopped a second
amongst the thick leaves and listened, but my breath
come so hard I couldn't hear nothing else. I slunk
along another piece further, then listened again; and
so on, and so on. If I see a stump, I took it for a man;
if I trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like
a person had cut one of my breaths in two and I only
got half, and the short half, too.
</p><p>
When I got to camp I warn't feeling very brash,
there warn't much sand in my craw; but I says, this
ain't no time to be fooling around. So I got all my
traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of
sight, and I put out the fire and scattered the ashes
around to look like an old last-year's camp, and then
clumb a tree.
</p><p>
I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I
didn't see nothing, I didn't hear nothing&mdash;I only
<i>thought</i> I heard and seen as much as a thousand
things. Well, I couldn't stay up there forever; so at
last I got down, but I kept in the thick woods and on
the lookout all the time. All I could get to eat was
berries and what was left over from breakfast.
</p><p>
By the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So
when it was good and dark I slid out from shore before
moonrise and paddled over to the Illinois bank&mdash;about
a quarter of a mile. I went out in the woods
and cooked a supper, and I had about made up my
mind I would stay there all night when I hear a
<i>plunkety-plunk</i>, <i>plunkety-plunk</i>, and says to myself,
horses coming; and next I hear people's voices. I got
everything into the canoe as quick as I could, and
then went creeping through the woods to see what I
could find out. I hadn't got far when I hear a man
say:
</p><p>
"We better camp here if we can find a good
place; the horses is about beat out. Let's look
around."
</p><p>
I didn't wait, but shoved out and paddled away
easy. I tied up in the old place, and reckoned I would
sleep in the canoe.
</p><p>
I didn't sleep much. I couldn't, somehow, for
thinking. And every time I waked up I thought
somebody had me by the neck. So the sleep didn't
do me no good. By and by I says to myself, I can't
live this way; I'm a-going to find out who it is that's
here on the island with me; I'll find it out or bust.
Well, I felt better right off.
</p><p>
So I took my paddle and slid out from shore just
a step or two, and then let the canoe drop along down
amongst the shadows. The moon was shining, and
outside of the shadows it made it most as light as
day. I poked along well on to an hour, everything
still as rocks and sound asleep. Well, by this time I
was most down to the foot of the island. A little
ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as
good as saying the night was about done. I give her
a turn with the paddle and brung her nose to shore;
then I got my gun and slipped out and into the edge
of the woods. I sat down there on a log, and looked
out through the leaves. I see the moon go off watch,
and the darkness begin to blanket the river. But in
a little while I see a pale streak over the treetops,
and knowed the day was coming. So I took my gun
and slipped off towards where I had run across that
camp-fire, stopping every minute or two to listen.
But I hadn't no luck somehow; I couldn't seem to
find the place. But by and by, sure enough, I catched
a glimpse of fire away through the trees. I went for
it, cautious and slow. By and by I was close enough
to have a look, and there laid a man on the ground.
It most give me the fantods.  He had a blanket
around his head, and his head was nearly in the fire.
I set there behind a clump of bushes in about six foot
of him, and kept my eyes on him steady. It was
getting gray daylight now. Pretty soon he gapped
and stretched himself and hove off the blanket, and
it was Miss Watson's Jim! I bet I was glad to see
him. I says:
</p><p>
"Hello, Jim!" and skipped out.
</p><p>
He bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he
drops down on his knees, and puts his hands together
and says:
</p><p>
"Doan' hurt me&mdash;don't! I hain't ever done no
harm to a ghos'. I alwuz liked dead people, en done
all I could for 'em. You go en git in de river ag'in,
whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to Ole Jim, 'at
'uz alwuz yo' fren'."
</p><p>
Well, I warn't long making him understand I
warn't dead. I was ever so glad to see Jim. I
warn't lonesome now. I told him I warn't afraid of
<i>him</i> telling the people where I was. I talked along,
but he only set there and looked at me; never said
nothing. Then I says:
</p><p>
"It's good daylight. Le's get breakfast. Make
up your camp-fire good."
</p><p>
"What's de use er makin' up de camp-fire to cook
strawbries en sich truck? But you got a gun, hain't
you? Den we kin git sumfn better den strawbries."
</p><p>
"Strawberries and such truck," I says. "Is that
what you live on?"
</p><p>
"I couldn' git nuffn else," he says.
</p><p>
"Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?"
</p><p>
"I come heah de night arter you's killed."
</p><p>
"What, all that time?"
</p><p>
"Yes-indeedy."
</p><p>
"And ain't you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?"
</p><p>
"No, sah&mdash;nuffn  else."
</p><p>
"Well, you must be most starved, ain't you?"
</p><p>
"I reck'n I could eat a hoss. I think I could.
How long you ben on de islan'?"
</p><p>
"Since the night I got killed."
</p><p>
"No! W'y, what has you lived on? But you got
a gun. Oh, yes, you got a gun. Dat's good. Now
you kill sumfn en I'll make up de fire."
</p><p>
So we went over to where the canoe was, and while
he built a fire in a grassy open place amongst the
trees, I fetched meal and bacon and coffee, and coffee-pot
and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the
nigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned
it was all done with witchcraft. I catched a good
big catfish, too, and Jim cleaned him with his knife,
and fried him.
</p><p>
When breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass
and eat it smoking hot. Jim laid it in with all his
might, for he was most about starved. Then when
we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and
lazied.
</p><p>
By and by Jim says:
</p><p>
"But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat 'uz killed
in dat shanty ef it warn't you?"
</p><p>
Then I told him the whole thing, and he said it was
smart. He said Tom Sawyer couldn't get up no
better plan than what I had. Then I says:
</p><p>
"How do you come to be here, Jim, and how'd you
get here?"
</p><p>
He looked pretty uneasy, and didn't say nothing for
a minute. Then he says:
</p><p>
"Maybe I better not tell."
</p><p>
"Why, Jim?"
</p><p>
"Well, dey's reasons. But you wouldn' tell on me
ef I 'uz to tell you, would you, Huck?"
</p><p>
"Blamed if I would, Jim."
</p><p>
"Well, I b'lieve you, Huck. I&mdash;I <i>run off</i>."
</p><p>
"Jim!"
</p><p>
"But mind, you said you wouldn' tell&mdash;you know
you said you wouldn' tell, Huck."
</p><p>
"Well, I did. I said I wouldn't, and I'll stick to it.
Honest <i>injun</i>, I will. People would call me a low-down
Abolitionist and despise me for keeping mum&mdash;but
that don't make no difference. I ain't a-going to
tell, and I ain't a-going back there, anyways. So,
now, le's know all about it."
</p><p>
"Well, you see, it 'uz dis way. Ole missus&mdash;dat's
Miss Watson&mdash;she pecks on me all de time, en treats
me pooty rough, but she awluz said she wouldn' sell
me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger
trader roun' de place considable lately, en I begin to
git oneasy. Well, one night I creeps to de do' pooty
late, en de do' warn't quite shet, en I hear old missus
tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to Orleans,
but she didn' want to, but she could git eight hund'd
dollars for me, en it 'uz sich a big stack o' money she
couldn' resis'. De widder she try to git her to say
she wouldn't do it, but I never waited to hear de res'.
I lit out mighty quick, I tell you.
</p><p>
"I tuck out en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a
skift 'long de sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz
people a-stirring yit, so I hid in de ole tumbledown
cooper shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go
'way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody
roun' all de time. 'Long 'bout six in de mawnin'
skifts begin to go by, en 'bout eight er nine every
skift dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo' pap
come over to de town en say you's killed. Dese las'
skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen a-goin' over for to
see de place. Sometimes dey'd pull up at de sho' en
take a res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so by de talk I got
to know all 'bout de killin'. I 'uz powerful sorry
you's killed, Huck, but I ain't no mo' now.
</p><p>
"I laid dah under de shavin's all day. I 'uz
hungry, but I warn't afeard; bekase I knowed ole
missus en de widder wuz goin' to start to de camp-meet'n'
right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en
dey knows I goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so
dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de place, en so dey
wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de evenin'. De
yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out
en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way.
</p><p>
"Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river
road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey
warn't no houses. I'd made up my mine 'bout what
I's a-gwyne to do. You see, ef I kep' on tryin' to git
away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef I stole a skift to
cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd
know 'bout whah I'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah
to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I's
arter; it doan' <i>make</i> no track.
</p><p>
"I see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so I
wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n
half-way acrost de river, en got in 'mongst de drift-wood,
en kep' my head down low, en kinder swum
agin de current tell de raff come along. Den I swum
to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. It clouded up en 'uz
pooty dark for a little while. So I clumb up en laid
down on de planks. De men 'uz all 'way yonder in
de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz a-risin',
en dey wuz a good current; so I reck'n'd 'at
by fo' in de mawnin' I'd be twenty-five mile down de
river, en den I'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight en swim
asho', en take to de woods on de Illinois side.
</p><p>
"But I didn' have no luck. When we 'uz mos'
down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft
wid de lantern. I see it warn't no use fer to wait, so I
slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. Well, I had
a notion I could lan' mos' anywhers, but I couldn't&mdash;bank too bluff.
I uz mos' to de foot er de islan'
b'fo' I foun' a good place. I went into de woods en
jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey
move de lantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug er
dog-leg en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't
wet, so I 'uz all right."
</p><p>
"And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat
all this time? Why didn't you get mud-turkles?"
</p><p>
"How you gwyne to git 'm?  You can't slip up on
um en grab um; en how's a body gwyne to hit um
wid a rock? How could a body do it in de night?
En I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de
daytime."
</p><p>
"Well, that's so. You've had to keep in the
woods all the time, of course. Did you hear 'em
shooting the cannon?"
</p><p>
"Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see
um go by heah&mdash;watched um thoo de bushes."
</p><p>
Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two
at a time and lighting. Jim said it was a sign it
was going to rain. He said it was a sign when young
chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was
the same way when young birds done it. I was going
to catch some of them, but Jim wouldn't let me. He
said it was death. He said his father laid mighty
sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his
old granny said his father would die, and he did.
</p><p>
And Jim said you mustn't count the things you
are going to cook for dinner, because that would
bring bad luck. The same if you shook the tablecloth
after sundown. And he said if a man owned
a beehive and that man died, the bees must be told
about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees
would all weaken down and quit work and die. Jim
said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe
that, because I had tried them lots of times myself,
and they wouldn't sting me.
</p><p>
I had heard about some of these things before,
but not all of them. Jim knowed all kinds of signs.
He said he knowed most everything. I said it
looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck,
and so I asked him if there warn't any good-luck
signs. He says:
</p><p>
"Mighty few&mdash;an' <i>dey</i> ain't no use to a body.
What you want to know when good luck's a-comin'
for? Want to keep it off?" And he said: "Ef you's
got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's
a-gwyne to be rich. Well, dey's some use in a sign
like dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. You see, maybe
you's got to be po' a long time fust, en so you might
git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you didn' know by
de sign dat you gwyne to be rich bymeby."
</p><p>
"Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?"
</p><p>
"What's de use to ax dat question? Don't you
see I has?"
</p><p>
"Well, are you rich?"
</p><p>
"No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be
rich ag'in. Wunst I had foteen dollars, but I tuck
to specalat'n', en got busted out."
</p><p>
"What did you speculate in, Jim?"
</p><p>
"Well, fust I tackled stock."
</p><p>
"What kind of stock?"
</p><p>
"Why, live stock&mdash;cattle, you know. I put ten
dollars in a cow. But I ain' gwyne to resk no mo'
money in stock. De cow up 'n' died on my han's."
</p><p>
"So you lost the ten dollars."
</p><p>
"No, I didn't lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of
it. I sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents."
</p><p>
"You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you
speculate any more?"
</p><p>
"Yes. You know that one-laigged nigger dat
b'longs to old Misto Bradish? Well, he sot up a
bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar would git
fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de year. Well, all de
niggers went in, but dey didn't have much. I wuz
de on'y one dat had much. So I stuck out for mo'
dan fo' dollars, en I said 'f I didn' git it I'd start a
bank mysef. Well, o' course dat nigger want' to
keep me out er de business, bekase he says dey
warn't business 'nough for two banks, so he say I
could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five
at de en' er de year.
</p><p>
"So I done it. Den I reck'n'd I'd inves' de
thirty-five dollars right off en keep things a-movin'.
Dey wuz a nigger name' Bob, dat had ketched a
wood-flat, en his marster didn' know it; en I bought
it off'n him en told him to take de thirty-five dollars
when de en' er de year come; but somebody stole
de wood-flat dat night, en nex' day de one-laigged
nigger say de bank's busted. So dey didn' none uv
us git no money."
</p><p>
"What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?"
</p><p>
"Well, I 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but I had a dream,
en de dream tole me to give it to a nigger name'
Balum&mdash;Balum's Ass dey call him for short; he's
one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he's lucky,
dey say, en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let
Balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a raise for
me. Well, Balum he tuck de money, en when he
wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever
give to de po' len' to de Lord, en boun' to git his
money back a hund'd times. So Balum he tuck en
give de ten cents to de po', en laid low to see what
wuz gwyne to come of it."
</p><p>
"Well, what did come of it, Jim?"
</p><p>
"Nuffn never come of it. I couldn' manage to
k'leck dat money no way; en Balum he couldn'. I
ain' gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout I see de
security. Boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd
times, de preacher says! Ef I could git de ten <i>cents</i>
back, I'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst."
</p><p>
"Well, it's all right anyway, Jim, long as you're
going to be rich again some time or other."
</p><p>
"Yes; en I's rich now, come to look at it. I owns
mysef, en I's wuth eight hund'd dollars. I wisht I
had de money, I wouldn' want no mo'."
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_IX"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER IX</h2>
<br>
<p>
I wanted to go and look at a place right about
the middle of the island that I'd found when I
was exploring; so we started and soon got to it,
because the island was only three miles long and a
quarter of a mile wide.
</p><p>
This place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge
about forty foot high. We had a rough time getting
to the top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so
thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it,
and by and by found a good big cavern in the rock,
most up to the top on the side towards Illinois. The
cavern was as big as two or three rooms bunched
together, and Jim could stand up straight in it. It
was cool in there. Jim was for putting our traps
in there right away, but I said we didn't want to
be climbing up and down there all the time.
</p><p>
Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place,
and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush
there if anybody was to come to the island, and they
would never find us without dogs. And, besides, he
said them little birds had said it was going to rain,
and did I want the things to get wet?
</p><p>
So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled
up abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up
there. Then we hunted up a place close by to hide
the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took
some fish off of the lines and set them again, and
begun to get ready for dinner.
</p><p>
The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a
hogshead in, and on one side of the door the floor
stuck out a little bit, and was flat and a good place
to build a fire on. So we built it there and cooked
dinner.
</p><p>
We spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat
our dinner in there. We put all the other things
handy at the back of the cavern. Pretty soon it
darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so
the birds was right about it. Directly it begun to
rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and I never see
the wind blow so. It was one of these regular summer
storms. It would get so dark that it looked all
blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would
thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little
ways looked dim and spider-webby; and here would
come a blast of wind that would bend the trees
down and turn up the pale underside of the leaves;
and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow
along and set the branches to tossing their arms as
if they was just wild; and next, when it was just
about the bluest and blackest&mdash;<i>fst!</i> it was as bright
as glory, and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-tops
a-plunging about away off yonder in the storm,
hundreds of yards further than you could see before;
dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear
the thunder let go with an awful crash, and then go
rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards
the under side of the world, like rolling empty
barrels down-stairs&mdash;where it's long stairs and they
bounce a good deal, you know.
</p><p>
"Jim, this is nice," I says. "I wouldn't want to
be nowhere else but here. Pass me along another
hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread."
</p><p>
"Well, you wouldn't 'a' ben here 'f it hadn't 'a' ben
for Jim. You'd 'a' ben down dah in de woods widout
any dinner, en gittin' mos' drownded, too; dat you
would, honey. Chickens knows when it's gwyne to
rain, en so do de birds, chile."
</p><p>
The river went on raising and raising for ten or
twelve days, till at last it was over the banks. The
water was three or four foot deep on the island in
the low places and on the Illinois bottom. On that
side it was a good many miles wide, but on the Missouri
side it was the same old distance across&mdash;a half
a mile&mdash;because the Missouri shore was just a wall
of high bluffs.
</p><p>
Daytimes we paddled all over the island in the
canoe. It was mighty cool and shady in the deep
woods, even if the sun was blazing outside. We went
winding in and out amongst the trees, and sometimes
the vines hung so thick we had to back away and
go some other way. Well, on every old broken-down
tree you could see rabbits and snakes and such
things; and when the island had been overflowed a
day or two they got so tame, on account of being
hungry, that you could paddle right up and put your
hand on them if you wanted to; but not the snakes
and turtles&mdash;they would slide off in the water. The
ridge our cavern was in was full of them. We could
'a' had pets enough if we'd wanted them.
</p><p>
One night we catched a little section of a lumber-raft&mdash;nice
pine planks. It was twelve foot wide and
about fifteen or sixteen foot long, and the top stood
above water six or seven inches&mdash;a solid, level floor.
We could see saw-logs go by in the daylight sometimes,
but we let them go; we didn't show ourselves
in daylight.
</p><p>
Another night when we was up at the head of the
island, just before daylight, here comes a frame-house
down, on the west side. She was a two-story,
and tilted over considerable. We paddled out and
got aboard&mdash;clumb in at an up-stairs window. But
it was too dark to see yet, so we made the canoe
fast and set in her to wait for daylight.
</p><p>
The light begun to come before we got to the foot
of the island. Then we looked in at the window.
We could make out a bed, and a table, and two old
chairs, and lots of things around about on the floor,
and there was clothes hanging against the wall.
There was something laying on the floor in the far
corner that looked like a man. So Jim says:
</p><p>
"Hello, you!"
</p><p>
But it didn't budge. So I hollered again, and then
Jim says:
</p><p>
"De man ain't asleep&mdash;he's dead. You hold still&mdash;I'll
go en see."
</p><p>
He went, and bent down and looked, and says:
</p><p>
"It's a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too.
He's ben shot in de back. I reck'n he's ben dead
two er three days. Come in, Huck, but doan' look
at his face&mdash;it's too gashly."
</p><p>
I didn't look at him at all. Jim throwed some old
rags over him, but he needn't done it; I didn't want
to see him. There was heaps of old greasy cards
scattered around over the floor, and old whisky-bottles,
and a couple of masks made out of black
cloth; and all over the walls was the ignorantest kind
of words and pictures made with charcoal. There
was two old dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet,
and some women's underclothes hanging against the
wall, and some men's clothing, too. We put the lot
into the canoe&mdash;it might come good. There was a
boy's old speckled straw hat on the floor; I took that,
too. And there was a bottle that had had milk in
it, and it had a rag stopper for a baby to suck. We
would 'a' took the bottle, but it was broke. There
was a seedy old chest, and an old hair trunk with the
hinges broke. They stood open, but there warn't
nothing left in them that was any account. The way
things was scattered about we reckoned the people
left in a hurry, and warn't fixed so as to carry off
most of their stuff.
</p><p>
We got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife
without any handle, and a bran-new Barlow knife
worth two bits in any store, and a lot of tallow
candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a
tin cup, and a ratty old bedquilt off the bed, and a
reticule with needles and pins and beeswax and buttons
and thread and all such truck in it, and a
hatchet and some nails, and a fish-line as thick as
my little finger with some monstrous hooks on it,
and a roll of buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and
a horseshoe, and some vials of medicine that didn't
have no label on them; and just as we was leaving
I found a tolerable good currycomb, and Jim he
found a ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg.
The straps was broke off of it, but, barring that, it
was a good enough leg, though it was too long for
me and not long enough for Jim, and we couldn't
find the other one, though we hunted all around.
</p><p>
And so, take it all around, we made a good haul.
When we was ready to shove off we was a quarter
of a mile below the island, and it was pretty broad
day; so I made Jim lay down in the canoe and cover
up with the quilt, because if he set up people could
tell he was a nigger a good ways off. I paddled over
to the Illinois shore, and drifted down most a half
a mile doing it. I crept up the dead water under
the bank, and hadn't no accidents and didn't see
nobody. We got home all safe.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_X"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER X</h2>
<br>
<p>
After breakfast I wanted to talk about the dead
man and guess out how he come to be killed,
but Jim didn't want to. He said it would fetch bad
luck; and besides, he said, he might come and ha'nt
us; he said a man that warn't buried was more likely
to go a-ha'nting around than one that was planted
and comfortable. That sounded pretty reasonable,
so I didn't say no more; but I couldn't keep from
studying over it and wishing I knowed who shot the
man, and what they done it for.
</p><p>
We rummaged the clothes we'd got, and found
eight dollars in silver sewed up in the lining of an
old blanket overcoat. Jim said he reckoned the
people in that house stole the coat, because if they'd
'a' knowed the money was there they wouldn't 'a' left
it. I said I reckoned they killed him, too; but Jim
didn't want to talk about that. I says:
</p><p>
"Now you think it's bad luck; but what did you
say when I fetched in the snake-skin that I found
on the top of the ridge day before yesterday? You
said it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch
a snake-skin with my hands. Well, here's your bad
luck! We've raked in all this truck and eight dollars
besides. I wish we could have some bad luck
like this every day, Jim."
</p><p>
"Never you mind, honey, never you mind. Don't
you git too peart. It's a-comin'. Mind I tell you,
it's a-comin'."
</p><p>
It did come, too. It was a Tuesday that we had
that talk. Well, after dinner Friday we was laying
around in the grass at the upper end of the ridge, and
got out of tobacco. I went to the cavern to get
some, and found a rattlesnake in there. I killed
him, and curled him up on the foot of Jim's blanket,
ever so natural, thinking there'd be some fun when
Jim found him there. Well, by night I forgot all
about the snake, and when Jim flung himself down
on the blanket while I struck a light the snake's
mate was there, and bit him.
</p><p>
He jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light
showed was the varmint curled up and ready for
another spring. I laid him out in a second with a
stick, and Jim grabbed pap's whisky-jug and begun
to pour it down.
</p><p>
He was barefooted, and the snake bit him right
on the heel. That all comes of my being such a
fool as to not remember that wherever you leave a
dead snake its mate always comes there and curls
around it. Jim told me to chop off the snake's
head and throw it away, and then skin the body and
roast a piece of it. I done it, and he eat it and said
it would help cure him. He made me take off the
rattles and tie them around his wrist, too. He said
that that would help. Then I slid out quiet and
throwed the snakes clear away amongst the bushes;
for I warn't going to let Jim find out it was all my
fault, not if I could help it.
</p><p>
Jim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and
then he got out of his head and pitched around and
yelled; but every time he come to himself he went
to sucking at the jug again. His foot swelled up
pretty big, and so did his leg; but by and by the
drunk begun to come, and so I judged he was all
right; but I'd druther been bit with a snake than
pap's whisky.
</p><p>
Jim was laid up for four days and nights. Then
the swelling was all gone and he was around again.
I made up my mind I wouldn't ever take a-holt of
a snake-skin again with my hands, now that I see
what had come of it. Jim said he reckoned I would
believe him next time. And he said that handling a
snake-skin was such awful bad luck that maybe we
hadn't got to the end of it yet. He said he druther
see the new moon over his left shoulder as much as
a thousand times than take up a snake-skin in his
hand. Well, I was getting to feel that way myself,
though I've always reckoned that looking at the new
moon over your left shoulder is one of the carelessest
and foolishest things a body can do. Old Hank
Bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in
less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the
shot-tower, and spread himself out so that he was
just a kind of a layer, as you may say; and they slid
him edgeways between two barn doors for a coffin,
and buried him so, so they say, but I didn't see it.
Pap told me. But anyway it all come of looking at
the moon that way, like a fool.
</p><p>
Well, the days went along, and the river went
down between its banks again; and about the first
thing we done was to bait one of the big hooks with
a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that
was as big as a man, being six foot two inches long,
and weighed over two hundred pounds. We couldn't
handle him, of course; he would 'a' flung us into
Illinois. We just set there and watched him rip and
tear around till he drownded. We found a brass
button in his stomach and a round ball, and lots of
rubbage. We split the ball open with the hatchet,
and there was a spool in it. Jim said he'd had it
there a long time, to coat it over so and make a
ball of it. It was as big a fish as was ever catched
in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he hadn't ever
seen a bigger one. He would 'a' been worth a good
deal over at the village. They peddle out such a
fish as that by the pound in the market-house there;
everybody buys some of him; his meat's as white as
snow and makes a good fry.
</p><p>
Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull,
and I wanted to get a stirring-up some way. I said
I reckoned I would slip over the river and find out
what was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he
said I must go in the dark and look sharp. Then he
studied it over and said, couldn't I put on some of
them old things and dress up like a girl? That was
a good notion, too. So we shortened up one of the
calico gowns, and I turned up my trouser-legs to my
knees and got into it. Jim hitched it behind with
the hooks, and it was a fair fit. I put on the sun-bonnet
and tied it under my chin, and then for a
body to look in and see my face was like looking
down a joint of stove-pipe. Jim said nobody would
know me, even in the daytime, hardly. I practised
around all day to get the hang of the things, and
by and by I could do pretty well in them, only Jim
said I didn't walk like a girl; and he said I must
quit pulling up my gown to get at my britches-pocket.
I took notice, and done better.
</p><p>
I started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just
after dark.
</p><p>
I started across to the town from a little below
the ferry-landing, and the drift of the current fetched
me in at the bottom of the town. I tied up and
started along the bank. There was a light burning
in a little shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long
time, and I wondered who had took up quarters
there. I slipped up and peeped in at the window.
There was a woman about forty year old in there
knitting by a candle that was on a pine table. I
didn't know her face; she was a stranger, for you
couldn't start a face in that town that I didn't know.
Now this was lucky, because I was weakening; I
was getting afraid I had come; people might know
my voice and find me out. But if this woman had
been in such a little town two days she could tell
me all I wanted to know; so I knocked at the door,
and made up my mind I wouldn't forget I was a girl.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XI"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XI</h2>
<br>
<p>
"Come in," says the woman, and I did. She
says: "Take a cheer."
</p><p>
I done it. She looked me all over with her little
shiny eyes, and says:
</p><p>
"What might your name be?"
</p><p>
"Sarah Williams."
</p><p>
"Where'bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?"
</p><p>
"No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've
walked all the way and I'm all tired out."
</p><p>
"Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something."
</p><p>
"No'm, I ain't hungry. I was so hungry I had
to stop two miles below here at a farm; so I ain't
hungry no more. It's what makes me so late. My
mother's down sick, and out of money and everything,
and I come to tell my uncle Abner Moore.
He lives at the upper end of the town, she says. I
hain't ever been here before. Do you know him?"
</p><p>
"No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't
lived here quite two weeks. It's a considerable ways
to the upper end of the town. You better stay here
all night. Take off your bonnet."
</p><p>
"No," I says; "I'll rest awhile, I reckon, and go
on. I ain't afeard of the dark."
</p><p>
She said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but
her husband would be in by and by, maybe in a
hour and a half, and she'd send him along with me.
Then she got to talking about her husband, and about
her relations up the river, and her relations down
the river, and about how much better off they used
to was, and how they didn't know but they'd made
a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well
alone&mdash;and so on and so on, till I was afeard I had
made a mistake coming to her to find out what was
going on in the town; but by and by she dropped on
to pap and the murder, and then I was pretty willing
to let her clatter right along. She told about me and
Tom Sawyer finding the twelve thousand dollars (only
she got it twenty) and all about pap and what a hard
lot he was, and what a hard lot I was, and at last
she got down to where I was murdered. I says:
</p><p>
"Who done it? We've heard considerable about
these goings-on down in Hookerville, but we don't
know who 'twas that killed Huck Finn."
</p><p>
"Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of
people <i>here</i> that 'd like to know who killed him.
Some think old Finn done it himself."
</p><p>
"No&mdash;is that so?"
</p><p>
"Most everybody thought it at first. He'll never
know how nigh he come to getting lynched. But
before night they changed around and judged it was
done by a runaway nigger named Jim."
</p><p>
"Why <i>he</i>&mdash;"
</p><p>
I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She
run on, and never noticed I had put in at all:
</p><p>
"The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was
killed. So there's a reward out for him&mdash;three hundred
dollars. And there's a reward out for old Finn,
too&mdash;two hundred dollars. You see, he come to town
the morning after the murder, and told about it, and
was out with 'em on the ferryboat hunt, and right
away after he up and left. Before night they wanted
to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. Well, next
day they found out the nigger was gone; they found
out he hadn't ben seen sence ten o'clock the night
the murder was done. So then they put it on him,
you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back
comes old Finn, and went boo-hooing to Judge
Thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all over
Illinois with. The judge gave him some, and that
evening he got drunk, and was around till after midnight
with a couple of mighty hard-looking strangers,
and then went off with them. Well, he hain't come
back sence, and they ain't looking for him back till
this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now
that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would
think robbers done it, and then he'd get Huck's
money without having to bother a long time with a
lawsuit. People do say he warn't any too good to do
it. Oh, he's sly, I reckon. If he don't come back for a
year he'll be all right. You can't prove anything on
him, you know; everything will be quieted down then,
and he'll walk in Huck's money as easy as nothing."
</p><p>
"Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the
way of it. Has everybody quit thinking the nigger
done it?"
</p><p>
"Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he
done it. But they'll get the nigger pretty soon now,
and maybe they can scare it out of him."
</p><p>
"Why, are they after him yet?"
</p><p>
"Well, you're innocent, ain't you! Does three
hundred dollars lay around every day for people to
pick up? Some folks think the nigger ain't far from
here. I'm one of them&mdash;but I hain't talked it around.
A few days ago I was talking with an old couple that
lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened
to say hardly anybody ever goes to that island over
yonder that they call Jackson's Island. Don't anybody
live there? says I. No, nobody, says they. I
didn't say any more, but I done some thinking. I
was pretty near certain I'd seen smoke over there,
about the head of the island, a day or two before that,
so I says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding
over there; anyway, says I, it's worth the trouble to
give the place a hunt. I hain't seen any smoke sence,
so I reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but
husband's going over to see&mdash;him and another man.
He was gone up the river; but he got back to-day,
and I told him as soon as he got here two hours ago."
</p><p>
I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still. I had to do
something with my hands; so I took up a needle off
of the table and went to threading it. My hands
shook, and I was making a bad job of it. When the
woman stopped talking I looked up, and she was
looking at me pretty curious and smiling a little. I
put down the needle and thread, and let on to be
interested&mdash;and I was, too&mdash;and says:
</p><p>
"Three hundred dollars is a power of money. I
wish my mother could get it. Is your husband going
over there to-night?"
</p><p>
"Oh, yes. He went up-town with the man I was
telling you of, to get a boat and see if they could
borrow another gun. They'll go over after midnight."
</p><p>
"Couldn't they see better if they was to wait till
daytime?"
</p><p>
"Yes. And couldn't the nigger see better, too?
After midnight he'll likely be asleep, and they can
slip around through the woods and hunt up his campfire
all the better for the dark, if he's got one."
</p><p>
"I didn't think of that."
</p><p>
The woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and
I didn't feel a bit comfortable. Pretty soon she says:
</p><p>
"What did you say your name was, honey?"
</p><p>
"M&mdash;Mary Williams."
</p><p>
Somehow it didn't seem to me that I said it was
Mary before, so I didn't look up&mdash;seemed to me I
said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of cornered, and was
afeard maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the
woman would say something more; the longer she
set still the uneasier I was. But now she says:
</p><p>
"Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when
you first come in?"
</p><p>
"Oh, yes'm, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah's
my first name. Some calls me Sarah, some calls me
Mary."
</p><p>
"Oh, that's the way of it?"
</p><p>
"Yes'm."
</p><p>
I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of
there, anyway. I couldn't look up yet.
</p><p>
Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard
times was, and how poor they had to live, and how
the rats was as free as if they owned the place, and
so forth and so on, and then I got easy again. She
was right about the rats. You'd see one stick his
nose out of a hole in the corner every little while.
She said she had to have things handy to throw at
them when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her
no peace. She showed me a bar of lead twisted up
into a knot, and said she was a good shot with it
generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a day or two
ago, and didn't know whether she could throw true
now. But she watched for a chance, and directly
banged away at a rat; but she missed him wide, and
said, "Ouch!" it hurt her arm so. Then she told
me to try for the next one. I wanted to be getting
away before the old man got back, but of course I
didn't let on. I got the thing, and the first rat that
showed his nose I let drive, and if he'd 'a' stayed where
he was he'd 'a' been a tolerable sick rat. She said that
was first-rate, and she reckoned I would hive the
next one. She went and got the lump of lead and
fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn
which she wanted me to help her with. I held up
my two hands and she put the hank over them, and
went on talking about her and her husband's matters.
But she broke off to say:
</p><p>
"Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the
lead in your lap, handy."
</p><p>
So she dropped the lump into my lap just at that
moment, and I clapped my legs together on it and
she went on talking. But only about a minute. Then
she took off the hank and looked me straight in the
face, and very pleasant, and says:
</p><p>
"Come, now, what's your real name?"
</p><p>
"Wh-hat, mum?"
</p><p>
"What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or
Bob?&mdash;or what is it?"
</p><p>
I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know
hardly what to do. But I says:
</p><p>
"Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me,
mum. If I'm in the way here, I'll&mdash;"
</p><p>
"No, you won't. Set down and stay where you
are. I ain't going to hurt you, and I ain't going to
tell on you, nuther. You just tell me your secret,
and trust me. I'll keep it; and, what's more, I'll
help you. So'll my old man if you want him to.
You see, you're a runaway 'prentice, that's all. It
ain't anything. There ain't no harm in it. You've
been treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut.
Bless you, child, I wouldn't tell on you. Tell me all
about it now, that's a good boy."
</p><p>
So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any
longer, and I would just make a clean breast and
tell her everything, but she mustn't go back on her
promise. Then I told her my father and mother was
dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old
farmer in the country thirty mile back from the
river, and he treated me so bad I couldn't stand it
no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days,
and so I took my chance and stole some of his
daughter's old clothes and cleared out, and I had
been three nights coming the thirty miles. I traveled
nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag of
bread and meat I carried from home lasted me all
the way, and I had a-plenty. I said I believed my
uncle Abner Moore would take care of me, and so
that was why I struck out for this town of
Goshen.
</p><p>
"Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St.
Petersburg. Goshen's ten mile further up the river.
Who told you this was Goshen?"
</p><p>
"Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning, just
as I was going to turn into the woods for my regular
sleep. He told me when the roads forked I must
take the right hand, and five mile would fetch me
to Goshen."
</p><p>
"He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just exactly
wrong."
</p><p>
"Well, he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't
no matter now. I got to be moving along. I'll
fetch Goshen before daylight."
</p><p>
"Hold on a minute. I'll put you up a snack to eat.
You might want it."
</p><p>
So she put me up a snack, and says:
</p><p>
"Say, when a cow's laying down, which end
of her gets up first? Answer up prompt now&mdash;don't
stop to study over it. Which end gets up
first?"
</p><p>
"The hind end, mum."
</p><p>
"Well, then, a horse?"
</p><p>
"The for'rard end, mum."
</p><p>
"Which side of a tree does the moss grow on?"
</p><p>
"North side."
</p><p>
"If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how
many of them eats with their heads pointed the same
direction?"
</p><p>
"The whole fifteen, mum."
</p><p>
"Well, I reckon you <i>have</i> lived in the country. I
thought maybe you was trying to hocus me again.
What's your real name, now?"
</p><p>
"George Peters, mum."
</p><p>
"Well, try to remember it, George. Don't forget
and tell me it's Elexander before you go, and then
get out by saying it's George Elexander when I
catch you. And don't go about women in that old
calico. You do a girl tolerable poor, but you might
fool men, maybe. Bless you, child, when you set out
to thread a needle don't hold the thread still and fetch
the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke
the thread at it; that's the way a woman most
always does, but a man always does t'other way.
And when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch
yourself up a-tiptoe and fetch your hand up over
your head as awkward as you can, and miss your
rat about six or seven foot. Throw stiff-armed from
the shoulder, like there was a pivot there for it to
turn on, like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow,
with your arm out to one side, like a boy. And, mind
you, when a girl tries to catch anything in her lap
she throws her knees apart; she don't clap them
together, the way you did when you catched the
lump of lead. Why, I spotted you for a boy when
you was threading the needle; and I contrived the
other things just to make certain. Now trot along to
your uncle, Sarah Mary Williams George Elexander
Peters, and if you get into trouble you send word to
Mrs. Judith Loftus, which is me, and I'll do what I
can to get you out of it. Keep the river road all the
way, and next time you tramp take shoes and socks
with you. The river road's a rocky one, and your
feet 'll be in a condition when you get to Goshen, I
reckon."
</p><p>
I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I
doubled on my tracks and slipped back to where my
canoe was, a good piece below the house. I jumped
in, and was off in a hurry. I went up-stream far
enough to make the head of the island, and then
started across. I took off the sun-bonnet, for I didn't
want no blinders on then. When I was about the
middle I heard the clock begin to strike, so I stops
and listens; the sound come faint over the water but
clear&mdash;eleven. When I struck the head of the island
I never waited to blow, though I was most winded,
but I shoved right into the timber where my old
camp used to be, and started a good fire there on a
high and dry spot.
</p><p>
Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our
place, a mile and a half below, as hard as I could go.
I landed, and slopped through the timber and up the
ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, sound
asleep on the ground. I roused him out and says:
</p><p>
"Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a
minute to lose. They're after us!"
</p><p>
Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word;
but the way he worked for the next half an hour
showed about how he was scared. By that time
everything we had in the world was on our raft, and
she was ready to be shoved out from the willow cove
where she was hid. We put out the camp-fire at the
cavern the first thing, and didn't show a candle outside
after that.
</p><p>
I took the canoe out from the shore a little piece,
and took a look; but if there was a boat around I
couldn't see it, for stars and shadows ain't good to
see by. Then we got out the raft and slipped along
down in the shade, past the foot of the island dead
still&mdash;never saying a word.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XII</h2>
<br>
<p>
It must 'a' been close on to one o'clock when we
got below the island at last, and the raft did seem
to go mighty slow. If a boat was to come along
we was going to take to the canoe and break for the
Illinois shore; and it was well a boat didn't come, for
we hadn't ever thought to put the gun in the canoe,
or a fishing-line, or anything to eat. We was in
ruther too much of a sweat to think of so many
things. It warn't good judgment to put <i>everything</i>
on the raft.
</p><p>
If the men went to the island I just expect they
found the camp-fire I built, and watched it all night
for Jim to come. Anyways, they stayed away from
us, and if my building the fire never fooled them it
warn't no fault of mine. I played it as low down on
them as I could.
</p><p>
When the first streak of day began to show we tied
up to a towhead in a big bend on the Illinois side, and
hacked off cottonwood branches with the hatchet,
and covered up the raft with them so she looked like
there had been a cave-in in the bank there. A towhead
is a sand-bar that has cottonwoods on it as thick
as harrow-teeth.
</p><p>
We had mountains on the Missouri shore and
heavy timber on the Illinois side, and the channel
was down the Missouri shore at that place, so we
warn't afraid of anybody running across us. We
laid there all day, and watched the rafts and steamboats
spin down the Missouri shore, and up-bound
steamboats fight the big river in the middle. I told
Jim all about the time I had jabbering with that
woman; and Jim said she was a smart one, and if
she was to start after us herself she wouldn't set
down and watch a camp-fire&mdash;no, sir, she'd fetch
a dog. Well, then, I said, why couldn't she tell
her husband to fetch a dog? Jim said he bet she
did think of it by the time the men was ready to
start, and he believed they must 'a' gone up-town to
get a dog and so they lost all that time, or else we
wouldn't be here on a towhead sixteen or seventeen
mile below the village&mdash;no, indeedy, we would be in
that same old town again. So I said I didn't care
what was the reason they didn't get us as long as they
didn't.
</p><p>
When it was beginning to come on dark we poked
our heads out of the cottonwood thicket, and looked
up and down and across; nothing in sight; so Jim
took up some of the top planks of the raft and built a
snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and
rainy, and to keep the things dry. Jim made a floor
for the wigwam, and raised it a foot or more above
the level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the
traps was out of reach of steamboat waves. Right
in the middle of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt
about five or six inches deep with a frame around it
for to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on in
sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep it
from being seen. We made an extra steering-oar,
too, because one of the others might get broke on a
snag or something. We fixed up a short forked stick
to hang the old lantern on, because we must always
light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming
down-stream, to keep from getting run over; but we
wouldn't have to light it for up-stream boats unless
we see we was in what they call a "crossing"; for the
river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a
little under water; so up-bound boats didn't always
run the channel, but hunted easy water.
</p><p>
This second night we run between seven and eight
hours, with a current that was making over four mile
an hour. We catched fish and talked, and we took a
swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was
kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying
on our backs looking up at the stars, and we
didn't ever feel like talking loud, and it warn't often
that we laughed&mdash;only a little kind of a low chuckle.
We had mighty good weather as a general thing, and
nothing ever happened to us at all&mdash;that night, nor
the next, nor the next.
</p><p>
Every night we passed towns, some of them away
up on black hillsides, nothing but just a shiny bed of
lights; not a house could you see. The fifth night we
passed St. Louis, and it was like the whole world lit
up. In St. Petersburg they used to say there was
twenty or thirty thousand people in St. Louis, but I
never believed it till I see that wonderful spread of
lights at two o'clock that still night. There warn't a
sound there; everybody was asleep.
</p><p>
Every night now I used to slip ashore toward ten
o'clock at some little village, and buy ten or fifteen
cents' worth of meal or bacon or other stuff to eat;
and sometimes I lifted a chicken that warn't roosting
comfortable, and took him along. Pap always said,
take a chicken when you get a chance, because if you
don't want him yourself you can easy find somebody
that does, and a good deed ain't ever forgot. I never
see pap when he didn't want the chicken himself, but
that is what he used to say, anyway.
</p><p>
Mornings before daylight I slipped into corn-fields
and borrowed a watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a
punkin, or some new corn, or things of that kind.
Pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things if
you was meaning to pay them back some time; but
the widow said it warn't anything but a soft name for
stealing, and no decent body would do it. Jim said
he reckoned the widow was partly right and pap was
partly right; so the best way would be for us to pick
out two or three things from the list and say we
wouldn't borrow them any more&mdash;then he reckoned
it wouldn't be no harm to borrow the others. So we
talked it over all one night, drifting along down the
river, trying to make up our minds whether to drop
the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or the mushmelons,
or what. But toward daylight we got it all
settled satisfactory, and concluded to drop crabapples
and p'simmons. We warn't feeling just right
before that, but it was all comfortable now. I was
glad the way it come out, too, because crabapples
ain't ever good, and the p'simmons wouldn't be ripe
for two or three months yet.
</p><p>
We shot a water-fowl now and then that got up
too early in the morning or didn't go to bed early
enough in the evening. Take it all round, we lived
pretty high.
</p><p>
The fifth night below St. Louis we had a big storm
after midnight, with a power of thunder and lightning,
and the rain poured down in a solid sheet.
We stayed in the wigwam and let the raft take care
of itself. When the lightning glared out we could
see a big straight river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs
on both sides. By and by says I, "Hel-<i>lo</i>, Jim,
looky yonder!" It was a steamboat that had killed
herself on a rock. We was drifting straight down
for her. The lightning showed her very distinct.
She was leaning over, with part of her upper deck
above water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy
clean and clear, and a chair by the big bell, with
an old slouch hat hanging on the back of it, when
the flashes come.
</p><p>
Well, it being away in the night and stormy, and
all so mysterious-like, I felt just the way any other
boy would 'a' felt when I seen that wreck laying there
so mournful and lonesome in the middle of the river.
I wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a
little, and see what there was there. So I says:
</p><p>
"Le's land on her, Jim."
</p><p>
But Jim was dead against it at first. He says:
</p><p>
"I doan' want to go fool'n' 'long er no wrack.
We's doin' blame' well, en we better let blame' well
alone, as de good book says. Like as not dey's a
watchman on dat wrack."
</p><p>
"Watchman your grandmother," I says; "there
ain't nothing to watch but the texas and the pilot-house;
and do you reckon anybody's going to resk his
life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this,
when it's likely to break up and wash off down the
river any minute?" Jim couldn't say nothing to
that, so he didn't try. "And besides," I says, "we
might borrow something worth having out of the
captain's stateroom. Seegars, I bet you&mdash;and cost
five cents apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is
always rich, and get sixty dollars a month, and <i>they</i>
don't care a cent what a thing costs, you know, long
as they want it. Stick a candle in your pocket; I
can't rest, Jim, till we give her a rummaging. Do
you reckon Tom Sawyer would ever go by this
thing? Not for pie, he wouldn't. He'd call it an
adventure&mdash;that's what he'd call it; and he'd land
on that wreck if it was his last act. And wouldn't
he throw style into it?&mdash;wouldn't he spread himself,
nor nothing? Why, you'd think it was Christopher
C'lumbus discovering Kingdom Come. I wish Tom
Sawyer <i>was</i> here."
</p><p>
Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we
mustn't talk any more than we could help, and then
talk mighty low. The lightning showed us the wreck
again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard
derrick, and made fast there.
</p><p>
The deck was high out here. We went sneaking
down the slope of it to labboard, in the dark, towards
the texas, feeling our way slow with our feet, and
spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it
was so dark we couldn't see no sign of them. Pretty
soon we struck the forward end of the skylight, and
clumb on to it; and the next step fetched us in front
of the captain's door, which was open, and by Jimminy,
away down through the texas-hall we see a
light! and all in the same second we seem to hear
low voices in yonder!
</p><p>
Jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful
sick, and told me to come along. I says, all right,
and was going to start for the raft; but just then I
heard a voice wail out and say:
</p><p>
"Oh, please don't, boys; I swear I won't ever tell!"
</p><p>
Another voice said, pretty loud:
</p><p>
"It's a lie, Jim Turner. You've acted this way
before. You always want more'n your share of the
truck, and you've always got it, too, because you've
swore 't if you didn't you'd tell. But this time
you've said it jest one time too many. You're the
meanest, treacherousest hound in this country."
</p><p>
By this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was
just a-biling with curiosity; and I says to myself,
Tom Sawyer wouldn't back out now, and so I won't
either; I'm a-going to see what's going on here. So
I dropped on my hands and knees in the little
passage, and crept aft in the dark till there warn't
but one stateroom betwixt me and the cross-hall of
the texas. Then in there I see a man stretched on
the floor and tied hand and foot, and two men standing
over him, and one of them had a dim lantern in
his hand, and the other one had a pistol. This one
kept pointing the pistol at the man's head on the
floor, and saying:
</p><p>
"I'd <i>like</i> to! And I orter, too&mdash;a mean skunk!"
</p><p>
The man on the floor would shrivel up and say,
"Oh, please don't, Bill; I hain't ever goin' to tell."
</p><p>
And every time he said that the man with the
lantern would laugh and say:
</p><p>
"'Deed you <i>ain't!</i> You never said no truer thing
'n that, you bet you." And once he said: "Hear
him beg! and yit if we hadn't got the best of him
and tied him he'd 'a' killed us both. And what <i>for</i>?
Jist for noth'n'. Jist because we stood on our <i>rights</i>&mdash;that's
what for. But I lay you ain't a-goin' to
threaten nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put <i>up</i>
that pistol, Bill."
</p><p>
Bill says:
</p><p>
"I don't want to, Jake Packard. I'm for killin'
him&mdash;and didn't he kill old Hatfield jist the same
way&mdash;and don't he deserve it?"
</p><p>
"But I don't <i>want</i> him killed, and I've got my
reasons for it."
</p><p>
"Bless yo' heart for them words, Jake Packard!
I'll never forgit you long's I live!" says the man on
the floor, sort of blubbering.
</p><p>
Packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung
up his lantern on a nail and started toward where
I was, there in the dark, and motioned Bill to come.
I crawfished as fast as I could about two yards, but
the boat slanted so that I couldn't make very good
time; so to keep from getting run over and catched
I crawled into a stateroom on the upper side. The
man came a-pawing along in the dark, and when
Packard got to my stateroom, he says:
</p><p>
"Here&mdash;come in here."
</p><p>
And in he come, and Bill after him. But before
they got in I was up in the upper berth, cornered,
and sorry I come. Then they stood there, with
their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked.
I couldn't see them, but I could tell where they was
by the whisky they'd been having. I was glad I
didn't drink whisky; but it wouldn't made much
difference anyway, because most of the time they
couldn't 'a' treed me because I didn't breathe. I
was too scared. And, besides, a body <i>couldn't</i>
breathe and hear such talk. They talked low and
earnest. Bill wanted to kill Turner. He says:
</p><p>
"He's said he'll tell, and he will. If we was to
give both our shares to him <i>now</i> it wouldn't make
no difference after the row and the way we've served
him. Shore's you're born, he'll turn state's evidence;
now you hear <i>me.</i> I'm for putting him out
of his troubles."
</p><p>
"So'm I," says Packard, very quiet.
</p><p>
"Blame it, I'd sorter begun to think you wasn't.
Well, then, that's all right. Le's go and do it."
</p><p>
"Hold on a minute; I hain't had my say yit. You
listen to me. Shooting's good, but there's quieter
ways if the things <i>got</i> to be done. But what <i>I</i> say
is this: it ain't good sense to go court'n' around after
a halter if you can git at what you're up to in some
way that's jist as good and at the same time don't
bring you into no resks. Ain't that so?"
</p><p>
"You bet it is. But how you goin' to manage it
this time?"
</p><p>
"Well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and
gather up whatever pickin's we've overlooked in the
staterooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck.
Then we'll wait. Now I say it ain't a-goin' to be
more'n two hours befo' this wrack breaks up and
washes off down the river. See? He'll be drownded,
and won't have nobody to blame for it but his own
self. I reckon that's a considerable sight better 'n
killin' of him. I'm unfavorable to killin' a man as
long as you can git aroun' it; it ain't good sense, it
ain't good morals. Ain't I right?"
</p><p>
"Yes, I reck'n you are. But s'pose she <i>don't</i>
break up and wash off?"
</p><p>
"Well, we can wait the two hours anyway and
see, can't we?"
</p><p>
"All right, then; come along."
</p><p>
So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat,
and scrambled forward. It was dark as pitch there;
but I said, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "Jim!" and
he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a
moan, and I says:
</p><p>
"Quick, Jim, it ain't no time for fooling around
and moaning; there's a gang of murderers in yonder,
and if we don't hunt up their boat and set her
drifting down the river so these fellows can't get
away from the wreck there's one of 'em going to be
in a bad fix. But if we find their boat we can put
<i>all</i> of 'em in a bad fix&mdash;for the sheriff 'll get 'em.
Quick&mdash;hurry! I'll hunt the labboard side, you hunt
the stabboard. You start at the raft, and&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Oh, my lordy, lordy! <i>Raf'?</i> Dey ain' no raf'
no mo'; she done broke loose en gone!&mdash;en here
we is!"
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XIII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XIII</h2>
<br>
<p>
Well, I catched my breath and most fainted.
Shut up on a wreck with such a gang as that!
But it warn't no time to be sentimentering. We'd
<i>got</i> to find that boat now&mdash;had to have it for ourselves.
So we went a-quaking and shaking down the
stabboard side, and slow work it was, too&mdash;seemed
a week before we got to the stern. No sign of a boat.
Jim said he didn't believe he could go any farther&mdash;so
scared he hadn't hardly any strength left, he said.
But I said, come on, if we get left on this wreck we
are in a fix, sure. So on we prowled again. We
struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and
then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging
on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the
skylight was in the water. When we got pretty close
to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough!
I could just barely see her. I felt ever so thankful.
In another second I would 'a' been aboard of her, but
just then the door opened. One of the men stuck
his head out only about a couple of foot from me,
and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it in again,
and says:
</p><p>
"Heave that blame lantern out o' sight, Bill!"
He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then
got in himself and set down. It was Packard. Then
Bill <i>he</i> come out and got in. Packard says, in a low
voice:
</p><p>
"All ready&mdash;shove off!"
</p><p>
I couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so
weak. But Bill says:
</p><p>
"Hold on&mdash;'d you go through him?"
</p><p>
"No. Didn't you?"
</p><p>
"No. So he's got his share o' the cash yet."
</p><p>
"Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and
leave money."
</p><p>
"Say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?"
</p><p>
"Maybe he won't. But we got to have it anyway.
Come along."
</p><p>
So they got out and went in.
</p><p>
The door slammed to because it was on the
careened side; and in a half second I was in the boat,
and Jim come tumbling after me. I out with my
knife and cut the rope, and away we went!
</p><p>
We didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor
whisper, nor hardly even breathe. We went gliding
swift along, dead silent, past the tip of the paddle-box,
and past the stern; then in a second or two more
we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the
darkness soaked her up, every last sign of her, and we
was safe, and knowed it.
</p><p>
When we was three or four hundred yards down-stream
we see the lantern show like a little spark at
the texas door for a second, and we knowed by that
that the rascals had missed their boat, and was
beginning to understand that they was in just as
much trouble now as Jim Turner was.
</p><p>
Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after
our raft. Now was the first time that I begun to
worry about the men&mdash;I reckon I hadn't had time
to before. I begun to think how dreadful it was, even
for murderers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself,
there ain't no telling but I might come to be a murderer
myself yet, and then how would I like it?  So
says I to Jim:
</p><p>
"The first light we see we'll land a hundred yards
below it or above it, in a place where it's a good
hiding-place for you and the skiff, and then I'll go
and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody
to go for that gang and get them out of their scrape,
so they can be hung when their time comes."
</p><p>
But that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it
begun to storm again, and this time worse than ever.
The rain poured down, and never a light showed;
everybody in bed, I reckon. We boomed along down
the river, watching for lights and watching for our
raft. After a long time the rain let up, but the clouds
stayed, and the lightning kept whimpering, and by
and by a flash showed us a black thing ahead, floating,
and we made for it.
</p><p>
It was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get
aboard of it again. We seen a light now away down
to the right, on shore. So I said I would go for it.
The skiff was half full of plunder which that gang had
stole there on the wreck. We hustled it on to the raft
in a pile, and I told Jim to float along down, and show
a light when he judged he had gone about two mile,
and keep it burning till I come; then I manned my
oars and shoved for the light. As I got down towards
it three or  four more showed&mdash;up on a hillside. It
was a village. I closed in above the shore light, and
laid on my oars and floated. As I went by I see it
was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of a double-hull
ferryboat. I skimmed around for the watchman,
a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and by and by I
found him roosting on the bitts forward, with his head
down between his knees. I gave his shoulder two or
three little shoves, and begun to cry.
</p><p>
He stirred up in a kind of a startlish way; but when
he see it was only me he took a good gap and stretch,
and then he says:
</p><p>
"Hello, what's up? Don't cry, bub. What's the
trouble?"
</p><p>
I says:
</p><p>
"Pap, and mam, and sis, and&mdash;"
</p><p>
Then I broke down. He says:
</p><p>
"Oh, dang it now, <i>don't</i> take on so; we all has to
have our troubles, and this 'n 'll come out all right.
What's the matter with 'em?"
</p><p>
"They're&mdash;they're&mdash;are you the watchman of the
boat?"
</p><p>
"Yes," he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like.
"I'm the captain and the owner and the mate and the
pilot and watchman and head deck-hand; and sometimes
I'm the freight and passengers. I ain't as rich
as old Jim Hornback, and I can't be so blame' generous
and good to Tom, Dick, and Harry as what he
is, and slam around money the way he does; but I've
told him a many a time 't I wouldn't trade places
with him; for, says I, a sailor's life's the life for me,
and I'm derned if <i>I'd</i> live two mile out o' town,
where there ain't nothing ever goin' on, not for
all his spondulicks and as much more on top of it.
Says I&mdash;"
</p><p>
I broke in and says:
</p><p>
"They're in an awful peck of trouble, and&mdash;"
</p><p>
"<i>Who</i> is?"
</p><p>
"Why, pap and mam and sis and Miss Hooker;
and if you'd take your ferryboat and go up there&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Up where? Where are they?"
</p><p>
"On the wreck."
</p><p>
"What wreck?"
</p><p>
"Why, there ain't but one."
</p><p>
"What, you don't mean the <i>Walter Scott?"</i>
</p><p>
"Yes."
</p><p>
"Good land! what are they doin' <i>there</i>, for gracious
sakes?"
</p><p>
"Well, they didn't go there a-purpose."
</p><p>
"I bet they didn't! Why, great goodness, there
ain't no chance for 'em if they don't git off mighty
quick! Why, how in the nation did they ever git
into such a scrape?"
</p><p>
"Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting up
there to the town&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Yes, Booth's Landing&mdash;go on."
</p><p>
"She was a-visiting there at Booth's Landing, and
just in the edge of the evening she started over with
her nigger woman in the horse-ferry to stay all
night at her friend's house, Miss What-you-may-call-her&mdash;I
disremember her name&mdash;and they lost their
steering-oar, and swung around and went a-floating
down, stern first, about two mile, and saddle-baggsed
on the wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger
woman and the horses was all lost, but Miss Hooker
she made a grab and got aboard the wreck. Well,
about an hour after dark we come along down in our
trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn't notice
the wreck till we was right on it; and so <i>we</i> saddle-baggsed;
but all of us was saved but Bill Whipple&mdash;and
oh, he <i>was</i> the best cretur!&mdash;I most wish 't it
had been me, I do."
</p><p>
"My George! It's the beatenest thing I ever
struck. And <i>then</i> what did you all do?"
</p><p>
"Well, we hollered and took on, but it's so wide
there we couldn't make nobody hear. So pap said
somebody got to get ashore and get help somehow.
I was the only one that could swim, so I made a
dash for it, and Miss Hooker she said if I didn't
strike help sooner, come here and hunt up her uncle,
and he'd fix the thing. I made the land about a
mile below, and been fooling along ever since, trying
to get people to do something, but they said, 'What,
in such a night and such a current? There ain't no
sense in it; go for the steam-ferry.' Now if you'll
go and&mdash;"
</p><p>
"By Jackson, I'd <i>like</i> to, and, blame it, I don't
know but I will; but who in the dingnation's a-going
to <i>pay</i> for it? Do you reckon your pap&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Why <i>that's</i> all right. Miss Hooker she tole me,
<i>particular</i>, that her uncle Hornback&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Great guns! is <i>he</i> her uncle? Looky here, you
break for that light over yonder-way, and turn out
west when you git there, and about a quarter of a
mile out you'll come to the tavern; tell 'em to dart
you out to Jim Hornback's, and he'll foot the bill.
And don't you fool around any, because he'll want
to know the news. Tell him I'll have his niece all
safe before he can get to town. Hump yourself,
now; I'm a-going up around the corner here to roust
out my engineer."
</p><p>
I struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the
corner I went back and got into my skiff and bailed
her out, and then pulled up shore in the easy water
about six hundred yards, and tucked myself in
among some wood-boats; for I couldn't rest easy till
I could see the ferryboat start. But take it all
around, I was feeling ruther comfortable on accounts
of taking all this trouble for that gang, for not
many would 'a' done it. I wished the widow knowed
about it. I judged she would be proud of me for
helping these rapscallions, because rapscallions and
dead-beats is the kind the widow and good people
takes the most interest in.
</p><p>
Well, before long here comes the wreck, dim and
dusky, sliding along down! A kind of cold shiver
went through me, and then I struck out for her.
She was very deep, and I see in a minute there warn't
much chance for anybody being alive in her. I
pulled all around her and hollered a little, but there
wasn't any answer; all dead still. I felt a little bit
heavy-hearted about the gang, but not much, for
I reckoned if they could stand it I could.
</p><p>
Then here comes the ferryboat; so I shoved for the
middle of the river on a long down-stream slant; and
when I judged I was out of eye-reach I laid on my
oars, and looked back and see her go and smell
around the wreck for Miss Hooker's remainders,
because the captain would know her uncle Hornback
would want them; and then pretty soon the ferryboat
give it up and went for the shore, and I laid into my
work and went a-booming down the river.
</p><p>
It did seem a powerful long time before Jim's
light showed up; and when it did show it looked like
it was a thousand mile off. By the time I got there
the sky was beginning to get a little gray in the
east; so we struck for an island, and hid the raft, and
sunk the skiff, and turned in and slept like dead
people.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XIV"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XIV</h2>
<br>
<p>
By and by, when we got up, we turned over the
truck the gang had stole off of the wreck, and
found boots, and blankets, and clothes, and all sorts
of other things, and a lot of books, and a spy-glass,
and three boxes of seegars. We hadn't ever been
this rich before in neither of our lives. The seegars
was prime. We laid off all the afternoon in the
woods talking, and me reading the books, and having
a general good time. I told Jim all about what happened
inside the wreck and at the ferryboat, and I
said these kinds of things was adventures; but he
said he didn't want no more adventures. He said
that when I went in the texas and he crawled back
to get on the raft and found her gone he nearly died,
because he judged it was all up with <i>him</i> anyway it
could be fixed; for if he didn't get saved he would
get drownded; and if he did get saved, whoever
saved him would send him back home so as to get
the reward, and then Miss Watson would sell him
South, sure. Well, he was right; he was most always
right; he had an uncommon level head for a nigger.
I read considerable to Jim about kings and dukes
and earls and such, and how gaudy they dressed, and
how much style they put on, and called each other
and so on, 'stead of mister; and Jim's eyes bugged
out, and he was interested. He says:
</p><p>
"I didn' know dey was so many un um. I hain't
hearn 'bout none un um, skasely, but ole King Sollermun,
onless you counts dem kings dat's in a pack
er k'yards. How much do a king git?"
</p><p>
"Get?" I says; "why, they get a thousand dollars
a month if they want it; they can have just as much
as they want; everything belongs to them."
</p><p>
"<i>Ain'</i> dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?"
</p><p>
"<i>They</i> don't do nothing! Why, how you talk!
They just set around."
</p><p>
"No; is dat so?"
</p><p>
"Of course it is. They just set around&mdash;except,
maybe, when there's a war; then they go to the war.
But other times they just lazy around; or go hawking&mdash;just hawking
and sp&mdash;Sh!&mdash;d'you hear a noise?"
</p><p>
We skipped out and looked; but it warn't nothing
but the flutter of a steamboat's wheel away down,
coming around the point; so we come back.
</p><p>
"Yes," says I, "and other times, when things is
dull, they fuss with the parlyment; and if everybody
don't go just so he whacks their heads off. But
mostly they hang round the harem."
</p><p>
"Roun' de which?"
</p><p>
"Harem."
</p><p>
"What's de harem?"
</p><p>
"The place where he keeps his wives. Don't you
know about the harem? Solomon had one; he had
about a million wives."
</p><p>
"Why, yes, dat's so; I&mdash;I'd done forgot it. A
harem's a bo'd'n-house, I reck'n. Mos' likely dey
has rackety times in de nussery. En I reck'n de
wives quarrels considable; en dat 'crease de racket.
Yit dey say Sollermun de wises' man dat ever live'.
I doan' take no stock in dat. Bekase why: would a
wise man want to live in de mids' er sich a blim-blammin'
all de time? No&mdash;'deed he wouldn't. A
wise man 'ud take en buil' a biler-factry; en den he
could shet <i>down</i> de biler-factry when he want to res'."
</p><p>
"Well, but he <i>was</i> the wisest man, anyway; because
the widow she told me so, her own self."
</p><p>
"I doan' k'yer what de widder say, he <i>warn't</i> no
wise man nuther. He had some er de dad-fetchedes'
ways I ever see. Does you know 'bout dat chile
dat he 'uz gwyne to chop in two?"
</p><p>
"Yes, the widow told me all about it."
</p><p>
"<i>Well</i>, den! Warn' dat de beatenes' notion in de
worl'?  You jes' take en look at it a minute. Dah's
de stump, dah&mdash;dat's one er de women; heah's you&mdash;dat's
de yuther one; I's Sollermun; en dish yer
dollar bill's de chile. Bofe un you claims it. What
does I do? Does I shin aroun' mongs' de neighbors
en fine out which un you de bill <i>do</i> b'long to, en han'
it over to de right one, all safe en soun', de way dat
anybody dat had any gumption would? No; I take
en whack de bill in <i>two</i>, en give half un it to you,
en de yuther half to de yuther woman. Dat's de
way Sollermun was gwyne to do wid de chile. Now
I want to ast you: what's de use er dat half a bill?&mdash;can't
buy noth'n wid it. En what use is a half a
chile? I wouldn' give a dern for a million un um."
</p><p>
"But hang it, Jim, you've clean missed the point&mdash;blame
it, you've missed it a thousand mile."
</p><p>
"Who? Me? Go 'long. Doan' talk to me 'bout
yo' pints. I reck'n I knows sense when I sees it;
en dey ain' no sense in sich doin's as dat. De 'spute
warn't 'bout a half a chile, de 'spute was 'bout a
whole chile; en de man dat think he kin settle a
'spute 'bout a whole chile wid a half a chile doan'
know enough to come in out'n de rain. Doan' talk to
me 'bout Sollermun, Huck, I knows him by de back."
</p><p>
"But I tell you you don't get the point."
</p><p>
"Blame de point! I reck'n I knows what I knows.
En mine you, de <i>real</i> pint furder&mdash;it's down
deeper. It lays in de way Sollermun was raised.
You take a man dat's got on'y one or two chillen; is
dat man gwyne to be waseful o' chillen? No, he
ain't; he can't 'ford it. <i>He</i> know how to value 'em.
But you take a man dat's got 'bout five million
chillen runnin' roun' de house, en it's diffunt. <i>He</i>
as soon chop a chile in two as a cat. Dey's plenty
mo'. A chile er two, mo' er less, warn't no consekens
to Sollermun, dad fetch him!"
</p><p>
I never see such a nigger. If he got a notion in
his head once, there warn't no getting it out again.
He was the most down on Solomon of any nigger I
ever see. So I went to talking about other kings,
and let Solomon slide. I told about Louis Sixteenth
that got his head cut off in France long time ago;
and about his little boy the dolphin, that would 'a'
been a king, but they took and shut him up in jail,
and some say he died there.
</p><p>
"Po' little chap."
</p><p>
"But some says he got out and got away, and
come to America."
</p><p>
"Dat's good! But he'll be pooty lonesome&mdash;dey
ain' no kings here, is dey, Huck?"
</p><p>
"No."
</p><p>
"Den he cain't git no situation. What he gwyne
to do?"
</p><p>
"Well, I don't know. Some of them gets on the
police, and some of them learns people how to talk
French."
</p><p>
"Why, Huck, doan' de French people talk de
same way we does?"
</p><p>
"<i>No</i>, Jim; you couldn't understand a word they
said&mdash;not a single word."
</p><p>
"Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat
come?"
</p><p>
"<i>I</i> don't know; but it's so. I got some of their
jabber out of a book. S'pose a man was to come
to you and say Polly-voo-franzy&mdash;what would you
think?"
</p><p>
"I wouldn' think nuffn; I'd take en bust him
over de head&mdash;dat is, if he warn't white. I wouldn't
'low no nigger to call me dat."
</p><p>
"Shucks, it ain't calling you anything. It's only
saying, do you know how to talk French?"
</p><p>
"Well, den, why couldn't he <i>say</i> it?"
</p><p>
"Why, he <i>is</i> a-saying it. That's a Frenchman's
<i>way</i> of saying it."
</p><p>
"Well, it's a blame ridicklous way, en I doan' want
to hear no mo' 'bout it. Dey ain' no sense in it."
</p><p>
"Looky here, Jim; does a cat talk like we do?"
</p><p>
"No, a cat don't."
</p><p>
"Well, does a cow?"
</p><p>
"No, a cow don't, nuther."
</p><p>
"Does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like
a cat?"
</p><p>
"No, dey don't."
</p><p>
"It's natural and right for 'em to talk different
from each other, ain't it?"
</p><p>
"Course."
</p><p>
"And ain't it natural and right for a cat and a
cow to talk different from <i>us</i>?"
</p><p>
"Why, mos' sholy it is."
</p><p>
"Well, then, why ain't it natural and right for a
<i>Frenchman</i> to talk different from us? You answer
me that."
</p><p>
"Is a cat a man, Huck?"
</p><p>
"No."
</p><p>
"Well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like
a man. Is a cow a man?&mdash;er is a cow a cat?"
</p><p>
"No, she ain't either of them."
</p><p>
"Well, den, she ain't got no business to talk like
either one er the yuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman
a man?"
</p><p>
"Yes."
</p><p>
"<i>Well</i>, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he <i>talk</i> like
a man? You answer me <i>dat!"</i>
</p><p>
I see it warn't no use wasting words&mdash;you can't
learn a nigger to argue. So I quit.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XV"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XV</h2>
<br>
<p>
We judged that three nights more would fetch
us to Cairo, at the bottom of Illinois, where
the Ohio River comes in, and that was what we was
after. We would sell the raft and get on a steamboat
and go way up the Ohio amongst the free
states, and then be out of trouble.
</p><p>
Well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and
we made for a towhead to tie to, for it wouldn't do
to try to run in a fog; but when I paddled ahead in
the canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn't
anything but little saplings to tie to. I passed the
line around one of them right on the edge of the cut
bank, but there was a stiff current, and the raft
come booming down so lively she tore it out by the
roots and away she went. I see the fog closing
down, and it made me so sick and scared I couldn't
budge for most a half a minute it seemed to me&mdash;and
then there warn't no raft in sight; you couldn't
see twenty yards. I jumped into the canoe and run
back to the stern, and grabbed the paddle and set
her back a stroke. But she didn't come. I was in
such a hurry I hadn't untied her. I got up and
tried to untie her, but I was so excited my hands
shook so I couldn't hardly do anything with them.
</p><p>
As soon as I got started I took out after the raft,
hot and heavy, right down the towhead. That was
all right as far as it went, but the towhead warn't
sixty yards long, and the minute I flew by the foot of
it I shot out into the solid white fog, and hadn't no
more idea which way I was going than a dead man.
</p><p>
Thinks I, it won't do to paddle; first I know I'll
run into the bank or a towhead or something; I got
to set still and float, and yet it's mighty fidgety
business to have to hold your hands still at such a
time. I whooped and listened. Away down there
somewheres I hears a small whoop, and up comes
my spirits. I went tearing after it, listening sharp
to hear it again. The next time it come I see I
warn't heading for it, but heading away to the right
of it. And the next time I was heading away to the
left of it&mdash;and not gaining on it much either, for I
was flying around, this way and that and t'other,
but it was going straight ahead all the time.
</p><p>
I did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan,
and beat it all the time, but he never did, and it
was the still places between the whoops that was
making the trouble for me. Well, I fought along,
and directly I hears the whoop <i>behind</i> me. I was
tangled good now. That was somebody else's
whoop, or else I was turned around.
</p><p>
I throwed the paddle down. I heard the whoop
again; it was behind me yet, but in a different place;
it kept coming, and kept changing its place, and I
kept answering, till by and by it was in front of me
again, and I knowed the current had swung the
canoe's head down-stream, and I was all right if
that was Jim and not some other raftsman hollering.
I couldn't tell nothing about voices in a fog, for
nothing don't look natural nor sound natural in a fog.
</p><p>
The whooping went on, and in about a minute I
come a-booming down on a cut bank with smoky
ghosts of big trees on it, and the current throwed me
off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags
that fairly roared, the current was tearing by them
so swift.
</p><p>
In another second or two it was solid white and
still again. I set perfectly still then, listening to
my heart thump, and I reckon I didn't draw a
breath while it thumped a hundred.
</p><p>
I just give up then. I knowed what the matter
was. That cut bank was an island, and Jim had
gone down t'other side of it. It warn't no towhead
that you could float by in ten minutes. It had the
big timber of a regular island; it might be five or six
miles long and more than half a mile wide.
</p><p>
I kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen
minutes, I reckon. I was floating along, of course,
four or five miles an hour; but you don't ever think
of that. No, you <i>feel</i> like you are laying dead still
on the water; and if a little glimpse of a snag slips
by you don't think to yourself how fast <i>you're</i> going,
but you catch your breath and think, my! how that
snag's tearing along. If you think it ain't dismal
and lonesome out in a fog that way by yourself in
the night, you try it once&mdash;you'll see.
</p><p>
Next, for about a half an hour, I whoops now and
then; at last I hears the answer a long ways off, and
tries to follow it, but I couldn't do it, and directly
I judged I'd got into a nest of towheads, for I had
little dim glimpses of them on both sides of me&mdash;sometimes
just a narrow channel between, and some
that I couldn't see I knowed was there because I'd
hear the wash of the current against the old dead
brush and trash that hung over the banks. Well,
I warn't long loosing the whoops down amongst the
towheads; and I only tried to chase them a little
while, anyway, because it was worse than chasing a
Jack-o'-lantern. You never knowed a sound dodge
around so, and swap places so quick and so much.
</p><p>
I had to claw away from the bank pretty lively four
or five times, to keep from knocking the islands out of
the river; and so I judged the raft must be butting
into the bank every now and then, or else it would
get further ahead and clear out of hearing&mdash;it was
floating a little faster than what I was.
</p><p>
Well, I seemed to be in the open river again by
and by, but I couldn't hear no sign of a whoop nowheres.
I reckoned Jim had fetched up on a snag,
maybe, and it was all up with him. I was good and
tired, so I laid down in the canoe and said I wouldn't
bother no more. I didn't want to go to sleep, of
course; but I was so sleepy I couldn't help it; so I
thought I would take jest one little cat-nap.
</p><p>
But I reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when
I waked up the stars was shining bright, the fog was
all gone, and I was spinning down a big bend stern
first. First I didn't know where I was; I thought I
was dreaming; and when things began to come back
to me they seemed to come up dim out of last week.
</p><p>
It was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest
and the thickest kind of timber on both banks; just
a solid wall, as well as I could see by the stars. I
looked away down-stream, and seen a black speck
on the water. I took after it; but when I got to it
it warn't nothing but a couple of saw-logs made fast
together. Then I see another speck, and chased
that; then another, and this time I was right. It
was the raft.
</p><p>
When I got to it Jim was setting there with his
head down between his knees, asleep, with his right
arm hanging over the steering-oar. The other oar
was smashed off, and the raft was littered up with
leaves and branches and dirt. So she'd had a rough
time.
</p><p>
I made fast and laid down under Jim's nose on the
raft, and began to gap, and stretch my fists out
against Jim, and says:
</p><p>
"Hello, Jim, have I been asleep? Why didn't you
stir me up?"
</p><p>
"Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you
ain' dead&mdash;you ain' drownded&mdash;you's back ag'in?
It's too good for true, honey, it's too good for true.
Lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o' you. No,
you ain' dead! you's back ag'in, 'live en soun', jis de
same ole Huck&mdash;de same ole Huck, thanks to goodness!"
</p><p>
"What's the matter with you, Jim? You been
a-drinking?"
</p><p>
"Drinkin'? Has I ben a-drinkin'? Has I had a
chance to be a-drinkin'?"
</p><p>
"Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?"
</p><p>
"How does I talk wild?"
</p><p>
"<i>How?</i> Why, hain't you been talking about my
coming back, and all that stuff, as if I'd been gone
away?"
</p><p>
"Huck&mdash;Huck Finn, you look me in de eye; look
me in de eye. <i>Hain't</i> you ben gone away?"
</p><p>
"Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you
mean? <i>I</i> hain't been gone anywheres. Where would
I go to?"
</p><p>
"Well, looky here, boss, dey's sumfn wrong, dey
is. Is I <i>me</i>, or who <i>is</i> I? Is I heah, or whah <i>is</i> I?
Now dat's what I wants to know."
</p><p>
"Well, I think you're here, plain enough, but I
think you're a tangle-headed old fool, Jim."
</p><p>
"I is, is I? Well, you answer me dis: Didn't you
tote out de line in de canoe fer to make fas' to de towhead?"
</p><p>
"No, I didn't. What towhead? I hain't seen no
towhead."
</p><p>
"You hain't seen no towhead? Looky here, didn't
de line pull loose en de raf' go a-hummin' down de
river, en leave you en de canoe behine in de fog?"
</p><p>
"What fog?"
</p><p>
"Why, <i>de</i> fog!&mdash;de fog dat's been aroun' all night.
En didn't you whoop, en didn't I whoop, tell we got
mix' up in de islands en one un us got los' en t'other
one was jis' as good as los', 'kase he didn' know whah
he wuz? En didn't I bust up agin a lot er dem islands
en have a turrible time en mos' git drownded?  Now
ain' dat so, boss&mdash;ain't it so? You answer me dat."
</p><p>
"Well, this is too many for me, Jim. I hain't seen
no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing.
I been setting here talking with you all night till you
went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and I reckon I
done the same. You couldn't 'a' got drunk in that
time, so of course you've been dreaming."
</p><p>
"Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in
ten minutes?"
</p><p>
"Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there
didn't any of it happen."
</p><p>
"But, Huck, it's all jis' as plain to me as&mdash;"
</p><p>
"It don't make no difference how plain it is; there
ain't nothing in it. I know, because I've been here
all the time."
</p><p>
Jim didn't say nothing for about five minutes, but
set there studying over it. Then he says:
</p><p>
"Well, den, I reck'n I did dream it, Huck; but
dog my cats ef it ain't de powerfulest dream I ever
see. En I hain't ever had no dream b'fo' dat's tired
me like dis one."
</p><p>
"Oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does
tire a body like everything sometimes. But this one
was a staving dream; tell me all about it, Jim."
</p><p>
So Jim went to work and told me the whole thing
right through, just as it happened, only he painted it
up considerable. Then he said he must start in and
"'terpret" it, because it was sent for a warning. He
said the first towhead stood for a man that would try
to do us some good, but the current was another man
that would get us away from him. The whoops was
warnings that would come to us every now and then,
and if we didn't try hard to make out to understand
them they'd just take us into bad luck, 'stead of keeping
us out of it. The lot of towheads was troubles
we was going to get into with quarrelsome people and
all kinds of mean folks, but if we minded our business
and didn't talk back and aggravate them, we would
pull through and get out of the fog and into the big
clear river, which was the free states, and wouldn't
have no more trouble.
</p><p>
It had clouded up pretty dark just after I got on to
the raft, but it was clearing up again now.
</p><p>
"Oh, well, that's all interpreted well enough as far
as it goes, Jim," I says; "but what does <i>these</i> things
stand for?"
</p><p>
It was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the
smashed oar. You could see them first-rate now.
</p><p>
Jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and
back at the trash again. He had got the dream fixed
so strong in his head that he couldn't seem to shake it
loose and get the facts back into its place again right
away. But when he did get the thing straightened
around he looked at me steady without ever smiling,
and says:
</p><p>
"What do dey stan' for? I's gwyne to tell you.
When I got all wore out wid work, en wid de callin'
for you, en went to sleep, my heart wuz mos' broke
bekase you wuz los', en I didn' k'yer no' mo' what
become er me en de raf'.  En when I wake up en fine
you back ag'in, all safe en soun', de tears come, en I
could 'a' got down on my knees en kiss yo' foot, I's so
thankful. En all you wuz thinkin' 'bout wuz how
you could make a fool uv ole Jim wid a lie. Dat truck
dah is <i>trash</i>; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt
on de head er dey fren's en makes 'em ashamed."
</p><p>
Then he got up slow and walked to the wigwam,
and went in there without saying anything but that.
But that was enough. It made me feel so mean I
could almost kissed <i>his</i> foot to get him to take it
back.
</p><p>
It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself
up to go and humble myself to a nigger; but I done
it, and I warn't ever sorry for it afterward, neither.
I didn't do him no more mean tricks, and I wouldn't
done that one if I'd 'a' knowed it would make him
feel that way.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XVI"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XVI</h2>
<br>
<p>
We slept most all day, and started out at night,
a little ways behind a monstrous long raft
that was as long going by as a procession. She had
four long sweeps at each end, so we judged she carried
as many as thirty men, likely. She had five big
wigwams aboard, wide apart, and an open camp-fire
in the middle, and a tall flag-pole at each end. There
was a power of style about her. It <i>amounted</i> to something
being a raftsman on such a craft as that.
</p><p>
We went drifting down into a big bend, and the
night clouded up and got hot. The river was very
wide, and was walled with solid timber on both sides;
you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever, or a light.
We talked about Cairo, and wondered whether we
would know it when we got to it. I said likely we
wouldn't, because I had heard say there warn't but
about a dozen houses there, and if they didn't happen
to have them lit up, how was we going to know we
was passing a town? Jim said if the two big rivers
joined together there, that would show. But I said
maybe we might think we was passing the foot of an
island and coming into the same old river again. That
disturbed Jim&mdash;and me too. So the question was,
what to do? I said, paddle ashore the first time a
light showed, and tell them pap was behind, coming
along with a trading-scow, and was a green hand at
the business, and wanted to know how far it was to
Cairo. Jim thought it was a good idea, so we took a
smoke on it and waited.
</p><p>
There warn't nothing to do now but to look out
sharp for the town, and not pass it without seeing it.
He said he'd be mighty sure to see it, because he'd be
a free man the minute he seen it, but if he missed it
he'd be in a slave country again and no more show
for freedom. Every little while he jumps up and
says:
</p><p>
"Dah she is?"
</p><p>
But it warn't. It was Jack-o'-lanterns, or lightning-bugs;
so he set down again, and went to watching,
same as before. Jim said it made him all over
trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom.
Well, I can tell you it made me all over trembly and
feverish, too, to hear him, because I begun to get it
through my head that he <i>was</i> most free&mdash;and who
was to blame for it? Why, <i>me</i>. I couldn't get that
out of my conscience, no how nor no way. It got to
troubling me so I couldn't rest; I couldn't stay still
in one place. It hadn't ever come home to me
before, what this thing was that I was doing. But
now it did; and it stayed with me, and scorched me
more and more. I tried to make out to myself that
<i>I</i> warn't to blame, because <i>I</i> didn't run Jim off from
his rightful owner; but it warn't no use, conscience
up and says, every time, "But you knowed he was
running for his freedom, and you could 'a' paddled
ashore and told somebody." That was so&mdash;I
couldn't get around that no way. That was where
it pinched. Conscience says to me, "What had poor
Miss Watson done to you that you could see her
nigger go off right under your eyes and never say
one single word? What did that poor old woman
do to you that you could treat her so mean? Why,
she tried to learn you your book, she tried to learn
you your manners, she tried to be good to you every
way she knowed how. <i>That's</i> what she done."
</p><p>
I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most
wished I was dead. I fidgeted up and down the raft,
abusing myself to myself, and Jim was fidgeting up
and down past me. We neither of us could keep
still. Every time he danced around and says,
"Dah's Cairo!" it went through me like a shot, and
I thought if it <i>was</i> Cairo I reckoned I would die of
miserableness.
</p><p>
Jim talked out loud all the time while I was talking
to myself. He was saying how the first thing he
would do when he got to a free state he would go to
saving up money and never spend a single cent, and
when he got enough he would buy his wife, which was
owned on a farm close to where Miss Watson lived;
and then they would both work to buy the two children,
and if their master wouldn't sell them, they'd
get an Ab'litionist to go and steal them.
</p><p>
It most froze me to hear such talk. He wouldn't
ever dared to talk such talk in his life before. Just
see what a difference it made in him the minute he
judged he was about free. It was according to the old
saying, "Give a nigger an inch and he'll take an ell."
Thinks I, this is what comes of my not thinking.
Here was this nigger, which I had as good as helped
to run away, coming right out flat-footed and saying
he would steal his children&mdash;children that belonged to
a man I didn't even know; a man that hadn't ever
done me no harm.
</p><p>
I was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a
lowering of him. My conscience got to stirring me
up hotter than ever, until at last I says to it, "Let up
on me&mdash;it ain't too late yet&mdash;I'll paddle ashore at the
first light and tell." I felt easy and happy and light
as a feather right off. All my troubles was gone. I
went to looking out sharp for a light, and sort of singing
to myself. By and by one showed. Jim sings
out:
</p><p>
"We's safe, Huck, we's safe! Jump up and crack
yo' heels! Dat's de good ole Cairo at las', I jis
knows it!"
</p><p>
I says:
</p><p>
"I'll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It
mightn't be, you know."
</p><p>
He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his
old coat in the bottom for me to set on, and give
me the paddle; and as I shoved off, he says:
</p><p>
"Pooty soon I'll be a-shout'n' for joy, en I'll say,
it's all on accounts o' Huck; I's a free man, en I
couldn't ever ben free ef it hadn' ben for Huck;
Huck done it. Jim won't ever forgit you, Huck;
you's de bes' fren' Jim's ever had; en you's de <i>only</i>
fren' ole Jim's got now."
</p><p>
I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him;
but when he says this, it seemed to kind of take the
tuck all out of me. I went along slow then, and I
warn't right down certain whether I was glad I
started or whether I warn't. When I was fifty
yards off, Jim says:
</p><p>
"Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on'y white
genlman dat ever kep' his promise to ole Jim."
</p><p>
Well, I just felt sick.  But I says, I <i>got</i> to do it&mdash;I
can't get <i>out</i> of it. Right then along comes a skiff
with two men in it with guns, and they stopped and
I stopped. One of them says:
</p><p>
"What's that yonder?"
</p><p>
"A piece of a raft," I says.
</p><p>
"Do you belong on it?"
</p><p>
"Yes, sir."
</p><p>
"Any men on it?"
</p><p>
"Only one, sir."
</p><p>
"Well, there's five niggers run off to-night up
yonder, above the head of the bend. Is your man
white or black?"
</p><p>
I didn't answer up prompt. I tried to, but the
words wouldn't come. I tried for a second or two
to brace up and out with it, but I warn't man
enough&mdash;hadn't the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was
weakening; so I just give up trying, and up and
says:
</p><p>
"He's white."
</p><p>
"I reckon we'll go and see for ourselves."
</p><p>
"I wish you would," says I, "because it's pap
that's there, and maybe you'd help me tow the raft
ashore where the light is. He's sick&mdash;and so is mam
and Mary Ann."
</p><p>
"Oh, the devil! we're in a hurry, boy. But I
s'pose we've got to. Come, buckle to your paddle,
and let's get along."
</p><p>
I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars.
When we had made a stroke or two, I says:
</p><p>
"Pap 'll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can
tell you. Everybody goes away when I want them
to help me tow the raft ashore, and I can't do it by
myself."
</p><p>
"Well, that's infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy,
what's the matter with your father?"
</p><p>
"It's the&mdash;a&mdash;the&mdash;well, it ain't anything much."
</p><p>
They stopped pulling. It warn't but a mighty
little ways to the raft now. One says:
</p><p>
"Boy, that's a lie. What <i>is</i> the matter with your
pap? Answer up square now, and it 'll be the better
for you."
</p><p>
"I will, sir, I will, honest&mdash;but don't leave us,
please. It's the&mdash;the&mdash;Gentlemen, if you'll only
pull ahead, and let me heave you the headline, you
won't have to come a-near the raft&mdash;please do."
</p><p>
"Set her back, John, set her back!" says one.
They backed water. "Keep away, boy&mdash;keep to
looard. Confound it, I just expect the wind has
blowed it to us. Your pap's got the smallpox, and
you know it precious well. Why didn't you come out
and say so? Do you want to spread it all over?"
</p><p>
"Well," says I, a-blubbering, "I've told everybody
before, and they just went away and left us."
</p><p>
"Poor devil, there's something in that. We are
right down sorry for you, but we&mdash;well, hang it, we
don't want the smallpox, you see. Look here, I'll
tell you what to do. Don't you try to land by yourself,
or you'll smash everything to pieces. You float
along down about twenty miles, and you'll come to
a town on the left-hand side of the river. It will be
long after sun-up then, and when you ask for help
you tell them your folks are all down with chills and
fever. Don't be a fool again, and let people guess
what is the matter. Now we're trying to do you a
kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us,
that's a good boy. It wouldn't do any good to land
yonder where the light is&mdash;it's only a wood-yard.
Say, I reckon your father's poor, and I'm bound
to say he's in pretty hard luck. Here, I'll put a
twenty-dollar gold piece on this board, and you get
it when it floats by. I feel mighty mean to leave
you; but my kingdom! it won't do to fool with small-pox,
don't you see?"
</p><p>
"Hold on, Parker," says the man, "here's a
twenty to put on the board for me. Good-by, boy;
you do as Mr. Parker told you, and you'll be all
right."
</p><p>
"That's so, my boy&mdash;good-by, good-bye. If you
see any runaway niggers you get help and nab them,
and you can make some money by it."
</p><p>
"Good-by, sir," says I; "I won't let no runaway
niggers get by me if I can help it."
</p><p>
They went off and I got aboard the raft, feeling
bad and low, because I knowed very well I had done
wrong, and I see it warn't no use for me to try to
learn to do right; a body that don't get <i>started</i> right
when he's little ain't got no show&mdash;when the pinch
comes there ain't nothing to back him up and keep
him to his work, and so he gets beat. Then I thought
a minute, and says to myself, hold on; s'pose you'd
'a' done right and give Jim up, would you felt better
than what you do now? No, says I, I'd feel bad&mdash;I'd
feel just the same way I do now. Well, then,
says I, what's the use you learning to do right when
it's troublesome to do right and ain't no trouble to
do wrong, and the wages is just the same? I was
stuck. I couldn't answer that. So I reckoned I
wouldn't bother no more about it, but after this
always do whichever come handiest at the time.
</p><p>
I went into the wigwam; Jim warn't there. I
looked all around; he warn't anywhere. I says:
</p><p>
"Jim!"
</p><p>
"Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o' sight yit? Don't
talk loud."
</p><p>
He was in the river under the stern oar, with just
his nose out. I told him they were out of sight, so
he come aboard. He says:
</p><p>
"I was a-listenin' to all de talk, en I slips into de
river en was gwyne to shove for sho' if dey come
aboard. Den I was gwyne to swim to de raf' agin
when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool
'em, Huck! Dat <i>wuz</i> de smartes' dodge! I tell you,
chile, I 'spec it save' ole Jim&mdash;ole Jim ain't going
to forgit you for dat, honey."
</p><p>
Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty
good raise&mdash;twenty dollars apiece. Jim said we
could take deck passage on a steamboat now, and the
money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the
free states. He said twenty mile more warn't far
for the raft to go, but he wished we was already
there.
</p><p>
Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was
mighty particular about hiding the raft good. Then
he worked all day fixing things in bundles, and getting
all ready to quit rafting.
</p><p>
That night about ten we hove in sight of the
lights of a town away down in a left-hand bend.
</p><p>
I went off in the canoe to ask about it. Pretty
soon I found a man out in the river with a skiff,
setting a trot-line. I ranged up and says:
</p><p>
"Mister, is that town Cairo?"
</p><p>
"Cairo? no. You must be a blame' fool."
</p><p>
"What town is it, mister?"
</p><p>
"If you want to know, go and find out. If you
stay here botherin' around me for about a half a
minute longer you'll get something you won't want."
</p><p>
I paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed,
but I said never mind, Cairo would be the
next place, I reckoned.
</p><p>
We passed another town before daylight, and I
was going out again; but it was high ground, so I
didn't go. No high ground about Cairo, Jim said.
I had forgot it. We laid up for the day on a towhead
tolerable close to the left-hand bank. I begun to
suspicion something. So did Jim. I says:
</p><p>
"Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night."
</p><p>
He says:
</p><p>
"Doan' le's talk about it, Huck. Po' niggers
can't have no luck. I awluz 'spected dat rattlesnake-skin
warn't done wid its work."
</p><p>
"I wish I'd never seen that snake-skin, Jim&mdash;I do
wish I'd never laid eyes on it."
</p><p>
"It ain't yo' fault, Huck; you didn't know.
Don't you blame yo'self 'bout it."
</p><p>
When it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio
water inshore, sure enough, and outside was the old
regular Muddy! So it was all up with Cairo.
</p><p>
We talked it all over. It wouldn't do to take to
the shore; we couldn't take the raft up the stream,
of course. There warn't no way but to wait for
dark, and start back in the canoe and take the
chances. So we slept all day amongst the cottonwood
thicket, so as to be fresh for the work, and
when we went back to the raft about dark the canoe
was gone!
</p><p>
We didn't say a word for a good while. There
warn't anything to say. We both knowed well
enough it was some more work of the rattlesnake-skin;
so what was the use to talk about it? It
would only look like we was finding fault, and that
would be bound to fetch more bad luck&mdash;and keep on
fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep still.
</p><p>
By and by we talked about what we better do,
and found there warn't no way but just to go along
down with the raft till we got a chance to buy a
canoe to go back in. We warn't going to borrow it
when there warn't anybody around, the way pap
would do, for that might set people after us.
</p><p>
So we shoved out after dark on the raft.
</p><p>
Anybody that don't believe yet that it's foolishness
to handle a snake-skin, after all that that snake-skin
done for us, will believe it now if they read on
and see what more it done for us.
</p><p>
The place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up
at shore. But we didn't see no rafts laying up; so
we went along during three hours and more. Well,
the night got gray and ruther thick, which is the
next meanest thing to fog. You can't tell the shape
of the river, and you can't see no distance. It got to
be very late and still, and then along comes a steamboat
up the river. We lit the lantern, and judged
she would see it. Up-stream boats didn't generly
come close to us; they go out and follow the bars and
hunt for easy water under the reefs; but nights like
this they bull right up the channel against the whole
river.
</p><p>
We could hear her pounding along, but we didn't
see her good till she was close. She aimed right for
us. Often they do that and try to see how close
they can come without touching; sometimes the
wheel bites off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his
head out and laughs, and thinks he's mighty smart.
Well, here she comes, and we said she was going to
try and shave us; but she didn't seem to be sheering
off a bit. She was a big one, and she was coming
in a hurry, too, looking like a black cloud with rows
of glow-worms around it; but all of a sudden she
bulged out, big and scary, with a long row of wide-open
furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth, and
her monstrous bows and guards hanging right over
us. There was a yell at us, and a jingling of bells
to stop the engines, a powwow of cussing, and
whistling of steam&mdash;and as Jim went overboard on
one side and I on the other, she come smashing
straight through the raft.
</p><p>
I dived&mdash;and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for
a thirty-foot wheel had got to go over me, and I
wanted it to have plenty of room. I could always
stay under water a minute; this time I reckon I
stayed under a minute and a half. Then I bounced
for the top in a hurry, for I was nearly busting. I
popped out to my armpits and blowed the water out
of my nose, and puffed a bit. Of course there was
a booming current; and of course that boat started
her engines again ten seconds after she stopped them,
for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now she
was churning along up the river, out of sight in the
thick weather, though I could hear her.
</p><p>
I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I
didn't get any answer; so I grabbed a plank that
touched me while I was "treading water," and struck
out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. But I made
out to see that the drift of the current was towards
the left-hand shore, which meant that I was in a
crossing; so I changed off and went that way.
</p><p>
It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings;
so I was a good long time in getting over. I
made a safe landing, and clumb up the bank. I
couldn't see but a little ways, but I went poking
along over rough ground for a quarter of a mile or
more, and then I run across a big old-fashioned
double log house before I noticed it. I was going
to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped
out and went to howling and barking at me, and I
knowed better than to move another peg.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XVII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XVII</h2>
<br>
<p>
In about a minute somebody spoke out of a window
without putting his head out, and says:
</p><p>
"Be done, boys! Who's there?"
</p><p>
I says:
</p><p>
"It's me."
</p><p>
"Who's me?"
</p><p>
"George Jackson, sir."
</p><p>
"What do you want?"
</p><p>
"I don't want nothing, sir. I only want to go
along by, but the dogs won't let me."
</p><p>
"What are you prowling around here this time of
night for&mdash;hey?"
</p><p>
"I warn't prowling around, sir; I fell overboard
off of the steamboat."
</p><p>
"Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there,
somebody. What did you say your name was?"
</p><p>
"George Jackson, sir. I'm only a boy."
</p><p>
"Look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't
be afraid&mdash;nobody 'll hurt you. But don't try to
budge; stand right where you are. Rouse out Bob
and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George
Jackson, is there anybody with you?"
</p><p>
"No, sir, nobody."
</p><p>
I heard the people stirring around in the house
now, and see a light. The man sung out:
"Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool&mdash;ain't
you got any sense? Put it on the floor behind
the front door. Bob, if you and Tom are ready,
take your places."
</p><p>
"All ready."
</p><p>
"Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?"
</p><p>
"No, sir; I never heard of them."
</p><p>
"Well, that may be so, and it mayn't. Now, all
ready. Step forward, George Jackson. And mind,
don't you hurry&mdash;come mighty slow. If there's
anybody with you, let him keep back&mdash;if he shows
himself he'll be shot. Come along now. Come
slow; push the door open yourself&mdash;just enough to
squeeze in, d'you hear?"
</p><p>
I didn't hurry; I couldn't if I'd a-wanted to. I
took one slow step at a time and there warn't a
sound, only I thought I could hear my heart. The
dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a
little behind me. When I got to the three log
doorsteps I heard them unlocking and unbarring and
unbolting. I put my hand on the door and pushed
it a little and a little more till somebody said,
"There, that's enough&mdash;put your head in." I done
it, but I judged they would take it off.
</p><p>
The candle was on the floor, and there they all
was, looking at me, and me at them, for about a
quarter of a minute: Three big men with guns
pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you;
the oldest, gray and about sixty, the other two
thirty or more&mdash;all of them fine and handsome&mdash;and
the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her
two young women which I couldn't see right well.
The old gentleman says:
</p><p>
"There; I reckon it's all right. Come in."
</p><p>
As soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked
the door and barred it and bolted it, and told the
young men to come in with their guns, and they all
went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on
the floor, and got together in a corner that was out
of the range of the front windows&mdash;there warn't none
on the side. They held the candle, and took a good
look at me, and all said, "Why, <i>he</i> ain't a Shepherdson&mdash;no,
there ain't any Shepherdson about him."
Then the old man said he hoped I wouldn't mind
being searched for arms, because he didn't mean no
harm by it&mdash;it was only to make sure. So he didn't
pry into my pockets, but only felt outside with his
hands, and said it was all right. He told me to
make myself easy and at home, and tell all about
myself; but the old lady says:
</p><p>
"Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as wet as
he can be; and don't you reckon it may be he's
hungry?"
</p><p>
"True for you, Rachel&mdash;I forgot."
</p><p>
So the old lady says:
</p><p>
"Betsy" (this was a nigger woman), "you fly
around and get him something to eat as quick as you
can, poor thing; and one of you girls go and wake
up Buck and tell him&mdash;oh, here he is himself. Buck,
take this little stranger and get the wet clothes off
from him and dress him up in some of yours that's
dry."
</p><p>
Buck looked about as old as me&mdash;thirteen or fourteen
or along there, though he was a little bigger
than me. He hadn't on anything but a shirt, and
he was very frowzy-headed. He came in gaping and
digging one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging
a gun along with the other one. He says:
</p><p>
"Ain't they no Shepherdsons around?"
</p><p>
They said, no, 'twas a false alarm.
</p><p>
"Well," he says, "if they'd 'a' ben some, I reckon
I'd 'a' got one."
</p><p>
They all laughed, and Bob says:
</p><p>
"Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all,
you've been so slow in coming."
</p><p>
"Well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right.
I'm always kept down; I don't get no show."
</p><p>
"Never mind, Buck, my boy," says the old man,
"you'll have show enough, all in good time, don't
you fret about that. Go 'long with you now, and
do as your mother told you."
</p><p>
When we got up-stairs to his room he got me a
coarse shirt and a roundabout and pants of his, and
I put them on. While I was at it he asked me what
my name was, but before I could tell him he started
to tell me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had
catched in the woods day before yesterday, and he
asked me where Moses was when the candle went
out. I said I didn't know; I hadn't heard about it
before, no way.
</p><p>
"Well, guess," he says.
</p><p>
"How'm I going to guess," says I, "when I never
heard tell of it before?"
</p><p>
"But you can guess, can't you?  It's just as easy."
</p><p>
"<i>Which</i> candle?" I says.
</p><p>
"Why, any candle," he says.
</p><p>
"I don't know where he was," says I; "where
was he?"
</p><p>
"Why, he was in the <i>dark</i>! That's where he was!"
</p><p>
"Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you
ask me for?"
</p><p>
"Why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? Say,
how long are you going to stay here? You got to
stay always. We can just have booming times&mdash;they
don't have no school now. Do you own a dog?
I've got a dog&mdash;and he'll go in the river and bring
out chips that you throw in. Do you like to comb
up Sundays, and all that kind of foolishness? You
bet I don't, but ma she makes me. Confound these
ole britches! I reckon I'd better put 'em on, but
I'd ruther not, it's so warm. Are you all ready?
All right. Come along, old hoss."
</p><p>
Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk&mdash;that
is what they had for me down there, and
there ain't nothing better that ever I've come across
yet. Buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob
pipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone, and
the two young women. They all smoked and talked,
and I eat and talked. The young women had quilts
around them, and their hair down their backs. They
all asked me questions, and I told them how pap and
me and all the family was living on a little farm down
at the bottom of Arkansaw, and my sister Mary Ann
run off and got married and never was heard of no
more, and Bill went to hunt them and he warn't
heard of no more, and Tom and Mort died, and then
there warn't nobody but just me and pap left, and he
was just trimmed down to nothing, on account of his
troubles; so when he died I took what there was left,
because the farm didn't belong to us, and started up
the river, deck passage, and fell overboard; and that
was how I come to be here. So they said I could
have a home there as long as I wanted it. Then it
was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and I
went to bed with Buck, and when I waked up in the
morning, drat it all, I had forgot what my name was.
So I laid there about an hour trying to think, and
when Buck waked up I says:
</p><p>
"Can you spell, Buck?"
</p><p>
"Yes," he says.
</p><p>
"I bet you can't spell my name," says I.
</p><p>
"I bet you what you dare I can," says he.
</p><p>
"All right," says I, "go ahead."
</p><p>
"G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n&mdash;there now," he says.
</p><p>
"Well," says I, "you done it, but I didn't think
you could. It ain't no slouch of a name to spell&mdash;right
off without studying."
</p><p>
I set it down, private, because somebody might
want <i>me</i> to spell it next, and so I wanted to be handy
with it and rattle it off like I was used to it.
It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice
house, too. I hadn't seen no house out in the country
before that was so nice and had so much style.
It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a
wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob
to turn, the same as houses in town. There warn't no
bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but heaps of
parlors in towns has beds in them. There was a big
fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the
bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on
them and scrubbing them with another brick; sometimes
they wash them over with red water-paint that
they call Spanish-brown, same as they do in town.
They had big brass dog-irons that could hold up a
saw-log. There was a clock on the middle of the
mantelpiece, with a picture of a town painted on the
bottom half of the glass front, and a round place in
the middle of it for the sun, and you could see the
pendulum swinging behind it. It was beautiful to
hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of
these peddlers had been along and scoured her up and
got her in good shape, she would start in and strike
a hundred and fifty before she got tuckered out.
They wouldn't took any money for her.
</p><p>
Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each
side of the clock, made out of something like chalk,
and painted up gaudy. By one of the parrots was a
cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the
other; and when you pressed down on them they
squeaked, but didn't open their mouths nor look
different nor interested. They squeaked through
underneath. There was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing
fans spread out behind those things. On the
table in the middle of the room was a kind of a
lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges
and peaches and grapes piled up in it, which was
much redder and yellower and prettier than real
ones is, but they warn't real because you could see
where pieces had got chipped off and showed the
white chalk, or whatever it was, underneath.
</p><p>
This table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth,
with a red and blue spread-eagle painted on it,
and a painted border all around. It come all the way
from Philadelphia, they said. There was some books,
too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the
table. One was a big family Bible full of pictures.
One was Pilgrim's Progress, about a man that left his
family, it didn't say why. I read considerable in it
now and then. The statements was interesting, but
tough. Another was Friendship's Offering, full of
beautiful stuff and poetry; but I didn't read the
poetry. Another was Henry Clay's Speeches, and
another was Dr. Gunn's Family Medicine, which told
you all about what to do if a body was sick or dead.
There was a hymn-book, and a lot of other books.
And there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly
sound, too&mdash;not bagged down in the middle
and busted, like an old basket.
</p><p>
They had pictures hung on the walls&mdash;mainly
Washingtons and Lafayettes, and battles, and Highland
Marys, and one called "Signing the Declaration."
There was some that they called crayons,
which one of the daughters which was dead made her
own self when she was only fifteen years old. They
was different from any pictures I ever see before&mdash;blacker,
mostly, than is common. One was a woman
in a slim black dress, belted small under the armpits,
with bulges like a cabbage in the middle of the
sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet with
a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about
with black tape, and very wee black slippers, like a
chisel, and she was leaning pensive on a tombstone
on her right elbow, under a weeping willow, and her
other hand hanging down her side holding a white
handkerchief and a reticule, and underneath the
picture it said "Shall I Never See Thee More Alas."
Another one was a young lady with her hair all
combed up straight to the top of her head, and
knotted there in front of a comb like a chair-back, and
she was crying into a handkerchief and had a dead
bird laying on its back in her other hand with its heels
up, and underneath the picture it said "I Shall Never
Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas."  There was one
where a young lady was at a window looking up at the
moon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she
had an open letter in one hand with black sealing-wax
showing on one edge of it, and she was mashing a
locket with a chain to it against her mouth, and underneath
the picture it said "And Art Thou Gone Yes
Thou Art Gone Alas." These was all nice pictures, I
reckon, but I didn't somehow seem to take to them,
because if ever I was down a little they always give
me the fan-tods. Everybody was sorry she died,
because she had laid out a lot more of these pictures
to do, and a body could see by what she had done
what they had lost. But I reckoned that with her
disposition she was having a better time in the
graveyard. She was at work on what they said was
her greatest picture when she took sick, and every
day and every night it was her prayer to be allowed
to live till she got it done, but she never got the
chance. It was a picture of a young woman in a long
white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all
ready to jump off, with her hair all down her back,
and looking up to the moon, with the tears running
down her face, and she had two arms folded across
her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and
two more reaching up toward the moon&mdash;and the
idea was to see which pair would look best, and
then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was
saying, she died before she got her mind made up,
and now they kept this picture over the head of the
bed in her room, and every time her birthday come
they hung flowers on it. Other times it was hid with
a little curtain. The young woman in the picture
had a kind of a nice sweet face, but there was so
many arms it made her look too spidery, seemed to
me.
</p><p>
This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was
alive, and used to paste obituaries and accidents and
cases of patient suffering in it out of the Presbyterian
Observer, and write poetry after them out of her own
head. It was very good poetry. This is what she
wrote about a boy by the name of Stephen Dowling
Bots that fell down a well and was drownded:
</p>
<blockquote>
ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D<br>
<br>
    And did young Stephen sicken,<br>
    And did young Stephen die?<br>
    And did the sad hearts thicken,<br>
    And did the mourners cry?<br>
<br>
    No; such was not the fate of<br>
    Young Stephen Dowling Bots;<br>
    Though sad hearts round him thickened,<br>
    'Twas not from sickness' shots.<br>
<br>
    No whooping-cough did rack his frame,<br>
    Nor measles drear with spots;<br>
    Not these impaired the sacred name<br>
    Of Stephen Dowling Bots.<br>
<br>
    Despised love struck not with woe<br>
    That head of curly knots,<br>
    Nor stomach troubles laid him low,<br>
    Young Stephen Dowling Bots.<br>
<br>
    O no. Then list with tearful eye,<br>
    Whilst I his fate do tell.<br>
    His soul did from this cold world fly<br>
    By falling down a well.<br>
<br>
    They got him out and emptied him;<br>
    Alas it was too late;<br>
    His spirit was gone for to sport aloft<br>
    In the realms of the good and great.<br>
</blockquote>
<p>
If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like
that before she was fourteen, there ain't no telling
what she could 'a' done by and by. Buck said she
could rattle off poetry like nothing. She didn't ever
have to stop to think. He said she would slap down
a line, and if she couldn't find anything to rhyme
with it would just scratch it out and slap down another
one, and go ahead. She warn't particular; she
could write about anything you choose to give her
to write about just so it was sadful. Every time a
man died, or a woman died, or a child died, she
would be on hand with her "tribute" before he was
cold. She called them tributes. The neighbors said
it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then the
undertaker&mdash;the undertaker never got in ahead of
Emmeline but once, and then she hung fire on a
rhyme for the dead person's name, which was
Whistler. She warn't ever the same after that; she
never complained, but she kinder pined away and
did not live long. Poor thing, many's the time I
made myself go up to the little room that used to
be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and
read in it when her pictures had been aggravating
me and I had soured on her a little. I liked all
that family, dead ones and all, and warn't going to
let anything come between us. Poor Emmeline
made poetry about all the dead people when she
was alive, and it didn't seem right that there warn't
nobody to make some about her now she was gone;
so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but I
couldn't seem to make it go somehow. They kept
Emmeline's room trim and nice, and all the things
fixed in it just the way she liked to have them when
she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. The
old lady took care of the room herself, though
there was plenty of niggers, and she sewed there a
good deal and read her Bible there mostly.
</p><p>
Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was
beautiful curtains on the windows: white, with
pictures painted on them of castles with vines all
down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink.
There was a little old piano, too, that had tin pans
in it, I reckon, and nothing was ever so lovely as
to hear the young ladies sing "The Last Link is
Broken" and play "The Battle of Prague" on it.
The walls of all the rooms was plastered, and most
had carpets on the floors, and the whole house was
whitewashed on the outside.
</p><p>
It was a double house, and the big open place
betwixt them was roofed and floored, and sometimes
the table was set there in the middle of the
day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. Nothing
couldn't be better. And warn't the cooking good,
and just bushels of it too!</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XVIII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XVIII</h2>
<br>
<p>
Col. Grangerford was a gentleman, you
see. He was a gentleman all over; and so was
his family. He was well born, as the saying is, and
that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so
the Widow Douglas said, and nobody ever denied
that she was of the first aristocracy in our town; and
pap he always said it, too, though he warn't no
more quality than a mudcat himself. Col. Grangerford
was very tall and very slim, and had a darkish-paly
complexion, not a sign of red in it anywheres;
he was clean-shaved every morning all over his thin
face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the
thinnest kind of nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy
eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so
deep back that they seemed like they was looking
out of caverns at you, as you may say. His forehead
was high, and his hair was gray and straight and
hung to his shoulders. His hands was long and thin,
and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and
a full suit from head to foot made out of linen so
white it hurt your eyes to look at it; and on Sundays
he wore a blue tail-coat with brass buttons on it.
He carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to
it. There warn't no frivolishness about him, not a
bit, and he warn't ever loud. He was as kind as
he could be&mdash;you could feel that, you know, and so
you had confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it
was good to see; but when he straightened himself
up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to
flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to
climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was
afterwards. He didn't ever have to tell anybody to
mind their manners&mdash;everybody was always good-mannered
where he was. Everybody loved to have
him around, too; he was sunshine most always&mdash;I
mean he made it seem like good weather. When he
turned into a cloud-bank it was awful dark for half a
minute, and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing
go wrong again for a week.
</p><p>
When him and the old lady come down in the
morning all the family got up out of their chairs and
give them good day, and didn't set down again till
they had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to
the sideboard where the decanter was, and mixed a
glass of bitters and handed it to him, and he held it
in his hand and waited till Tom's and Bob's was
mixed, and then they bowed and said, "Our duty to
you, sir, and madam"; and <i>they</i> bowed the least bit
in the world and said thank you, and so they drank,
all three, and Bob and Tom poured a spoonful of
water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple-brandy
in the bottom of their tumblers, and give it
to me and Buck, and we drank to the old people too.
</p><p>
Bob was the oldest and Tom next&mdash;tall, beautiful
men with very broad shoulders and brown faces, and
long black hair and black eyes. They dressed in
white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman,
and wore broad Panama hats.
</p><p>
Then there was Miss Charlotte; she was twenty-five,
and tall and proud and grand, but as good as
she could be when she warn't stirred up; but when
she was she had a look that would make you wilt in
your tracks, like her father. She was beautiful.
</p><p>
So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different
kind. She was gentle and sweet like a dove, and she
was only twenty.
</p><p>
Each person had their own nigger to wait on them&mdash;Buck
too. My nigger had a monstrous easy time,
because I warn't used to having anybody do anything
for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of
the time.
</p><p>
This was all there was of the family now, but
there used to be more&mdash;three sons; they got killed;
and Emmeline that died.
</p><p>
The old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over
a hundred niggers. Sometimes a stack of people
would come there, horseback, from ten or fifteen
mile around, and stay five or six days, and have
such junketings round about and on the river, and
dances and picnics in the woods daytimes, and balls
at the house nights. These people was mostly kinfolks
of the family. The men brought their guns
with them. It was a handsome lot of quality, I
tell you.
</p><p>
There was another clan of aristocracy around there&mdash;five
or six families&mdash;mostly of the name of Shepherdson.
They was as high-toned and well born and
rich and grand as the tribe of Grangerfords. The
Shepherdsons and Grangerfords used the same
steamboat-landing, which was about two mile above
our house; so sometimes when I went up there with
a lot of our folks I used to see a lot of the Shepherdsons
there on their fine horses.
</p><p>
One day Buck and me was away out in the woods
hunting, and heard a horse coming. We was crossing the road. Buck says:
</p><p>
"Quick! Jump for the woods!"
</p><p>
We done it, and then peeped down the woods
through the leaves. Pretty soon a splendid young
man came galloping down the road, setting his
horse easy and looking like a soldier. He had his
gun across his pommel. I had seen him before. It
was young Harney Shepherdson. I heard Buck's
gun go off at my ear, and Harney's hat tumbled off
from his head. He grabbed his gun and rode straight
to the place where we was hid. But we didn't wait.
We started through the woods on a run. The woods
warn't thick, so I looked over my shoulder to dodge
the bullet, and twice I seen Harney cover Buck with
his gun; and then he rode away the way he come&mdash;to
get his hat, I reckon, but I couldn't see. We
never stopped running till we got home. The old
gentleman's eyes blazed a minute&mdash;'twas pleasure,
mainly, I judged&mdash;then his face sort of smoothed
down, and he says, kind of gentle:
</p><p>
"I don't like that shooting from behind a bush.
Why didn't you step into the road, my boy?"
</p><p>
"The Shepherdsons don't, father. They always
take advantage."
</p><p>
Miss Charlotte she held her head up like a queen
while Buck was telling his tale, and her nostrils
spread and her eyes snapped. The two young men
looked dark, but never said nothing. Miss Sophia
she turned pale, but the color come back when she
found the man warn't hurt.
</p><p>
Soon as I could get Buck down by the corn-cribs
under the trees by ourselves, I says:
</p><p>
"Did you want to kill him, Buck?"
</p><p>
"Well, I bet I did."
</p><p>
"What did he do to you?"
</p><p>
"Him? He never done nothing to me."
</p><p>
"Well, then, what did you want to kill him for?"
</p><p>
"Why, nothing&mdash;only it's on account of the feud."
</p><p>
"What's a feud?"
</p><p>
"Why, where was you raised? Don't you know
what a feud is?"
</p><p>
"Never heard of it before&mdash;tell me about it."
</p><p>
"Well," says Buck, "a feud is this way: A man
has a quarrel with another man, and kills him; then
that other man's brother kills <i>him</i>; then the other
brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then
the <i>cousins</i> chip in&mdash;and by and by everybody's
killed off, and there ain't no more feud. But it's
kind of slow, and takes a long time."
</p><p>
"Has this one been going on long, Buck?"
</p><p>
"Well, I should <i>reckon!</i> It started thirty year
ago, or som'ers along there. There was trouble
'bout something, and then a lawsuit to settle it; and
the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and
shot the man that won the suit&mdash;which he would
naturally do, of course. Anybody would."
</p><p>
"What was the trouble about. Buck?&mdash;land?"
</p><p>
"I reckon maybe&mdash;I don't know."
</p><p>
"Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Grangerford
Shepherdson?"
</p><p>
"Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago."
</p><p>
"Don't anybody know?"
</p><p>
"Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the
other old people; but they don't know now what the
row was about in the first place."
</p><p>
"Has there been many killed, Buck?"
</p><p>
"Yes; right smart chance of funerals. But they
don't always kill. Pa's got a few buckshot in him;
but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't weigh much,
anyway. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie,
and Tom's been hurt once or twice."
</p><p>
"Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?"
</p><p>
"Yes; we got one and they got one. 'Bout three
months ago my cousin Bud, fourteen year old, was
riding through the woods on t'other side of the
river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which
was blame' foolishness, and in a lonesome place he
hears a horse a-coming behind him, and sees old
Baldy Shepherdson a-linkin' after him with his gun
in his hand and his white hair a-flying in the wind;
and 'stead of jumping off and taking to the brush,
Bud 'lowed he could outrun him; so they had it,
nip and tuck, for five mile or more, the old man
a-gaining all the time; so at last Bud seen it warn't
any use, so he stopped and faced around so as to
have the bullet-holes in front, you know, and the
old man he rode up and shot him down. But he
didn't git much chance to enjoy his luck, for inside
of a week our folks laid <i>him</i> out."
</p><p>
"I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck."
</p><p>
"I reckon he <i>warn't</i> a coward. Not by a blame'
sight. There ain't a coward amongst them Shepherdsons&mdash;not
 a one. And there ain't no cowards
amongst the Grangerfords either. Why, that old
man kep' up his end in a fight one day for half an
hour against three Grangerfords, and come out
winner. They was all a-horseback; he lit off of his
horse and got behind a little woodpile, and kep' his
horse before him to stop the bullets; but the Grangerfords
stayed on their horses and capered around
the old man, and peppered away at him, and he
peppered away at them. Him and his horse both
went home pretty leaky and crippled, but the
Grangerfords had to be <i>fetched</i> home&mdash;and one of
'em was dead, and another died the next day. No,
sir; if a body's out hunting for cowards he don't want
to fool away any time amongst them Shepherdsons,
becuz they don't breed any of that <i>kind</i>."
</p><p>
Next Sunday we all went to church, about three
mile, everybody a-horseback. The men took their
guns along, so did Buck, and kept them between their
knees or stood them handy against the wall. The
Shepherdsons done the same. It was pretty ornery
preaching&mdash;all about brotherly love, and such-like
tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good sermon,
and they all talked it over going home, and had
such a powerful lot to say about faith and good works
and free grace and preforeordestination, and I don't
know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the
roughest Sundays I had run across yet.
</p><p>
About an hour after dinner everybody was dozing
around, some in their chairs and some in their rooms,
and it got to be pretty dull. Buck and a dog was
stretched out on the grass in the sun sound asleep. I
went up to our room, and judged I would take a nap
myself. I found that sweet Miss Sophia standing in
her door, which was next to ours, and she took me in
her room and shut the door very soft, and asked me if
I liked her, and I said I did; and she asked me if I
would do something for her and not tell anybody,
and I said I would. Then she said she'd forgot her
Testament, and left it in the seat at church between
two other books, and would I slip out quiet and go
there and fetch it to her, and not say nothing to nobody.
I said I would. So I slid out and slipped off
up the road, and there warn't anybody at the church,
except maybe a hog or two, for there warn't any lock
on the door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor in summer-time
because it's cool. If you notice, most
folks don't go to church only when they've got to;
but a hog is different.
</p><p>
Says I to myself, something's up; it ain't natural
for a girl to be in such a sweat about a Testament.
So I give it a shake, and out drops a little piece of
paper with "<i>Half past two</i>" wrote on it with a pencil.
I ransacked it, but couldn't find anything else. I
couldn't make anything out of that, so I put the paper
in the book again, and when I got home and upstairs
there was Miss Sophia in her door waiting for
me. She pulled me in and shut the door; then she
looked in the Testament till she found the paper, and
as soon as she read it she looked glad; and before a
body could think she grabbed me and give me a
squeeze, and said I was the best boy in the world,
and not to tell anybody. She was mighty red in the
face for a minute, and her eyes lighted up, and it
made her powerful pretty. I was a good deal astonished,
but when I got my breath I asked her
what the paper was about, and she asked me if I had
read it, and I said no, and she asked me if I could
read writing, and I told her "no, only coarse-hand,"
and then she said the paper warn't anything but a
book-mark to keep her place, and I might go and
play now.
</p><p>
I went off down to the river, studying over this
thing, and pretty soon I noticed that my nigger was
following along behind. When we was out of sight
of the house he looked back and around a second, and
then comes a-running, and says:
</p><p>
"Mars Jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp
I'll show you a whole stack o' water-moccasins."
</p><p>
Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he said that yesterday.
He oughter know a body don't love water-moccasins
enough to go around hunting for them.
What is he up to, anyway? So I says:
</p><p>
"All right; trot ahead."
</p><p>
I followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the
swamp, and waded ankle-deep as much as another
half-mile. We come to a little flat piece of land
which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes
and vines, and he says:
</p><p>
"You shove right in dah jist a few steps, Mars
Jawge; dah's whah dey is. I's seed 'm befo'; I
don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'."
</p><p>
Then he slopped right along and went away, and
pretty soon the trees hid him. I poked into the
place a-ways and come to a little open patch as big as
a bedroom all hung around with vines, and found a
man laying there asleep&mdash;and, by jings, it was my
old Jim!
</p><p>
I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be
a grand surprise to him to see me again, but it warn't.
He nearly cried he was so glad, but he warn't surprised.
Said he swum along behind me that night,
and heard me yell every time, but dasn't answer, because
he didn't want nobody to pick <i>him</i> up and take
him into slavery again. Says he:
</p><p>
"I got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so I wuz
a considerable ways behine you towards de las'; when
you landed I reck'ned I could ketch up wid you on de
lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when I see dat
house I begin to go slow. I 'uz off too fur to hear
what dey say to you&mdash;I wuz 'fraid o' de dogs; but
when it 'uz all quiet ag'in I knowed you's in de house,
so I struck out for de woods to wait for day. Early
in de mawnin' some er de niggers come along, gwyne
to de fields, en dey tuk me en showed me dis place,
whah de dogs can't track me on accounts o' de water,
en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me
how you's a-gittin' along."
</p><p>
"Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here
sooner, Jim?"
</p><p>
"Well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck, tell we
could do sumfn&mdash;but we's all right now. I ben a-buyin'
pots en pans en vittles, as I got a chanst, en a-patchin'
up de raf' nights when&mdash;"
</p><p>
"<i>What</i> raft, Jim?"
</p><p>
"Our ole raf'."
</p><p>
"You mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all to flinders?"
</p><p>
"No, she warn't. She was tore up a good deal&mdash;one
en' of her was; but dey warn't no great harm
done, on'y our traps was mos' all los'. Ef we hadn'
dive' so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night
hadn't ben so dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd, en ben
sich punkin-heads, as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'.
But it's jis' as well we didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed
up ag'in mos' as good as new, en we's got a new lot
o' stuff, in de place o' what 'uz los'."
</p><p>
"Why, how did you get hold of the raft again,
Jim&mdash;did you catch her?"
</p><p>
"How I gwyne to ketch her en I out in de woods?
No; some er de niggers foun' her ketched on a snag
along heah in de ben', en dey hid her in a crick
'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout
which un 'um she b'long to de mos' dat I come to
heah 'bout it pooty soon, so I ups en settles de
trouble by tellin' 'um she don't b'long to none uv
'um, but to you en me; en I ast 'm if dey gwyne to
grab a young white genlman's propaty, en git a
hid'n for it? Den I gin 'm ten cents apiece, en dey
'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo' raf's
'ud come along en make 'm rich ag'in. Dey's mighty
good to me, dese niggers is, en whatever I wants 'm
to do fur me I doan' have to ast 'm twice, honey.
Dat Jack's a good nigger, en pooty smart."
</p><p>
"Yes, he is. He ain't ever told me you was here;
told me to come, and he'd show me a lot of water-moccasins.
If anything happens <i>he</i> ain't mixed up
in it. He can say he never seen us together, and
it 'll be the truth."
</p><p>
I don't want to talk much about the next day. I
reckon I'll cut it pretty short. I waked up about
dawn, and was a-going to turn over and go to
sleep again when I noticed how still it was&mdash;didn't
seem to be anybody stirring. That warn't usual.
Next I noticed that Buck was up and gone. Well,
I gets up, a-wondering, and goes down-stairs&mdash;nobody
around; everything as still as a mouse. Just
the same outside. Thinks I, what does it mean?
Down by the woodpile I comes across my Jack,
and says:
</p><p>
"What's it all about?"
</p><p>
Says he:
</p><p>
"Don't you know, Mars Jawge?"
</p><p>
"No," says I, "I don't."
</p><p>
"Well, den, Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed she has.
She run off in de night some time&mdash;nobody don't
know jis' when; run off to get married to dat young
Harney Shepherdson, you know&mdash;leastways, so dey
'spec. De fambly foun' it out 'bout half an hour
ago&mdash;maybe a little mo'&mdash;en' I <i>tell</i> you dey warn't
no time los'. Sich another hurryin' up guns en
hosses <i>you</i> never see! De women folks has gone for
to stir up de relations, en ole Mars Saul en de boys
tuck dey guns en rode up de river road for to try
to ketch dat young man en kill him 'fo' he kin git
acrost de river wid Miss Sophia. I reck'n dey's
gwyne to be mighty rough times."
</p><p>
"Buck went off 'thout waking me up."
</p><p>
"Well, I reck'n he <i>did!</i> Dey warn't gwyne to
mix you up in it. Mars Buck he loaded up his
gun en 'lowed he's gwyne to fetch home a Shepherdson
 or bust. Well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, I
reck'n, en you bet you he'll fetch one ef he gits a
chanst."
</p><p>
I took up the river road as hard as I could put.
By and by I begin to hear guns a good ways off.
When I came in sight of the log store and the woodpile
where the steamboats lands I worked along
under the trees and brush till I got to a good place,
and then I clumb up into the forks of a cottonwood
that was out of reach, and watched. There was a
wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front of
the tree, and first I was going to hide behind that;
but maybe it was luckier I didn't.
</p><p>
There was four or five men cavorting around on
their horses in the open place before the log store,
cussing and yelling, and trying to get at a couple of
young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside
of the steamboat-landing; but they couldn't
come it. Every time one of them showed himself
on the river side of the woodpile he got shot at.
The two boys was squatting back to back behind the
pile, so they could watch both ways.
</p><p>
By and by the men stopped cavorting around
and yelling. They started riding towards the
store; then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady
bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them
out of his saddle. All the men jumped off of their
horses and grabbed the hurt one and started to carry
him to the store; and that minute the two boys
started on the run. They got half-way to the tree
I was in before the men noticed. Then the men see
them, and jumped on their horses and took out
after them. They gained on the boys, but it didn't
do no good, the boys had too good a start; they got
to the woodpile that was in front of my tree, and
slipped in behind it, and so they had the bulge on
the men again. One of the boys was Buck, and the
other was a slim young chap about nineteen years old.
</p><p>
The men ripped around awhile, and then rode
away. As soon as they was out of sight I sung out
to Buck and told him. He didn't know what to
make of my voice coming out of the tree at first.
He was awful surprised. He told me to watch out
sharp and let him know when the men come in sight
again; said they was up to some devilment or other&mdash;wouldn't
be gone long. I wished I was out of
that tree, but I dasn't come down. Buck begun to
cry and rip, and 'lowed that him and his cousin Joe
(that was the other young chap) would make up for
this day yet. He said his father and his two brothers
was killed, and two or three of the enemy. Said the
Shepherdsons laid for them in ambush. Buck said
his father and brothers ought to waited for their
relations&mdash;the Shepherdsons was too strong for
them. I asked him what was become of young
Harney and Miss Sophia. He said they'd got across
the river and was safe. I was glad of that; but the
way Buck did take on because he didn't manage to
kill Harney that day he shot at him&mdash;I hain't ever
heard anything like it.
</p><p>
All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three
or four guns&mdash;the men had slipped around through
the woods and come in from behind without their
horses! The boys jumped for the river&mdash;both of
them hurt&mdash;and as they swum down the current the
men run along the bank shooting at them and singing
out, "Kill them, kill them!" It made me so sick I
most fell out of the tree. I ain't a-going to tell <i>all</i>
that happened&mdash;it would make me sick again if I
was to do that. I wished I hadn't ever come ashore
that night to see such things. I ain't ever going to
get shut of them&mdash;lots of times I dream about them.
</p><p>
I stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid
to come down. Sometimes I heard guns away off
in the woods; and twice I seen little gangs of men
gallop past the log store with guns; so I reckoned
the trouble was still a-going on. I was mighty downhearted;
so I made up my mind I wouldn't ever go
anear that house again, because I reckoned I was to
blame, somehow. I judged that that piece of paper
meant that Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres
at half past two and run off; and I judged
I ought to told her father about that paper and the
curious way she acted, and then maybe he would 'a'
locked her up, and this awful mess wouldn't ever
happened.
</p><p>
When I got down out of the tree I crept along
down the river-bank a piece, and found the two
bodies laying in the edge of the water, and tugged
at them till I got them ashore; then I covered up
their faces, and got away as quick as I could. I cried
a little when I was covering up Buck's face, for he
was mighty good to me.
</p><p>
It was just dark now. I never went near the
house, but struck through the woods and made for
the swamp. Jim warn't on his island, so I tramped
off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the
willows, red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that
awful country. The raft was gone! My souls, but
I was scared! I couldn't get my breath for most a
minute. Then I raised a yell. A voice not twenty-five
foot from me says:
</p><p>
"Good lan'! is dat you, honey? Doan' make no
noise."
</p><p>
It was Jim's voice&mdash;nothing ever sounded so good
before. I run along the bank a piece and got aboard,
and Jim he grabbed me and hugged me, he was so
glad to see me. He says:
</p><p>
"Laws bless you, chile, I 'uz right down sho'
you's dead ag'in. Jack's been heah; he say he reck'n
you's ben shot, kase you didn' come home no mo';
so I's jes' dis minute a-startin' startin' de raf' down towards
de mouf er de crick, so's to be all ready for to shove
out en leave soon as Jack comes ag'in en tells me
for certain you <i>is</i> dead. Lawsy, I's mighty glad
to git you back ag'in, honey."
</p><p>
I says:
</p><p>
"All right&mdash;that's mighty good; they won't find
me, and they'll think I've been killed, and floated
down the river&mdash;there's something up there that 'll
help them think so&mdash;so don't you lose no time, Jim,
but just shove off for the big water as fast as ever
you can."
</p><p>
I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below
there and out in the middle of the Mississippi. Then
we hung up our signal lantern, and judged that we
was free and safe once more. I hadn't had a bite
to eat since yesterday, so Jim he got out some corn-dodgers
and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage and
greens&mdash;there ain't nothing in the world so good
when it's cooked right&mdash;and whilst I eat my supper
we talked and had a good time. I was powerful glad
to get away from the feuds, and so was Jim to get
away from the swamp. We said there warn't no
home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so
cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't. You
feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XIX"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XIX</h2>
<br>
<p>
Two or three days and nights went by; I reckon
I might say they swum by, they slid along so
quiet and smooth and lovely. Here is the way we
put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down
there&mdash;sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run
nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon as night
was most gone we stopped navigating and tied up&mdash;nearly
always in the dead water under a towhead;
and then cut young cottonwoods and willows, and
hid the raft with them. Then we set out the lines.
Next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as to
freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the
sandy bottom where the water was about knee-deep,
and watched the daylight come. Not a sound anywheres&mdash;perfectly
still&mdash;just like the whole world
was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering,
maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over
the water, was a kind of dull line&mdash;that was the
woods on t'other side; you couldn't make nothing
else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness
spreading around; then the river softened up
away off, and warn't black any more, but gray; you
could see little dark spots drifting along ever so far
away&mdash;trading-scows, and such things; and long
black streaks&mdash;rafts; sometimes you could hear a
sweep screaking; or jumbled-up voices, it was so
still, and sounds come so far; and by and by you
could see a streak on the water which you know by
the look of the streak that there's a snag there in
a swift current which breaks on it and makes that
streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up
off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the
river, and you make out a log cabin in the edge of
the woods, away on the bank on t'other side of the
river, being a wood-yard, likely, and piled by them
cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres;
then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning
you from over there, so cool and fresh and sweet to
smell on account of the woods and the flowers; but
sometimes not that way, because they've left dead
fish laying around, gars and such, and they do get
pretty rank; and next you've got the full day, and
everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds
just going it!
</p><p>
A little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would
take some fish off of the lines and cook up a hot breakfast.
And afterwards we would watch the lonesomeness
of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by and
by lazy off to sleep. Wake up by and by, and look to
see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing
along up-stream, so far off towards the other side
you couldn't tell nothing about her only whether she
was a stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an
hour there wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing
to see&mdash;just solid lonesomeness. Next you'd see a
raft sliding by, away off yonder, and maybe a galoot
on it chopping, because they're most always doing
it on a raft; you'd see the ax flash and come down&mdash;you
don't hear nothing; you see that ax go up again,
and by the time it's above the man's head then you
hear the <i>k'chunk!</i>&mdash;it had took all that time to come
over the water. So we would put in the day, lazying
around, listening to the stillness. Once there was a
thick fog, and the rafts and things that went by was
beating tin pans so the steamboats wouldn't run
over them. A scow or a raft went by so close we
could hear them talking and cussing and laughing&mdash;heard
them plain; but we couldn't see no sign of
them; it made you feel crawly; it was like spirits
carrying on that way in the air. Jim said he believed
it was spirits; but I says:
</p><p>
"No; spirits wouldn't say, 'Dern the dern fog.'"
</p><p>
Soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got
her out to about the middle we let her alone, and let
her float wherever the current wanted her to; then
we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water,
and talked about all kinds of things&mdash;we was always
naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes
would let us&mdash;the new clothes Buck's folks made for
me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I
didn't go much on clothes, nohow.
</p><p>
Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves
for the longest time. Yonder was the banks
and the islands, across the water; and maybe a
spark&mdash;which was a candle in a cabin window; and
sometimes on the water you could see a spark or
two&mdash;on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybe you
could hear a fiddle or a song coming over from one of
them crafts. It's lovely to live on a raft. We had
the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used
to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss
about whether they was made or only just happened.
Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they
happened; I judged it would have took too long to
<i>make</i> so many. Jim said the moon could 'a' <i>laid</i> them;
well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn't say
nothing against it, because I've seen a frog lay most
as many, so of course it could be done. We used to
watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak
down. Jim allowed they'd got spoiled and was hove
out of the nest.
</p><p>
Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat
slipping along in the dark, and now and then she
would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her
chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river
and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner
and her lights would wink out and her powwow shut
off and leave the river still again; and by and by her
waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone,
and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't
hear nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except
maybe frogs or something.
</p><p>
After midnight the people on shore went to bed,
and then for two or three hours the shores was black&mdash;no
more sparks in the cabin windows. These
sparks was our clock&mdash;the first one that showed
again meant morning was coming, so we hunted a
place to hide and tie up right away.
</p><p>
One morning about daybreak I found a canoe and
crossed over a chute to the main shore&mdash;it was only
two hundred yards&mdash;and paddled about a mile up a
crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if I couldn't
get some berries. Just as I was passing a place where
a kind of a cowpath crossed the crick, here comes a
couple of men tearing up the path as tight as they
could foot it. I thought I was a goner, for whenever
anybody was after anybody I judged it was <i>me</i>&mdash;or
maybe Jim. I was about to dig out from there in a
hurry, but they was pretty close to me then, and sung
out and begged me to save their lives&mdash;said they
hadn't been doing nothing, and was being chased for
it&mdash;said there was men and dogs a-coming. They
wanted to jump right in, but I says:
</p><p>
"Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs and horses
yet; you've got time to crowd through the brush and
get up the crick a little ways; then you take to the
water and wade down to me and get in&mdash;that 'll throw
the dogs off the scent."
</p><p>
They done it, and soon as they was aboard I lit
out for our towhead, and in about five or ten minutes
we heard the dogs and the men away off,
shouting. We heard them come along towards the
crick, but couldn't see them; they seemed to stop
and fool around awhile; then, as we got further and
further away all the time, we couldn't hardly hear
them at all; by the time we had left a mile of woods
behind us and struck the river, everything was quiet,
and we paddled over to the towhead and hid in the
cottonwoods and was safe.
</p><p>
One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards,
and had a bald head and very gray whiskers.
He had an old battered-up slouch hat on, and a
greasy blue woolen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans
britches stuffed into his boot-tops, and home-knit
galluses&mdash;no, he only had one. He had an old long-tailed
blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung
over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking
carpet-bags.
</p><p>
The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed
about as ornery. After breakfast we all laid off and
talked, and the first thing that come out was that
these chaps didn't know one another.
</p><p>
"What got you into trouble?" says the baldhead
to t'other chap.
</p><p>
"Well, I'd been selling an article to take the
tartar off the teeth&mdash;and it does take it off, too, and
generly the enamel along with it&mdash;but I stayed about
one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the
act of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail
this side of town, and you told me they were coming,
and begged me to help you to get off. So I told you
I was expecting trouble myself, and would scatter
out <i>with</i> you. That's the whole yarn&mdash;what's
yourn?"
</p><p>
"Well, I'd ben a-runnin' a little temperance
revival thar 'bout a week, and was the pet of the
women folks, big and little, for I was makin' it
mighty warm for the rummies, I <i>tell</i> you, and takin'
as much as five or six dollars a night&mdash;ten cents
a head, children and niggers free&mdash;and business
a-growin' all the time, when somehow or another a
little report got around last night that I had a way
of puttin' in my time with a private jug on the sly.
A nigger rousted me out this mornin', and told me
the people was getherin' on the quiet with their dogs
and horses, and they'd be along pretty soon and give
me 'bout half an hour's start, and then run me down
if they could; and if they got me they'd tar and
feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. I didn't
wait for no breakfast&mdash;I warn't hungry."
</p><p>
"Old man," said the young one, "I reckon we
might double-team it together; what do you think?"
</p><p>
"I ain't undisposed. What's your line&mdash;mainly?"
</p><p>
"Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent
medicines; theater-actor&mdash;tragedy, you know; take
a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when there's
a chance; teach singing-geography school for a
change; sling a lecture sometimes&mdash;oh, I do lots of
things&mdash;most anything that comes handy, so it ain't
work. What's your lay?"
</p><p>
"I've done considerble in the doctoring way in
my time. Layin' on o' hands is my best holt&mdash;for
cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and I k'n tell
a fortune pretty good when I've got somebody along
to find out the facts for me. Preachin's my line,
too, and workin' camp-meetin's, and missionaryin'
around."
</p><p>
Nobody never said anything for a while; then the
young man hove a sigh and says:
</p><p>
"Alas!"
</p><p>
"What 're you alassin' about?" says the baldhead.
</p><p>
"To think I should have lived to be leading such
a life, and be degraded down into such company."
And he begun to wipe the corner of his eye with
a rag.
</p><p>
"Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough
for you?" says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.
</p><p>
"Yes, it <i>is</i> good enough for me; it's as good as I
deserve; for who fetched me so low when I was so
high? I did myself. I don't blame <i>you</i>, gentlemen&mdash;far
from it; I don't blame anybody. I deserve it
all. Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I
know&mdash;there's a grave somewhere for me. The
world may go on just as it's always done, and take
everything from me&mdash;loved ones, property, everything;
but it can't take that. Some day I'll lie down
in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heart
will be at rest." He went on a-wiping.
</p><p>
"Drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead;
"what are you heaving your pore broken heart
at <i>us</i> f'r? <i>We</i> hain't done nothing."
</p><p>
"No, I know you haven't. I ain't blaming you,
gentlemen. I brought myself down&mdash;yes, I did it
myself. It's right I should suffer&mdash;perfectly right&mdash;I don't
make any moan."
</p><p>
"Brought you down from whar? Whar was you
brought down from?"
</p><p>
"Ah, you would not believe me; the world never
believes&mdash;let it pass&mdash;'tis no matter. The secret of
my birth&mdash;"
</p><p>
"The secret of your birth! Do you mean to say&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn,
"I will reveal it to you, for I feel I may have confidence
in you. By rights I am a duke!"
</p><p>
Jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I
reckon mine did, too. Then the baldhead says:
"No! you can't mean it?"
</p><p>
"Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the
Duke of Bridgewater, fled to this country about the
end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of
freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his
own father dying about the same time. The second
son of the late duke seized the titles and estates&mdash;the
infant real duke was ignored. I am the lineal
descendant of that infant&mdash;I am the rightful Duke of
Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn from my
high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold
world, ragged, worn, heartbroken, and degraded to
the companionship of felons on a raft!"
</p><p>
Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We
tried to comfort him, but he said it warn't much use,
he couldn't be much comforted; said if we was a
mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more
good than most anything else; so we said we would,
if he would tell us how. He said we ought to bow
when we spoke to him, and say "Your Grace," or
"My Lord," or "Your Lordship"&mdash;and he wouldn't
mind it if we called him plain "Bridgewater," which,
he said, was a title anyway, and not a name; and one
of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any
little thing for him he wanted done.
</p><p>
Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through
dinner Jim stood around and waited on him, and
says, "Will yo' Grace have some o' dis or some o'
dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was mighty
pleasing to him.
</p><p>
But the old man got pretty silent by and by&mdash;didn't
have much to say, and didn't look pretty comfortable
over all that petting that was going on
around that duke. He seemed to have something
on his mind. So, along in the afternoon, he says:
</p><p>
"Looky here, Bilgewater," he says, "I'm nation
sorry for you, but you ain't the only person that's
had troubles like that."
</p><p>
"No?"
</p><p>
"No, you ain't. You ain't the only person that's
ben snaked down wrongfully out'n a high place."
</p><p>
"Alas!"
</p><p>
"No, you ain't the only person that's had a
secret of his birth." And, by jings, <i>he</i> begins to
cry.
</p><p>
"Hold!  What do you mean?"
</p><p>
"Bilgewater, kin I trust you?" says the old man,
still sort of sobbing.
</p><p>
"To the bitter death!" He took the old man by
the hand and squeezed it, and says, "That secret
of your being: speak!"
</p><p>
"Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!"
</p><p>
You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then
the duke says:
</p><p>
"You are what?"
</p><p>
"Yes, my friend, it is too true&mdash;your eyes is
lookin' at this very moment on the pore disappeared
Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy the
Sixteen and Marry Antonette."
</p><p>
"You! At your age! No! You mean you're
the late Charlemagne; you must be six or seven
hundred years old, at the very least."
</p><p>
"Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done
it; trouble has brung these gray hairs and this premature
balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see before you,
in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled,
trampled-on, and sufferin' rightful King of France."
</p><p>
Well, he cried and took on so that me and Jim
didn't know hardly what to do, we was so sorry&mdash;and
so glad and proud we'd got him with us, too.
So we set in, like we done before with the duke, and
tried to comfort <i>him.</i> But he said it warn't no use,
nothing but to be dead and done with it all could
do him any good; though he said it often made him
feel easier and better for a while if people treated him
according to his rights, and got down on one knee
to speak to him, and always called him "Your
Majesty," and waited on him first at meals, and
didn't set down in his presence till he asked them.
So Jim and me set to majestying him, and doing this
and that and t'other for him, and standing up till
he told us we might set down. This done him heaps
of good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable.
But the duke kind of soured on him, and didn't look
a bit satisfied with the way things was going; still,
the king acted real friendly towards him, and said
the duke's great-grandfather and all the other Dukes
of Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by <i>his</i>
father, and was allowed to come to the palace considerable;
but the duke stayed huffy a good while,
till by and by the king says:
</p><p>
"Like as not we got to be together a blamed long
time on this h-yer raft, Bilgewater, and so what's
the use o' your bein' sour? It 'll only make things
oncomfortable. It ain't my fault I warn't born a
duke, it ain't your fault you warn't born a king&mdash;so
what's the use to worry? Make the best o' things
the way you find 'em, says I&mdash;that's my motto.
This ain't no bad thing that we've struck here&mdash;plenty
grub and an easy life&mdash;come, give us your
hand, duke, and le's all be friends."
</p><p>
The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad
to see it. It took away all the uncomfortableness
and we felt mighty good over it, because it would 'a'
been a miserable business to have any unfriendliness
on the raft; for what you want, above all things, on
a raft, is for everybody to be satisfied, and feel right
and kind towards the others.
</p><p>
It didn't take me long to make up my mind that
these liars warn't no kings nor dukes at all, but just
low-down humbugs and frauds. But I never said
nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best
way; then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get
into no trouble. If they wanted us to call them
kings and dukes, I hadn't no objections, 'long as it
would keep peace in the family; and it warn't no
use to tell Jim, so I didn't tell him. If I never
learnt nothing else out of pap, I learnt that the best
way to get along with his kind of people is to let
them have their own way.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XX"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XX</h2>
<br>
<p>
They asked us considerable many questions;
wanted to know what we covered up the raft
that way for, and laid by in the daytime instead of
running&mdash;was Jim a runaway nigger? Says I:
</p><p>
"Goodness sakes! would a runaway nigger run
<i>south?</i>"
</p><p>
No, they allowed he wouldn't. I had to account
for things some way, so I says:
</p><p>
"My folks was living in Pike County, in Missouri,
where I was born, and they all died off but me and pa
and my brother Ike. Pa, he 'lowed he'd break up
and go down and live with Uncle Ben, who's got a
little one-horse place on the river forty-four mile
below Orleans. Pa was pretty poor, and had some
debts; so when he'd squared up there warn't nothing
left but sixteen dollars and our nigger, Jim. That
warn't enough to take us fourteen hundred mile, deck
passage nor no other way. Well, when the river rose
pa had a streak of luck one day; he ketched this piece
of a raft; so we reckoned we'd go down to Orleans on
it. Pa's luck didn't hold out; a steamboat run over
the forrard corner of the raft one night, and we all
went overboard and dove under the wheel; Jim and
me come up all right, but pa was drunk, and Ike was
only four years old, so they never come up no more.
Well, for the next day or two we had considerable
trouble, because people was always coming out in
skiffs and trying to take Jim away from me, saying
they believed he was a runaway nigger. We don't
run daytimes no more now; nights they don't bother
us."
</p><p>
The duke says:
</p><p>
"Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can
run in the daytime if we want to. I'll think the thing
over&mdash;I'll invent a plan that 'll fix it. We'll let it
alone for to-day, because of course we don't want to
go by that town yonder in daylight&mdash;it mightn't be
healthy."
</p><p>
Towards night it begun to darken up and look like
rain; the heat-lightning was squirting around low
down in the sky, and the leaves was beginning to
shiver&mdash;it was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy
to see that. So the duke and the king went to overhauling
our wigwam, to see what the beds was like.
My bed was a straw tick&mdash;better than Jim's, which
was a corn-shuck tick; there's always cobs around
about in a shuck tick, and they poke into you and
hurt; and when you roll over the dry shucks sound
like you was rolling over in a pile of dead leaves; it
makes such a rustling that you wake up. Well, the
duke allowed he would take my bed; but the king
allowed he wouldn't. He says:
</p><p>
"I should 'a' reckoned the difference in rank would
a sejested to you that a corn-shuck bed warn't just
fitten for me to sleep on. Your Grace 'll take the
shuck bed yourself."
</p><p>
Jim and me was in a sweat again for a minute,
being afraid there was going to be some more trouble
amongst them; so we was pretty glad when the duke
says:
</p><p>
"'Tis my fate to be always ground into the mire
under the iron heel of oppression. Misfortune has
broken my once haughty spirit; I yield, I submit;
'tis my fate. I am alone in the world&mdash;let me suffer;
I can bear it."
</p><p>
We got away as soon as it was good and dark. The
king told us to stand well out towards the middle of
the river, and not show a light till we got a long ways
below the town. We come in sight of the little bunch
of lights by and by&mdash;that was the town, you know&mdash;and
slid by, about a half a mile out, all right. When
we was three-quarters of a mile below we hoisted up
our signal lantern; and about ten o'clock it come on
to rain and blow and thunder and lighten like everything;
so the king told us to both stay on watch till
the weather got better; then him and the duke
crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the night.
It was my watch below till twelve, but I wouldn't
'a' turned in anyway if I'd had a bed, because a body
don't see such a storm as that every day in the week,
not by a long sight. My souls, how the wind did
scream along! And every second or two there'd
come a glare that lit up the white-caps for a half a
mile around, and you'd see the islands looking dusty
through the rain, and the trees thrashing around in
the wind; then comes a <i>h-whack!</i>&mdash;bum! bum! bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum&mdash;and
the thunder
would go rumbling and grumbling away, and quit&mdash;and
then <i>rip</i> comes another flash and another sock-dolager.
The waves most washed me off the raft
sometimes, but I hadn't any clothes on, and didn't
mind. We didn't have no trouble about snags; the
lightning was glaring and flittering around so constant
that we could see them plenty soon enough to
throw her head this way or that and miss them.
</p><p>
I had the middle watch, you know, but I was pretty
sleepy by that time, so Jim he said he would stand
the first half of it for me; he was always mighty good
that way, Jim was. I crawled into the wigwam, but
the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around
so there warn't no show for me; so I laid outside&mdash;I
didn't mind the rain, because it was warm, and the
waves warn't running so high now. About two they
come up again, though, and Jim was going to call me;
but he changed his mind, because he reckoned they
warn't high enough yet to do any harm; but he was
mistaken about that, for pretty soon all of a sudden
along comes a regular ripper and washed me overboard.
It most killed Jim a-laughing. He was the
easiest nigger to laugh that ever was, anyway.
</p><p>
I took the watch, and Jim he laid down and snored
away; and by and by the storm let up for good and
all; and the first cabin-light that showed I rousted
him out, and we slid the raft into hiding-quarters for
the day.
</p><p>
The king got out an old ratty deck of cards after
breakfast, and him and the duke played seven-up
awhile, five cents a game. Then they got tired of it,
and allowed they would "lay out a campaign," as
they called it. The duke went down into his carpet-bag,
and fetched up a lot of little printed bills and
read them out loud. One bill said, "The celebrated
Dr. Armand de Montalban, of Paris," would "lecture
on the Science of Phrenology" at such and such a
place, on the blank day of blank, at ten cents admission,
and "furnish charts of character at twenty-five
cents apiece." The duke said that was <i>him.</i> In another
bill he was the "world-renowned Shakespearian
tragedian, Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane, London."
In other bills he had a lot of other names
and done other wonderful things, like finding water
and gold with a "divining-rod," "dissipating witch
spells," and so on. By and by he says:
</p><p>
"But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you
ever trod the boards, Royalty?"
</p><p>
"No," says the king.
</p><p>
"You shall, then, before you're three days older,
Fallen Grandeur," says the duke. "The first good
town we come to we'll hire a hall and do the swordfight
in 'Richard III.' and the balcony scene in 'Romeo
and Juliet.' How does that strike you?"
</p><p>
"I'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay,
Bilgewater; but, you see, I don't know nothing about
play-actin', and hain't ever seen much of it. I was
too small when pap used to have 'em at the palace.
Do you reckon you can learn me?"
</p><p>
"Easy!"
</p><p>
"All right. I'm jist a-freezin' for something fresh,
anyway. Le's commence right away."
</p><p>
So the duke he told him all about who Romeo was
and who Juliet was, and said he was used to being
Romeo, so the king could be Juliet.
</p><p>
"But if Juliet's such a young gal, duke, my peeled
head and my white whiskers is goin' to look oncommon
odd on her, maybe."
</p><p>
"No, don't you worry; these country jakes won't
ever think of that. Besides, you know, you'll be in
costume, and that makes all the difference in the
world; Juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight
before she goes to bed, and she's got on her nightgown
and her ruffled nightcap. Here are the costumes
for the parts."
</p><p>
He got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which
he said was meedyevil armor for Richard III. and
t'other chap, and a long white cotton nightshirt and a
ruffled nightcap to match. The king was satisfied; so
the duke got out his book and read the parts over in
the most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around
and acting at the same time, to show how it had got
to be done; then he give the book to the king and
told him to get his part by heart.
</p><p>
There was a little one-horse town about three mile
down the bend, and after dinner the duke said he had
ciphered out his idea about how to run in daylight
without it being dangersome for Jim; so he allowed
he would go down to the town and fix that thing.
The king allowed he would go, too, and see if he
couldn't strike something. We was out of coffee, so
Jim said I better go along with them in the canoe and
get some.
</p><p>
When we got there there warn't nobody stirring;
streets empty, and perfectly dead and still, like Sunday.
We found a sick nigger sunning himself in a
back yard, and he said everybody that warn't too
young or too sick or too old was gone to camp-meeting,
about two mile back in the woods. The king
got the directions, and allowed he'd go and work that
camp-meeting for all it was worth, and I might go, too.
</p><p>
The duke said what he was after was a printing-office.
We found it; a little bit of a concern, up over
a carpenter-shop&mdash;carpenters and printers all gone to
the meeting, and no doors locked. It was a dirty,
littered-up place, and had ink-marks, and handbills
with pictures of horses and runaway niggers on them,
all over the walls. The duke shed his coat and said
he was all right now. So me and the king lit out for
the camp-meeting.
</p><p>
We got there in about a half an hour fairly dripping,
for it was a most awful hot day. There was as
much as a thousand people there from twenty mile
around. The woods was full of teams and wagons,
hitched everywheres, feeding out of the wagon-troughs
and stomping to keep off the flies. There was
sheds made out of poles and roofed over with
branches, where they had lemonade and gingerbread
to sell, and piles of watermelons and green corn and
such-like truck.
</p><p>
The preaching was going on under the same kinds
of sheds, only they was bigger and held crowds of
people. The benches was made out of outside slabs
of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive
sticks into for legs. They didn't have no backs.
The preachers had high platforms to stand on at one
end of the sheds. The women had on sun-bonnets;
and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham
ones, and a few of the young ones had on calico.
Some of the young men was barefooted, and some of
the children didn't have on any clothes but just a
tow-linen shirt. Some of the old women was knitting,
and some of the young folks was courting on the sly.
</p><p>
The first shed we come to the preacher was lining
out a hymn. He lined out two lines, everybody sung
it, and it was kind of grand to hear it, there was so
many of them and they done it in such a rousing way;
then he lined out two more for them to sing&mdash;and so
on. The people woke up more and more, and sung
louder and louder; and towards the end some begun
to groan, and some begun to shout. Then the
preacher begun to preach, and begun in earnest, too;
and went weaving first to one side of the platform and
then the other, and then a-leaning down over the
front of it, with his arms and his body going all the
time, and shouting his words out with all his might;
and every now and then he would hold up his Bible
and spread it open, and kind of pass it around this
way and that, shouting, "It's the brazen serpent in
the wilderness! Look upon it and live!" And people
would shout out, "Glory!&mdash;A-a-<i>men</i>!" And so he
went on, and the people groaning and crying and
saying amen:
</p><p>
"Oh, come to the mourners' bench! come, black
with sin! (<i>amen!</i>) come, sick and sore! (<i>amen!</i>)
come, lame and halt and blind! (<i>amen!</i>) come, pore
and needy, sunk in shame! (<i>a-a-men!</i>) come, all
that's worn and soiled and suffering!&mdash;come with a
broken spirit! come with a contrite heart! come in
your rags and sin and dirt! the waters that cleanse is
free, the door of heaven stands open&mdash;oh, enter in
and be at rest!" (<i>a-a-men! glory, glory hallelujah!</i>)
</p><p>
And so on. You couldn't make out what the
preacher said any more, on account of the shouting
and crying. Folks got up everywheres in the crowd,
and worked their way just by main strength to the
mourners' bench, with the tears running down their
faces; and when all the mourners had got up there to
the front benches in a crowd, they sung and shouted
and flung themselves down on the straw, just crazy
and wild.
</p><p>
Well, the first I knowed the king got a-going, and
you could hear him over everybody; and next he
went a-charging up onto the platform, and the
preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and
he done it. He told them he was a pirate&mdash;been a
pirate for thirty years out in the Indian Ocean&mdash;and
his crew was thinned out considerable last spring in a
fight, and he was home now to take out some fresh
men, and thanks to goodness he'd been robbed last
night and put ashore off of a steamboat without a
cent, and he was glad of it; it was the blessedest
thing that ever happened to him, because he was a
changed man now, and happy for the first time in his
life; and, poor as he was, he was going to start right
off and work his way back to the Indian Ocean, and
put in the rest of his life trying to turn the pirates
into the true path; for he could do it better than
anybody else, being acquainted with all pirate crews
in that ocean; and though it would take him a long
time to get there without money, he would get there
anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he
would say to him, "Don't you thank me, don't you
give me no credit; it all belongs to them dear people
in Pokeville camp-meeting, natural brothers and
benefactors of the race, and that dear preacher there,
the truest friend a pirate ever had!"
</p><p>
And then he busted into tears, and so did everybody.
Then somebody sings out, "Take up a collection
for him, take up a collection!" Well, a half
a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings
out, "Let <i>him</i> pass the hat around!" Then everybody
said it, the preacher too.
</p><p>
So the king went all through the crowd with his
hat, swabbing his eyes, and blessing the people and
praising them and thanking them for being so good
to the poor pirates away off there; and every little
while the prettiest kind of girls, with the tears
running down their cheeks, would up and ask him
would he let them kiss him for to remember him by;
and he always done it; and some of them he hugged
and kissed as many as five or six times&mdash;and he was
invited to stay a week; and everybody wanted him
to live in their houses, and said they'd think it was
an honor; but he said as this was the last day of
the camp-meeting he couldn't do no good, and besides
he was in a sweat to get to the Indian Ocean
right off and go to work on the pirates.
</p><p>
When we got back to the raft and he come to
count up he found he had collected eighty-seven
dollars and seventy-five cents. And then he had
fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that
he found under a wagon when he was starting home
through the woods. The king said, take it all
around, it laid over any day he'd ever put in in the
missionarying line. He said it warn't no use talking,
heathens don't amount to shucks alongside of pirates
to work a camp-meeting with.
</p><p>
The duke was thinking <i>he'd</i> been doing pretty
well till the king come to show up, but after that
he didn't think so so much. He had set up and
printed off two little jobs for farmers in that
printing-office&mdash;horse bills&mdash;and took the money,
four dollars. And he had got in ten dollars' worth
of advertisements for the paper, which he said he
would put in for four dollars if they would pay in
advance&mdash;so they done it. The price of the paper
was two dollars a year, but he took in three subscriptions
for half a dollar apiece on condition of
them paying him in advance; they were going to pay
in cordwood and onions as usual, but he said he had
just bought the concern and knocked down the
price as low as he could afford it, and was going to
run it for cash. He set up a little piece of poetry,
which he made, himself, out of his own head&mdash;three
verses&mdash;kind of sweet and saddish&mdash;the name of it
was, "Yes, crush, cold world, this breaking heart"&mdash;and
he left that all set up and ready to print in the
paper, and didn't charge nothing for it. Well, he
took in nine dollars and a half, and said he'd done a
pretty square day's work for it.
</p><p>
Then he showed us another little job he'd printed
and hadn't charged for, because it was for us. It
had a picture of a runaway nigger with a bundle on
a stick over his shoulder, and "$200 reward" under
it. The reading was all about Jim and just described
him to a dot. It said he run away from St. Jacques's
plantation, forty mile below New Orleans, last winter,
and likely went north, and whoever would catch
him and send him back he could have the reward
and expenses.
</p><p>
"Now," says the duke, "after to-night we can
run in the daytime if we want to. Whenever we see
anybody coming we can tie Jim hand and foot with
a rope, and lay him in the wigwam and show this
handbill and say we captured him up the river, and
were too poor to travel on a steamboat, so we got
this little raft on credit from our friends and are
going down to get the reward. Handcuffs and
chains would look still better on Jim, but it wouldn't
go well with the story of us being so poor. Too much
like jewelry. Ropes are the correct thing&mdash;we must
preserve the unities, as we say on the boards."
</p><p>
We all said the duke was pretty smart, and there
couldn't be no trouble about running daytimes. We
judged we could make miles enough that night to
get out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned the
duke's work in the printing-office was going to
make in that little town; then we could boom right
along if we wanted to.
</p><p>
We laid low and kept still, and never shoved out
till nearly ten o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide
away from the town, and didn't hoist our lantern
till we was clear out of sight of it.
</p><p>
When Jim called me to take the watch at four in
the morning, he says:
</p><p>
"Huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost
any mo' kings on dis trip?"
</p><p>
"No," I says, "I reckon not."
</p><p>
"Well," says he, "dat's all right, den. I doan'
mine one er two kings, but dat's enough. Dis one's
powerful drunk, en de duke ain' much better."
</p><p>
I found Jim had been trying to get him to talk
French, so he could hear what it was like; but he
said he had been in this country so long, and had
so much trouble, he'd forgot it.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXI"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXI</h2>
<br>
<p>
It was after sun-up now, but we went right on and
didn't tie up. The king and the duke turned
out by and by looking pretty rusty; but after they'd
jumped overboard and took a swim it chippered
them up a good deal. After breakfast the king he
took a seat on the corner of the raft, and pulled off
his boots and rolled up his britches, and let his legs
dangle in the water, so as to be comfortable, and
lit his pipe, and went to getting his "Romeo and
Juliet" by heart. When he had got it pretty good
him and the duke begun to practise it together.
The duke had to learn him over and over again how
to say every speech; and he made him sigh, and put
his hand on his heart, and after a while he said he
done it pretty well; "only," he says, "you mustn't
bellow out <i>Romeo!</i> that way, like a bull&mdash;you must
say it soft and sick and languishy, so&mdash;R-o-o-meo!
that is the idea; for Juliet's a dear sweet mere child
of a girl, you know, and she doesn't bray like a
jackass."
</p><p>
Well, next they got out a couple of long swords
that the duke made out of oak laths, and begun to
practise the sword-fight&mdash;the duke called himself
Richard III.; and the way they laid on and pranced
around the raft was grand to see. But by and by
the king tripped and fell overboard, and after that
they took a rest, and had a talk about all kinds of
adventures they'd had in other times along the river.
</p><p>
After dinner the duke says:
</p><p>
"Well, Capet, we'll want to make this a first-class
show, you know, so I guess we'll add a little more to
it. We want a little something to answer encores
with, anyway."
</p><p>
"What's onkores, Bilgewater?"
</p><p>
The duke told him, and then says:
</p><p>
"I'll answer by doing the Highland fling or the
sailor's hornpipe; and you&mdash;well, let me see&mdash;oh,
I've got it&mdash;you can do Hamlet's soliloquy."
</p><p>
"Hamlet's which?"
</p><p>
"Hamlet's soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated
thing in Shakespeare. Ah, it's sublime, sublime!
Always fetches the house. I haven't got it in
the book&mdash;I've only got one volume&mdash;but I reckon I
can piece it out from memory. I'll just walk up and
down a minute, and see if I can call it back from
recollection's vaults."
</p><p>
So he went to marching up and down, thinking, and
frowning horrible every now and then; then he
would hoist up his eyebrows; next he would squeeze
his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind
of moan; next he would sigh, and next he'd let on to
drop a tear. It was beautiful to see him. By and
by he got it. He told us to give attention. Then
he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved
forwards, and his arms stretched away up, and his
head tilted back, looking up at the sky; and then he
begins to rip and rave and grit his teeth; and after
that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread
around, and swelled up his chest, and just knocked
the spots out of any acting ever <i>I</i> see before. This
is the speech&mdash;I learned it, easy enough, while he
was learning it to the king:</p><br>
<blockquote>
    To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin<br>
    That makes calamity of so long life;<br>
    For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane,<br>
    But that the fear of something after death<br>
    Murders the innocent sleep,<br>
    Great nature's second course,<br>
    And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune<br>
    Than fly to others that we know not of.<br>
    There's the respect must give us pause:<br>
    Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst;<br>
    For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,<br>
    The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,<br>
    The law's delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take,<br>
    In the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn<br>
    In customary suits of solemn black,<br>
    But that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns,<br>
    Breathes forth contagion on the world,<br>
    And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i' the adage,<br>
    Is sicklied o'er with care,<br>
    And all the clouds that lowered o'er our housetops,<br>
    With this regard their currents turn awry,<br>
    And lose the name of action.<br>
    'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. But soft you, the fair Ophelia:<br>
    Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws,<br>
    But get thee to a nunnery&mdash;go!<br>
</blockquote>
<br><p>
Well, the old man he liked that speech, and he
mighty soon got it so he could do it first rate. It
seemed like he was just born for it; and when he had
his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely
the way he would rip and tear and rair up behind
when he was getting it off.
</p><p>
The first chance we got the duke he had some
show-bills printed; and after that, for two or three
days as we floated along, the raft was a most uncommon
lively place, for there warn't nothing but sword-fighting
and rehearsing&mdash;as the duke called it&mdash;going
on all the time. One morning, when we was pretty
well down the state of Arkansaw, we come in sight
of a little one-horse town in a big bend; so we tied up
about three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth
of a crick which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress
trees, and all of us but Jim took the canoe and
went down there to see if there was any chance in
that place for our show.
</p><p>
We struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be
a circus there that afternoon, and the country-people
was already beginning to come in, in all kinds of old
shackly wagons, and on horses. The circus would
leave before night, so our show would have a pretty
good chance. The duke he hired the court-house, and
we went around and stuck up our bills. They read
like this:
</p>
<p class="pg1">
   Shaksperean Revival ! ! !<br>
   Wonderful Attraction!<br>
   For One Night Only!<br>
   The world renowned tragedians,<br>
   David Garrick the younger, of Drury Lane Theatre, London,<br>
      and<br>
   Edmund Kean the elder, of the Royal Haymarket Theatre,<br>
   Whitechapel, Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the<br>
   Royal Continental Theatres, in their sublime<br>
   Shaksperean Spectacle entitled<br>
   The Balcony Scene<br>
      in<br>
   Romeo and Juliet ! ! !<br>
   Romeo...................Mr. Garrick<br>
   Juliet...................Mr. Kean<br>
   Assisted by the whole strength of the company!<br>
   New costumes, new scenery, new appointments!<br>
      Also:<br>
   The thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling<br>
   Broad-sword conflict<br>
   In Richard III. ! ! !<br>
   Richard III................Mr. Garrick<br>
   Richmond....................Mr. Kean<br>
      Also:<br>
   (by special request)<br>
   Hamlet's Immortal Soliloquy ! !<br>
   By the Illustrious Kean!<br>
   Done by him 300 consecutive nights in Paris!<br>
   For One Night Only,<br>
   On account of imperative European engagements!<br>
   Admission 25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents.<br>
</p>
<p>
Then we went loafing around town. The stores
and houses was most all old, shackly, dried-up frame
concerns that hadn't ever been painted; they was
set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so
as to be out of reach of the water when the river was
overflowed. The houses had little gardens around
them, but they didn't seem to raise hardly anything
in them but jimpson-weeds, and sunflowers, and ash-piles,
and old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces
of bottles, and rags, and played-out tinware. The
fences was made of different kinds of boards, nailed
on at different times; and they leaned every which
way, and had gates that didn't generly have but
one hinge&mdash;a leather one. Some of the fences had
been whitewashed some time or another, but the
duke said it was in Columbus's time, like enough.
There was generly hogs in the garden, and people
driving them out.
</p><p>
All the stores was along one street. They had white
domestic awnings in front, and the country-people
hitched their horses to the awning-posts. There
was empty dry-goods boxes under the awnings, and
loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them
with their Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and
gaping and yawning and stretching&mdash;a mighty ornery
lot. They generly had on yellow straw hats most as
wide as an umbrella, but didn't wear no coats nor
waistcoats; they called one another Bill, and Buck,
and Hank, and Joe, and Andy, and talked lazy and
drawly, and used considerable many cuss-words.
There was as many as one loafer leaning up against
every awning-post, and he most always had his hands
in his britches pockets, except when he fetched them
out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch. What a
body was hearing amongst them all the time was:
</p><p>
"Gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, Hank."
</p><p>
"Cain't; I hain't got but one chaw left. Ask Bill."
</p><p>
Maybe Bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and
says he ain't got none. Some of them kinds of
loafers never has a cent in the world, nor a chaw of
tobacco of their own. They get all their chawing by
borrowing; they say to a fellow, "I wisht you'd len'
me a chaw, Jack, I jist this minute give Ben Thompson
the last chaw I had"&mdash;which is a lie pretty much
every time; it don't fool nobody but a stranger; but
Jack ain't no stranger, so he says:
</p><p>
"<i>You</i> give him a chaw, did you? So did your
sister's cat's grandmother. You pay me back the
chaws you've awready borry'd off'n me, Lafe Buckner,
then I'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't
charge you no back intrust, nuther."
</p><p>
"Well, I <i>did</i> pay you back some of it wunst."
</p><p>
"Yes, you did&mdash;'bout six chaws. You borry'd
store tobacker and paid back nigger-head."
</p><p>
Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows
mostly chaws the natural leaf twisted. When they
borrow a chaw they don't generly cut it off with a
knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and
gnaw with their teeth and tug at the plug with their
hands till they get it in two; then sometimes the one
that owns the tobacco looks mournful at it when it's
handed back, and says, sarcastic:
</p><p>
"Here, gimme the <i>chaw</i>, and you take the <i>plug</i>."
</p>
<br><br>
<a name="chaw"></a>
<p class="pg1"><img src="images/chaw.jpg" alt="'GIMME A CHAW'"></p>
<p class="pg1">"'GIMME A CHAW'"</p>
<br><br>
<p>
All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't
nothing else <i>but</i> mud&mdash;mud as black as tar and nigh
about a foot deep in some places, and two or three
inches deep in <i>all</i> the places. The hogs loafed and
grunted around everywheres.  You'd see a muddy
sow and a litter of pigs come lazying along the street
and whollop herself right down in the way, where
folks had to walk around her, and she'd stretch out
and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs
was milking her, and look as happy as if she was
on salary. And pretty soon you'd hear a loafer sing
out, "Hi! <i>so</i> boy! sick him, Tige!" and away the
sow would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog
or two swinging to each ear, and three or four dozen
more a-coming; and then you would see all the loafers
get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh
at the fun and look grateful for the noise. Then
they'd settle back again till there was a dog-fight.
There couldn't anything wake them up all over, and
make them happy all over, like a dog-fight&mdash;unless
it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and
setting fire to him, or tying a tin pan to his tail
and see him run himself to death.
</p><p>
On the river-front some of the houses was sticking
out over the bank, and they was bowed and bent,
and about ready to tumble in. The people had
moved out of them. The bank was caved away
under one corner of some others, and that corner
was hanging over. People lived in them yet, but
it was dangersome, because sometimes a strip of
land as wide as a house caves in at a time. Sometimes
a belt of land a quarter of a mile deep will
start in and cave along and cave along till it all
caves into the river in one summer. Such a town
as that has to be always moving back, and back, and
back, because the river's always gnawing at it.
</p><p>
The nearer it got to noon that day the thicker
and thicker was the wagons and horses in the streets,
and more coming all the time. Families fetched their
dinners with them from the country, and eat them
in the wagons. There was considerable whisky-drinking
going on, and I seen three fights. By and
by somebody sings out:
</p><p>
"Here comes old Boggs!&mdash;in from the country for
his little old monthly drunk; here he comes, boys!"
</p><p>
All the loafers looked glad; I reckoned they was
used to having fun out of Boggs. One of them says:
</p><p>
"Wonder who he's a-gwyne to chaw up this time.
If he'd a-chawed up all the men he's ben a-gwyne to
chaw up in the last twenty year he'd have considerable
ruputation now."
</p><p>
Another one says, "I wisht old Boggs 'd threaten
me, 'cuz then I'd know I warn't gwyne to die for
a thousan' year."
</p><p>
Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping
and yelling like an Injun, and singing out:
</p><p>
"Cler the track, thar. I'm on the waw-path, and
the price uv coffins is a-gwyne to raise."
</p><p>
He was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle;
he was over fifty year old, and had a very red face.
Everybody yelled at him and laughed at him and
sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he'd attend
to them and lay them out in their regular turns, but
he couldn't wait now because he'd come to town to
kill old Colonel Sherburn, and his motto was, "Meat
first, and spoon vittles to top off on."
</p><p>
He see me, and rode up and says:
</p><p>
"Whar'd you come f'm, boy? You prepared to die?"
</p><p>
Then he rode on. I was scared, but a man says:
</p><p>
"He don't mean nothing; he's always a-carryin'
on like that when he's drunk. He's the best-naturedest
old fool in Arkansaw&mdash;never hurt nobody, drunk
nor sober."
</p><p>
Boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and
bent his head down so he could see under the curtain
of the awning and yells:
</p><p>
"Come out here, Sherburn! Come out and meet
the man you've swindled. You're the houn' I'm
after, and I'm a-gwyne to have you, too!"
</p><p>
And so he went on, calling Sherburn everything he
could lay his tongue to, and the whole street packed
with people listening and laughing and going on.
By and by a proud-looking man about fifty-five&mdash;and
he was a heap the best-dressed man in that
town, too&mdash;steps out of the store, and the crowd
drops back on each side to let him come. He says
to Boggs, mighty ca'm and slow&mdash;he says:
</p><p>
"I'm tired of this, but I'll endure it till one o'clock.
Till one o'clock, mind&mdash;no longer. If you open your
mouth against me only once after that time you
can't travel so far but I will find you."
</p><p>
Then he turns and goes in. The crowd looked
mighty sober; nobody stirred, and there warn't no
more laughing. Boggs rode off blackguarding Sherburn
as loud as he could yell, all down the street;
and pretty soon back he comes and stops before the
store, still keeping it up. Some men crowded around
him and tried to get him to shut up, but he wouldn't;
they told him it would be one o'clock in about fifteen
minutes, and so he <i>must</i> go home&mdash;he must go right
away. But it didn't do no good. He cussed away
with all his might, and throwed his hat down in
the mud and rode over it, and pretty soon away he
went a-raging down the street again, with his gray
hair a-flying. Everybody that could get a chance
at him tried their best to coax him off of his horse
so they could lock him up and get him sober; but it
warn't no use&mdash;up the street he would tear again,
and give Sherburn another cussing. By and by
somebody says:
</p><p>
"Go for his daughter!&mdash;quick, go for his daughter;
sometimes he'll listen to her. If anybody can
persuade him, she can."
</p><p>
So somebody started on a run. I walked down
street a ways and stopped. In about five or ten
minutes here comes Boggs again, but not on his
horse. He was a-reeling across the street towards
me, bareheaded, with a friend on both sides of him
a-holt of his arms and hurrying him along. He was
quiet, and looked uneasy; and he warn't hanging
back any, but was doing some of the hurrying himself.
Somebody sings out:
</p><p>
"Boggs!"
</p><p>
I looked over there to see who said it, and it was
that Colonel Sherburn. He was standing perfectly
still in the street, and had a pistol raised in his
right hand&mdash;not aiming it, but holding it out with
the barrel tilted up towards the sky. The same
second I see a young girl coming on the run, and
two men with her. Boggs and the men turned round
to see who called him, and when they see the pistol
the men jumped to one side, and the pistol-barrel
come down slow and steady to a level&mdash;both barrels
cocked. Boggs throws up both of his hands and
says, "O Lord, don't shoot!" Bang! goes the first
shot, and he staggers back, clawing at the air&mdash;bang!
goes the second one, and he tumbles backwards onto
the ground, heavy and solid, with his arms spread
out. That young girl screamed out and comes
rushing, and down she throws herself on her father,
crying, and saying, "Oh, he's killed him, he's killed
him!" The crowd closed up around them, and
shouldered and jammed one another, with their
necks stretched, trying to see, and people on the
inside trying to shove them back and shouting,
"Back, back! give him air, give him air!"
</p><p>
Colonel Sherburn he tossed his pistol onto the
ground, and turned around on his heels and walked
off.
</p><p>
They took Boggs to a little drug store, the crowd
pressing around just the same, and the whole town
following, and I rushed and got a good place at the
window, where I was close to him and could see in.
They laid him on the floor and put one large Bible
under his head, and opened another one and spread
it on his breast; but they tore open his shirt first,
and I seen where one of the bullets went in. He
made about a dozen long gasps, his breast lifting
the Bible up when he drawed in his breath, and
letting it down again when he breathed it out&mdash;and
after that he laid still; he was dead. Then they
pulled his daughter away from him, screaming and
crying, and took her off. She was about sixteen, and
very sweet and gentle looking, but awful pale and
scared.
</p><p>
Well, pretty soon the whole town was there,
squirming and scrouging and pushing and shoving
to get at the window and have a look, but people
that had the places wouldn't give them up, and folks
behind them was saying all the time, "Say, now,
you've looked enough, you fellows; 'tain't right and
'tain't fair for you to stay thar all the time, and never
give nobody a chance; other folks has their rights as
well as you."
</p><p>
There was considerable jawing back, so I slid out,
thinking maybe there was going to be trouble. The
streets was full, and everybody was excited. Everybody
that seen the shooting was telling how it
happened, and there was a big crowd packed around
each one of these fellows, stretching their necks and
listening. One long, lanky man, with long hair and
a big white fur stovepipe hat on the back of his
head, and a crooked-handled cane, marked out the
places on the ground where Boggs stood and where
Sherburn stood, and the people following him around
from one place to t'other and watching everything
he done, and bobbing their heads to show they
understood, and stooping a little and resting their
hands on their thighs to watch him mark the places
on the ground with his cane; and then he stood up
straight and stiff where Sherburn had stood, frowning
and having his hat-brim down over his eyes, and
sung out, "Boggs!" and then fetched his cane down
slow to a level, and says "Bang!" staggered backwards,
says "Bang!" again, and fell down flat on his
back. The people that had seen the thing said he
done it perfect; said it was just exactly the way it all
happened. Then as much as a dozen people got out
their bottles and treated him.
</p><p>
Well, by and by somebody said Sherburn ought
to be lynched. In about a minute everybody was
saying it; so away they went, mad and yelling, and
snatching down every clothes-line they come to to
do the hanging with.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXII</h2>
<br>
<p>
They swarmed up towards Sherburn's house,
a-whooping and raging like Injuns, and everything
had to clear the way or get run over and
tromped to mush, and it was awful to see. Children
was heeling it ahead of the mob, screaming and
trying to get out of the way; and every window along
the road was full of women's heads, and there was
nigger boys in every tree, and bucks and wenches
looking over every fence; and as soon as the mob
would get nearly to them they would break and
skaddle back out of reach. Lots of the women and
girls was crying and taking on, scared most to death.
</p><p>
They swarmed up in front of Sherburn's palings
as thick as they could jam together, and you couldn't
hear yourself think for the noise. It was a little
twenty-foot yard. Some sung out "Tear down the
fence! tear down the fence!" Then there was a
racket of ripping and tearing and smashing, and down
she goes, and the front wall of the crowd begins to
roll in like a wave.
</p><p>
Just then Sherburn steps out onto the roof of his
little front porch, with a double-barrel gun in his
hand, and takes his stand, perfectly ca'm and deliberate,
not saying a word. The racket stopped,
and the wave sucked back.
</p><p>
Sherburn never said a word&mdash;just stood there, looking
down. The stillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable.
Sherburn run his eye slow along the
crowd; and wherever it struck the people tried a
little to outgaze him, but they couldn't; they
dropped their eyes and looked sneaky. Then pretty
soon Sherburn sort of laughed; not the pleasant kind,
but the kind that makes you feel like when you are
eating bread that's got sand in it.
</p><p>
Then he says, slow and scornful:
</p><p>
"The idea of <i>you</i> lynching anybody! It's amusing.
The idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to
lynch a <i>man!</i> Because you're brave enough to tar
and feather poor friendless cast-out women that come
along here, did that make you think you had grit
enough to lay your hands on a <i>man?</i> Why, a <i>man's</i>
safe in the hands of ten thousand of your kind&mdash;as
long as it's daytime and you're not behind him.
</p><p>
"Do I know you? I know you clear through. I
was born and raised in the South, and I've lived in
the North; so I know the average all around. The
average man's a coward. In the North he lets anybody
walk over him that wants to, and goes home and
prays for a humble spirit to bear it. In the South
one man, all by himself, has stopped a stage full of
men in the daytime, and robbed the lot. Your newspapers
call you a brave people so much that you think
you are braver than any other people&mdash;whereas
you're just <i>as</i> brave, and no braver. Why don't
your juries hang murderers? Because they're afraid
the man's friends will shoot them in the back, in the
dark&mdash;and it's just what they <i>would</i> do.
</p><p>
"So they always acquit; and then a <i>man</i> goes in
the night, with a hundred masked cowards at his
back, and lynches the rascal. Your mistake is, that
you didn't bring a man with you; that's one mistake,
and the other is that you didn't come in the dark
and fetch your masks. You brought <i>part</i> of a man&mdash;Buck
Harkness, there&mdash;and if you hadn't had him
to start you, you'd 'a' taken it out in blowing.
</p><p>
"You didn't want to come. The average man
don't like trouble and danger. <i>You</i> don't like trouble
and danger. But if only <i>half</i> a man&mdash;like Buck
Harkness, there&mdash;shouts 'Lynch him! lynch him!'
you're afraid to back down&mdash;afraid you'll be found
out to be what you are&mdash;<i>cowards</i>&mdash;and so you raise
a yell, and hang yourselves onto that half-a-man's
coat-tail, and come raging up here, swearing what big
things you're going to do. The pitifulest thing out is
a mob; that's what an army is&mdash;a mob; they don't fight
with courage that's born in them, but with courage
that's borrowed from their mass, and from their
officers. But a mob without any <i>man</i> at the head of
it is <i>beneath</i> pitifulness. Now the thing for <i>you</i> to do
is to droop your tails and go home and crawl in a
hole. If any real lynching's going to be done it will
be done in the dark, Southern fashion; and when they
come they'll bring their masks, and fetch a <i>man</i> along.
Now <i>leave</i>&mdash;and take your half-a-man with you"&mdash;tossing
his gun up across his left arm and cocking it
when he says this.
</p><p>
The crowd washed back sudden, and then broke
all apart, and went tearing off every which way, and
Buck Harkness he heeled it after them, looking tolerable
cheap. I could 'a' stayed if I wanted to, but
I didn't want to.
</p><p>
I went to the circus and loafed around the back
side till the watchman went by, and then dived in
under the tent. I had my twenty-dollar gold piece
and some other money, but I reckoned I better save
it, because there ain't no telling how soon you are
going to need it, away from home and amongst
strangers that way. You can't be too careful. I
ain't opposed to spending money on circuses when
there ain't no other way, but there ain't no use in
<i>wasting</i> it on them.
</p><p>
It was a real bully circus. It was the splendidest
sight that ever was when they all come riding in,
two and two, and gentleman and lady, side by side,
the men just in their drawers and undershirts, and
no shoes nor stirrups, and resting their hands on their
thighs easy and comfortable&mdash;there must 'a' been
twenty of them&mdash;and every lady with a lovely complexion,
and perfectly beautiful, and looking just like
a gang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed in
clothes that cost millions of dollars, and just littered
with diamonds. It was a powerful fine sight; I never
see anything so lovely. And then one by one they
got up and stood, and went a-weaving around the
ring so gentle and wavy and graceful, the men looking
ever so tall and airy and straight, with their heads
bobbing and skimming along, away up there under
the tent-roof, and every lady's rose-leafy dress flapping
soft and silky around her hips, and she looking
like the most loveliest parasol.
</p><p>
And then faster and faster they went, all of them
dancing, first one foot out in the air and then the
other, the horses leaning more and more, and the
ringmaster going round and round the center pole,
cracking his whip and shouting "Hi!&mdash;hi!" and the
clown cracking jokes behind him; and by and by all
hands dropped the reins, and every lady put her
knuckles on her hips and every gentleman folded his
arms, and then how the horses did lean over and
hump themselves! And so one after the other they
all skipped off into the ring, and made the sweetest
bow I ever see, and then scampered out, and everybody
clapped their hands and went just about wild.
Well, all through the circus they done the most
astonishing things; and all the time that clown carried
on so it most killed the people. The ringmaster
couldn't ever say a word to him but he was back at
him quick as a wink with the funniest things a body
ever said; and how he ever <i>could</i> think of so many of
them, and so sudden and so pat, was what I couldn't
no way understand. Why, I couldn't 'a' thought of
them in a year. And by and by a drunken man tried
to get into the ring&mdash;said he wanted to ride; said he
could ride as well as anybody that ever was. They
argued and tried to keep him out, but he wouldn't
listen, and the whole show come to a standstill. Then
the people begun to holler at him and make fun of
him, and that made him mad, and he begun to rip
and tear; so that stirred up the people, and a lot of
men begun to pile down off of the benches and swarm
toward the ring, saying, "Knock him down! throw
him out!" and one or two women begun to scream.
So, then, the ringmaster he made a little speech, and
said he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and
if the man would promise he wouldn't make no more
trouble he would let him ride if he thought he could
stay on the horse. So everybody laughed and said all
right, and the man got on. The minute he was on,
the horse begun to rip and tear and jump and cavort
around, with two circus men hanging on to his bridle
trying to hold him, and the drunk man hanging on
to his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump,
and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting
and laughing till tears rolled down. And at last, sure
enough, all the circus men could do, the horse broke
loose, and away he went like the very nation, round
and round the ring, with that sot laying down on him
and hanging to his neck, with first one leg hanging
most to the ground on one side, and then t'other one
on t'other side, and the people just crazy. It warn't
funny to me, though; I was all of a tremble to see his
danger. But pretty soon he struggled up astraddle
and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that;
and the next minute he sprung up and dropped the
bridle and stood! and the horse a-going like a house
afire, too. He just stood up there, a-sailing around
as easy and comfortable as if he warn't ever drunk in
his life&mdash;and then he begun to pull off his clothes
and sling them. He shed them so thick they kind
of clogged up the air, and altogether he shed seventeen
suits. And, then, there he was, slim and handsome,
and dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you
ever saw, and he lit into that horse with his whip
and made him fairly hum&mdash;and finally skipped off,
and made his bow and danced off to the dressing-room,
and everybody just a-howling with pleasure
and astonishment.
</p><p>
Then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled,
and he <i>was</i> the sickest ringmaster you ever see, I
reckon. Why, it was one of his own men! He had
got up that joke all out of his own head, and never let
on to nobody. Well, I felt sheepish enough to be
took in so, but I wouldn't 'a' been in that ringmaster's
place, not for a thousand dollars. I don't know;
there may be bullier circuses than what that one
was, but I never struck them yet. Anyways, it was
plenty good enough for <i>me</i>; and wherever I run
across it, it can have all of <i>my</i> custom every time.
</p><p>
Well, that night we had <i>our</i> show; but there warn't
only about twelve people there&mdash;just enough to pay
expenses. And they laughed all the time, and that
made the duke mad; and everybody left, anyway,
before the show was over, but one boy which was
asleep. So the duke said these Arkansaw lunkheads
couldn't come up to Shakespeare; what they wanted
was low comedy&mdash;and maybe something ruther worse
than low comedy, he reckoned. He said he could size
their style. So next morning he got some big sheets of
wrapping-paper and some black paint, and drawed off
some handbills, and stuck them up all over the village.
The bills said:</p><br>
<p class="pg1">
   AT THE COURT HOUSE!<br>
   <small>FOR 3 NIGHTS ONLY!</small><br>
   <i>The World-Renowned Tragedians</i><br>
   DAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER!<br>
      AND<br>
   EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER!<br>
   <i>Of the London and Continental<br>
   Theatres,</i><br>
   In their Thrilling Tragedy of<br>
   THE KING'S CAMELEOPARD,<br>
      <small>OR</small><br>
   THE ROYAL NONESUCH! ! !<br>
   <i>Admission 50 cents.</i><br>
</p>
<p>
Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which
said:
</p>
<p class="pg1">
   <big>LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED</big>
</p>
<p>
"There," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, I
don't know Arkansaw!"</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXIII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXIII</h2>
<br>
<p>
Well, all day him and the king was hard at it,
rigging up a stage and a curtain and a row of
candles for footlights; and that night the house was
jam full of men in no time. When the place couldn't
hold no more, the duke he quit tending door and went
around the back way and come onto the stage and
stood up before the curtain and made a little speech,
and praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most
thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging
about the tragedy, and about Edmund Kean
the Elder, which was to play the main principal part
in it; and at last when he'd got everybody's expectations
up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and
the next minute the king come a-prancing out on all
fours, naked; and he was painted all over, ring-streaked-and-striped,
all sorts of colors, as splendid
as a rainbow. And&mdash;but never mind the rest of his
outfit; it was just wild, but it was awful funny. The
people most killed themselves laughing; and when
the king got done capering and capered off behind
the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed
and haw-hawed till he come back and done it over
again, and after that they made him do it another
time. Well, it would make a cow laugh to see the
shines that old idiot cut.
</p><p>
Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows
to the people, and says the great tragedy will be performed
only two nights more, on accounts of pressing
London engagements, where the seats is all sold
already for it in Drury Lane; and then he makes
them another bow, and says if he has succeeded
in pleasing them and instructing them, he will be
deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their friends
and get them to come and see it.
</p><p>
Twenty people sings out:
</p><p>
"What, is it over?  Is that <i>all</i>?"
</p><p>
The duke says yes. Then there was a fine time.
Everybody sings out, "Sold!" and rose up mad,
and was a-going for that stage and them tragedians.
But a big, fine-looking man jumps up on a bench
and shouts:
</p><p>
"Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen." They
stopped to listen. "We are sold&mdash;mighty badly sold.
But we don't want to be the laughing-stock of this
whole town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this
thing as long as we live. <i>No</i>. What we want is to
go out of here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell
the <i>rest</i> of the town! Then we'll all be in the same
boat. Ain't that sensible?" ("You bet it is!&mdash;the
jedge is right!" everybody sings out.) "All right,
then&mdash;not a word about any sell. Go along home,
and advise everybody to come and see the tragedy."
</p><p>
Next day you couldn't hear nothing around that
town but how splendid that show was. House was
jammed again that night, and we sold this crowd the
same way. When me and the king and the duke
got home to the raft we all had a supper; and by
and by, about midnight, they made Jim and me
back her out and float her down the middle of the
river, and fetch her in and hide her about two mile
below town.
</p><p>
The third night the house was crammed again&mdash;and
they warn't new-comers this time, but people
that was at the show the other two nights. I stood
by the duke at the door, and I see that every man
that went in had his pockets bulging, or something
muffled up under his coat&mdash;and I see it warn't no
perfumery, neither, not by a long sight. I smelt
sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and
such things; and if I know the signs of a dead cat
being around, and I bet I do, there was sixty-four
of them went in. I shoved in there for a minute,
but it was too various for me; I couldn't stand it.
Well, when the place couldn't hold no more people
the duke he give a fellow a quarter and told him to
tend door for him a minute, and then he started
around for the stage door, I after him; but the minute
we turned the corner and was in the dark he says:
</p><p>
"Walk fast now till you get away from the houses,
and then shin for the raft like the dickens was after
you!"
</p><p>
I done it, and he done the same. We struck the
raft at the same time, and in less than two seconds
we was gliding down-stream, all dark and still, and
edging towards the middle of the river, nobody
saying a word. I reckoned the poor king was in for
a gaudy time of it with the audience, but nothing of
the sort; pretty soon he crawls out from under the
wigwam, and says:
</p><p>
"Well, how'd the old thing pan out this time,
duke?" He hadn't been up-town at all.
</p><p>
We never showed a light till we was about ten
mile below the village. Then we lit up and had a
supper, and the king and the duke fairly laughed
their bones loose over the way they'd served them
people. The duke says:
</p><p>
"Greenhorns, flatheads! I knew the first house
would keep mum and let the rest of the town get
roped in; and I knew they'd lay for us the third
night, and consider it was <i>their</i> turn now. Well, it
<i>is</i> their turn, and I'd give something to know how
much they'd take for it. I <i>would</i> just like to know
how they're putting in their opportunity. They can
turn it into a picnic if they want to&mdash;they brought
plenty provisions."
</p><p>
Them rapscallions took in four hundred and
sixty-five dollars in that three nights. I never see
money hauled in by the wagon-load like that before.
</p><p>
By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim
says:
</p><p>
"Don't it s'prise you de way dem kings carries
on, Huck?"
</p><p>
"No," I says, "it don't."
</p><p>
"Why don't it, Huck?"
</p><p>
"Well, it don't, because it's in the breed. I reckon
they're all alike."
</p><p>
"But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar rapscallions;
dat's jist what dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions."
</p><p>
"Well, that's what I'm a-saying; all kings is
mostly rapscallions, as fur as I can make out."
</p><p>
"Is dat so?"
</p><p>
"You read about them once&mdash;you'll see. Look
at Henry the Eight; this 'n' 's a Sunday-school
Superintendent to <i>him</i>. And look at Charles Second,
and Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James
Second, and Edward Second, and Richard Third, and
forty more; besides all them Saxon heptarchies that
used to rip around so in old times and raise Cain.
My, you ought to seen old Henry the Eight when
he was in bloom. He <i>was</i> a blossom. He used to
marry a new wife every day, and chop off her head
next morning. And he would do it just as indifferent
as if he was ordering up eggs. 'Fetch up Nell
Gwynn,' he says. They fetch her up. Next morning,
'Chop off her head!' And they chop it off.
'Fetch up Jane Shore,' he says; and up she comes.
Next morning, 'Chop off her head'&mdash;and they chop
it off. 'Ring up Fair Rosamun.' Fair Rosamun
answers the bell. Next morning, 'Chop off her
head.' And he made every one of them tell him a
tale every night; and he kept that up till he had
hogged a thousand and one tales that way, and then
he put them all in a book, and called it Domesday
Book&mdash;which was a good name and stated the case.
You don't know kings, Jim, but I know them; and
this old rip of ourn is one of the cleanest I've struck
in history. Well, Henry he takes a notion he wants
to get up some trouble with this country. How does
he go at it&mdash;give notice?&mdash;give the country a show?
No. All of a sudden he heaves all the tea in Boston
Harbor overboard, and whacks out a declaration of
independence, and dares them to come on. That
was <i>his</i> style&mdash;he never give anybody a chance. He
had suspicions of his father, the Duke of Wellington.
Well, what did he do?  Ask him to show up?  No&mdash;drownded
him in a butt of mamsey, like a cat.
S'pose people left money laying around where he was&mdash;what
did he do? He collared it. S'pose he contracted
to do a thing, and you paid him, and didn't
set down there and see that he done it&mdash;what did
he do? He always done the other thing. S'pose he
opened his mouth&mdash;what then? If he didn't shut
it up powerful quick he'd lose a lie every time.
That's the kind of a bug Henry was; and if we'd 'a'
had him along 'stead of our kings he'd 'a' fooled that
town a heap worse than ourn done. I don't say that
ourn is lambs, because they ain't, when you come
right down to the cold facts; but they ain't nothing
to <i>that</i> old ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is kings,
and you got to make allowances. Take them all
around, they're a mighty ornery lot. It's the way
they're raised."
</p><p>
"But dis one do <i>smell</i> so like de nation, Huck."
</p><p>
"Well, they all do, Jim. We can't help the way
a king smells; history don't tell no way."
</p><p>
"Now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some
ways."
</p><p>
"Yes, a duke's different. But not very different.
This one's a middling hard lot for a duke. When
he's drunk there ain't no near-sighted man could tell
him from a king."
</p><p>
"Well, anyways, I doan' hanker for no mo' un
um, Huck. Dese is all I kin stan'."
</p><p>
"It's the way I feel, too, Jim. But we've got
them on our hands, and we got to remember what
they are, and make allowances. Sometimes I wish
we could hear of a country that's out of kings."
</p><p>
What was the use to tell Jim these warn't real
kings and dukes?  It wouldn't 'a' done no good; and,
besides, it was just as I said: you couldn't
tell them from the real kind.
</p><p>
I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it
was my turn. He often done that. When I waked
up just at daybreak he was sitting there with his
head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning
to himself. I didn't take notice nor let on. I
knowed what it was about. He was thinking about
his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he
was low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been
away from home before in his life; and I do believe
he cared just as much for his people as white folks
does for their'n. It don't seem natural, but I
reckon it's so. He was often moaning and mourning
that way nights, when he judged I was asleep, and
saying, "Po' little 'Lizabeth! po' little Johnny! it's
mighty hard; I spec' I ain't ever gwyne to see you
no mo', no mo'!" He was a mighty good nigger,
Jim was.
</p><p>
But this time I somehow got to talking to him
about his wife and young ones; and by and by he
says:
</p><p>
"What makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase
I hear sumpn over yonder on de bank like a whack,
er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er de time I
treat my little 'Lizabeth so ornery. She warn't on'y
'bout fo' year ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en
had a powful rough spell; but she got well, en one
day she was a-stannin' aroun', en I says to her, I
says:
</p><p>
"'Shet de do'.'
</p><p>
"She never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin'
up at me. It make me mad; en I says ag'in, mighty
loud, I says:
</p><p>
"'Doan' you hear me? Shet de do'!"
</p><p>
"She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. I
was a-bilin'! I says:
</p><p>
"'I lay I <i>make</i> you mine!'
</p><p>
"En wid dat I fetch' her a slap side de head dat
sont her a-sprawlin'. Den I went into de yuther
room, en 'uz gone 'bout ten minutes; en when I
come back dah was dat do' a-stannin' open <i>yit</i>, en
dat chile stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin' down
and mournin', en de tears runnin' down. My, but
I <i>wuz</i> mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis' den&mdash;it
was a do' dat open innerds&mdash;jis' den, 'long come
de wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-<i>blam!</i>&mdash;en
my lan', de chile never move'! My breff mos' hop
outer me; en I feel so&mdash;so&mdash;I doan' know <i>how</i> I feel.
I crope out, all a-tremblin', en crope aroun' en open
de do' easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de
chile, sof' en still, en all uv a sudden I says <i>pow!</i>
jis' as loud as I could yell. She <i>never budge!</i> Oh,
Huck, I bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in my arms,
en say, 'Oh, de po' little thing! De Lord God
Amighty fogive po' ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to
fogive hisself as long's he live!' Oh, she was plumb
deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb&mdash;en I'd
ben a-treat'n her so!"</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXIV"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXIV</h2>
<br>
<p>
Next day, towards night, we laid up under a little
willow towhead out in the middle, where there
was a village on each side of the river, and the duke
and the king begun to lay out a plan for working
them towns. Jim he spoke to the duke, and said he
hoped it wouldn't take but a few hours, because it
got mighty heavy and tiresome to him when he had
to lay all day in the wigwam tied with the rope.
You see, when we left him all alone we had to tie him,
because if anybody happened on to him all by himself
and not tied it wouldn't look much like he was a
runaway nigger, you know. So the duke said it <i>was</i>
kind of hard to have to lay roped all day, and he'd
cipher out some way to get around it.
</p><p>
He was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he
soon struck it. He dressed Jim up in King Lear's
outfit&mdash;it was a long curtain-calico gown, and a white
horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his
theater paint and painted Jim's face and hands and
ears and neck all over a dead, dull solid blue, like a
man that's been drownded nine days. Blamed if he
warn't the horriblest-looking outrage I ever see. Then
the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so:
</p><p>
<i>Sick Arab&mdash;but harmless when not out of his head.</i>
</p><p>
And he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the
lath up four or five foot in front of the wigwam. Jim
was satisfied. He said it was a sight better than lying
tied a couple of years every day, and trembling all
over every time there was a sound. The duke told
him to make himself free and easy, and if anybody
ever come meddling around, he must hop out of the
wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl or
two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would
light out and leave him alone. Which was sound
enough judgment; but you take the average man,
and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. Why, he
didn't only look like he was dead, he looked considerable
more than that.
</p><p>
These rapscallions wanted to try the Nonesuch
again, because there was so much money in it, but
they judged it wouldn't be safe, because maybe the
news might 'a' worked along down by this time. They
couldn't hit no project that suited exactly; so at last
the duke said he reckoned he'd lay off and work his
brains an hour or two and see if he couldn't put up
something on the Arkansaw village; and the king he
allowed he would drop over to t'other village without
any plan, but just trust in Providence to lead him the
profitable way&mdash;meaning the devil, I reckon. We
had all bought store clothes where we stopped last;
and now the king put his'n on, and he told me to put
mine on. I done it, of course. The king's duds was
all black, and he did look real swell and starchy. I
never knowed how clothes could change a body before.
Why, before, he looked like the orneriest old
rip that ever was; but now, when he'd take off his
new white beaver and make a bow and do a smile,
he looked that grand and good and pious that you'd
say he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe
was old Leviticus himself. Jim cleaned up the canoe,
and I got my paddle ready. There was a big steamboat
laying at the shore away up under the point,
about three mile above the town&mdash;been there a couple
of hours, taking on freight. Says the king:
</p><p>
"Seein' how I'm dressed, I reckon maybe I better
arrive down from St. Louis or Cincinnati, or some
other big place. Go for the steamboat, Huckleberry;
we'll come down to the village on her."
</p><p>
I didn't have to be ordered twice to go and take a
steamboat ride. I fetched the shore a half a mile
above the village, and then went scooting along the
bluff bank in the easy water. Pretty soon we come to
a nice innocent-looking young country jake setting
on a log swabbing the sweat off of his face, for it was
powerful warm weather; and he had a couple of big
carpet-bags by him.
</p><p>
"Run her nose inshore," says the king. I done
it. "Wher' you bound for, young man?"
</p><p>
"For the steamboat; going to Orleans."
</p><p>
"Git aboard," says the king. "Hold on a minute,
my servant 'll he'p you with them bags. Jump out
and he'p the gentleman, Adolphus"&mdash;meaning me, I
see.
</p><p>
I done so, and then we all three started on again.
The young chap was mighty thankful; said it was
tough work toting his baggage such weather. He
asked the king where he was going, and the king told
him he'd come down the river and landed at the other
village this morning, and now he was going up a few
mile to see an old friend on a farm up there. The
young fellow says:
</p><p>
"When I first see you I says to myself, 'It's Mr.
Wilks, sure, and he come mighty near getting here in
time.' But then I says again, 'No, I reckon it ain't
him, or else he wouldn't be paddling up the river.'
You <i>ain't</i> him, are you?"
</p><p>
"No, my name's Blodgett&mdash;Elexander Blodgett&mdash;<i>Reverend</i>
Elexander Blodgett, I s'pose I must say, as
I'm one o' the Lord's poor servants. But still I'm
jist as able to be sorry for Mr. Wilks for not arriving
in time, all the same, if he's missed anything by it&mdash;which
I hope he hasn't."
</p><p>
"Well, he don't miss any property by it, because
he'll get that all right; but he's missed seeing his
brother Peter die&mdash;which he mayn't mind, nobody
can tell as to that&mdash;but his brother would 'a' give
anything in this world to see <i>him</i> before he died;
never talked about nothing else all these three weeks;
hadn't seen him since they was boys together&mdash;and
hadn't ever seen his brother William at all&mdash;that's
the deef and dumb one&mdash;William ain't more than
thirty or thirty-five. Peter and George were the
only ones that come out here; George was the married
brother; him and his wife both died last year.
Harvey and William's the only ones that's left now;
and, as I was saying, they haven't got here in time."
</p><p>
"Did anybody send 'em word?"
</p><p>
"Oh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was
first took; because Peter said then that he sorter felt
like he warn't going to get well this time. You see,
he was pretty old, and George's g'yirls was too young
to be much company for him, except Mary Jane, the
red-headed one; and so he was kinder lonesome after
George and his wife died, and didn't seem to care
much to live. He most desperately wanted to see
Harvey&mdash;and William, too, for that matter&mdash;because
he was one of them kind that can't bear to make a
will. He left a letter behind for Harvey, and said
he'd told in it where his money was hid, and how he
wanted the rest of the property divided up so
George's g'yirls would be all right&mdash;for George didn't
leave nothing. And that letter was all they could get
him to put a pen to."
</p><p>
"Why do you reckon Harvey don't come? Wher'
does he live?"
</p><p>
"Oh, he lives in England&mdash;Sheffield&mdash;preaches
there&mdash;hasn't ever been in this country. He hasn't
had any too much time&mdash;and besides he mightn't 'a'
got the letter at all, you know."
</p><p>
"Too bad, too bad he couldn't 'a' lived to see his
brothers, poor soul. You going to Orleans, you say?"
</p><p>
"Yes, but that ain't only a part of it. I'm going
in a ship, next Wednesday, for Ryo Janeero, where
my uncle lives."
</p><p>
"It's a pretty long journey. But it'll be lovely; I
wisht I was a-going. Is Mary Jane the oldest?  How
old is the others?"
</p><p>
"Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and Joanna's
about fourteen&mdash;that's the one that gives herself
to good works and has a hare-lip."
</p><p>
"Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so."
</p><p>
"Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had
friends, and they ain't going to let them come to no
harm. There's Hobson, the Babtis' preacher; and
Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner
Shackleford, and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr. Robinson,
and their wives, and the widow Bartley, and&mdash;well,
there's a lot of them; but these are the ones that
Peter was thickest with, and used to write about
sometimes, when he wrote home; so Harvey 'll know
where to look for friends when he gets here."
</p><p>
Well, the old man went on asking questions till he
just fairly emptied that young fellow. Blamed if he
didn't inquire about everybody and everything in
that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and
about Peter's business&mdash;which was a tanner; and
about George's&mdash;which was a carpenter; and about
Harvey's&mdash;which was a dissentering minister; and
so on, and so on. Then he says:
</p><p>
"What did you want to walk all the way up to the
steamboat for?"
</p><p>
"Because she's a big Orleans boat, and I was
afeard she mightn't stop there. When they're deep
they won't stop for a hail. A Cincinnati boat will,
but this is a St. Louis one."
</p><p>
"Was Peter Wilks well off?"
</p><p>
"Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses and
land, and it's reckoned he left three or four thousand
in cash hid up som'ers."
</p><p>
"When did you say he died?"
</p><p>
"I didn't say, but it was last night."
</p><p>
"Funeral to-morrow, likely?"
</p><p>
"Yes, 'bout the middle of the day."
</p><p>
"Well, it's all terrible sad; but we've all got to go,
one time or another. So what we want to do is to be
prepared; then we're all right."
</p><p>
"Yes, sir, it's the best way. Ma used to always
say that."
</p><p>
When we struck the boat she was about done loading,
and pretty soon she got off. The king never said
nothing about going aboard, so I lost my ride, after
all. When the boat was gone the king made me paddle
up another mile to a lonesome place, and then he
got ashore and says:
</p><p>
"Now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up
here, and the new carpet-bags. And if he's gone over
to t'other side, go over there and git him. And tell
him to git himself up regardless. Shove along, now."
</p><p>
I see what <i>he</i> was up to; but I never said nothing,
of course. When I got back with the duke we hid the
canoe, and then they set down on a log, and the king
told him everything, just like the young fellow had
said it&mdash;every last word of it. And all the time he
was a-doing it he tried to talk like an Englishman;
and he done it pretty well, too, for a slouch. I can't
imitate him, and so I ain't a-going to try to; but he
really done it pretty good. Then he says:
</p><p>
"How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?"
</p><p>
The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he
had played a deef and dumb person on the histrionic
boards. So then they waited for a steamboat.
</p><p>
About the middle of the afternoon a couple of little
boats come along, but they didn't come from high
enough up the river; but at last there was a big one,
and they hailed her. She sent out her yawl, and we
went aboard, and she was from Cincinnati; and when
they found we only wanted to go four or five mile
they was booming mad, and gave us a cussing, and
said they wouldn't land us. But the king was ca'm.
He says:
</p><p>
"If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile
apiece to be took on and put off in a yawl, a steamboat
kin afford to carry 'em, can't it?"
</p><p>
So they softened down and said it was all right;
and when we got to the village they yawled us ashore.
About two dozen men flocked down when they see the
yawl a-coming, and when the king says:
</p><p>
"Kin any of you gentlemen tell me wher' Mr. Peter
Wilks lives?" they give a glance at one another, and
nodded their heads, as much as to say, "What 'd I
tell you?" Then one of them says, kind of soft and
gentle:
</p><p>
"I'm sorry, sir, but the best we can do is to tell
you where he <i>did</i> live yesterday evening."
</p><p>
Sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went all
to smash, and fell up against the man, and put his
chin on his shoulder, and cried down his back, and
says:
</p><p>
"Alas, alas, our poor brother&mdash;gone, and we never
got to see him; oh, it's too, too hard!"
</p><p>
Then he turns around, blubbering, and makes a lot
of idiotic signs to the duke on his hands, and blamed
if he didn't drop a carpet-bag and bust out a-crying.
If they warn't the beatenest lot, them two frauds,
that ever I struck.
</p><p>
Well, the men gathered around and sympathized
with them, and said all sorts of kind things to them,
and carried their carpet-bags up the hill for them, and
let them lean on them and cry, and told the king all
about his brother's last moments, and the king he told
it all over again on his hands to the duke, and both of
them took on about that dead tanner like they'd lost
the twelve disciples. Well, if ever I struck anything
like it, I'm a nigger. It was enough to make a body
ashamed of the human race.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXV"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXV</h2>
<br>
<p>
The news was all over town in two minutes, and
you could see the people tearing down on the
run from every which way, some of them putting
on their coats as they come. Pretty soon we was
in the middle of a crowd, and the noise of the tramping
was like a soldier march. The windows and
dooryards was full; and every minute somebody
would say, over a fence:
</p><p>
"Is it <i>them?</i>"
</p><p>
And somebody trotting along with the gang would
answer back and say:
</p><p>
"You bet it is."
</p><p>
When we got to the house the street in front of
it was packed, and the three girls was standing in the
door. Mary Jane <i>was</i> red-headed, but that don't
make no difference, she was most awful beautiful,
and her face and her eyes was all lit up like glory,
she was so glad her uncles was come. The king he
spread his arms, and Mary Jane she jumped for
them, and the hare-lip jumped for the duke, and there
they <i>had</i> it! Everybody most, leastways women,
cried for joy to see them meet again at last and have
such good times.
</p><p>
Then the king he hunched the duke private&mdash;I see
him do it&mdash;and then he looked around and see the
coffin, over in the corner on two chairs; so then him
and the duke, with a hand across each other's shoulder,
and t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and
solemn over there, everybody dropping back to
give them room, and all the talk and noise stopping,
people saying "'Sh!" and all the men taking their
hats off and drooping their heads, so you could 'a'
heard a pin fall. And when they got there they
bent over and looked in the coffin, and took one
sight, and then they bust out a-crying so you could
'a' heard them to Orleans, most; and then they put
their arms around each other's necks, and hung
their chins over each other's shoulders; and then for
three minutes, or maybe four, I never see two men
leak the way they done. And, mind you, everybody
was doing the same; and the place was that damp
I never see anything like it. Then one of them got
on one side of the coffin, and t'other on t'other side,
and they kneeled down and rested their foreheads
on the coffin, and let on to pray all to themselves.
Well, when it come to that it worked the crowd like
you never see anything like it, and everybody broke
down and went to sobbing right out loud&mdash;the poor
girls, too; and every woman, nearly, went up to the
girls, without saying a word, and kissed them,
solemn, on the forehead, and then put their hand
on their head, and looked up towards the sky, with
the tears running down, and then busted out and
went off sobbing and swabbing, and give the next
woman a show. I never see anything so disgusting.
Well, by and by the king he gets up and comes
forward a little, and works himself up and slobbers
out a speech, all full of tears and flapdoodle, about
its being a sore trial for him and his poor brother
to lose the diseased, and to miss seeing diseased
alive after the long journey of four thousand mile,
but it's a trial that's sweetened and sanctified to us
by this dear sympathy and these holy tears, and so
he thanks them out of his heart and out of his
brother's heart, because out of their mouths they
can't, words being too weak and cold, and all that
kind of rot and slush, till it was just sickening; and
then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody Amen, and
turns himself loose and goes to crying fit to bust.
</p><p>
And the minute the words were out of his mouth
somebody over in the crowd struck up the doxolojer,
and everybody joined in with all their might, and
it just warmed you up and made you feel as good
as church letting out. Music is a good thing; and
after all that soul-butter and hogwash I never see it
freshen up things so, and sound so honest and bully.
</p><p>
Then the king begins to work his jaw again, and
says how him and his nieces would be glad if a few
of the main principal friends of the family would
take supper here with them this evening, and help
set up with the ashes of the diseased; and says if
his poor brother laying yonder could speak he knows
who he would name, for they was names that was
very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters;
and so he will name the same, to wit, as follows,
viz.:&mdash;Rev. Mr. Hobson, and Deacon Lot Hovey,
and Mr. Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and
Levi Bell, and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and
the widow Bartley.
</p><p>
Rev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down to the
end of the town a-hunting together&mdash;that is, I mean
the doctor was shipping a sick man to t'other world,
and the preacher was pinting him right. Lawyer
Bell was away up to Louisville on business. But the
rest was on hand, and so they all come and shook
hands with the king and thanked him and talked to
him; and then they shook hands with the duke and
didn't say nothing, but just kept a-smiling and
bobbing their heads like a passel of sapheads whilst
he made all sorts of signs with his hands and said
"Goo-goo&mdash;goo-goo-goo" all the time, like a baby
that can't talk.
</p><p>
So the king he blattered along, and managed to
inquire about pretty much everybody and dog in
town, by his name, and mentioned all sorts of little
things that happened one time or another in the
town, or to George's family, or to Peter. And he
always let on that Peter wrote him the things; but
that was a lie: he got every blessed one of them out
of that young flathead that we canoed up to the
steamboat.
</p><p>
Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father
left behind, and the king he read it out loud and
cried over it. It give the dwelling-house and three
thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the
tanyard (which was doing a good business), along
with some other houses and land (worth about seven
thousand), and three thousand dollars in gold to
Harvey and William, and told where the six thousand
cash was hid down cellar. So these two frauds
said they'd go and fetch it up, and have everything
square and above-board; and told me to come with
a candle. We shut the cellar door behind us, and
when they found the bag they spilt it out on the
floor, and it was a lovely sight, all them yaller-boys.
My, the way the king's eyes did shine! He slaps the
duke on the shoulder and says:
</p><p>
"Oh, <i>this</i> ain't bully nor noth'n! Oh, no, I reckon
not! Why, Biljy, it beats the Nonesuch, <i>don't</i> it?"
</p><p>
The duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-boys,
and sifted them through their fingers and let
them jingle down on the floor; and the king says:
</p><p>
"It ain't no use talkin'; bein' brothers to a rich
dead man and representatives of furrin heirs that's
got left is the line for you and me, Bilge. Thish yer
comes of trust'n to Providence. It's the best way,
in the long run. I've tried 'em all, and ther' ain't
no better way."
</p><p>
Most everybody would 'a' been satisfied with the
pile, and took it on trust; but no, they must count
it. So they counts it, and it comes out four hundred
and fifteen dollars short. Says the king:
</p><p>
"Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four
hundred and fifteen dollars?"
</p><p>
They worried over that awhile, and ransacked all
around for it. Then the duke says:
</p><p>
"Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he
made a mistake&mdash;I reckon that's the way of it.
The best way's to let it go, and keep still about it.
We can spare it."
</p><p>
"Oh, shucks, yes, we can <i>spare</i> it. I don't k'yer
noth'n 'bout that&mdash;it's the <i>count</i> I'm thinkin' about.
We want to be awful square and open and above-board
here, you know. We want to lug this h'yer
money up-stairs and count it before everybody&mdash;then
ther' ain't noth'n suspicious. But when the dead
man says ther's six thous'n dollars, you know, we
don't want to&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Hold on," says the duke. "Le's make up the
deffisit," and he begun to haul out yaller-boys out
of his pocket.
</p><p>
"It's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke&mdash;you <i>have</i>
got a rattlin' clever head on you," says the king.
"Blest if the old Nonesuch ain't a heppin' us out
ag'in," and <i>he</i> begun to haul out yaller-jackets and
stack them up.
</p><p>
It most busted them, but they made up the six
thousand clean and clear.
</p><p>
"Say," says the duke, "I got another idea. Le's
go up-stairs and count this money, and then take
and <i>give it to the girls."</i>
</p><p>
"Good land, duke, lemme hug you! It's the
most dazzling idea 'at ever a man struck. You have
cert'nly got the most astonishin' head I ever see.
Oh, this is the boss dodge, ther' ain't no mistake
'bout it. Let 'em fetch along their suspicions now
if they want to&mdash;this 'll lay 'em out."
</p><p>
When we got up-stairs everybody gethered around
the table, and the king he counted it and stacked
it up, three hundred dollars in a pile&mdash;twenty elegant
little piles. Everybody looked hungry at it, and
licked their chops. Then they raked it into the
bag again, and I see the king begin to swell himself
up for another speech. He says:
</p><p>
"Friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder
has done generous by them that's left behind in the
vale of sorrers. He has done generous by these yer
poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and
that's left fatherless and motherless. Yes, and we
that knowed him knows that he would 'a' done <i>more</i>
generous by 'em if he hadn't ben afeard o' woundin'
his dear William and me. Now,  <i>wouldn't</i> he? Ther'
ain't no question 'bout it in <i>my</i> mind. Well, then,
what kind o' brothers would it be that 'd stand in
his way at sech a time? And what kind o' uncles
would it be that 'd rob&mdash;yes, <i>Rob</i>&mdash;sech poor sweet
lambs as these 'at he loved so at sech a time? If I
know William&mdash;and I <i>think</i> I do&mdash;he&mdash;well, I'll jest
ask him." He turns around and begins to make a
lot of signs to the duke with his hands, and the
duke he looks at him stupid and leather-headed
awhile; then all of a sudden he seems to catch his
meaning, and jumps for the king, goo-gooing with
all his might for joy, and hugs him about fifteen
times before he lets up. Then the king says, "I
knowed it; I reckon <i>that</i> 'll convince anybody the
way <i>he</i> feels about it. Here, Mary Jane, Susan,
Joanner, take the money&mdash;take it <i>all.</i> It's the gift
of him that lays yonder, cold but joyful."
</p><p>
Mary Jane she went for him, Susan and the hare-lip
went for the duke, and then such another hugging and
kissing I never see yet. And everybody crowded up
with the tears in their eyes, and most shook the hands
off of them frauds, saying all the time:
</p><p>
"You <i>dear</i> good souls!&mdash;how <i>lovely!</i>&mdash;how <i>could</i>
you!"
</p><p>
Well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking
about the diseased again, and how good he was, and
what a loss he was, and all that; and before long a big
iron-jawed man worked himself in there from outside,
and stood a-listening and looking, and not saying anything;
and nobody saying anything to him either,
because the king was talking and they was all busy
listening. The king was saying&mdash;in the middle of
something he'd started in on&mdash;
</p><p>
"&mdash;they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased.
That's why they're invited here this evenin'; but tomorrow
we want <i>all</i> to come&mdash;everybody; for he
respected everybody, he liked everybody, and so it's
fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public."
</p><p>
And so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear
himself talk, and every little while he fetched in his
funeral orgies again, till the duke he couldn't stand it
no more; so he writes on a little scrap of paper,
"<i>Obsequies</i>, you old fool," and folds it up, and goes
to goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to
him. The king he reads it and puts it in his pocket,
and says:
</p><p>
"Poor William, afflicted as he is, his <i>heart's</i> aluz
right. Asks me to invite everybody to come to the
funeral&mdash;wants me to make 'em all welcome. But he
needn't 'a' worried&mdash;it was jest what I was at."
</p><p>
Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and
goes to dropping in his funeral orgies again every now
and then, just like he done before. And when he
done it the third time he says:
</p><p>
"I say orgies, not because it's the common term,
because it ain't&mdash;obsequies bein' the common term&mdash;but
because orgies is the right term. Obsequies ain't
used in England no more now&mdash;it's gone out. We
say orgies now in England. Orgies is better, because
it means the thing you're after more exact. It's a
word that's made up out'n the Greek <i>orgo</i>, outside,
open, abroad; and the Hebrew <i>jeesum</i>, to plant, cover
up; hence in<i>ter</i>. So, you see, funeral orgies is an
open er public funeral."
</p><p>
He was the <i>worst</i> I ever struck. Well, the iron-jawed
man he laughed right in his face. Everybody
was shocked. Everybody says, "Why, <i>doctor!</i>" and
Abner Shackleford says:
</p><p>
"Why, Robinson, hain't you heard the news? This
is Harvey Wilks."
</p><p>
The king he smiled eager, and shoved out his
flapper, and says:
</p><p>
"<i>Is</i> it my poor brother's dear good friend and physician?
I&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Keep your hands off me!" says the doctor.
"<i>You</i> talk like an Englishman, <i>don't</i> you? It's the
worst imitation I ever heard. <i>You</i> Peter Wilks's
brother! You're a fraud, that's what you are!"
</p><p>
Well, how they all took on! They crowded around
the doctor and tried to quiet him down, and tried to
explain to him and tell him how Harvey's showed in
forty ways that he <i>was</i> Harvey, and knowed everybody
by name, and the names of the very dogs, and
begged and <i>begged</i> him not to hurt Harvey's feelings
and the poor girls' feelings, and all that. But it
warn't no use; he stormed right along, and said any
man that pretended to be an Englishman and
couldn't imitate the lingo no better than what he
did was a fraud and a liar. The poor girls was hanging
to the king and crying; and all of a sudden the
doctor ups and turns on <i>them.</i> He says:
</p><p>
"I was your father's friend, and I'm your friend;
and I warn you as a friend, and an honest one that
wants to protect you and keep you out of harm and
trouble, to turn your backs on that scoundrel and
have nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp,
with his idiotic Greek and Hebrew, as he calls it.
He is the thinnest kind of an impostor&mdash;has come
here with a lot of empty names and facts which he
picked up somewheres; and you take them for
<i>proofs</i>, and are helped to fool yourselves by these
foolish friends here, who ought to know better.
Mary Jane Wilks, you know me for your friend, and
for your unselfish friend, too. Now listen to me;
turn this pitiful rascal out&mdash;I <i>beg</i> you to do it.
Will you?"
</p><p>
Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but
she was handsome! She says:
</p><p>
"<i>Here</i> is my answer." She hove up the bag of
money and put it in the king's hands, and says,
"Take this six thousand dollars, and invest for me
and my sisters any way you want to, and don't give
us no receipt for it."
</p><p>
Then she put her arm around the king on one side,
and Susan and the hare-lip done the same on the
other. Everybody clapped their hands and stomped
on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the king
held up his head and smiled proud. The doctor
says:
</p><p>
"All right; I wash <i>my</i> hands of the matter. But I
warn you all that a time's coming when you're going
to feel sick whenever you think of this day." And
away he went.
</p><p>
"All right, doctor," says the king, kinder mocking
him; "we'll try and get 'em to send for you;" which
made them all laugh, and they said it was a prime
good hit.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXVI"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXVI</h2>
<br>
<p>
Well, when they was all gone the king he asks
Mary Jane how they was off for spare rooms,
and she said she had one spare room, which would do
for Uncle William, and she'd give her own room to
Uncle Harvey, which was a little bigger, and she
would turn into the room with her sisters and sleep
on a cot; and up garret was a little cubby, with a
pallet in it. The king said the cubby would do for
his valley&mdash;meaning me.
</p><p>
So Mary Jane took us up, and she showed them
their rooms, which was plain but nice. She said she'd
have her frocks and a lot of other traps took out of
her room if they was in Uncle Harvey's way, but he
said they warn't. The frocks was hung along the
wall, and before them was a curtain made out of
calico that hung down to the floor. There was an
old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box in
another, and all sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks
around, like girls brisken up a room with.
The king said it was all the more homely and more
pleasanter for these fixings, and so don't disturb
them. The duke's room was pretty small, but
plenty good enough, and so was my cubby.
</p><p>
That night they had a big supper, and all them men
and women was there, and I stood behind the king
and the duke's chairs and waited on them, and the
niggers waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set at the
head of the table, with Susan alongside of her, and
said how bad the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves
was, and how ornery and tough the fried chickens was&mdash;and
all that kind of rot, the way women always
do for to force out compliments; and the people
all knowed everything was tiptop, and said so&mdash;said
"How <i>do</i> you get biscuits to brown so nice?" and
"Where, for the land's sake, <i>did</i> you get these amaz'n
pickles?" and all that kind of humbug talky-talk, just
the way people always does at a supper, you know.
</p><p>
And when it was all done me and the hare-lip had
supper in the kitchen off of the leavings, whilst the
others was helping the niggers clean up the things.
The hare-lip she got to pumping me about England,
and blest if I didn't think the ice was getting mighty
thin sometimes. She says:
</p><p>
"Did you ever see the king?"
</p><p>
"Who? William Fourth? Well, I bet I have&mdash;he
goes to our church." I knowed he was dead years
ago, but I never let on. So when I says he goes to
our church, she says:
</p><p>
"What&mdash;regular?"
</p><p>
"Yes&mdash;regular. His pew's right over opposite
ourn&mdash;on t'other side the pulpit."
</p><p>
"I thought he lived in London?"
</p><p>
"Well, he does. Where <i>would</i> he live?"
</p><p>
"But I thought <i>you</i> lived in Sheffield?"
</p><p>
I see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get
choked with a chicken-bone, so as to get time to
think how to get down again. Then I says:
</p><p>
"I mean he goes to our church regular when he's in
Sheffield. That's only in the summer-time, when he
comes there to take the sea baths."
</p><p>
"Why, how you talk&mdash;Sheffield ain't on the sea."
</p><p>
"Well, who said it was?"
</p><p>
"Why, you did."
</p><p>
"I <i>didn't</i>, nuther."
</p><p>
"You did!"
</p><p>
"I didn't."
</p><p>
"You did."
</p><p>
"I never said nothing of the kind."
</p><p>
"Well, what <i>did</i> you say, then?"
</p><p>
"Said he come to take the sea <i>baths</i>&mdash;that's what I
said."
</p><p>
"Well, then, how's he going to take the sea baths
if it ain't on the sea?"
</p><p>
"Looky here," I says; "did you ever see any Congress-water?"
</p><p>
"Yes."
</p><p>
"Well, did you have to go to Congress to get it?"
</p><p>
"Why, no."
</p><p>
"Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to
the sea to get a sea bath."
</p><p>
"How does he get it, then?"
</p><p>
"Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-water&mdash;in
barrels. There in the palace at Sheffield
they've got furnaces, and he wants his water hot.
They can't bile that amount of water away off there
at the sea. They haven't got no conveniences for
it."
</p><p>
"Oh, I see, now. You might 'a' said that in the
first place and saved time."
</p><p>
When she said that I see I was out of the woods
again, and so I was comfortable and glad. Next, she
says:
</p><p>
"Do you go to church, too?"
</p><p>
"Yes&mdash;regular."
</p><p>
"Where do you set?"
</p><p>
"Why, in our pew."
</p><p>
"<i>Whose</i> pew?"
</p><p>
"Why, <i>ourn</i>&mdash;your Uncle Harvey's."
</p><p>
"His'n? What does <i>he</i> want with a pew?"
</p><p>
"Wants it to set in. What did you <i>reckon</i> he
wanted with it?"
</p><p>
"Why, I thought he'd be in the pulpit."
</p><p>
Rot him, I forgot he was a preacher. I see I was
up a stump again, so I played another chicken-bone
and got another think. Then I says:
</p><p>
"Blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one
preacher to a church?"
</p><p>
"Why, what do they want with more?"
</p><p>
"What!&mdash;to preach before a king? I never did
see such a girl as you. They don't have no less than
seventeen."
</p><p>
"Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn't set out
such a string as that, not if I <i>never</i> got to glory. It
must take 'em a week."
</p><p>
"Shucks, they don't <i>all</i> of 'em preach the same
day&mdash;only <i>one</i> of 'em."
</p><p>
"Well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?"
</p><p>
"Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate&mdash;and
one thing or another. But mainly they don't
do nothing."
</p><p>
"Well, then, what are they <i>for</i>?"
</p><p>
"Why, they're for <i>style</i>. Don't you know nothing?"
</p><p>
"Well, I don't <i>want</i> to know no such foolishness as
that. How is servants treated in England? Do they
treat 'em better 'n we treat our niggers?"
</p><p>
"<i>No!</i> A servant ain't nobody there. They treat
them worse than dogs."
</p><p>
"Don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do,
Christmas and New Year's week, and Fourth of
July?"
</p><p>
"Oh, just listen! A body could tell <i>you</i> hain't ever
been to England by that. Why, Hare-l&mdash;why, Joanna,
they never see a holiday from year's end to
year's end; never go to the circus, nor theater, nor
nigger shows, nor nowheres."
</p><p>
"Nor church?"
</p><p>
"Nor church."
</p><p>
"But <i>you</i> always went to church."
</p><p>
Well, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old
man's servant. But next minute I whirled in on a
kind of an explanation how a valley was different
from a common servant, and <i>had</i> to go to church
whether he wanted to or not, and set with the family,
on account of its being the law. But I didn't do it
pretty good, and when I got done I see she warn't
satisfied. She says:
</p><p>
"Honest injun, now, hain't you been telling me a
lot of lies?"
</p><p>
"Honest injun," says I.
</p><p>
"None of it at all?"
</p><p>
"None of it at all. Not a lie in it," says I.
</p><p>
"Lay your hand on this book and say it."
</p><p>
I see it warn't nothing but a dictionary, so I laid my
hand on it and said it. So then she looked a little
better satisfied, and says:
</p><p>
"Well, then, I'll believe some of it; but I hope to
gracious if I'll believe the rest."
</p><p>
"What is it you won't believe, Jo?" says Mary
Jane, stepping in with Susan behind her. "It ain't
right nor kind for you to talk so to him, and him a
stranger and so far from his people. How would you
like to be treated so?"
</p><p>
"That's always your way, Maim&mdash;always sailing
in to help somebody before they're hurt. I hain't
done nothing to him. He's told some stretchers, I
reckon, and I said I wouldn't swallow it all; and
that's every bit and grain I <i>did</i> say. I reckon he can
stand a little thing like that, can't he?"
</p><p>
"I don't care whether 'twas little or whether 'twas
big; he's here in our house and a stranger, and it
wasn't good of you to say it. If you was in his place
it would make you feel ashamed; and so you oughtn't
to say a thing to another person that will make <i>them</i>
feel ashamed."
</p><p>
"Why, Maim, he said&mdash;"
</p><p>
"It don't make no difference what he <i>said</i>&mdash;that
ain't the thing. The thing is for you to treat him
<i>kind,</i> and not be saying things to make him remember
he ain't in his own country and amongst his own
folks."
</p><p>
I says to myself, <i>this</i> is a girl that I'm letting that
old reptile rob her of her money!
</p><p>
Then Susan <i>she</i> waltzed in; and if you'll believe
me, she did give Hare-lip hark from the tomb!
</p><p>
Says I to myself, and this is <i>another</i> one that I'm
letting him rob her of her money!
</p><p>
Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went
in sweet and lovely again&mdash;which was her way; but
when she got done there warn't hardly anything left
o' poor Hare-lip. So she hollered.
</p><p>
"All right, then," says the other girls; "you just
ask his pardon."
</p><p>
She done it, too; and she done it beautiful. She
done it so beautiful it was good to hear; and I wished
I could tell her a thousand lies, so she could do it
again.
</p><p>
I says to myself, this is <i>another</i> one that I'm letting
him rob her of her money. And when she got through
they all jest laid theirselves out to make me feel at
home and know I was amongst friends. I felt so
ornery and low down and mean that I says to myself,
my mind's made up; I'll hive that money for them
or bust.
</p><p>
So then I lit out&mdash;for bed, I said, meaning some
time or another. When I got by myself I went to
thinking the thing over. I says to myself, shall I go
to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds?
No&mdash;that won't do. He might tell who told him;
then the king and the duke would make it warm for
me. Shall I go, private, and tell Mary Jane? No&mdash;I
dasn't do it. Her face would give them a hint,
sure; they've got the money, and they'd slide right
out and get away with it. If she was to fetch in help
I'd get mixed up in the business before it was done
with, I judge. No; there ain't no good way but one.
I got to steal that money, somehow; and I got to
steal it some way that they won't suspicion that I
done it. They've got a good thing here, and they
ain't a-going to leave till they've played this family
and this town for all they're worth, so I'll find a
chance time enough. I'll steal it and hide it; and
by and by, when I'm away down the river, I'll write
a letter and tell Mary Jane where it's hid. But I
better hive it to-night if I can, because the doctor
maybe hasn't let up as much as he lets on he has;
he might scare them out of here yet.
</p><p>
So, thinks I, I'll go and search them rooms. Upstairs
the hall was dark, but I found the duke's room,
and started to paw around it with my hands; but I
recollected it wouldn't be much like the king to let
anybody else take care of that money but his own self;
so then I went to his room and begun to paw around
there. But I see I couldn't do nothing without a
candle, and I dasn't light one, of course. So I judged
I'd got to do the other thing&mdash;lay for them and eavesdrop.
About that time I hears their footsteps
coming, and was going to skip under the bed; I
reached for it, but it wasn't where I thought it would
be; but I touched the curtain that hid Mary Jane's
frocks, so I jumped in behind that and snuggled in
amongst the gowns, and stood there perfectly still.
They come in and shut the door; and the first
thing the duke done was to get down and look under
the bed. Then I was glad I hadn't found the bed
when I wanted it. And yet, you know, it's kind of
natural to hide under the bed when you are up to
anything private. They sets down then, and the
king says:
</p><p>
"Well, what is it? And cut it middlin' short, because
it's better for us to be down there a-whoopin'
up the mournin' than up here givin' 'em a chance to
talk us over."
</p><p>
"Well, this is it, Capet. I ain't easy; I ain't comfortable.
That doctor lays on my mind. I wanted to
know your plans. I've got a notion, and I think it's
a sound one."
</p><p>
"What is it, duke?"
</p><p>
"That we better glide out of this before three in
the morning, and clip it down the river with what
we've got. Specially, seeing we got it so easy&mdash;<i>given</i>
back to us, flung at our heads, as you may say, when
of course we allowed to have to steal it back. I'm for
knocking off and lighting out."
</p><p>
That made me feel pretty bad. About an hour or
two ago it would 'a' been a little different, but now it
made me feel bad and disappointed. The king rips
out and says:
</p><p>
"What! And not sell out the rest o' the property?
March off like a passel of fools and leave eight or nine
thous'n' dollars' worth o' property layin' around jest
sufferin' to be scooped in?&mdash;and all good, salable
stuff, too."
</p><p>
The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was
enough, and he didn't want to go no deeper&mdash;didn't
want to rob a lot of orphans of <i>everything</i> they had.
</p><p>
"Why, how you talk!" says the king. "We
sha'n't rob 'em of nothing at all but jest this money.
The people that <i>buys</i> the property is the suff'rers;
because as soon 's it's found out 'at we didn't own
it&mdash;which won't be long after we've slid&mdash;the sale
won't be valid, and it 'll all go back to the estate.
These yer orphans 'll git their house back ag'in, and
that's enough for <i>them;</i> they're young and spry, and
k'n easy earn a livin'. <i>They</i> ain't a-goin' to suffer.
Why, jest think&mdash;there's thous'n's and thous'n's that
ain't nigh so well off. Bless you, <i>they</i> ain't got noth'n'
to complain of."
</p><p>
Well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he
give in, and said all right, but said he believed it
was blamed foolishness to stay, and that doctor
hanging over them. But the king says:
</p><p>
"Cuss the doctor! What do we k'yer for <i>him?</i>
Hain't we got all the fools in town on our side?
And ain't that a big enough majority in any town?"
</p><p>
So they got ready to go down-stairs again. The
duke says:
</p><p>
"I don't think we put that money in a good place."
</p><p>
That cheered me up. I'd begun to think I warn't
going to get a hint of no kind to help me. The king
says:
</p><p>
"Why?"
</p><p>
"Because Mary Jane 'll be in mourning from this
out; and first you know the nigger that does up the
rooms will get an order to box these duds up and
put 'em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run
across money and not borrow some of it?"
</p><p>
"Your head's level ag'in, duke," says the king; and
he comes a-fumbling under the curtain two or three
foot from where I was. I stuck tight to the wall
and kept mighty still, though quivery; and I wondered
what them fellows would say to me if they
catched me; and I tried to think what I'd better do
if they did catch me. But the king he got the bag
before I could think more than about a half a
thought, and he never suspicioned I was around.
They took and shoved the bag through a rip in the
straw tick that was under the feather-bed, and
crammed it in a foot or two amongst the straw and
said it was all right now, because a nigger only makes
up the feather-bed, and don't turn over the straw
tick only about twice a year, and so it warn't in no
danger of getting stole now.
</p><p>
But I knowed better. I had it out of there before
they was half-way down-stairs. I groped along up
to my cubby, and hid it there till I could get a
chance to do better. I judged I better hide it outside
of the house somewheres, because if they missed
it they would give the house a good ransacking: I
knowed that very well. Then I turned in, with
my clothes all on; but I couldn't 'a' gone to sleep if
I'd 'a' wanted to, I was in such a sweat to get through
with the business. By and by I heard the king and
the duke come up; so I rolled off my pallet and laid
with my chin at the top of my ladder, and waited
to see if anything was going to happen. But nothing
did.
</p><p>
So I held on till all the late sounds had quit and
the early ones hadn't begun yet; and then I slipped
down the ladder.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXVII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXVII</h2>
<br>
<p>
I crept to their doors and listened; they was
snoring. So I tiptoed along, and got downstairs
all right. There warn't a sound anywheres.
I peeped through a crack of the dining-room door,
and see the men that was watching the corpse all
sound asleep on their chairs. The door was open
into the parlor, where the corpse was laying, and
there was a candle in both rooms. I passed along,
and the parlor door was open; but I see there warn't
nobody in there but the remainders of Peter; so I
shoved on by; but the front door was locked, and
the key wasn't there. Just then I heard somebody
coming down the stairs, back behind me. I run in
the parlor and took a swift look around, and the
only place I see to hide the bag was in the coffin.
The lid was shoved along about a foot, showing the
dead man's face down in there, with a wet cloth
over it, and his shroud on. I tucked the money-bag
in under the lid, just down beyond where his
hands was crossed, which made me creep, they was
so cold, and then I run back across the room and in
behind the door.
</p><p>
The person coming was Mary Jane. She went to
the coffin, very soft, and kneeled down and looked
in; then she put up her handkerchief, and I see she
begun to cry, though I couldn't hear her, and her
back was to me. I slid out, and as I passed the
dining-room I thought I'd make sure them watchers
hadn't seen me; so I looked through the crack, and
everything was all right. They hadn't stirred.
</p><p>
I slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts
of the thing playing out that way after I had took
so much trouble and run so much resk about it.
Says I, if it could stay where it is, all right; because
when we get down the river a hundred mile or two
I could write back to Mary Jane, and she could dig
him up again and get it; but that ain't the thing
that's going to happen; the thing that's going to
happen is, the money'll be found when they come
to screw on the lid. Then the king 'll get it again,
and it 'll be a long day before he gives anybody
another chance to smouch it from him. Of course
I <i>wanted</i> to slide down and get it out of there, but I
dasn't try it. Every minute it was getting earlier
now, and pretty soon some of them watchers would
begin to stir, and I might get catched&mdash;catched
with six thousand dollars in my hands that nobody
hadn't hired me to take care of. I don't wish to be
mixed up in no such business as that, I says to
myself.
</p><p>
When I got down-stairs in the morning the parlor
was shut up, and the watchers was gone. There
warn't nobody around but the family and the widow
Bartley and our tribe. I watched their faces to see
if anything had been happening, but I couldn't tell.
</p><p>
Towards the middle of the day the undertaker
come with his man, and they set the coffin in the
middle of the room on a couple of chairs, and then
set all our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from
the neighbors till the hall and the parlor and the
dining-room was full. I see the coffin lid was the
way it was before, but I dasn't go to look in under
it, with folks around.
</p><p>
Then the people begun to flock in, and the beats
and the girls took seats in the front row at the head
of the coffin, and for a half an hour the people filed
around slow, in single rank, and looked down at the
dead man's face a minute, and some dropped in a
tear, and it was all very still and solemn, only the
girls and the beats holding handkerchiefs to their
eyes and keeping their heads bent, and sobbing a
little. There warn't no other sound but the scraping
of the feet on the floor and blowing noses&mdash;because
people always blows them more at a funeral than
they do at other places except church.
</p><p>
When the place was packed full the undertaker he
slid around in his black gloves with his softy soothering
ways, putting on the last touches, and getting
people and things all ship-shape and comfortable,
and making no more sound than a cat. He never
spoke; he moved people around, he squeezed in late
ones, he opened up passageways, and done it with
nods, and signs with his hands. Then he took his
place over against the wall. He was the softest,
glidingest, stealthiest man I ever see; and there
warn't no more smile to him than there is to a ham.
</p><p>
They had borrowed a melodeum&mdash;a sick one; and
when everything was ready a young woman set down
and worked it, and it was pretty skreeky and colicky,
and everybody joined in and sung, and Peter was
the only one that had a good thing, according to my
notion. Then the Reverend Hobson opened up,
slow and solemn, and begun to talk; and straight off
the most outrageous row busted out in the cellar a
body ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made
a most powerful racket, and he kept it up right along;
the parson he had to stand there, over the coffin, and
wait&mdash;you couldn't hear yourself think. It was
right down awkward, and nobody didn't seem to
know what to do. But pretty soon they see that
long-legged undertaker make a sign to the preacher
as much as to say, "Don't you worry&mdash;just depend
on me." Then he stooped down and begun to glide
along the wall, just his shoulders showing over the
people's heads. So he glided along, and the powwow
and racket getting more and more outrageous all the
time; and at last, when he had gone around two sides
of the room, he disappears down cellar. Then in
about two seconds we heard a whack, and the dog
he finished up with a most amazing howl or two, and
then everything was dead still, and the parson begun
his solemn talk where he left off. In a minute or two
here comes this undertaker's back and shoulders
gliding along the wall again; and so he glided and
glided around three sides of the room, and then rose
up, and shaded his mouth with his hands, and
stretched his neck out towards the preacher, over the
people's heads, and says, in a kind of a coarse whisper,
"<i>He had a rat!</i>" Then he drooped down and
glided along the wall again to his place. You could
see it was a great satisfaction to the people, because
naturally they wanted to know. A little thing like
that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little things
that makes a man to be looked up to and liked.
There warn't no more popular man in town than
what that undertaker was.
</p><p>
Well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison
long and tiresome; and then the king he shoved in
and got off some of his usual rubbage, and at last
the job was through, and the undertaker begun to
sneak up on the coffin with his screw-driver. I was
in a sweat then, and watched him pretty keen. But
he never meddled at all; just slid the lid along as
soft as mush, and screwed it down tight and fast.
So there I was! I didn't know whether the money
was in there or not. So, says I, s'pose somebody has
hogged that bag on the sly?&mdash;now how do <i>I</i> know
whether to write to Mary Jane or not? S'pose she
dug him up and didn't find nothing, what would she
think of me? Blame it, I says, I might get hunted
up and jailed; I'd better lay low and keep dark, and
not write at all; the thing's awful mixed now; trying
to better it, I've worsened it a hundred times, and I
wish to goodness I'd just let it alone, dad fetch the
whole business!
</p><p>
They buried him, and we come back home, and I
went to watching faces again&mdash;I couldn't help it, and
I couldn't rest easy. But nothing come of it; the
faces didn't tell me nothing.
</p><p>
The king he visited around in the evening, and
sweetened everybody up, and made himself ever so
friendly; and he give out the idea that his congregation
over in England would be in a sweat about
him, so he must hurry and settle up the estate right
away and leave for home. He was very sorry he was
so pushed, and so was everybody; they wished he
could stay longer, but they said they could see it
couldn't be done. And he said of course him and
William would take the girls home with them; and
that pleased everybody too, because then the girls
would be well fixed and amongst their own relations;
and it pleased the girls, too&mdash;tickled them so they
clean forgot they ever had a trouble in the world;
and told him to sell out as quick as he wanted to,
they would be ready. Them poor things was that
glad and happy it made my heart ache to see them
getting fooled and lied to so, but I didn't see no safe
way for me to chip in and change the general tune.
</p><p>
Well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and
the niggers and all the property for auction straight
off&mdash;sale two days after the funeral; but anybody
could buy private beforehand if they wanted to.
</p><p>
So the next day after the funeral, along about noon-time,
the girls' joy got the first jolt. A couple of
nigger-traders come along, and the king sold them the
niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as they called
it, and away they went, the two sons up the river to
Memphis, and their mother down the river to
Orleans. I thought them poor girls and them niggers
would break their hearts for grief; they cried around
each other, and took on so it most made me down
sick to see it. The girls said they hadn't ever
dreamed of seeing the family separated or sold away
from the town. I can't ever get it out of my memory,
the sight of them poor miserable girls and niggers
hanging around each other's necks and crying; and
I reckon I couldn't 'a' stood it all, but would 'a' had
to bust out and tell on our gang if I hadn't knowed
the sale warn't no account and the niggers would be
back home in a week or two.
</p><p>
The thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a
good many come out flatfooted and said it was scandalous
to separate the mother and the children that
way. It injured the frauds some; but the old fool
he bulled right along, spite of all the duke could say
or do, and I tell you the duke was powerful uneasy.
</p><p>
Next day was auction day. About broad day in
the morning the king and the duke come up in the
garret and woke me up, and I see by their look that
there was trouble. The king says:
</p><p>
"Was you in my room night before last?"
</p><p>
"No, your majesty"&mdash;which was the way I always
called him when nobody but our gang warn't
around.
</p><p>
"Was you in there yisterday er last night?"
</p><p>
"No, your majesty."
</p><p>
"Honor bright, now&mdash;no lies."
</p><p>
"Honor bright, your majesty, I'm telling you the
truth. I hain't been a-near your room since Miss
Mary Jane took you and the duke and showed it to
you."
</p><p>
The duke says:
</p><p>
"Have you seen anybody else go in there?"
</p><p>
"No, your grace, not as I remember, I believe."
</p><p>
"Stop and think."
</p><p>
I studied awhile and see my chance; then I says:
"Well, I see the niggers go in there several times."
</p><p>
Both of them gave a little jump, and looked like
they hadn't ever expected it, and then like they <i>had</i>.
Then the duke says:
</p><p>
"What, <i>all</i> of them?"
</p><p>
"No&mdash;leastways, not all at once&mdash;that is, I don't
think I ever see them all come <i>out</i> at once but just one
time."
</p><p>
"Hello!  When was that?"
</p><p>
"It was the day we had the funeral. In the morning.
It warn't early, because I overslept. I was
just starting down the ladder, and I see them."
</p><p>
"Well, go on, <i>go</i> on! What did they do? How'd
they act?"
</p><p>
"They didn't do nothing. And they didn't act
anyway much, as fur as I see. They tiptoed away;
so I seen, easy enough, that they'd shoved in there to
do up your majesty's room, or something, s'posing
you was up; and found you <i>warn't</i> up, and so they
was hoping to slide out of the way of trouble without
waking you up, if they hadn't already waked you
up."
</p><p>
"Great guns, <i>this</i> is a go!" says the king; and
both of them looked pretty sick and tolerable silly.
They stood there a-thinking and scratching their
heads a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind of a
little raspy chuckle, and says:
</p><p>
"It does beat all how neat the niggers played their
hand. They let on to be <i>sorry</i> they was going out of
this region! And I believed they <i>was</i> sorry, and so
did you, and so did everybody. Don't ever tell <i>me</i>
any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic talent.
Why, the way they played that thing it would fool
<i>anybody.</i> In my opinion, there's a fortune in 'em.
If I had capital and a theater, I wouldn't want a
better lay-out than that&mdash;and here we've gone and
sold 'em for a song. Yes, and ain't privileged to sing
the song yet. Say, where <i>is</i> that song&mdash;that draft?"
</p><p>
"In the bank for to be collected. Where <i>would</i> it
be?"
</p><p>
"Well, that's all right then, thank goodness."
</p><p>
Says I, kind of timid-like:
</p><p>
"Is something gone wrong?"
</p><p>
The king whirls on me and rips out:
</p><p>
"None o' your business! You keep your head
shet, and mind y'r own affairs&mdash;if you got any.
Long as you're in this town don't you forgit <i>that</i>&mdash;you hear?"
Then he says to the duke, "We got to
jest swaller it and say noth'n': mum's the word for
<i>us</i>."
</p><p>
As they was starting down the ladder the duke he
chuckles again, and says:
</p><p>
"Quick sales <i>and</i> small profits! It's a good business&mdash;yes."
</p><p>
The king snarls around on him and says:
</p><p>
"I was trying to do for the best in sellin' 'em out
so quick. If the profits has turned out to be none,
lackin' considable, and none to carry, is it my fault
any more'n it's yourn?"
</p><p>
"Well, <i>they'd</i> be in this house yet and we <i>wouldn't</i>
if I could 'a' got my advice listened to."
</p><p>
The king sassed back as much as was safe for him,
and then swapped around and lit into <i>me</i> again. He
give me down the banks for not coming and <i>telling</i>
him I see the niggers come out of his room acting that
way&mdash;said any fool would 'a' <i>knowed</i> something was
up. And then waltzed in and cussed <i>himself</i> awhile,
and said it all come of him not laying late and taking
his natural rest that morning, and he'd be blamed if
he'd ever do it again. So they went off a-jawing;
and I felt dreadful glad I'd worked it all off onto
the niggers, and yet hadn't done the niggers no
harm by it.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXVIII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXVIII</h2>
<br>
<p>
By and by it was getting-up time. So I come
down the ladder and started for down-stairs;
but as I come to the girls' room the door was open,
and I see Mary Jane setting by her old hair trunk,
which was open and she'd been packing things in it&mdash;getting
ready to go to England. But she had
stopped now with a folded gown in her lap, and had
her face in her hands, crying. I felt awful bad to
see it; of course anybody would. I went in there
and says:
</p><p>
"Miss Mary Jane, you can't a-bear to see people
in trouble, and <i>I</i> can't&mdash;most always. Tell me
about it."
</p><p>
So she done it. And it was the niggers&mdash;I just
expected it. She said the beautiful trip to England
was most about spoiled for her; she didn't know <i>how</i>
she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the
mother and the children warn't ever going to see
each other no more&mdash;and then busted out bitterer
than ever, and flung up her hands, and says:
</p><p>
"Oh, dear, dear, to think they ain't <i>ever</i> going to
see each other any more!"
</p><p>
"But they <i>will</i>&mdash;and inside of two weeks&mdash;and I
<i>know</i> it!" says I.
</p><p>
Laws, it was out before I could think! And before
I could budge she throws her arms around my neck
and told me to say it <i>again</i>, say it <i>again</i>, say it <i>again!</i>
</p><p>
I see I had spoke too sudden and said too much,
and was in a close place. I asked her to let me think
a minute; and she set there, very impatient and excited
and handsome, but looking kind of happy and
eased-up, like a person that's had a tooth pulled out.
So I went to studying it out. I says to myself, I
reckon a body that ups and tells the truth when he is
in a tight place is taking considerable many resks,
though I ain't had no experience, and can't say for
certain; but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet
here's a case where I'm blest if it don't look to me
like the truth is better and actuly <i>safer</i> than a lie.
I must lay it by in my mind, and think it over some
time or other, it's so kind of strange and unregular.
I never see nothing like it. Well, I says to myself
at last, I'm a-going to chance it; I'll up and tell the
truth this time, though it does seem most <i>like</i> setting
down on a kag of powder and touching it off just to
see where you'll go to. Then I says:
</p><p>
"Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a
little ways where you could go and stay three or four
days?"
</p><p>
"Yes; Mr. Lothrop's. Why?"
</p><p>
"Never mind why yet. If I'll tell you how I know
the niggers will see each other again&mdash;inside of two
weeks&mdash;here in this house&mdash;and <i>prove</i> how I know
it&mdash;will you go to Mr. Lothrop's and stay four days?"
</p><p>
"Four days!" she says; "I'll stay a year!"
</p><p>
"All right," I says, "I don't want nothing more
out of <i>you</i> than just your word&mdash;I druther have it
than another man's kiss-the-Bible."  She smiled and
reddened up very sweet, and I says, "If you don't
mind it, I'll shut the door&mdash;and bolt it."
</p><p>
Then I come back and set down again, and says:
</p><p>
"Don't you holler. Just set still and take it like a
man. I got to tell the truth, and you want to brace
up, Miss Mary, because it's a bad kind, and going to
be hard to take, but there ain't no help for it. These
uncles of yourn ain't no uncles at all; they're a couple
of frauds&mdash;regular dead-beats. There, now we're over
the worst of it, you can stand the rest middling easy."
</p><p>
It jolted her up like everything, of course; but I
was over the shoal water now, so I went right along,
her eyes a-blazing higher and higher all the time, and
told her every blame thing, from where we first struck
that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear
through to where she flung herself onto the king's
breast at the front door and he kissed her sixteen or
seventeen times&mdash;and then up she jumps, with her
face afire like sunset, and says:
</p><p>
"The brute! Come, don't waste a minute&mdash;not a
<i>second</i>&mdash;we'll have them tarred and feathered, and
flung in the river!"
</p><p>
Says I:
</p><p>
"Cert'nly. But do you mean <i>before</i> you go to Mr.
Lothrop's, or&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Oh," she says, "what am I <i>thinking</i> about!"
she says, and set right down again. "Don't mind
what I said&mdash;please don't&mdash;you <i>won't</i>, now, <i>will</i>
you?" Laying her silky hand on mine in that kind
of a way that I said I would die first. "I never
thought, I was so stirred up," she says; "now go on,
and I won't do so any more. You tell me what to do,
and whatever you say I'll do it."
</p><p>
"Well," I says, "it's a rough gang, them two
frauds, and I'm fixed so I got to travel with them a
while longer, whether I want to or not&mdash;I druther not
tell you why; and if you was to blow on them this
town would get me out of their claws, and I'd be all
right; but there'd be another person that you don't
know about who'd be in big trouble. Well, we got
to save <i>him</i>, hain't we? Of course. Well, then, we
won't blow on them."
</p><p>
Saying them words put a good idea in my head. I
see how maybe I could get me and Jim rid of the
frauds; get them jailed here, and then leave. But I
didn't want to run the raft in the daytime without
anybody aboard to answer questions but me; so I
didn't want the plan to begin working till pretty late
to-night. I says:
</p><p>
"Miss Mary Jane, I'll tell you what we'll do, and
you won't have to stay at Mr. Lothrop's so long,
nuther. How fur is it?"
</p><p>
"A little short of four miles&mdash;right out in the
country, back here."
</p><p>
"Well, that 'll answer. Now you go along out
there, and lay low till nine or half past to-night, and
then get them to fetch you home again&mdash;tell them
you've thought of something. If you get here before
eleven put a candle in this window, and if I don't
turn up wait <i>till</i> eleven, and <i>then</i> if I don't turn up it
means I'm gone, and out of the way, and safe. Then
you come out and spread the news around, and get
these beats jailed."
</p><p>
"Good," she says, "I'll do it."
</p><p>
"And if it just happens so that I don't get away,
but get took up along with them, you must up and
say I told you the whole thing beforehand, and you
must stand by me all you can."
</p><p>
"Stand by you! indeed I will. They sha'n't touch
a hair of your head!" she says, and I see her nostrils
spread and her eyes snap when she said it, too.
</p><p>
"If I get away I sha'n't be here," I says, "to
prove these rapscallions ain't your uncles, and I
couldn't do it if I <i>was</i> here. I could swear they was
beats and bummers, that's all, though that's worth
something. Well, there's others can do that better
than what I can, and they're people that ain't going
to be doubted as quick as I'd be. I'll tell you how to
find them. Gimme a pencil and a piece of paper.
There&mdash;'<i>Royal Nonesuch,  Bricksville.</i>' Put it away,
and don't lose it. When the court wants to find out
something about these two, let them send up to
Bricksville and say they've got the men that played
the 'Royal Nonesuch,' and ask for some witnesses&mdash;why,
you'll have that entire town down here before
you can hardly wink, Miss Mary. And they'll come
a-biling, too."
</p><p>
I judged we had got everything fixed about right
now. So I says:
</p><p>
"Just let the auction go right along, and don't
worry. Nobody don't have to pay for the things
they buy till a whole day after the auction on accounts
of the short notice, and they ain't going out
of this till they get that money; and the way we've
fixed it the sale ain't going to count, and they ain't
going to get no money. It's just like the way it was
with the niggers&mdash;it warn't no sale, and the niggers
will be back before long. Why, they can't collect
the money for the <i>niggers</i> yet&mdash;they're in the worst
kind of a fix, Miss Mary."
</p><p>
"Well," she says, "I'll run down to breakfast now,
and then I'll start straight for Mr. Lothrop's."
</p><p>
"'Deed, <i>that</i> ain't the ticket, Miss Mary Jane," I
says, "by no manner of means; go <i>before</i> breakfast."
</p><p>
"Why?"
</p><p>
"What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all
for, Miss Mary?"
</p><p>
"Well, I never thought&mdash;and come to think, I
don't know. What was it?"
</p><p>
"Why, it's because you ain't one of these leather-face
people. I don't want no better book than what
your face is. A body can set down and read it off
like coarse print. Do you reckon you can go and
face your uncles when they come to kiss you good-morning,
and never&mdash;"
</p><p>
"There, there, don't! Yes, I'll go before breakfast&mdash;I'll
be glad to. And leave my sisters with
them?"
</p><p>
"Yes; never mind about them. They've got to
stand it yet awhile. They might suspicion something
if all of you was to go. I don't want you to
see them, nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town;
if a neighbor was to ask how is your uncles this
morning your face would tell something. No, you
go right along, Miss Mary Jane, and I'll fix it with
all of them. I'll tell Miss Susan to give your love
to your uncles and say you've went away for a few
hours for to get a little rest and change, or to see a
friend, and you'll be back to-night or early in the
morning."
</p><p>
"Gone to see a friend is all right, but I won't
have my love given to them."
</p><p>
"Well, then, it sha'n't be." It was well enough
to tell <i>her</i> so&mdash;no harm in it. It was only a little
thing to do, and no trouble; and it's the little things
that smooths people's roads the most, down here
below; it would make Mary Jane comfortable, and
it wouldn't cost nothing. Then I says: "There's one
more thing&mdash;that bag of money."
</p><p>
"Well, they've got that; and it makes me feel
pretty silly to think <i>how</i> they got it."
</p><p>
"No, you're out, there. They hain't got it."
</p><p>
"Why, who's got it?"
</p><p>
"I wish I knowed, but I don't. I <i>had</i> it, because
I stole it from them; and I stole it to give to you; and
I know where I hid it, but I'm afraid it ain't there
no more. I'm awful sorry, Miss Mary Jane, I'm
just as sorry as I can be; but I done the best I could;
I did honest. I come nigh getting caught, and I had
to shove it into the first place I come to, and run&mdash;and
it warn't a good place."
</p><p>
"Oh, stop blaming yourself&mdash;it's too bad to do it,
and I won't allow it&mdash;you couldn't help it; it wasn't
your fault. Where did you hide it?"
</p><p>
I didn't want to set her to thinking about her
troubles again; and I couldn't seem to get my mouth to
tell her what would make her see that corpse laying
in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach.
So for a minute I didn't say nothing; then I says:
</p><p>
"I'd ruther not <i>tell</i> you where I put it, Miss Mary Jane,
if you don't mind letting me off; but I'll write
it for you on a piece of paper, and you can read it
along the road to Mr. Lothrop's, if you want to.
Do you reckon that 'll do?"
</p><p>
"Oh, yes."
</p><p>
So I wrote: "I put it in the coffin. It was in
there when you was crying there, away in the night.
I was behind the door, and I was mighty sorry for
you, Miss Mary Jane."
</p><p>
It made my eyes water a little to remember her
crying there all by herself in the night, and them
devils laying there right under her own roof, shaming
her and robbing her; and when I folded it up and
give it to her I see the water come into her eyes, too;
and she shook me by the hand, hard, and says:
</p><p>
"<i>Good</i>-by. I'm going to do everything just as
you've told me; and if I don't ever see you again,
I sha'n't ever forget you, and I'll think of you a
many and a many a time, and I'll <i>pray</i> for you,
too!"&mdash;and she was gone.
</p><p>
Pray for me! I reckoned if she knowed me she'd
take a job that was more nearer her size. But I bet
she done it, just the same&mdash;she was just that kind.
She had the grit to pray for Judus if she took the
notion&mdash;there warn't no back-down to her, I judge.
You may say what you want to, but in my opinion
she had more sand in her than any girl I ever see;
in my opinion she was just full of sand. It sounds
like flattery, but it ain't no flattery. And when it
comes to beauty&mdash;and goodness, too&mdash;she lays over
them all. I hain't ever seen her since that time that
I see her go out of that door; no, I hain't ever seen
her since, but I reckon I've thought of her a many
and a many a million times, and of her saying she
would pray for me; and if ever I'd 'a' thought it
would do any good for me to pray for <i>her</i>, blamed
if I wouldn't 'a' done it or bust.
</p><p>
Well, Mary Jane she lit out the back way, I reckon;
because nobody see her go. When I struck Susan
and the hare-lip, I says:
</p><p>
"What's the name of them people over on t'other
side of the river that you all goes to see sometimes?"
</p><p>
They says:
</p><p>
"There's several; but it's the Proctors, mainly."
</p><p>
"That's the name," I says; "I most forgot it.
Well, Miss Mary Jane she told me to tell you she's
gone over there in a dreadful hurry&mdash;one of them's
sick."
</p><p>
"Which one?"
</p><p>
"I don't know; leastways, I kinder forget; but I
thinks it's&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Sakes alive, I hope it ain't <i>Hanner?</i>"
</p><p>
"I'm sorry to say it," I says, "but Hanner's the
very one."
</p><p>
"My goodness, and she so well only last week!
Is she took bad?"
</p><p>
"It ain't no name for it. They set up with her
all night, Miss Mary Jane said, and they don't think
she'll last many hours."
</p><p>
"Only think of that, now! What's the matter
with her?"
</p><p>
I couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off
that way, so I says:
</p><p>
"Mumps."
</p><p>
"Mumps your granny! They don't set up with
people that's got the mumps."
</p><p>
"They don't, don't they? You better bet they
do with <i>these</i> mumps. These mumps is different.
It's a new kind, Miss Mary Jane said."
</p><p>
"How's it a new kind?"
</p><p>
"Because it's mixed up with other things."
</p><p>
"What other things?"
</p><p>
"Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas,
and consumption, and yaller janders, and brain-fever,
and I don't know what all."
</p><p>
"My land! And they call it the <i>mumps?</i>"
</p><p>
"That's what Miss Mary Jane said."
</p><p>
"Well, what in the nation do they call it the
<i>mumps</i> for?"
</p><p>
"Why, because it <i>is</i> the mumps. That's what it
starts with."
</p><p>
"Well, ther' ain't no sense in it. A body might
stump his toe, and take pison, and fall down the
well, and break his neck, and bust his brains out, and
somebody come along and ask what killed him, and
some numskull up and say, 'Why, he stumped his
<i>toe</i>.' Would ther' be any sense in that? <i>No</i>. And
ther' ain't no sense in <i>this</i>, nuther. Is it ketching?"
</p><p>
"Is it <i>ketching?</i>  Why, how you talk. Is a <i>harrow</i>
catching&mdash;in the dark? If you don't hitch on to
one tooth, you're bound to on another, ain't you?
And you can't get away with that tooth without
fetching the whole harrow along, can you? Well,
these kind of mumps is a kind of a harrow, as you
may say&mdash;and it ain't no slouch of a harrow, nuther,
you come to get it hitched on good."
</p><p>
"Well, it's awful, I think," says the hare-lip.
"I'll go to Uncle Harvey and&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Oh, yes," I says, "I <i>would.</i> Of <i>course</i> I would.
I wouldn't lose no time."
</p><p>
"Well, why wouldn't you?"
</p><p>
"Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see.
Hain't your uncles obleeged to get along home to
England as fast as they can? And do you reckon
they'd be mean enough to go off and leave you to go
all that journey by yourselves? <i>You</i> know they'll
wait for you. So fur, so good. Your uncle Harvey's
a preacher, ain't he? Very well, then; is a <i>preacher</i>
going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to
deceive a <i>ship clerk?</i>&mdash;so as to get them to let Miss
Mary Jane go aboard? Now <i>you</i> know he ain't.
What <i>will</i> he do, then? Why, he'll say, 'It's a great
pity, but my church matters has got to get along
the best way they can; for my niece has been exposed
to the dreadful pluribus-unum mumps, and so it's
my bounden duty to set down here and wait the
three months it takes to show on her if she's got it.'
But never mind, if you think it's best to tell your
uncle Harvey&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Shucks, and stay fooling around here when we
could all be having good times in England whilst
we was waiting to find out whether Mary Jane's got
it or not? Why, you talk like a muggins."
</p><p>
"Well, anyway, maybe you'd better tell some of
the neighbors."
</p><p>
"Listen at that, now. You do beat all for natural
stupidness. Can't you <i>see</i> that <i>they'd</i> go and tell?
Ther' ain't no way but just to not tell anybody
at <i>all</i>."
</p><p>
"Well, maybe you're right&mdash;yes, I judge you <i>are</i>
right."
</p><p>
"But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey
she's gone out awhile, anyway, so he won't be uneasy
about her?"
</p><p>
"Yes, Miss Mary Jane she wanted you to do that.
She says, 'Tell them to give Uncle Harvey and
William my love and a kiss, and say I've run over the
river to see Mr.'&mdash;Mr.&mdash;what <i>is</i> the name of that
rich family your uncle Peter used to think so much
of?&mdash;I mean the one that&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain't it?"
</p><p>
"Of course; bother them kind of names, a body
can't ever seem to remember them, half the time,
somehow. Yes, she said, say she has run over for
to ask the Apthorps to be sure and come to the
auction and buy this house, because she allowed her
uncle Peter would ruther they had it than anybody
else; and she's going to stick to them till they say
they'll come, and then, if she ain't too tired, she's
coming home; and if she is, she'll be home in the
morning anyway. She said, don't say nothing about
the Proctors, but only about the Apthorps&mdash;which 'll
be perfectly true, because she is going there to speak
about their buying the house; I know it, because she
told me so herself."
</p><p>
"All right," they said, and cleared out to lay for
their uncles, and give them the love and the kisses,
and tell them the message.
</p><p>
Everything was all right now. The girls wouldn't
say nothing because they wanted to go to England;
and the king and the duke would ruther Mary Jane
was off working for the auction than around in reach
of Doctor Robinson. I felt very good; I judged I
had done it pretty neat&mdash;I reckoned Tom Sawyer
couldn't 'a' done it no neater himself. Of course he
would 'a' throwed more style into it, but I can't do
that very handy, not being brung up to it.
</p><p>
Well, they held the auction in the public square,
along towards the end of the afternoon, and it strung
along, and strung along, and the old man he was on
hand and looking his level pisonest, up there longside
of the auctioneer, and chipping in a little Scripture
now and then, or a little goody-goody saying of
some kind, and the duke he was around goo-gooing
for sympathy all he knowed how, and just spreading
himself generly.
</p><p>
But by and by the thing dragged through, and
everything was sold&mdash;everything but a little old
trifling lot in the graveyard. So they'd got to work
<i>that</i> off&mdash;I never see such a girafft as the king was
for wanting to swallow <i>everything</i>. Well, whilst they
was at it a steamboat landed, and in about two
minutes up comes a crowd a-whooping and yelling
and laughing and carrying on, and singing out:
</p><p>
"<i>Here's</i> your opposition line! here's your two sets
o' heirs to old Peter Wilks&mdash;and you pays your
money and you takes your choice!"
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXIX"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXIX</h2>
<br>
<p>
They was fetching a very nice-looking old gentleman
along, and a nice-looking younger one, with
his right arm in a sling. And, my souls, how the
people yelled and laughed, and kept it up. But I
didn't see no joke about it, and I judged it would
strain the duke and the king some to see any. I
reckoned they'd turn pale. But no, nary a pale did
<i>they</i> turn. The duke he never let on he suspicioned
what was up, but just went a goo-gooing around,
happy and satisfied, like a jug that's googling out
buttermilk; and as for the king, he just gazed and
gazed down sorrowful on them new-comers like it
give him the stomach-ache in his very heart to think
there could be such frauds and rascals in the world.
Oh, he done it admirable. Lots of the principal people
gethered around the king, to let him see they was
on his side. That old gentleman that had just come
looked all puzzled to death. Pretty soon he begun to
speak, and I see straight off he pronounced <i>like</i> an
Englishman&mdash;not the king's way, though the king's
<i>was</i> pretty good for an imitation. I can't give the
old gent's words, nor I can't imitate him; but he
turned around to the crowd, and says, about like
this:
</p><p>
"This is a surprise to me which I wasn't looking
for; and I'll acknowledge, candid and frank, I ain't
very well fixed to meet it and answer it; for my
brother and me has had misfortunes; he's broke his
arm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here
last night in the night by a mistake. I am Peter
Wilks's brother Harvey, and this is his brother William,
which can't hear nor speak&mdash;and can't even
make signs to amount to much, now't he's only got
one hand to work them with. We are who we say
we are; and in a day or two, when I get the baggage,
I can prove it. But up till then I won't say nothing
more, but go to the hotel and wait."
</p><p>
So him and the new dummy started off; and the
king he laughs, and blethers out:
</p><p>
"Broke his arm&mdash;<i>very</i> likely, <i>ain't</i> it?&mdash;and very
convenient, too, for a fraud that's got to make signs,
and ain't learnt how. Lost their baggage! That's
<i>mighty</i> good!&mdash;and mighty ingenious&mdash;under the <i>circumstances!</i>"
</p><p>
So he laughed again; and so did everybody else,
except three or four, or maybe half a dozen. One of
these was that doctor; another one was a sharp-looking
gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-fashioned
kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just
come off of the steamboat and was talking to him in
a low voice, and glancing towards the king now and
then and nodding their heads&mdash;it was Levi Bell, the
lawyer that was gone up to Louisville; and another
one was a big rough husky that come along and
listened to all the old gentlemen said, and was listening
to the king now. And when the king got done
this husky up and says:
</p><p>
"Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when'd
you come to this town?"
</p><p>
"The day before the funeral, friend," says the king.
</p><p>
"But what time o' day?"
</p><p>
"In the evenin'&mdash;'bout an hour er two before sundown."
</p><p>
"How'd you come?"
</p><p>
"I come down on the <i>Susan Powell</i> from Cincinnati."
</p><p>
"Well, then, how'd you come to be up at the Pint
in the <i>mornin</i>'&mdash;in a canoe?"
</p><p>
"I warn't up at the Pint in the mornin'."
</p><p>
"It's a lie."
</p><p>
Several of them jumped for him and begged him
not to talk that way to an old man and a preacher.
</p><p>
"Preacher be hanged, he's a fraud and a liar. He
was up at the Pint that mornin'. I live up there,
don't I?  Well, I was up there, and he was up there.
I see him there. He come in a canoe, along with Tim
Collins and a boy."
</p><p>
The doctor he up and says:
</p><p>
"Would you know the boy again if you was to see
him, Hines?"
</p><p>
"I reckon I would, but I don't know. Why,
yonder he is, now. I know him perfectly easy."
</p><p>
It was me he pointed at. The doctor says:
</p><p>
"Neighbors, I don't know whether the new couple
is frauds or not; but if <i>these</i> two ain't frauds, I am an
idiot, that's all. I think it's our duty to see that they
don't get away from here till we've looked into this
thing. Come along, Hines; come along, the rest of
you. We'll take these fellows to the tavern and
affront them with t'other couple, and I reckon we'll
find out <i>something</i> before we get through."
</p><p>
It was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for
the king's friends; so we all started. It was about
sundown. The doctor he led me along by the hand,
and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go my
hand.
</p><p>
We all got in a big room in the hotel, and lit up
some candles, and fetched in the new couple. First,
the doctor says:
</p><p>
"I don't wish to be too hard on these two men, but
I think they're frauds, and they may have complices
that we don't know nothing about. If they have,
won't the complices get away with that bag of gold
Peter Wilks left? It ain't unlikely.  If these men
ain't frauds, they won't object to sending for that
money and letting us keep it till they prove they're
all right&mdash;ain't that so?"
</p><p>
Everybody agreed to that. So I judged they had
our gang in a pretty tight place right at the outstart.
But the king he only looked sorrowful, and says:
</p><p>
"Gentlemen, I wish the money was there, for I
ain't got no disposition to throw anything in the way
of a fair, open, out-and-out investigation o' this
misable business; but, alas, the money ain't there;
you k'n send and see, if you want to."
</p><p>
"Where is it, then?"
</p><p>
"Well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her
I took and hid it inside o' the straw tick o' my bed,
not wishin' to bank it for the few days we'd be here,
and considerin' the bed a safe place, we not bein' used
to niggers, and suppos'n' 'em honest, like servants in
England. The niggers stole it the very next mornin'
after I had went down-stairs; and when I sold 'em I
hadn't missed the money yit, so they got clean away
with it. My servant here k'n tell you 'bout it, gentlemen."
</p><p>
The doctor and several said "Shucks!" and I see
nobody didn't altogether believe him. One man
asked me if I see the niggers steal it. I said no, but I
see them sneaking out of the room and hustling away,
and I never thought nothing, only I reckoned they
was afraid they had waked up my master and was
trying to get away before he made trouble with
them. That was all they asked me. Then the doctor
whirls on me and says:
</p><p>
"Are <i>you</i> English, too?"
</p><p>
I says yes; and him and some others laughed, and
said, "Stuff!"
</p><p>
Well, then they sailed in on the general investigation,
and there we had it, up and down, hour in, hour
out, and nobody never said a word about supper, nor
ever seemed to think about it&mdash;and so they kept it
up, and kept it up; and it <i>was</i> the worst mixed-up
thing you ever see. They made the king tell his yarn,
and they made the old gentleman tell his'n; and anybody
but a lot of prejudiced chuckleheads would 'a'
<i>seen</i> that the old gentleman was spinning truth and
t'other one lies. And by and by they had me up
to tell what I knowed. The king he give me a left-handed
look out of the corner of his eye, and so I
knowed enough to talk on the right side. I begun to
tell about Sheffield, and how we lived there, and all
about the English Wilkses, and so on; but I didn't
get pretty fur till the doctor begun to laugh; and
Levi Bell, the lawyer, says:
</p><p>
"Set down, my boy; I wouldn't strain myself if I
was you. I reckon you ain't used to lying, it don't
seem to come handy; what you want is practice.
You do it pretty awkward."
</p><p>
I didn't care nothing for the compliment, but I was
glad to be let off, anyway.
</p><p>
The doctor he started to say something, and turns
and says:
</p><p>
"If you'd been in town at first, Levi Bell&mdash;"
</p><p>
The king broke in and reached out his hand, and
says:
</p><p>
"Why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend
that he's wrote so often about?"
</p><p>
The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer
smiled and looked pleased, and they talked right
along awhile, and then got to one side and talked
low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says:
</p><p>
"That 'll fix it. I'll take the order and send it,
along with your brother's, and then they'll know it's
all right."
</p><p>
So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he
set down and twisted his head to one side, and chawed
his tongue, and scrawled off something; and then
they give the pen to the duke&mdash;and then for the first
time the duke looked sick. But he took the pen and
wrote. So then the lawyer turns to the new old
gentleman and says:
</p><p>
"You and your brother please write a line or two
and sign your names."
</p><p>
The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't
read it. The lawyer looked powerful astonished, and
says:
</p><p>
"Well, it beats <i>me</i>&mdash;and snaked a lot of old letters
out of his pocket, and examined them, and then examined
the old man's writing, and then <i>them</i> again;
and then says: "These old letters is from Harvey
Wilks; and here's <i>these</i> two handwritings, and anybody
can see <i>they</i> didn't write them" (the king and
the duke looked sold and foolish, I tell you, to see
how the lawyer had took them in), "and here's <i>this</i>
old gentleman's handwriting, and anybody can tell,
easy enough, <i>he</i> didn't write them&mdash;fact is, the
scratches he makes ain't properly <i>writing</i> at all. Now,
here's some letters from&mdash;"
</p><p>
The new old gentleman says:
</p><p>
"If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read
my hand but my brother there&mdash;so he copies for me.
It's <i>his</i> hand you've got there, not mine."
</p><p>
"<i>Well!</i>" says the lawyer, "this <i>is</i> a state of things.
I've got some of William's letters, too; so if you'll
get him to write a line or so we can com&mdash;"
</p><p>
"He <i>can't</i> write with his left hand," says the old
gentleman. "If he could use his right hand, you
would see that he wrote his own letters and mine
too. Look at both, please&mdash;they're by the same
hand."
</p><p>
The lawyer done it, and says:
</p><p>
"I believe it's so&mdash;and if it ain't so, there's a heap
stronger resemblance than I'd noticed before, anyway.
Well, well, well! I thought we was right on
the track of a slution, but it's gone to grass, partly.
But anyway, <i>one</i> thing is proved&mdash;<i>these</i> two ain't
either of 'em Wilkses"&mdash;and he wagged his head
towards the king and the duke.
</p><p>
Well, what do you think? That mule-headed old
fool wouldn't give in <i>then!</i> Indeed he wouldn't.
Said it warn't no fair test. Said his brother William
was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't <i>tried</i>
to write&mdash;<i>he</i> see William was going to play one of his
jokes the minute he put the pen to paper. And so he
warmed up and went warbling right along till he was
actuly beginning to believe what he was saying <i>himself</i>;
but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and
says:
</p><p>
"I've thought of something. Is there anybody
here that helped to lay out my br&mdash;helped to lay out
the late Peter Wilks for burying?"
</p><p>
"Yes," says somebody, "me and Ab Turner done
it. We're both here."
</p><p>
Then the old man turns toward the king, and
says:
</p><p>
"Peraps this gentleman can tell me what was
tattooed on his breast?"
</p><p>
Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty
quick, or he'd 'a' squshed down like a bluff bank that
the river has cut under, it took him so sudden; and,
mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to make
most <i>anybody</i> sqush to get fetched such a solid one as
that without any notice, because how was <i>he</i> going to
know what was tattooed on the man?  He whitened a
little; he couldn't help it; and it was mighty still in
there, and everybody bending a little forwards and
gazing at him. Says I to myself, <i>Now</i> he'll throw up
the sponge&mdash;there ain't no more use. Well, did he?
A body can't hardly believe it, but he didn't. I
reckon he thought he'd keep the thing up till he tired
them people out, so they'd thin out, and him and the
duke could break loose and get away. Anyway, he
set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says:
</p><p>
"Mf! It's a <i>very</i> tough question, <i>ain't</i> it! <i>Yes</i>,
sir, I k'n tell you what's tattooed on his breast. It's
jest a small, thin, blue arrow&mdash;that's what it is; and
if you don't look clost, you can't see it. <i>Now</i> what
do you say&mdash;hey?"
</p><p>
Well, <i>I</i> never see anything like that old blister for
clean out-and-out cheek.
</p><p>
The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab
Turner and his pard, and his eye lights up like he
judged he'd got the king <i>this</i> time, and says:
</p><p>
"There&mdash;you've heard what he said! Was there
any such mark on Peter Wilks's breast?"
</p><p>
Both of them spoke up and says:
</p><p>
"We didn't see no such mark."
</p><p>
"Good!" says the old gentleman. "Now, what
you <i>did</i> see on his breast was a small dim P, and a B
(which is an initial he dropped when he was young),
and a W, and dashes between them, so: P&mdash;B&mdash;W"&mdash;and
he marked them that way on a piece of
paper. "Come, ain't that what you saw?"
</p><p>
Both of them spoke up again, and says:
</p><p>
"No, we <i>didn't</i>. We never seen any marks at all."
</p><p>
Well, everybody <i>was</i> in a state of mind now, and
they sings out:
</p><p>
"The whole <i>bilin'</i> of 'm 's frauds! Le's duck
'em! le's drown 'em! le's ride 'em on a rail!" and
everybody was whooping at once, and there was a rattling
powwow. But the lawyer he jumps on the
table and yells, and says:
</p><p>
"Gentlemen&mdash;gentle<i>men!</i> Hear me just a word&mdash;just
a <i>single</i> word&mdash;if you PLEASE! There's one way
yet&mdash;let's go and dig up the corpse and look."
</p><p>
That took them.
</p><p>
"Hooray!" they all shouted, and was starting right
off; but the lawyer and the doctor sung out:
</p><p>
"Hold on, hold on! Collar all these four men and
the boy, and fetch <i>them</i> along, too!"
</p><p>
"We'll do it!" they all shouted; "and if we don't
find them marks we'll lynch the whole gang!"
</p><p>
I <i>was</i> scared, now, I tell you. But there warn't no
getting away, you know. They gripped us all, and
marched us right along, straight for the graveyard,
which was a mile and a half down the river, and the
whole town at our heels, for we made noise enough,
and it was only nine in the evening.
</p><p>
As we went by our house I wished I hadn't sent
Mary Jane out of town; because now if I could tip
her the wink she'd light out and save me, and blow on
our dead-beats.
</p><p>
Well, we swarmed along down the river road, just
carrying on like wildcats; and to make it more scary
the sky was darking up, and the lightning beginning
to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver amongst
the leaves. This was the most awful trouble and most
dangersome I ever was in; and I was kinder stunned;
everything was going so different from what I had
allowed for; stead of being fixed so I could take my
own time if I wanted to, and see all the fun, and have
Mary Jane at my back to save me and set me free
when the close-fit come, here was nothing in the
world betwixt me and sudden death but just them
tattoo-marks. If they didn't find them&mdash;
</p><p>
I couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow,
I couldn't think about nothing else. It got
darker and darker, and it was a beautiful time to give
the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the
wrist&mdash;Hines&mdash;and a body might as well try to give
Goliar the slip. He dragged me right along, he was so
excited, and I had to run to keep up.
</p><p>
When they got there they swarmed into the graveyard
and washed over it like an overflow. And when
they got to the grave they found they had about a
hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but
nobody hadn't thought to fetch a lantern. But they
sailed into digging anyway by the flicker of the lightning,
and sent a man to the nearest house, a half a
mile off, to borrow one.
</p><p>
So they dug and dug like everything; and it got
awful dark, and the rain started, and the wind
swished and swushed along, and the lightning come
brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but
them people never took no notice of it, they was so
full of this business; and one minute you could see
everything and every face in that big crowd, and the
shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the
next second the dark wiped it all out, and you
couldn't see nothing at all.
</p><p>
At last they got out the coffin and begun to unscrew
the lid, and then such another crowding and
shouldering and shoving as there was, to scrouge in
and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that
way, it was awful. Hines he hurt my wrist dreadful
pulling and tugging so, and I reckon he clean
forgot I was in the world, he was so excited and
panting.
</p><p>
All of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice
of white glare, and somebody sings out:
</p><p>
"By the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his
breast!"
</p><p>
Hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and
dropped my wrist and give a big surge to bust his
way in and get a look, and the way I lit out and
shinned for the road in the dark there ain't nobody
can tell.
</p><p>
I had the road all to myself, and I fairly flew&mdash;leastways,
I had it all to myself except the solid dark,
and the now-and-then glares, and the buzzing of the
rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the splitting
of the thunder; and sure as you are born I did clip it
along!
</p><p>
When I struck the town I see there warn't nobody
out in the storm, so I never hunted for no back streets,
but humped it straight through the main one; and
when I begun to get towards our house I aimed my
eye and set it. No light there; the house all dark&mdash;which
made me feel sorry and disappointed, I didn't
know why. But at last, just as I was sailing by, <i>flash</i>
comes the light in Mary Jane's window! and my
heart swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same
second the house and all was behind me in the dark,
and wasn't ever going to be before me no more in this
world. She <i>was</i> the best girl I ever see, and had the
most sand.
</p><p>
The minute I was far enough above the town to see
I could make the towhead, I begun to look sharp for
a boat to borrow, and the first time the lightning
showed me one that wasn't chained I snatched it and
shoved. It was a canoe, and warn't fastened with
nothing but a rope. The towhead was a rattling big
distance off, away out there in the middle of the river,
but I didn't lose no time; and when I struck the raft
at last I was so fagged I would 'a' just laid down to
blow and gasp if I could afforded it. But I didn't.
As I sprung aboard I sung out:
</p><p>
"Out with you, Jim, and set her loose! Glory be
to goodness, we're shut of them!"
</p><p>
Jim lit out, and was a-coming for me with both arms
spread, he was so full of joy; but when I glimpsed
him in the lightning my heart shot up in my mouth
and I went overboard backwards; for I forgot he was
old King Lear and a drownded A-rab all in one, and it
most scared the livers and lights out of me. But Jim
fished me out, and was going to hug me and bless me,
and so on, he was so glad I was back and we was
shut of the king and the duke, but I says:
</p><p>
"Not now; have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast!
Cut loose and let her slide!"
</p><p>
So in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the
river, and it <i>did</i> seem so good to be free again and all
by ourselves on the big river, and nobody to bother
us. I had to skip around a bit, and jump up and
crack my heels a few times&mdash;I couldn't help it; but
about the third crack I noticed a sound that I knowed
mighty well, and held my breath and listened and
waited; and sure enough, when the next flash busted
out over the water, here they come!&mdash;and just a-laying
to their oars and making their skiff hum! It
was the king and the duke.
</p><p>
So I wilted right down onto the planks then, and
give up; and it was all I could do to keep from crying.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXX"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXX</h2>
<br>
<p>
When they got aboard the king went for me,
and shook me by the collar, and says:
</p><p>
"Tryin' to give us the slip, was ye, you pup!
Tired of our company, hey?"
</p><p>
I says:
</p><p>
"No, your majesty, we warn't&mdash;<i>please</i> don't, your
majesty!"
</p><p>
"Quick, then, and tell us what <i>was</i> your idea, or
I'll shake the insides out o' you!"
</p><p>
"Honest, I'll tell you everything just as it happened,
your majesty. The man that had a-holt of me
was very good to me, and kept saying he had a boy
about as big as me that died last year, and he was
sorry to see a boy in such a dangerous fix; and when
they was all took by surprise by finding the gold, and
made a rush for the coffin, he lets go of me and whispers,
'Heel it now, or they'll hang ye, sure!' and I
lit out. It didn't seem no good for <i>me</i> to stay&mdash;I
couldn't do nothing, and I didn't want to be <i>hung</i> if
I could get away. So I never stopped running till I
found the canoe; and when I got here I told Jim to
hurry, or they'd catch me and hang me yet, and said
I was afeard you and the duke wasn't alive now, and
I was awful sorry, and so was Jim, and was awful glad
when we see you coming; you may ask Jim if I didn't."
Jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut
up, and said, "Oh, yes, it's <i>mighty</i> likely!" and
shook me up again, and said he reckoned he'd drownd
me. But the duke says:
</p><p>
"Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would <i>you</i> 'a' done
any different?  Did you inquire around for <i>him</i> when
you got loose? I don't remember it."
</p><p>
So the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that
town and everybody in it. But the duke says:
</p><p>
"You better a blame' sight give <i>yourself</i> a good
cussing, for you're the one that's entitled to it most.
You hain't done a thing from the start that had any
sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky with
that imaginary blue-arrow mark. That <i>was</i> bright&mdash;it
was right down bully; and it was the thing that
saved us. For if it hadn't been for that they'd 'a' jailed
us till them Englishmen's baggage come&mdash;and then&mdash;the
penitentiary, you bet! But that trick took 'em to
the graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger
kindness; for if the excited fools hadn't let go all
holts and made that rush to get a look we'd 'a' slept
in our cravats to-night&mdash;cravats warranted to <i>wear</i>,
too&mdash;longer than <i>we'd</i> need 'em."
</p><p>
They was still a minute&mdash;thinking; then the king
says, kind of absent-minded like:
</p><p>
"Mf! And we reckoned the <i>niggers</i> stole it!"
</p><p>
That made me squirm!
</p><p>
"Yes," says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate
and sarcastic, "<i>we</i> did."
</p><p>
After about a half a minute the king drawls out:
</p><p>
"Leastways, I did."
</p><p>
The duke says, the same way:
</p><p>
"On the contrary, <i>I</i> did."
</p><p>
The king kind of ruffles up, and says:
</p><p>
"Looky here, Bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?"
The duke says, pretty brisk:
</p><p>
"When it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask
what was <i>you</i> referring to?"
</p><p>
"Shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but <i>I</i>
don't know&mdash;maybe you was asleep, and didn't know
what you was about."
</p><p>
The duke bristles up now, and says:
</p><p>
"Oh, let <i>up</i> on this cussed nonsense; do you take
me for a blame' fool? Don't you reckon I know who
hid that money in that coffin?"
</p><p>
"<i>Yes</i>, sir! I know you <i>do</i> know, because you done
it yourself!"
</p><p>
"It's a lie!"&mdash;and the duke went for him. The
king sings out:
</p><p>
"Take y'r hands off!&mdash;leggo my throat!&mdash;I take it
all back!"
</p><p>
The duke says:
</p><p>
"Well, you just own up, first, that you <i>did</i> hide
that money there, intending to give me the slip one
of these days, and come back and dig it up, and have
it all to yourself."
</p><p>
"Wait jest a minute, duke&mdash;answer me this one
question, honest and fair; if you didn't put the money
there, say it, and I'll b'lieve you, and take back everything
I said."
</p><p>
"You old scoundrel, I didn't, and you know I
didn't. There, now!"
</p><p>
"Well, then, I b'lieve you. But answer me only
jest this one more&mdash;now <i>don't</i> git mad; didn't
you have it in your mind to hook the money and
hide it?"
</p><p>
The duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he
says:
</p><p>
"Well, I don't care if I <i>did</i>, I didn't <i>do</i> it, anyway.
But you not only had it in mind to do it, but you
<i>done</i> it."
</p><p>
"I wisht I never die if I done it, duke, and that's
honest. I won't say I warn't goin' to do it, because I
<i>was</i>; but you&mdash;I mean somebody&mdash;got in ahead o'
me."
</p><p>
"It's a lie! You done it, and you got to <i>say</i> you
done it, or&mdash;"
</p><p>
The king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out:
</p><p>
"'Nough!&mdash;I <i>own up!</i>"
</p><p>
I was very glad to hear him say that; it made me
feel much more easier than what I was feeling before.
So the duke took his hands off and says:
</p><p>
"If you ever deny it again I'll drown you. It's
<i>well</i> for you to set there and blubber like a baby&mdash;it's
fitten for you, after the way you've acted. I never
see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble everything&mdash;and
I a-trusting you all the time, like you
was my own father. You ought to been ashamed of
yourself to stand by and hear it saddled on to a lot
of poor niggers, and you never say a word for 'em.
It makes me feel ridiculous to think I was soft enough
to <i>believe</i> that rubbage. Cuss you, I can see now
why you was so anxious to make up the deffisit&mdash;you
wanted to get what money I'd got out of the 'None-such'
and one thing or another, and scoop it <i>all!</i>"
</p><p>
The king says, timid, and still a-snuffling:
</p><p>
"Why, duke, it was you that said make up the
deffersit; it warn't me."
</p><p>
"Dry up! I don't want to hear no more out of
you!" says the duke. "And <i>now</i> you see what you
<i>got</i> by it. They've got all their own money back,
and all of <i>ourn</i> but a shekel or two <i>besides</i>. G'long
to bed, and don't you deffersit <i>me</i> no more deffersits,
long 's <i>you</i> live!"
</p><p>
So the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to
his bottle for comfort, and before long the duke
tackled <i>his</i> bottle; and so in about a half an hour
they was as thick as thieves again, and the tighter
they got the lovinger they got, and went off a-snoring
in each other's arms. They both got powerful mellow,
but I noticed the king didn't get mellow enough
to forget to remember to not deny about hiding the
money-bag again. That made me feel easy and
satisfied. Of course when they got to snoring we had
a long gabble, and I told Jim everything.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXXI"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXXI</h2>
<br>
<p>
We dasn't stop again at any town for days and
days; kept right along down the river. We was
down south in the warm weather now, and a mighty
long ways from home. We begun to come to trees
with Spanish moss on them, hanging down from the
limbs like long, gray beards. It was the first I ever
see it growing, and it made the woods look solemn
and dismal. So now the frauds reckoned they was
out of danger, and they begun to work the villages
again.
</p><p>
First they done a lecture on temperance; but they
didn't make enough for them both to get drunk on.
Then in another village they started a dancing-school;
but they didn't know no more how to dance
than a kangaroo does; so the first prance they made
the general public jumped in and pranced them out
of town. Another time they tried to go at yellocution;
but they didn't yellocute long till the audience
got up and give them a solid good cussing, and made
them skip out. They tackled missionarying, and
mesmerizing, and doctoring, and telling fortunes, and
a little of everything; but they couldn't seem to have
no luck. So at last they got just about dead broke,
and laid around the raft as she floated along, thinking
and thinking, and never saying nothing, by the
half a day at a time, and dreadful blue and desperate.
</p><p>
And at last they took a change and begun to lay
their heads together in the wigwam and talk low and
confidential two or three hours at a time. Jim and
me got uneasy. We didn't like the look of it. We
judged they was studying up some kind of worse
deviltry than ever. We turned it over and over,
and at last we made up our minds they was going to
break into somebody's house or store, or was going
into the counterfeit-money business, or something.
So then we was pretty scared, and made up an
agreement that we wouldn't have nothing in the
world to do with such actions, and if we ever got the
least show we would give them the cold shake and
clear out and leave them behind. Well, early one
morning we hid the raft in a good, safe place about
two mile below a little bit of a shabby village named
Pikesville, and the king he went ashore and told us
all to stay hid whilst he went up to town and smelt
around to see if anybody had got any wind of the
"Royal Nonesuch" there yet. ("House to rob, you
<i>mean</i>," says I to myself; "and when you get through
robbing it you'll come back here and wonder what
has become of me and Jim and the raft&mdash;and you'll
have to take it out in wondering.") And he said if
he warn't back by midday the duke and me would
know it was all right, and we was to come along.
</p><p>
So we stayed where we was. The duke he fretted
and sweated around, and was in a mighty sour way.
He scolded us for everything, and we couldn't seem
to do nothing right; he found fault with every little
thing. Something was a-brewing, sure. I was good
and glad when midday come and no king; we could
have a change, anyway&mdash;and maybe a chance for
<i>the</i> chance on top of it. So me and the duke went
up to the village, and hunted around there for the
king, and by and by we found him in the back room
of a little low doggery, very tight, and a lot of
loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a-cussing
and a-threatening with all his might, and so tight
he couldn't walk, and couldn't do nothing to them.
The duke he begun to abuse him for an old fool, and
the king begun to sass back, and the minute they was
fairly at it I lit out and shook the reefs out of my
hind legs, and spun down the river road like a deer,
for I see our chance; and I made up my mind that it
would be a long day before they ever see me and Jim
again. I got down there all out of breath but loaded
up with joy, and sung out:
</p><p>
"Set her loose, Jim; we're all right now!"
</p><p>
But there warn't no answer, and nobody come out
of the wigwam. Jim was gone! I set up a shout&mdash;and
then another&mdash;and then another one; and run
this way and that in the woods, whooping and
screeching; but it warn't no use&mdash;old Jim was gone.
Then I set down and cried; I couldn't help it. But
I couldn't set still long. Pretty soon I went out on
the road, trying to think what I better do, and I run
across a boy walking, and asked him if he'd seen a
strange nigger dressed so and so, and he says:
</p><p>
"Yes."
</p><p>
"Whereabouts?" says I.
</p><p>
"Down to Silas Phelps's place, two mile below
here. He's a runaway nigger, and they've got him.
Was you looking for him?"
</p><p>
"You bet I ain't! I run across him in the woods
about an hour or two ago, and he said if I hollered
he'd cut my livers out&mdash;and told me to lay down and
stay where I was; and I done it. Been there ever
since; afeard to come out."
</p><p>
"Well," he says, "you needn't be afeard no more,
becuz they've got him. He run off f'm down South
som'ers."
</p><p>
"It's a good job they got him."
</p><p>
"Well, I <i>reckon!</i> There's two hundred dollars dollars'
reward on him. It's like picking up money out'n the
road."
</p><p>
"Yes, it is&mdash;and I could 'a' had it if I'd been big
enough; I see him <i>first</i>. Who nailed him?"
</p><p>
"It was an old fellow&mdash;a stranger&mdash;and he sold
out his chance in him for forty dollars, becuz he's got
to go up the river and can't wait. Think o' that,
now! You bet <i>I'd</i> wait, if it was seven year."
</p><p>
"That's me, every time," says I. "But maybe his
chance ain't worth no more than that, if he'll sell
it so cheap. Maybe there's something ain't straight
about it."
</p><p>
"But it <i>is</i>, though&mdash;straight as a string. I see the
handbill myself. It tells all about him, to a dot&mdash;paints
him like a picture, and tells the plantation he's
frum, below Newr<i>leans</i>. No-sirree-<i>bob</i>, they ain't no
trouble 'bout <i>that</i> speculation, you bet you. Say,
gimme a chaw tobacker, won't ye?"
</p><p>
I didn't have none, so he left. I went to the raft,
and set down in the wigwam to think. But I couldn't
come to nothing. I thought till I wore my head sore,
but I couldn't see no way out of the trouble. After
all this long journey, and after all we'd done for them
scoundrels, here it was all come to nothing, everything
all busted up and ruined, because they could
have the heart to serve Jim such a trick as that, and
make him a slave again all his life, and amongst
strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars.
</p><p>
Once I said to myself it would be a thousand times
better for Jim to be a slave at home where his family
was, as long as he'd <i>got</i> to be a slave, and so I'd better
write a letter to Tom Sawyer and tell him to tell
Miss Watson where he was. But I soon give up that
notion for two things: she'd be mad and disgusted
at his rascality and ungratefulness for leaving her,
and so she'd sell him straight down the river again;
and if she didn't, everybody naturally despises an
ungrateful nigger, and they'd make Jim feel it all
the time, and so he'd feel ornery and disgraced. And
then think of <i>me!</i> It would get all around that Huck
Finn helped a nigger to get his freedom; and if I
was ever to see anybody from that town again I'd
be ready to get down and lick his boots for shame.
That's just the way: a person does a low-down thing,
and then he don't want to take no consequences of it.
Thinks as long as he can hide, it ain't no disgrace.
That was my fix exactly. The more I studied about
this the more my conscience went to grinding me,
and the more wicked and low-down and ornery I
got to feeling. And at last, when it hit me all of a
sudden that here was the plain hand of Providence
slapping me in the face and letting me know my wickedness
was being watched all the time from up there
in heaven, whilst I was stealing a poor old woman's
nigger that hadn't ever done me no harm, and now
was showing me there's One that's always on the
lookout, and ain't a-going to allow no such miserable
doings to go only just so fur and no further, I most
dropped in my tracks I was so scared.  Well, I tried
the best I could to kinder soften it up somehow for
myself by saying I was brung up wicked, and so I
warn't so much to blame; but something inside of
me kept saying, "There was the Sunday-school, you
could 'a' gone to it; and if you'd 'a' done it they'd
'a' learnt you there that people that acts as I'd been
acting about that nigger goes to everlasting fire."
</p><p>
It made me shiver. And I about made up my
mind to pray, and see if I couldn't try to quit being
the kind of a boy I was and be better. So I kneeled
down. But the words wouldn't come. Why wouldn't
they? It warn't no use to try and hide it from Him.
Nor from <i>me</i>, neither. I knowed very well why they
wouldn't come. It was because my heart warn't
right; it was because I warn't square; it was because
I was playing double. I was letting <i>on</i> to give up
sin, but away inside of me I was holding on to the
biggest one of all. I was trying to make my mouth
<i>say</i> I would do the right thing and the clean thing,
and go and write to that nigger's owner and tell
where he was; but deep down in me I knowed it was
a lie, and He knowed it. You can't pray a lie&mdash;I found
that out.
</p><p>
So I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and
didn't know what to do. At last I had an idea; and
I says, I'll go and write the letter&mdash;and then see if I
can pray. Why, it was astonishing, the way I felt
as light as a feather right straight off, and my troubles
all gone. So I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all
glad and excited, and set down and wrote:
</p><p><small>
Miss Watson, your runaway nigger Jim is down here two
mile below Pikesville, and Mr. Phelps has got him and he will
give him up for the reward if you send.&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;HUCK&nbsp;FINN.</small>
</p><p>
I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first
time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I
could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but
laid the paper down and set there thinking&mdash;thinking
how good it was all this happened so, and how near I
come to being lost and going to hell. And went on
thinking. And got to thinking over our trip down the
river; and I see Jim before me all the time: in the
day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight,
sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking
and singing and laughing. But somehow I couldn't
seem to strike no places to harden me against him,
but only the other kind. I'd see him standing my
watch on top of his'n, 'stead of calling me, so I could
go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I
come back out of the fog; and when I come to him
again in the swamp, up there where the feud was;
and such-like times; and would always call me honey,
and pet me, and do everything he could think of for
me, and how good he always was; and at last I
struck the time I saved him by telling the men we
had smallpox aboard, and he was so grateful, and
said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the
world, and the <i>only</i> one he's got now; and then I
happened to look around and see that paper.
</p><p>
It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in
my hand. I was a-trembling, because I'd got to
decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed
it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath,
and then says to myself:
</p><p>
"All right, then, I'll <i>go</i> to hell"&mdash;and tore it up.
It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they
was said. And I let them stay said; and never
thought no more about reforming. I shoved the
whole thing out of my head, and said I would take
up wickedness again, which was in my line, being
brung up to it, and the other warn't. And for a
starter I would go to work and steal Jim out of
slavery again; and if I could think up anything
worse, I would do that, too; because as long as I
was in, and in for good, I might as well go the
whole hog.
</p><p>
Then I set to thinking over how to get at it, and
turned over some considerable many ways in my
mind; and at last fixed up a plan that suited me.
So then I took the bearings of a woody island that
was down the river a piece, and as soon as it was
fairly dark I crept out with my raft and went for
it, and hid it there, and then turned in. I slept the
night through, and got up before it was light, and
had my breakfast, and put on my store clothes, and
tied up some others and one thing or another in a
bundle, and took the canoe and cleared for shore.
I landed below where I judged was Phelps's place,
and hid my bundle in the woods, and then filled up
the canoe with water, and loaded rocks into her and
sunk her where I could find her again when I wanted
her, about a quarter of a mile below a little steam-sawmill
that was on the bank.
</p><p>
Then I struck up the road, and when I passed the
mill I see a sign on it, "Phelps's Sawmill," and when
I come to the farm-houses, two or three hundred
yards further along, I kept my eyes peeled, but
didn't see nobody around, though it was good daylight
now. But I didn't mind, because I didn't want
to see nobody just yet&mdash;I only wanted to get the lay
of the land. According to my plan, I was going
to turn up there from the village, not from below.
So I just took a look, and shoved along, straight for
town. Well, the very first man I see when I got
there was the duke. He was sticking up a bill for
the "Royal Nonesuch&mdash;three-night performance&mdash;like
that other time. They had the cheek, them
frauds! I was right on him before I could shirk.
He looked astonished, and says:
</p><p>
"Hel-<i>lo!</i> Where'd <i>you</i> come from?" Then he
says, kind of glad and eager, "Where's the raft?&mdash;got
her in a good place?"
</p><p>
I says:
</p><p>
"Why, that's just what I was going to ask your
grace."
</p><p>
Then he didn't look so joyful, and says:
</p><p>
"What was your idea for asking <i>me?</i>" he says.
</p><p>
"Well," I says, "when I see the king in that
doggery yesterday I says to myself, we can't get him
home for hours, till he's soberer; so I went a-loafing
around town to put in the time and wait. A man
up and offered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff
over the river and back to fetch a sheep, and so I
went along; but when we was dragging him to the
boat, and the man left me a-holt of the rope and
went behind him to shove him along, he was too
strong for me and jerked loose and run, and we after
him. We didn't have no dog, and so we had to
chase him all over the country till we tired him out.
We never got him till dark; then we fetched him
over, and I started down for the raft. When I got
there and see it was gone, I says to myself, 'They've
got into trouble and had to leave; and they've took
my nigger, which is the only nigger I've got in the
world, and now I'm in a strange country, and ain't
got no property no more, nor nothing, and no way
to make my living'; so I set down and cried. I slept
in the woods all night. But what <i>did</i> become of the
raft, then?&mdash;and Jim&mdash;poor Jim!"
</p><p>
"Blamed if I know&mdash;that is, what's become of the
raft. That old fool had made a trade and got forty
dollars, and when we found him in the doggery the
loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got
every cent but what he'd spent for whisky; and when
I got him home late last night and found the raft
gone, we said, 'That little rascal has stole our raft
and shook us, and run off down the river.'"
</p><p>
"I wouldn't shake my <i>nigger</i>, would I?&mdash;the only
nigger I had in the world, and the only property."
</p><p>
"We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon
we'd come to consider him <i>our</i> nigger; yes, we did
consider him so&mdash;goodness knows we had trouble
enough for him. So when we see the raft was gone
and we flat broke, there warn't anything for it but
to try the 'Royal Nonesuch' another shake. And
I've pegged along ever since, dry as a powder-horn.
Where's that ten cents? Give it here."
</p><p>
I had considerable money, so I give him ten cents,
but begged him to spend it for something to eat, and
give me some, because it was all the money I had,
and I hadn't had nothing to eat since yesterday.
He never said nothing. The next minute he whirls
on me and says:
</p><p>
"Do you reckon that nigger would blow on us?
We'd skin him if he done that!"
</p><p>
"How can he blow? Hain't he run off?"
</p><p>
"No! That old fool sold him, and never divided
with me, and the money's gone."
</p><p>
"<i>Sold</i> him?" I says, and begun to cry; "why, he
was <i>my</i> nigger, and that was my money. Where is
he?&mdash;I want my nigger."
</p><p>
"Well, you can't <i>get</i> your nigger, that's all&mdash;so
dry up your blubbering. Looky here&mdash;do you think
<i>you'd</i> venture to blow on us? Blamed if I think I'd
trust you. Why, if you <i>was</i> to blow on us&mdash;"
</p><p>
He stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly
out of his eyes before. I went on a-whimpering, and
says:
</p><p>
"I don't want to blow on nobody; and I ain't got
no time to blow, nohow; I got to turn out and find
my nigger."
</p><p>
He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with
his bills fluttering on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling
up his forehead. At last he says:
</p><p>
"I'll tell you something. We got to be here three
days. If you'll promise you won't blow, and won't
let the nigger blow, I'll tell you where to find him."
</p><p>
So I promised, and he says:
</p><p>
"A farmer by the name of Silas Ph&mdash;" and then
he stopped. You see, he started to tell me the
truth; but when he stopped that way, and begun to
study and think again, I reckoned he was changing
his mind. And so he was. He wouldn't trust me;
he wanted to make sure of having me out of the way
the whole three days. So pretty soon he says:
</p><p>
"The man that bought him is named Abram
Foster&mdash;Abram G. Foster&mdash;and he lives forty mile
back here in the country, on the road to Lafayette."
</p><p>
"All right," I says, "I can walk it in three days.
And I'll start this very afternoon."
</p><p>
"No you won't, you'll start <i>now</i>; and don't you
lose any time about it, neither, nor do any gabbling
by the way. Just keep a tight tongue in your head
and move right along, and then you won't get into
trouble with <i>us</i>, d'ye hear?"
</p><p>
That was the order I wanted, and that was the one
I played for. I wanted to be left free to work my plans.
</p><p>
"So clear out," he says; "and you can tell Mr.
Foster whatever you want to. Maybe you can get
him to believe that Jim <i>is</i> your nigger&mdash;some idiots
don't require documents&mdash;leastways I've heard
there's such down South here. And when you tell
him the handbill and the reward's bogus, maybe he'll
believe you when you explain to him what the idea
was for getting 'em out. Go 'long now, and tell him
anything you want to; but mind you don't work your
jaw any <i>between</i> here and there."
</p><p>
</p><p>
So I left, and struck for the back country. I didn't
look around, but I kinder felt like he was watching
me. But I knowed I could tire him out at that. I
went straight out in the country as much as a mile
before I stopped; then I doubled back through the
woods towards Phelps's. I reckoned I better start in
on my plan straight off without fooling around, because
I wanted to stop Jim's mouth till these fellows
could get away. I didn't want no trouble with their
kind. I'd seen all I wanted to of them, and wanted
to get entirely shut of them.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXXII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXXII</h2>
<br>
<p>
When I got there it was all still and Sunday-like,
and hot and sunshiny; the hands was
gone to the fields; and there was them kind of faint
dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it
seem so lonesome and like everybody's dead and
gone; and if a breeze fans along and quivers the
leaves it makes you feel mournful, because you feel
like it's spirits whispering&mdash;spirits that's been dead
ever so many years&mdash;and you always think they're
talking about <i>you.</i> As a general thing it makes a
body wish <i>he</i> was dead, too, and done with it all.
</p><p>
Phelps's was one of these little one-horse cotton
plantations, and they all look alike. A rail fence
round a two-acre yard; a stile made out of logs sawed
off and up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different
length, to climb over the fence with, and for the
women to stand on when they are going to jump
onto a horse; some sickly grass-patches in the big
yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth, like an old
hat with the nap rubbed off; big double log house
for the white folks&mdash;hewed logs, with the chinks
stopped up with mud or mortar, and these mud-stripes
been whitewashed some time or another;
round-log kitchen, with a big broad, open but roofed
passage joining it to the house; log smokehouse back
of the kitchen; three little  nigger cabins in a row
t'other side the smokehouse; one little hut all by
itself away down against the back fence, and some
outbuildings down a piece the other side; ash-hopper
and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut; bench
by the kitchen door, with bucket of water and a
gourd; hound asleep there in the sun; more hounds
asleep round about; about three shade trees away off
in a corner; some currant bushes and gooseberry
bushes in one place by the fence; outside of the fence
a garden and a watermelon patch; then the cotton-fields
begins, and after the fields the woods.
</p><p>
I went around and clumb over the back stile by the
ash-hopper, and started for the kitchen. When I got
a little ways I heard the dim hum of a spinning-wheel
wailing along up and sinking along down again; and
then I knowed for certain I wished I was dead&mdash;for
that <i>is</i> the lonesomest sound in the whole world.
</p><p>
I went right along, not fixing up any particular
plan, but just trusting to Providence to put the right
words in my mouth when the time come; for I'd
noticed that Providence always did put the right
words in my mouth if I left it alone.
</p><p>
When I got half-way, first one hound and then
another got up and went for me, and of course I
stopped and faced them, and kept still. And such
another powwow as they made! In a quarter of a
minute I was a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may
say&mdash;spokes made out of dogs&mdash;circle of fifteen of
them packed together around me, with their necks
and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and
howling; and more a-coming; you could see them
sailing over fences and around corners from every-wheres.
</p><p>
A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen
with a rolling-pin in her hand, singing out, "Begone!
<i>you</i> Tige! you Spot! begone sah!" and she fetched
first one and then another of them a clip and sent
them howling, and then the rest followed; and the
next second half of them come back, wagging their
tails around me, and making friends with me. There
ain't no harm in a hound, nohow.
</p><p>
And behind the woman comes a little nigger girl
and two little nigger boys without anything on but
tow-linen shirts, and they hung on to their mother's
gown, and peeped out from behind her at me, bashful,
the way they always do. And here comes the white
woman running from the house, about forty-five or
fifty year old, bareheaded, and her spinning-stick in
her hand; and behind her comes her little white
children, acting the same way the little niggers was
going. She was smiling all over so she could hardly
stand&mdash;and says:
</p><p>
"It's <i>you</i>, at last!&mdash;<i>ain't</i> it?"
</p><p>
I out with a "Yes'm" before I thought.
</p><p>
She grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then
gripped me by both hands and shook and shook; and
the tears come in her eyes, and run down over; and
she couldn't seem to hug and shake enough, and kept
saying, "You don't look as much like your mother
as I reckoned you would; but law sakes, I don't
care for that, I'm so glad to see you! Dear, dear, it
does seem like I could eat you up! Children, it's
your cousin Tom!&mdash;tell him howdy."
</p><p>
But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers
in their mouths, and hid behind her. So she run on:
</p><p>
"Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right
away&mdash;or did you get your breakfast on the boat?"
</p><p>
I said I had got it on the boat. So then she started
for the house, leading me by the hand, and the children
tagging after. When we got there she set me
down in a split-bottomed chair, and set herself down
on a little low stool in front of me, holding both of
my hands, and says:
</p><p>
"Now I can have a <i>good</i> look at you; and, laws-a-me,
I've been hungry for it a many and a many a
time, all these long years, and it's come at last! We
been expecting you a couple of days and more. What
kep' you?&mdash;boat get aground?"
</p><p>
"Yes'm&mdash;she&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Don't say yes'm&mdash;say Aunt Sally. Where'd she
get aground?"
</p><p>
I didn't rightly know what to say, because I didn't
know whether the boat would be coming up the river
or down. But I go a good deal on instinct; and my
instinct said she would be coming up&mdash;from down
towards Orleans. That didn't help me much, though;
for I didn't know the names of bars down that way. I
see I'd got to invent a bar, or forget the name of the
one we got aground on&mdash;or&mdash;Now I struck an idea,
and fetched it out:
</p><p>
"It warn't the grounding&mdash;that didn't keep us
back but a little. We blowed out a cylinder-head."
</p><p>
"Good gracious! anybody hurt?"
</p><p>
"No'm. Killed a nigger."
</p><p>
"Well, it's lucky; because sometimes people do
get hurt. Two years ago last Christmas your uncle
Silas was coming up from Newrleans on the old Lally
Rook, and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crippled
a man. And I think he died afterwards. He
was a Baptist. Your uncle Silas knowed a family in
Baton Rouge that knowed his people very well. Yes,
I remember now, he <i>did</i> die. Mortification set in,
and they had to amputate him. But it didn't save
him. Yes, it was mortification&mdash;that was it. He
turned blue all over, and died in the hope of a glorious
resurrection. They say he was a sight to look at.
Your uncle's been up to the town every day to fetch
you. And he's gone again, not more'n an hour ago;
he'll be back any minute now. You must 'a' met him
on the road, didn't you?&mdash;oldish man, with a&mdash;"
</p><p>
"No, I didn't see nobody, Aunt Sally. The boat
landed just at daylight, and I left my baggage on the
wharf-boat and went looking around the town and
out a piece in the country, to put in the time and not
get here too soon; and so I come down the back way."
</p><p>
"Who'd you give the baggage to?"
</p><p>
"Nobody."
</p><p>
"Why, child, it 'll be stole!"
</p><p>
"Not where I hid it I reckon it won't," I says.
</p><p>
"How'd you get your breakfast so early on the
boat?"
</p><p>
It was kinder thin ice, but I says:
</p><p>
"The captain see me standing around, and told me
I better have something to eat before I went ashore;
so he took me in the texas to the officers' lunch, and
give me all I wanted."
</p><p>
I was getting so uneasy I couldn't listen good. I
had my mind on the children all the time; I wanted to
get them out to one side and pump them a little, and
find out who I was. But I couldn't get no show,
Mrs. Phelps kept it up and run on so. Pretty soon
she made the cold chills streak all down my back,
because she says:
</p><p>
"But here we're a-running on this way, and you
hain't told me a word about Sis, nor any of them.
Now I'll rest my works a little, and you start up
yourn; just tell me <i>everything</i>&mdash;tell me all about 'm
all&mdash;every one of 'm; and how they are, and what
they're doing, and what they told you to tell me;
and every last thing you can think of."
</p><p>
Well, I see I was up a stump&mdash;and up it good.
Providence had stood by me this fur all right, but I
was hard and tight aground now. I see it warn't a bit
of use to try to go ahead&mdash;I'd got to throw up my
hand. So I says to myself, here's another place
where I got to resk the truth. I opened my mouth to
begin; but she grabbed me and hustled me in behind
the bed, and says:
</p><p>
"Here he comes! Stick your head down lower&mdash;there,
that'll do; you can't be seen now. Don't you
let on you're here. I'll play a joke on him. Children,
don't you say a word."
</p><p>
I see I was in a <i>fix</i> now. But it warn't no use to
worry; there warn't nothing to do but just hold still,
and try and be ready to stand from under when the
lightning struck.
</p><p>
I had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman
when he come in; then the bed hid him. Mrs.
Phelps she jumps for him, and says:
"Has he come?"
</p><p>
"No," says her husband.
</p><p>
"Good-<i>ness</i> gracious!" she says, "what in the
world <i>can</i> have become of him?"
</p><p>
"I can't imagine," says the old gentleman; "and
I must say it makes me dreadful uneasy."
</p><p>
"Uneasy!" she says; "I'm ready to go distracted!
He <i>must</i> 'a' come; and you've missed him along the
road. I <i>know</i> it's so&mdash;something tells me so."
</p><p>
"Why, Sally, I <i>couldn't</i> miss him along the road&mdash;<i>you</i>
know that."
</p><p>
"But oh, dear, dear, what <i>will</i> Sis say! He must
'a' come! You must 'a' missed him. He&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Oh, don't distress me any more'n I'm already distressed.
I don't know what in the world to make of
it. I'm at my wit's end, and I don't mind acknowledging
't I'm right down scared. But there's no hope
that he's come; for he <i>couldn't</i> come and me miss
him. Sally, it's terrible&mdash;just terrible&mdash;something's
happened to the boat, sure!"
</p><p>
"Why, Silas! Look yonder!&mdash;up the road!&mdash;ain't
that somebody coming?"
</p><p>
He sprung to the window at the head of the bed,
and that give Mrs. Phelps the chance she wanted.
She stooped down quick at the foot of the bed and
give me a pull, and out I come; and when he turned
back from the window there she stood, a-beaming and
a-smiling like a house afire, and I standing pretty
meek and sweaty alongside. The old gentleman
stared, and says:
</p><p>
"Why, who's that?"
</p><p>
"Who do you reckon 'tis?"
</p><p>
"I hain't no idea. Who <i>is</i> it?"
</p><p>
"It's <i>Tom Sawyer!</i>"
</p><p>
By jings, I most slumped through the floor! But
there warn't no time to swap knives; the old man
grabbed me by the hand and shook, and kept on shaking;
and all the time how the woman did dance
around and laugh and cry; and then how they both
did fire off questions about Sid, and Mary, and the
rest of the tribe.
</p><p>
But if they was joyful, it warn't nothing to what I
was; for it was like being born again, I was so glad to
find out who I was. Well, they froze to me for two
hours; and at last, when my chin was so tired it
couldn't hardly go any more, I had told them more
about my family&mdash;I mean the Sawyer family&mdash;than
ever happened to any six Sawyer families. And I explained
all about how we blowed out a cylinder-head
at the mouth of White River, and it took us three
days to fix it. Which was all right, and worked first-rate;
because <i>they</i> didn't know but what it would
take three days to fix it. If I'd 'a' called it a bolthead
it would 'a' done just as well.
</p><p>
Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one
side, and pretty uncomfortable all up the other. Being
Tom Sawyer was easy and comfortable, and it
stayed easy and comfortable till by and by I hear a
steamboat coughing along down the river. Then I
says to myself, s'pose Tom Sawyer comes down on
that boat?  And s'pose he steps in here any minute,
and sings out my name before I can throw him a wink
to keep quiet?
</p><p>
Well, I couldn't <i>have</i> it that way; it wouldn't do at
all. I must go up the road and waylay him. So I
told the folks I reckoned I would go up to the town
and fetch down my baggage. The old gentleman was
for going along with me, but I said no, I could drive
the horse myself, and I druther he wouldn't take no
trouble about me.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXXIII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXXIII</h2>
<br>
<p>
So I started for town in the wagon, and when I
was half-way I see a wagon coming, and sure
enough it was Tom Sawyer, and I stopped and
waited till he come along. I says "Hold on!" and it
stopped alongside, and his mouth opened up like a
trunk, and stayed so; and he swallowed two or three
times like a person that's got a dry throat, and then
says:
</p><p>
"I hain't ever done you no harm. You know that.
So, then, what you want to come back and ha'nt <i>me</i>
for?"
</p><p>
I says:
</p><p>
"I hain't come back&mdash;I hain't been <i>gone</i>."
</p><p>
When he heard my voice it righted him up some,
but he warn't quite satisfied yet. He says:
</p><p>
"Don't you play nothing on me, because I wouldn't
on you. Honest injun, you ain't a ghost?"
</p><p>
"Honest injun, I ain't," I says.
</p><p>
"Well&mdash;I&mdash;I&mdash;well, that ought to settle it, of
course; but I can't somehow seem to understand it no
way. Looky here, warn't you ever murdered <i>at all?</i>"
</p><p>
"No. I warn't ever murdered at all&mdash;I played it
on them. You come in here and feel of me if you
don't believe me."
</p><p>
So he done it; and it satisfied him; and he was
that glad to see me again he didn't know what to do.
And he wanted to know all about it right off, because
it was a grand adventure, and mysterious, and so it
hit him where he lived. But I said, leave it alone
till by and by; and told his driver to wait, and we
drove off a little piece, and I told him the kind of a
fix I was in, and what did he reckon we better do?
He said, let him alone a minute, and don't disturb
him. So he thought and thought, and pretty soon
he says:
</p><p>
"It's all right; I've got it. Take my trunk in your
wagon, and let on it's your'n; and you turn back
and fool along slow, so as to get to the house about
the time you ought to; and I'll go towards town a
piece, and take a fresh start, and get there a quarter
or a half an hour after you; and you needn't let on to
know me at first."
</p><p>
I says:
</p><p>
"All right; but wait a minute. There's one more
thing&mdash;a thing that <i>nobody</i> don't know but me.
And that is, there's a nigger here that I'm a-trying
to steal out of slavery, and his name is <i>Jim</i>&mdash;old Miss
Watson's Jim."
</p><p>
He says:
</p><p>
"What! Why, Jim is&mdash;"
</p><p>
He stopped and went to studying. I says:
</p><p>
"<i>I</i> know what you'll say. You'll say it's dirty,
low-down business; but what if it is? <i>I</i>'m low down;
and I'm a-going to steal him, and I want you keep
mum and not let on. Will you?"
</p><p>
His eye lit up, and he says:
</p><p>
"I'll <i>help</i> you steal him!"
</p><p>
Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It
was the most astonishing speech I ever heard&mdash;and
I'm bound to say Tom Sawyer fell considerable in my
estimation. Only I couldn't believe it. Tom Sawyer
a <i>nigger-stealer!</i>
</p><p>
"Oh, shucks!" I says; "you're joking."
</p><p>
"I ain't joking, either."
</p><p>
"Well, then," I says, "joking or no joking, if
you hear anything said about a runaway nigger,
don't forget to remember that <i>you</i> don't know
nothing about him, and I don't know nothing about
him."
</p><p>
Then he took the trunk and put it in my wagon,
and he drove off his way and I drove mine. But of
course I forgot all about driving slow on accounts of
being glad and full of thinking; so I got home a heap
too quick for that length of a trip. The old gentleman
was at the door, and he says:
</p><p>
"Why, this is wonderful! Whoever would 'a'
thought it was in that mare to do it? I wish we'd
'a' timed her. And she hain't sweated a hair&mdash;not a
hair. It's wonderful. Why, I wouldn't take a hundred
dollars for that horse now&mdash;I wouldn't, honest;
and yet I'd 'a' sold her for fifteen before, and thought
'twas all she was worth."
</p><p>
That's all he said. He was the innocentest, best
old soul I ever see. But it warn't surprising; because
he warn't only just a farmer, he was a preacher,
too, and had a little one-horse log church down back
of the plantation, which he built it himself at his own
expense, for a church and schoolhouse, and never
charged nothing for his preaching, and it was worth
it, too. There was plenty other farmer-preachers
like that, and done the same way, down South.
</p><p>
In about half an hour Tom's wagon drove up to the
front stile, and Aunt Sally she see it through the window,
because it was only about fifty yards, and says:
</p><p>
"Why, there's somebody come! I wonder who
'tis? Why, I do believe it's a stranger. Jimmy"
(that's one of the children), "run and tell Lize to put
on another plate for dinner."
</p><p>
Everybody made a rush for the front door, because,
of course, a stranger don't come <i>every</i> year, and so he
lays over the yaller-fever, for interest, when he does
come. Tom was over the stile and starting for the
house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the
village, and we was all bunched in the front door.
Tom had his store clothes on, and an audience&mdash;and
that was always nuts for Tom Sawyer. In them circumstances
it warn't no trouble to him to throw in an
amount of style that was suitable. He warn't a boy
to meeky along up that yard like a sheep; no, he
come ca'm and important, like the ram. When he
got a-front of us he lifts his hat ever so gracious and
dainty, like it was the lid of a box that had butterflies
asleep in it and he didn't want to disturb them, and
says:
</p><p>
"Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?"
</p><p>
"No, my boy," says the old gentleman, "I'm
sorry to say 't your driver has deceived you; Nichols's
place is down a matter of three mile more. Come in,
come in."
</p><p>
Tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and
says, "Too late&mdash;he's out of sight."
</p><p>
"Yes, he's gone, my son, and you must come in
and eat your dinner with us; and then we'll hitch up
and take you down to Nichols's."
</p><p>
"Oh, I <i>can't</i> make you so much trouble; I couldn't
think of it. I'll walk&mdash;I don't mind the distance."
</p><p>
"But we won't <i>let</i> you walk&mdash;it wouldn't be
Southern hospitality to do it. Come right in."
</p><p>
"Oh, <i>do</i>,"' says Aunt Sally; "it ain't a bit of
trouble to us, not a bit in the world. You must stay.
It's a long, dusty three mile, and we can't let you
walk. And, besides, I've already told 'em to put on
another plate when I see you coming; so you mustn't
disappoint us. Come right in and make yourself at
home."
</p><p>
So Tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome,
and let himself be persuaded, and come in; and
when he was in he said he was a stranger from Hicksville,
Ohio, and his name was William Thompson&mdash;and
he made another bow.
</p><p>
Well, he run on, and on, and on, making up stuff
about Hicksville and everybody in it he could
invent, and I getting a little nervious, and wondering
how this was going to help me out of my scrape; and
at last, still talking along, he reached over and kissed
Aunt Sally right on the mouth, and then settled
back again in his chair comfortable, and was going
on talking; but she jumped up and wiped it off with
the back of her hand, and says:
</p><p>
"You owdacious puppy!"
</p><p>
He looked kind of hurt, and says:
</p><p>
"I'm surprised at you, m'am."
</p><p>
"You're s'rp&mdash;Why, what do you reckon <i>I</i> am?
I've a good notion to take and&mdash;Say, what do you
mean by kissing me?"
</p><p>
He looked kind of humble, and says:
</p><p>
"I didn't mean nothing, m'am. I didn't mean
no harm. I&mdash;I&mdash;thought you'd like it."
</p><p>
"Why, you born fool!" She took up the spinning-stick,
and it looked like it was all she could do to
keep from giving him a crack with it. "What made
you think I'd like it?"
</p><p>
"Well, I don't know. Only, they&mdash;they&mdash;told me you would."
</p><p>
"<i>They</i> told you I would. Whoever told you's
<i>another</i> lunatic. I never heard the beat of it. Who's
<i>they?</i>"
</p><p>
"Why, everybody. They all said so, m'am."
</p><p>
It was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes
snapped, and her fingers worked like she wanted to
scratch him; and she says:
</p><p>
"Who's 'everybody'? Out with their names, or
ther'll be an idiot short."
</p><p>
He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his
hat, and says:
</p><p>
"I'm sorry, and I warn't expecting it. They told
me to. They all told me to. They all said, kiss
her; and said she'd like it. They all said it&mdash;every
one of them. But I'm sorry, m'am, and I won't do
it no more&mdash;I won't, honest."
</p><p>
"You won't, won't you? Well, I sh'd <i>reckon</i> you
won't!"
</p><p>
"No'm, I'm honest about it; I won't ever do it
again&mdash;till you ask me."
</p><p>
"Till I <i>ask</i> you! Well, I never see the beat of
it in my born days! I lay you'll be the Methusalem-numskull
of creation before ever <i>I</i> ask you&mdash;or the
likes of you."
</p><p>
"Well," he says, "it does surprise me so. I can't
make it out, somehow. They said you would, and
I thought you would. But&mdash;" He stopped and
looked around slow, like he wished he could run
across a friendly eye somewheres, and fetched up on
the old gentleman's, and says, "Didn't <i>you</i> think
she'd like me to kiss her, sir?"
</p><p>
"Why, no; I&mdash;I&mdash;well, no, I b'lieve I didn't."
</p><p>
Then he looks on around the same way to me, and
says:
</p><p>
"Tom, didn't <i>you</i> think Aunt Sally 'd open out
her arms and say, 'Sid Sawyer&mdash;'"
</p><p>
"My land!" she says, breaking in and jumping for
him, "you impudent young rascal, to fool a body
so&mdash;" and was going to hug him, but he fended her
off, and says:
</p><p>
"No, not till you've asked me first."
</p><p>
So she didn't lose no time, but asked him; and
hugged him and kissed him over and over again, and
then turned him over to the old man, and he took
what was left. And after they got a little quiet
again she says:
</p><p>
"Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We
warn't looking for <i>you</i> at all, but only Tom. Sis
never wrote to me about anybody coming but him."
</p><p>
"It's because it warn't <i>intended</i> for any of us to
come but Tom," he says; "but I begged and begged,
and at the last minute she let me come, too; so,
coming down the river, me and Tom thought it
would be a first-rate surprise for him to come here
to the house first, and for me to by and by tag along
and drop in, and let on to be a stranger. But it
was a mistake, Aunt Sally. This ain't no healthy
place for a stranger to come."
</p><p>
"No&mdash;not impudent whelps, Sid. You ought to
had your jaws boxed; I hain't been so put out since
I don't know when. But I don't care, I don't mind
the terms&mdash;I'd be willing to stand a thousand such
jokes to have you here. Well, to think of that performance!
I don't deny it, I was most putrified with
astonishment when you give me that smack."
</p><p>
We had dinner out in that broad open passage
betwixt the house and the kitchen; and there was
things enough on that table for seven families&mdash;and
all hot, too; none of your flabby, tough meat that's
laid in a cupboard in a damp cellar all night and
tastes like a hunk of old cold cannibal in the morning.
Uncle Silas he asked a pretty long blessing over it,
but it was worth it; and it didn't cool it a bit,
neither, the way I've seen them kind of interruptions
do lots of times.
</p><p>
There was a considerable good deal of talk all the
afternoon, and me and Tom was on the lookout all
the time; but it warn't no use, they didn't happen to
say nothing about any runaway nigger, and we was
afraid to try to work up to it. But at supper, at
night, one of the little boys says:
</p><p>
"Pa, mayn't Tom and Sid and me go to the show?"
</p><p>
"No," says the old man, "I reckon there ain't
going to be any; and you couldn't go if there was;
because the runaway nigger told Burton and me all
about that scandalous show, and Burton said he
would tell the people; so I reckon they've drove the
owdacious loafers out of town before this time."
</p><p>
So there it was!&mdash;but <i>I</i> couldn't help it. Tom and
me was to sleep in the same room and bed; so, being
tired, we bid good night and went up to bed right
after supper, and clumb out of the window and
down the lightning-rod, and shoved for the town;
for I didn't believe anybody was going to give
the king and the duke a hint, and so if I didn't
hurry up and give them one they'd get into trouble
sure.
</p><p>
On the road Tom he told me all about how it was
reckoned I was murdered, and how pap disappeared
pretty soon, and didn't come back no more, and what
a stir there was when Jim run away; and I told Tom
all about our "Royal Nonesuch" rapscallions, and as
much of the raft voyage as I had time to; and as
we struck into the town and up through the middle
of it&mdash;it was as much as half after eight then&mdash;here
comes a raging rush of people with torches, and an
awful whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans
and blowing horns; and we jumped to one side to
let them go by; and as they went by I see they had
the king and the duke astraddle of a rail&mdash;that is,
I knowed it <i>was</i> the king and the duke, though they
was all over tar and feathers, and didn't look like
nothing in the world that was human&mdash;just looked
like a couple of monstrous big soldier-plumes. Well,
it made me sick to see it; and I was sorry for them
poor pitiful rascals, it seemed like I couldn't ever
feel any hardness against them any more in the
world. It was a dreadful thing to see. Human
beings <i>can</i> be awful cruel to one another.
</p><p>
We see we was too late&mdash;couldn't do no good.
We asked some stragglers about it, and they said
everybody went to the show looking very innocent;
and laid low and kept dark till the poor old king was
in the middle of his cavortings on the stage; then
somebody give a signal, and the house rose up and
went for them.
</p><p>
So we poked along back home, and I warn't feeling
so brash as I was before, but kind of ornery, and
humble, and to blame, somehow&mdash;though I hadn't
done nothing. But that's always the way; it don't
make no difference whether you do right or wrong,
a person's conscience ain't got no sense, and just
goes for him <i>anyway.</i>  If I had a yaller dog that
didn't know no more than a person's conscience does
I would pison him. It takes up more room than
all the rest of a person's insides, and yet ain't no
good, nohow. Tom Sawyer he says the same.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXXIV"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXXIV</h2>
<br>
<p>
We stopped talking, and got to thinking. By
and by Tom says:
</p><p>
"Looky here, Huck, what fools we are to not
think of it before! I bet I know where Jim is."
</p><p>
"No! Where?"
</p><p>
"In that hut down by the ash-hopper. Why,
looky here. When we was at dinner, didn't you see
a nigger man go in there with some vittles?"
</p><p>
"Yes."
</p><p>
"What did you think the vittles was for?"
</p><p>
"For a dog."
</p><p>
"So 'd I. Well, it wasn't for a dog."
</p><p>
"Why?"
</p><p>
"Because part of it was watermelon."
</p><p>
"So it was&mdash;I noticed it. Well, it does beat all
that I never thought about a dog not eating watermelon.
It shows how a body can see and don't see
at the same time."
</p><p>
"Well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he
went in, and he locked it again when he came out.
He fetched uncle a key about the time we got up
from table&mdash;same key, I bet. Watermelon shows
man, lock shows prisoner; and it ain't likely there's
two prisoners on such a little plantation, and where
the people's all so kind and good. Jim's the prisoner.
All right&mdash;I'm glad we found it out detective
fashion; I wouldn't give shucks for any other way.
Now you work your mind, and study out a plan to
steal Jim, and I will study out one, too; and we'll
take the one we like the best."
</p><p>
What a head for just a boy to have! If I had Tom
Sawyer's head I wouldn't trade it off to be a duke, nor
mate of a steamboat, nor clown in a circus, nor nothing
I can think of. I went to thinking out a plan, but
only just to be doing something; I knowed very
well where the right plan was going to come from.
Pretty soon Tom says:
</p><p>
"Ready?"
</p><p>
"Yes," I says.
</p><p>
"All right&mdash;bring it out."
</p><p>
"My plan is this," I says. "We can easy find out
if it's Jim in there. Then get up my canoe to-morrow
night, and fetch my raft over from the island. Then
the first dark night that comes steal the key out of
the old man's britches after he goes to bed, and
shove off down the river on the raft with Jim,
hiding daytimes and running nights, the way me
and Jim used to do before. Wouldn't that plan
work?"
</p><p>
"<i>Work?</i> Why, cert'nly it would work, like rats
a-fighting. But it's too blame' simple; there ain't
nothing <i>to</i> it. What's the good of a plan that ain't
no more trouble than that? It's as mild as goose-milk.
Why, Huck, it wouldn't make no more talk
than breaking into a soap factory."
</p><p>
I never said nothing, because I warn't expecting
nothing different; but I knowed mighty well that
whenever he got <i>his</i> plan ready it wouldn't have none
of them objections to it.
</p><p>
And it didn't. He told me what it was, and I see
in a minute it was worth fifteen of mine for style, and
would make Jim just as free a man as mine would,
and maybe get us all killed besides. So I was satisfied,
and said we would waltz in on it. I needn't tell
what it was here, because I knowed it wouldn't stay
the way it was. I knowed he would be changing it
around every which way as we went along, and heaving
in new bullinesses wherever he got a chance.
And that is what he done.
</p><p>
Well, one thing was dead sure, and that was that
Tom Sawyer was in earnest, and was actuly going to
help steal that nigger out of slavery. That was the
thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy
that was respectable and well brung up; and had
a character to lose; and folks at home that had characters;
and he was bright and not leather-headed;
and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but
kind; and yet here he was, without any more pride,
or rightness, or feeling, than to stoop to this business,
and make himself a shame, and his family a shame,
before everybody. I <i>couldn't</i> understand it no way
at all. It was outrageous, and I knowed I ought to
just up and tell him so; and so be his true friend, and
let him quit the thing right where he was and save
himself. And I <i>did</i> start to tell him; but he shut me
up, and says:
</p><p>
"Don't you reckon I know what I'm about?  Don't
I generly know what I'm about?"
</p><p>
"Yes."
</p><p>
"Didn't I <i>say</i> I was going to help steal the nigger?"
</p><p>
"Yes."
</p><p>
"Well, then."
</p><p>
That's all he said, and that's all I said. It warn't
no use to say any more; because when he said he'd
do a thing, he always done it. But I couldn't make
out how he was willing to go into this thing; so I
just let it go, and never bothered no more about it.
If he was bound to have it so, I couldn't help it.
</p><p>
When we got home the house was all dark and still;
so we went on down to the hut by the ash-hopper for
to examine it. We went through the yard so as to
see what the hounds would do. They knowed us,
and didn't make no more noise than country dogs is
always doing when anything comes by in the night.
When we got to the cabin we took a look at the front
and the two sides; and on the side I warn't acquainted
with&mdash;which was the north side&mdash;we found
a square window-hole, up tolerable high, with just
one stout board nailed across it. I says:
</p><p>
"Here's the ticket. This hole's big enough for Jim
to get through if we wrench off the board."
</p><p>
Tom says:
</p><p>
"It's as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and
as easy as playing hooky. I should <i>hope</i> we can find
a way that's a little more complicated than <i>that</i>,
Huck Finn."
</p><p>
"Well, then," I says, "how'll it do to saw him
out, the way I done before I was murdered that
time?"
</p><p>
"That's more <i>like</i>," he says. "It's real mysterious,
and troublesome, and good," he says; "but I bet we
can find a way that's twice as long. There ain't no
hurry; le's keep on looking around."
</p><p>
Betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side,
was a lean-to that joined the hut at the eaves, and
was made out of plank. It was as long as the hut,
but narrow&mdash;only about six foot wide. The door to
it was at the south end, and was padlocked. Tom he
went to the soap-kettle and searched around, and
fetched back the iron thing they lift the lid with; so
he took it and prized out one of the staples. The
chain fell down, and we opened the door and went in,
and shut it, and struck a match, and see the shed
was only built against a cabin and hadn't no connection
with it; and there warn't no floor to the shed, nor
nothing in it but some old rusty played-out hoes
and spades and picks and a crippled plow. The
match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the
staple again, and the door was locked as good as
ever. Tom was joyful. He says:
</p><p>
"Now we're all right. We'll <i>dig</i> him out. It 'll
take about a week!"
</p><p>
Then we started for the house, and I went in the
back door&mdash;you only have to pull a buckskin latch-string,
they don't fasten the doors&mdash;but that warn't
romantical enough for Tom Sawyer; no way would
do him but he must climb up the lightning-rod. But
after he got up half-way about three times, and missed
fire and fell every time, and the last time most busted
his brains out, he thought he'd got to give it up; but
after he was rested he allowed he would give her one
more turn for luck, and this time he made the trip.
</p><p>
In the morning we was up at break of day, and
down to the nigger cabins to pet the dogs and make
friends with the nigger that fed Jim&mdash;if it <i>was</i> Jim
that was being fed. The niggers was just getting
through breakfast and starting for the fields; and
Jim's nigger was piling up a tin pan with bread and
meat and things; and whilst the others was leaving,
the key come from the house.
</p><p>
This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed
face, and his wool was all tied up in little bunches
with thread. That was to keep witches off. He said
the witches was pestering him awful these nights,
and making him see all kinds of strange things, and
hear all kinds of strange words and noises, and he
didn't believe he was ever witched so long before in
his life. He got so worked up, and got to running on
so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he'd
been a-going to do. So Tom says:
</p><p>
"What's the vittles for?  Going to feed the dogs?"
</p><p>
The nigger kind of smiled around graduly over his
face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle,
and he says:
</p><p>
"Yes, Mars Sid, <i>a</i> dog. Cur'us dog, too. Does
you want to go en look at 'im?"
</p><p>
"Yes."
</p><p>
I hunched Tom, and whispers:
</p><p>
"You going, right here in the daybreak? <i>That</i>
warn't the plan."
</p><p>
"No, it warn't; but it's the plan <i>now.</i>"
</p><p>
So, drat him, we went along, but I didn't like it
much. When we got in we couldn't hardly see anything,
it was so dark; but Jim was there, sure enough,
and could see us; and he sings out:
</p><p>
"Why, <i>Huck!</i> En good <i>lan'!</i> ain' dat Misto Tom?"
</p><p>
I just knowed how it would be; I just expected it.
I didn't know nothing to do; and if I had I couldn't
'a' done it, because that nigger busted in and says:
</p><p>
"Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?"
</p><p>
We could see pretty well now. Tom he looked at
the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says:
</p><p>
"Does <i>who</i> know us?"
</p><p>
"Why, dis-yer runaway nigger."
</p><p>
"I don't reckon he does; but what put that into
your head?"
</p><p>
"What <i>put</i> it dar? Didn' he jis' dis minute sing
out like he knowed you?"
</p><p>
Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way:
</p><p>
"Well, that's mighty curious. <i>Who</i> sung out?
<i>When</i> did he sing out? <i>What</i> did he sing out?" And
turns to me, perfectly ca'm, and says, "Did <i>you</i>
hear anybody sing out?"
</p><p>
Of course there warn't nothing to be said but the
one thing; so I says:
</p><p>
"No; <i>I</i> ain't heard nobody say nothing."
</p><p>
Then he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he
never see him before, and says:
</p><p>
"Did you sing out?"
</p><p>
"No, sah," says Jim; "I hain't said nothing, sah."
</p><p>
"Not a word?"
</p><p>
"No, sah, I hain't said a word."
</p><p>
"Did you ever see us before?"
</p><p>
"No, sah; not as I knows on."
</p><p>
So Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking
wild and distressed, and says, kind of severe:
</p><p>
"What do you reckon's the matter with you, anyway?
What made you think somebody sung out?"
</p><p>
"Oh, it's de dad-blame' witches, sah, en I wisht I
was dead, I do. Dey's awluz at it, sah, en dey do
mos' kill me, dey sk'yers me so. Please to don't tell
nobody 'bout it sah, er ole Mars Silas he'll scole me;
'kase he say dey <i>ain't</i> no witches. I jis' wish to goodness
he was heah now&mdash;<i>den</i> what would he say! I
jis' bet he couldn' fine no way to git aroun' it <i>dis</i>
time. But it's awluz jis' so; people dat's <i>sot</i>, stays
sot; dey won't look into noth'n' en fine it out f'r deyselves,
en when <i>you</i> fine it out en tell um 'bout it,
dey doan' b'lieve you."
</p><p>
Tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn't tell nobody;
and told him to buy some more thread to tie
up his wool with; and then looks at Jim, and says:
</p><p>
"I wonder if Uncle Silas is going to hang this nigger.
If I was to catch a nigger that was ungrateful
enough to run away, I wouldn't give him up, I'd
hang him." And whilst the nigger stepped to the
door to look at the dime and bite it to see if it was
good, he whispers to Jim and says:
</p><p>
"Don't ever let on to know us. And if you hear
any digging going on nights, it's us; we're going to
set you free."
</p><p>
Jim only had time to grab us by the hand and
squeeze it; then the nigger come back, and we said
we'd come again some time if the nigger wanted us
to; and he said he would, more particular if it was
dark, because the witches went for him mostly in
the dark, and it was good to have folks around then.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXXV"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXXV</h2>
<br>
<p>
It would be most an hour yet till breakfast, so we
left and struck down into the woods; because
Tom said we got to have <i>some</i> light to see how to dig
by, and a lantern makes too much, and might get
us into trouble; what we must have was a lot of
them rotten chunks that's called fox-fire, and just
makes a soft kind of a glow when you lay them in a
dark place. We fetched an armful and hid it in the
weeds, and set down to rest, and Tom says, kind of
dissatisfied:
</p><p>
"Blame it, this whole thing is just as easy and
awkward as it can be. And so it makes it so rotten
difficult to get up a difficult plan. There ain't no
watchman to be drugged&mdash;now there <i>ought</i> to be a
watchman. There ain't even a dog to give a sleeping-mixture
to. And there's Jim chained by one leg,
with a ten-foot chain, to the leg of his bed: why, all
you got to do is to lift up the bedstead and slip off
the chain. And Uncle Silas he trusts everybody;
sends the key to the punkin-headed nigger, and don't
send nobody to watch the nigger. Jim could 'a' got
out of that window-hole before this, only there
wouldn't be no use trying to travel with a ten-foot
chain on his leg. Why, drat it, Huck, it's the stupidest
arrangement I ever see. You got to invent <i>all</i>
the difficulties. Well, we can't help it; we got to
do the best we can with the materials we've got.
Anyhow, there's one thing&mdash;there's more honor in
getting him out through a lot of difficulties and
dangers, where there warn't one of them furnished
to you by the people who it was their duty to furnish
them, and you had to contrive them all out of your
own head. Now look at just that one thing of the
lantern. When you come down to the cold facts, we
simply got to <i>let on</i> that a lantern's resky. Why, we
could work with a torchlight procession if we wanted
to, <i>I</i> believe. Now, whilst I think of it, we got to
hunt up something to make a saw out of the first
chance we get."
</p><p>
"What do we want of a saw?"
</p><p>
"What do we <i>want</i> of a saw? Hain't we got to
saw the leg of Jim's bed off, so as to get the chain
loose?"
</p><p>
"Why, you just said a body could lift up the bedstead
and slip the chain off."
</p><p>
"Well, if that ain't just like you, Huck Finn. You
<i>can</i> get up the infant-schooliest ways of going at a
thing. Why, hain't you ever read any books at all?&mdash;Baron
Trenck, nor Casanova, nor Benvenuto Chelleeny,
nor Henri IV., nor none of them heroes? Who
ever heard of getting a prisoner loose in such an old-maidy
way as that?  No; the way all the best authorities
does is to saw the bed-leg in two, and leave it
just so, and swallow the sawdust, so it can't be found,
and put some dirt and grease around the sawed place
so the very keenest seneskal can't see no sign of its
being sawed, and thinks the bed-leg is perfectly
sound. Then, the night you're ready, fetch the leg
a kick, down she goes; slip off your chain, and there
you are. Nothing to do but hitch your rope ladder
to the battlements, shin down it, break your leg in
the moat&mdash;because a rope ladder is nineteen foot too
short, you know&mdash;and there's your horses and your
trusty vassles, and they scoop you up and fling you
across a saddle, and away you go to your native
Langudoc, or Navarre, or wherever it is. It's gaudy,
Huck. I wish there was a moat to this cabin. If we
get time, the night of the escape, we'll dig one."
</p><p>
I says:
</p><p>
"What do we want of a moat when we're going to
snake him out from under the cabin?"
</p><p>
But he never heard me. He had forgot me and
everything else. He had his chin in his hand, thinking.
Pretty soon he sighs and shakes his head; then
sighs again, and says:
</p><p>
"No, it wouldn't do&mdash;there ain't necessity enough
for it."
</p><p>
"For what?" I says.
</p><p>
"Why, to saw Jim's leg off," he says.
</p><p>
"Good land!" I says; "why, there ain't <i>no</i> necessity
for it. And what would you want to saw his leg
off for, anyway?"
</p><p>
"Well, some of the best authorities has done it.
They couldn't get the chain off, so they just cut their
hand off and shoved. And a leg would be better still.
But we got to let that go. There ain't necessity
enough in this case; and, besides, Jim's a nigger, and
wouldn't understand the reasons for it, and how it's
the custom in Europe; so we'll let it go. But there's
one thing&mdash;he can have a rope ladder; we can tear
up our sheets and make him a rope ladder easy enough.
And we can send it to him in a pie; it's
mostly done that way. And I've et worse pies."
</p><p>
"Why, Tom Sawyer, how you talk," I says; "Jim
ain't got no use for a rope ladder."
</p><p>
"He <i>has</i> got use for it. How <i>you</i> talk, you better
say; you don't know nothing about it. He's <i>got</i> to
have a rope ladder; they all do."
</p><p>
"What in the nation can he <i>do</i> with it?"
</p><p>
"<i>Do</i> with it? He can hide it in his bed, can't he?
That's what they all do; and <i>he's</i> got to, too.
Huck, you don't ever seem to want to do anything
that's regular; you want to be starting something
fresh all the time. S'pose he <i>don't</i> do nothing with
it? ain't it there in his bed, for a clue, after he's
gone? and don't you reckon they'll want clues? Of
course they will. And you wouldn't leave them
any? That would be a <i>pretty</i> howdy-do, <i>wouldn't</i> it!
I never heard of such a thing."
</p><p>
"Well," I says, "if it's in the regulations, and he's
got to have it, all right, let him have it; because I
don't wish to go back on no regulations; but there's
one thing, Tom Sawyer&mdash;if we go to tearing up our
sheets to make Jim a rope ladder, we're going to get
into trouble with Aunt Sally, just as sure as you're
born. Now, the way I look at it, a hickry-bark ladder
don't cost nothing, and don't waste nothing, and
is just as good to load up a pie with, and hide in a
straw tick, as any rag ladder you can start; and as for
Jim, he ain't had no experience, and so he don't care
what kind of a&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant as
you I'd keep still&mdash;that's what I'd do. Who ever
heard of a state prisoner escaping by a hickry-bark
ladder? Why, it's perfectly ridiculous."
</p><p>
"Well, all right, Tom, fix it your own way; but if
you'll take my advice, you'll let me borrow a sheet
off of the clothes-line."
</p><p>
He said that would do. And that gave him another
idea, and he says:
</p><p>
"Borrow a shirt, too."
"What do we want of a shirt, Tom?"
"Want it for Jim to keep a journal on."
"Journal your granny&mdash;<i>Jim</i> can't write."
"S'pose he <i>can't</i> write&mdash;he can make marks on
the shirt, can't he, if we make him a pen out of
an old pewter spoon or a piece of an old iron barrel-hoop?"
</p><p>
"Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose
and make him a better one; and quicker, too."
</p><p>
"<i>Prisoners</i> don't have geese running around the
donjon-keep to pull pens out of, you muggins. They
<i>always</i> make their pens out of the hardest, toughest,
troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or something
like that they can get their hands on; and it
takes them weeks and weeks and months and months
to file it out, too, because they've got to do it by rubbing
it on the wall. <i>They</i> wouldn't use a goose-quill
if they had it. It ain't regular."
</p><p>
"Well, then, what 'll we make him the ink out of?"
</p><p>
"Many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but
that's the common sort and women; the best authorities
uses their own blood. Jim can do that; and when
he wants to send any little common ordinary mysterious
message to let the world know where he's
captivated, he can write it on the bottom of a tin
plate with a fork and throw it out of the window.
The Iron Mask always done that, and it's a blame'
good way, too."
</p><p>
"Jim ain't got no tin plates. They feed him in a
pan."
</p><p>
"That ain't nothing; we can get him some."
</p><p>
"Can't nobody <i>read</i> his plates."
</p><p>
"That ain't got anything to <i>do</i> with it, Huck Finn.
All <i>he's</i> got to do is to write on the plate and throw
it out. You don't <i>have</i> to be able to read it. Why,
half the time you can't read anything a prisoner
writes on a tin plate, or anywhere else."
</p><p>
"Well, then, what's the sense in wasting the
plates?"
</p><p>
"Why, blame it all, it ain't the <i>prisoner's</i> plates."
</p><p>
"But it's <i>somebody's</i> plates, ain't it?"
</p><p>
"Well, spos'n it is? What does the <i>prisoner</i> care
whose&mdash;"
</p><p>
He broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn
blowing. So we cleared out for the house.
</p><p>
Along during the morning I borrowed a sheet and a
white shirt off of the clothes-line; and I found an old
sack and put them in it, and we went down and got
the fox-fire, and put that in too. I called it borrowing,
because that was what pap always called it; but
Tom said it warn't borrowing, it was stealing. He
said we was representing prisoners; and prisoners
don't care how they get a thing so they get it, and
nobody don't blame them for it, either. It ain't no
crime in a prisoner to steal the thing he needs to
get away with, Tom said; it's his right; and so, as
long as we was representing a prisoner, we had a
perfect right to steal anything on this place we had
the least use for to get ourselves out of prison with.
He said if we warn't prisoners it would be a very
different thing, and nobody but a mean, ornery person
would steal when he warn't a prisoner. So we
allowed we would steal everything there was that
come handy. And yet he made a mighty fuss, one
day, after that, when I stole a watermelon out of the
nigger patch and eat it; and he made me go and give
the niggers a dime without telling them what it was
for. Tom said that what he meant was, we could
steal anything we <i>needed.</i> Well, I says, I needed the
watermelon. But he said I didn't need it to get out
of prison with; there's where the difference was.
He said if I'd 'a' wanted it to hide a knife in, and
smuggle it to Jim to kill the seneskal with, it would
'a' been all right. So I let it go at that, though I
couldn't see no advantage in my representing a
prisoner if I got to set down and chaw over a lot
of gold-leaf distinctions like that every time I see a
chance to hog a watermelon.
</p><p>
Well, as I was saying, we waited that morning till
everybody was settled down to business, and nobody
in sight around the yard; then Tom he carried the
sack into the lean-to whilst I stood off a piece to keep
watch. By and by he come out, and we went and set
down on the woodpile to talk. He says:
</p><p>
"Everything's all right now except tools; and
that's easy fixed."
</p><p>
"Tools?" I says.
</p><p>
"Yes."
</p><p>
"Tools for what?"
</p><p>
"Why, to dig with. We ain't a-going to <i>gnaw</i> him
out, are we?"
</p><p>
"Ain't them old crippled picks and things in there
good enough to dig a nigger out with?" I says.
</p><p>
He turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a
body cry, and says:
</p><p>
"Huck Finn, did you <i>ever</i> hear of a prisoner having
picks and shovels, and all the modern conveniences in
his wardrobe to dig himself out with?  Now I want to
ask you&mdash;if you got any reasonableness in you at all&mdash;what
kind of a show would <i>that</i> give him to be a
hero? Why, they might as well lend him the key and
done with it. Picks and shovels&mdash;why, they wouldn't
furnish 'em to a king."
</p><p>
"Well, then," I says, "if we don't want the picks
and shovels, what do we want?"
</p><p>
"A couple of case-knives."
</p><p>
"To dig the foundations out from under that cabin
with?"
</p><p>
"Yes."
</p><p>
"Confound it, it's foolish, Tom."
</p><p>
"It don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's
the <i>right</i> way&mdash;and it's the regular way. And there
ain't no <i>other</i> way, that ever I heard of, and I've read
all the books that gives any information about these
things. They always dig out with a case-knife&mdash;and
not through dirt, mind you; generly it's through
solid rock. And it takes them weeks and weeks and
weeks, and for ever and ever. Why, look at one of
them prisoners in the bottom dungeon of the Castle
Deef, in the harbor of Marseilles, that dug himself
out that way; how long was <i>he</i> at it, you reckon?"
</p><p>
"I don't know."
</p><p>
"Well, guess."
</p><p>
"I don't know. A month and a half."
</p><p>
"<i>Thirty-seven year</i>&mdash;and he come out in China.
<i>That's</i> the kind. I wish the bottom of <i>this</i> fortress
was solid rock."
</p><p>
"<i>Jim</i> don't know nobody in China."
</p><p>
"What's <i>that</i> got to do with it? Neither did that
other fellow. But you're always a-wandering off on
a side issue. Why can't you stick to the main
point?"
</p><p>
"All right&mdash;I don't care where he comes out, so he
<i>comes</i> out; and Jim don't, either, I reckon. But
there's one thing, anyway&mdash;Jim's too old to be dug
out with a case-knife. He won't last."
</p><p>
"Yes he will <i>last,</i> too. You don't reckon it's going
to take thirty-seven years to dig out through a <i>dirt</i>
foundation, do you?"
</p><p>
"How long will it take, Tom?"
</p><p>
"Well, we can't resk being as long as we ought to,
because it mayn't take very long for Uncle Silas to
hear from down there by New Orleans. He'll hear
Jim ain't from there. Then his next move will be to
advertise Jim, or something like that. So we can't
resk being as long digging him out as we ought to.
By rights I reckon we ought to be a couple of years;
but we can't. Things being so uncertain, what I
recommend is this: that we really dig right in, as
quick as we can; and after that, we can <i>let on</i>, to
ourselves, that we was at it thirty-seven years.
Then we can snatch him out and rush him away
the first time there's an alarm. Yes, I reckon that 'll
be the best way."
</p><p>
"Now, there's <i>sense</i> in that," I says. "Letting on
don't cost nothing; letting on ain't no trouble; and
if it's any object, I don't mind letting on we was at it
a hundred and fifty year. It wouldn't strain me
none, after I got my hand in. So I'll mosey along
now, and smouch a couple of case-knives."
</p><p>
"Smouch three," he says; "we want one to make
a saw out of."
</p><p>
"Tom, if it ain't unregular and irreligious to sejest
it," I says, "there's an old rusty saw-blade around
yonder sticking under the weather-boarding behind
the smokehouse."
</p><p>
He looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and
says:
</p><p>
"It ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, Huck.
Run along and smouch the knives&mdash;three of them."
So I done it.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXXVI"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXXVI</h2>
<br>
<p>
As soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep
that night we went down the lightning-rod, and
shut ourselves up in the lean-to, and got out our
pile of fox-fire, and went to work. We cleared
everything out of the way, about four or five foot
along the middle of the bottom log. Tom said we
was right behind Jim's bed now, and we'd dig in
under it, and when we got through there couldn't
nobody in the cabin ever know there was any hole
there, because Jim's counterpin hung down most to
the ground, and you'd have to raise it up and look
under to see the hole. So we dug and dug with the
case-knives till most midnight; and then we was
dog-tired, and our hands was blistered, and yet you
couldn't see we'd done anything hardly. At last
I says:
</p><p>
"This ain't no thirty-seven-year job; this is a
thirty-eight-year job, Tom Sawyer."
</p><p>
He never said nothing. But he sighed, and pretty
soon he stopped digging, and then for a good little
while I knowed that he was thinking. Then he says:
</p><p>
"It ain't no use, Huck, it ain't a-going to work.
If we was prisoners it would, because then we'd have
as many years as we wanted, and no hurry; and we
wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day,
while they was changing watches, and so our hands
wouldn't get blistered, and we could keep it up right
along, year in and year out, and do it right, and the
way it ought to be done. But <i>we</i> can't fool along;
we got to rush; we ain't got no time to spare. If
we was to put in another night this way we'd have
to knock off for a week to let our hands get well&mdash;couldn't
touch a case-knife with them sooner."
</p><p>
"Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?"
</p><p>
"I'll tell you. It ain't right, and it ain't moral,
and I wouldn't like it to get out; but there ain't only
just the one way: we got to dig him out with the
picks, and <i>let on</i> it's case-knives."
</p><p>
"<i>Now</i> you're <i>talking!</i>" I says; "your head gets
leveler and leveler all the time, Tom Sawyer," I
says. "Picks is the thing, moral or no moral; and
as for me, I don't care shucks for the morality of it,
nohow. When I start in to steal a nigger, or a
watermelon, or a Sunday-school book, I ain't no
ways particular how it's done so it's done. What I
want is my nigger; or what I want is my watermelon;
or what I want is my Sunday-school book; and if a
pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing I'm
a-going to dig that nigger or that watermelon or that
Sunday-school book out with; and I don't give a dead
rat what the authorities thinks about it nuther."
</p><p>
"Well," he says, "there's excuse for picks and
letting on in a case like this; if it warn't so, I wouldn't
approve of it, nor I wouldn't stand by and see the
rules broke&mdash;because right is right, and wrong is
wrong, and a body ain't got no business doing wrong
when he ain't ignorant and knows better. It might
answer for <i>you</i> to dig Jim out with a pick, <i>without</i>
any letting on, because you don't know no better;
but it wouldn't for me, because I do know better.
Gimme a case-knife."
</p><p>
He had his own by him, but I handed him mine.
He flung it down, and says:
</p><p>
"Gimme a <i>case-knife.</i>"
</p><p>
I didn't know just what to do&mdash;but then I thought.
I scratched around amongst the old tools, and got
a pickax and give it to him, and he took it and
went to work, and never said a word.
</p><p>
He was always just that particular. Full of principle.
</p><p>
So then I got a shovel, and then we picked and
shoveled, turn about, and made the fur fly. We
stuck to it about a half an hour, which was as long
as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a
hole to show for it. When I got up-stairs I looked
out at the window and see Tom doing his level best
with the lightning-rod, but he couldn't come it, his
hands was so sore. At last he says:
</p><p>
"It ain't no use, it can't be done. What you
reckon I better do? Can't you think of no way?"
</p><p>
"Yes," I says, "but I reckon it ain't regular.
Come up the stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod."
</p><p>
So he done it.
</p><p>
Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass
candlestick in the house, for to make some pens for
Jim out of, and six tallow candles; and I hung around
the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole
three tin plates. Tom says it wasn't enough; but
I said nobody wouldn't ever see the plates that Jim
throwed out, because they'd fall in the dog-fennel
and jimpson weeds under the window-hole&mdash;then we
could tote them back and he could use them over
again. So Tom was satisfied. Then he says:
</p><p>
"Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the
things to Jim."
</p><p>
"Take them in through the hole," I says, "when
we get it done."
</p><p>
He only just looked scornful, and said something
about nobody ever heard of such an idiotic idea, and
then he went to studying. By and by he said he
had ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't
no need to decide on any of them yet. Said we'd
got to post Jim first.
</p><p>
That night we went down the lightning-rod a little
after ten, and took one of the candles along, and
listened under the window-hole, and heard Jim
snoring; so we pitched it in, and it didn't wake him.
Then we whirled in with the pick and shovel, and
in about two hours and a half the job was done. We
crept in under Jim's bed and into the cabin, and
pawed around and found the candle and lit it, and
stood over Jim awhile, and found him looking hearty
and healthy, and then we woke him up gentle and
gradual. He was so glad to see us he most cried;
and called us honey, and all the pet names he could
think of; and was for having us hunt up a cold-chisel
to cut the chain off of his leg with right away, and
clearing out without losing any time. But Tom he
showed him how unregular it would be, and set
down and told him all about our plans, and how we
could alter them in a minute any time there was an
alarm; and not to be the least afraid, because we
would see he got away, <i>sure</i>. So Jim he said it was
all right, and we set there and talked over old times
awhile, and then Tom asked a lot of questions, and
when Jim told him Uncle Silas come in every day
or two to pray with him, and Aunt Sally come in to
see if he was comfortable and had plenty to eat, and
both of them was kind as they could be, Tom says:
</p><p>
"<i>Now</i> I know how to fix it. We'll send you some
things by them."
</p><p>
I said, "Don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of
the most jackass ideas I ever struck"; but he never
paid no attention to me; went right on. It was his
way when he'd got his plans set.
</p><p>
So he told Jim how we'd have to smuggle in the
rope-ladder pie and other large things by Nat, the
nigger that fed him, and he must be on the lookout,
and not be surprised, and not let Nat see him open
them; and we would put small things in uncle's coat
pockets and he must steal them out; and we would
tie things to aunt's apron-strings or put them in her
apron pocket, if we got a chance; and told him what
they would be and what they was for. And told him
how to keep a journal on the shirt with his blood,
and all that. He told him everything. Jim he
couldn't see no sense in the most of it, but he allowed
we was white folks and knowed better than him; so
he was satisfied, and said he would do it all just as
Tom said.
</p><p>
Jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so
we had a right down good sociable time; then we
crawled out through the hole, and so home to bed,
with hands that looked like they'd been chawed.
Tom was in high spirits. He said it was the best
fun he ever had in his life, and the most intellectural;
and said if he only could see his way to it we would
keep it up all the rest of our lives and leave Jim to
our children to get out; for he believed Jim would
come to like it better and better the more he got
used to it. He said that in that way it could be
strung out to as much as eighty year, and would be
the best time on record. And he said it would make
us all celebrated that had a hand in it.
</p><p>
In the morning we went out to the woodpile and
chopped up the brass candlestick into handy sizes,
and Tom put them and the pewter spoon in his
pocket. Then we went to the nigger cabins, and
while I got Nat's notice off, Tom shoved a piece of
candlestick into the middle of a corn-pone that was
in Jim's pan, and we went along with Nat to see
how it would work, and it just worked noble; when
Jim bit into it it most mashed all his teeth out; and
there warn't ever anything could 'a' worked better.
Tom said so himself. Jim he never let on but what
it was only just a piece of rock or something like that
that's always getting into bread, you know; but after
that he never bit into nothing but what he jabbed
his fork into it in three or four places first.
</p><p>
And whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish
light, here comes a couple of the hounds bulging
in from under Jim's bed; and they kept on piling in
till there was eleven of them, and there warn't
hardly room in there to get your breath. By jings,
we forgot to fasten that lean-to door! The nigger
Nat he only just hollered "Witches" once, and
keeled over onto the floor amongst the dogs, and
begun to groan like he was dying. Tom jerked the
door open and flung out a slab of Jim's meat, and
the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he was out
himself and back again and shut the door, and I
knowed he'd fixed the other door too. Then he
went to work on the nigger, coaxing him and petting
him, and asking him if he'd been imagining he saw
something again. He raised up, and blinked his
eyes around, and says:
</p><p>
"Mars Sid, you'll say I's a fool, but if I didn't
b'lieve I see most a million dogs, er devils, er some'n,
I wisht I may die right heah in dese tracks. I did,
mos' sholy. Mars Sid, I <i>felt</i> um&mdash;I <i>felt</i> um, sah;
dey was all over me. Dad fetch it, I jis' wisht I
could git my han's on one er dem witches jis' wunst&mdash;on'y
jis' wunst&mdash;it's all I'd ast. But mos'ly I
wisht dey'd lemme 'lone, I does."
</p><p>
Tom says:
</p><p>
"Well, I tell you what <i>I</i> think. What makes
them come here just at this runaway nigger's breakfast-time?
It's because they're hungry; that's the
reason. You make them a witch pie; that's the
thing for <i>you</i> to do."
</p><p>
"But my lan', Mars Sid, how's I gwyne to make
'm a witch pie? I doan' know how to make it. I
hain't ever hearn er sich a thing b'fo'."
</p><p>
"Well, then, I'll have to make it myself."
</p><p>
"Will you do it, honey?&mdash;will you? I'll wusshup
de groun' und' yo' foot, I will!"
</p>
<br><br>
<a name="pie"></a>
<p class="pg1"><img src="images/pie.jpg" alt="TOM ADVISES A WITCH PIE"></p>
<p class="pg1">TOM ADVISES A WITCH PIE</p>
<br><br>
<p>
"All right, I'll do it, seeing it's you, and you've
been good to us and showed us the runaway nigger.
But you got to be mighty careful. When we come
around, you turn your back; and then whatever
we've put in the pan, don't you let on you see it at
all. And don't you look when Jim unloads the pan&mdash;something
might happen, I don't know what.
And above all, don't you <i>handle</i> the witch-things."
</p><p>
"<i>Hannel</i> 'm, Mars Sid? What <i>is</i> you a-talkin'
'bout? I wouldn' lay de weight er my finger on
um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n billion dollars, I
wouldn't."
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXXVII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXXVII</h2>
<br>
<p>
<i>That</i> was all fixed. So then we went away and
went to the rubbage-pile in the back yard,
where they keep the old boots, and rags, and pieces
of bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such
truck, and scratched around and found an old tin
washpan, and stopped up the holes as well as we
could, to bake the pie in, and took it down cellar and
stole it full of flour and started for breakfast, and
found a couple of shingle-nails that Tom said would
be handy for a prisoner to scrabble his name and
sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped one
of them in Aunt Sally's apron pocket which was
hanging on a chair, and t'other we stuck in the band
of Uncle Silas's hat, which was on the bureau, because
we heard the children say their pa and ma was
going to the runaway nigger's house this morning,
and then went to breakfast, and Tom dropped the
pewter spoon in Uncle Silas's coat pocket, and Aunt
Sally wasn't come yet, so we had to wait a little
while.
</p><p>
And when she come she was hot and red and cross,
and couldn't hardly wait for the blessing; and then
she went to sluicing out coffee with one hand and
cracking the handiest child's head with her thimble
with the other, and says:
</p><p>
"I've hunted high and I've hunted low, and it
does beat all what <i>has</i> become of your other shirt."
</p><p>
My heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers
and things, and a hard piece of corn-crust started
down my throat after it and got met on the road
with a cough, and was shot across the table, and
took one of the children in the eye and curled him
up like a fishing-worm, and let a cry out of him the
size of a war-whoop, and Tom he turned kinder blue
around the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable
state of things for about a quarter of a minute
or as much as that, and I would 'a' sold out for half
price if there was a bidder. But after that we was
all right again&mdash;it was the sudden surprise of it that
knocked us so kind of cold. Uncle Silas he says:
</p><p>
"It's most uncommon curious, I can't understand
it. I know perfectly well I took it <i>off</i>, because&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Because you hain't got but one <i>on</i>. Just <i>listen</i>
at the man! I know you took it off, and know it by
a better way than your wool-gethering memory, too,
because it was on the clo's-line yesterday&mdash;I see it
there myself. But it's gone, that's the long and the
short of it, and you'll just have to change to a red
flann'l one till I can get time to make a new one.
And it 'll be the third I've made in two years. It
just keeps a body on the jump to keep you in shirts;
and whatever you do manage to <i>do</i> with 'm all is
more'n I can make out. A body'd think you <i>would</i>
learn to take some sort of care of 'em at your time
of life."
</p><p>
"I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it
oughtn't to be altogether my fault, because, you
know, I don't see them nor have nothing to do with
them except when they're on me; and I don't believe
I've ever lost one of them <i>off</i> of me."
</p><p>
"Well, it ain't <i>your</i> fault if you haven't, Silas;
you'd 'a' done it if you could, I reckon. And the shirt
ain't all that's gone, nuther. Ther's a spoon gone;
and <i>that</i> ain't all. There was ten, and now ther'
only nine. The calf got the shirt, I reckon, but the
calf never took the spoon, <i>that's</i> certain."
</p><p>
"Why, what else is gone, Sally?"
</p><p>
"Ther's six <i>candles</i> gone&mdash;that's what. The rats
could 'a' got the candles, and I reckon they did; I
wonder they don't walk off with the whole place, the
way you're always going to stop their holes and
don't do it; and if they warn't fools they'd sleep in
your hair, Silas&mdash;<i>you'd</i> never find it out; but you
can't lay the <i>spoon</i> on the rats, and that I <i>know</i>."
</p><p>
"Well, Sally, I'm in fault, and I acknowledge it;
I've been remiss; but I won't let to-morrow go by
without stopping up them holes."
</p><p>
"Oh, I wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. Matilda
Angelina Araminta <i>Phelps!</i>"
</p><p>
Whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches
her claws out of the sugar-bowl without fooling
around any. Just then the nigger woman steps onto
the passage, and says:
</p><p>
"Missus, dey's a sheet gone."
</p><p>
"A <i>sheet</i> gone! Well, for the land's sake!"
</p><p>
"I'll stop up them holes to-day," says Uncle Silas,
looking sorrowful.
</p><p>
"Oh, <i>do</i> shet up!&mdash;s'pose the rats took the <i>sheet?</i>
<i>Where's</i> it gone, Lize?"
</p><p>
"Clah to goodness I hain't no notion, Miss' Sally.
She wuz on de clo's-line yistiddy, but she done gone:
she ain' dah no mo' now."
</p><p>
"I reckon the world <i>is</i> coming to an end. I <i>never</i>
see the beat of it in all my born days. A shirt, and
a sheet, and a spoon, and six can&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Missus," comes a young yaller wench, "dey's a
brass cannelstick miss'n."
</p><p>
"Cler out from here, you hussy, er I'll take a
skillet to ye!"
</p><p>
Well, she was just a-biling. I begun to lay for a
chance; I reckoned I would sneak out and go for the
woods till the weather moderated. She kept a-raging
right along, running her insurrection all by herself,
and everybody else mighty meek and quiet; and at
last Uncle Silas, looking kind of foolish, fishes up
that spoon out of his pocket. She stopped, with her
mouth open and her hands up; and as for me, I
wished I was in Jeruslem or somewheres. But not
long, because she says:
</p><p>
"It's <i>just</i> as I expected. So you had it in your
pocket all the time; and like as not you've got the
other things there, too. How'd it get there?"
</p><p>
"I reely don't know, Sally," he says, kind of
apologizing, "or you know I would tell. I was
a-studying over my text in Acts Seventeen before
breakfast, and I reckon I put it in there, not noticing,
meaning to put my Testament in, and it must be so,
because my Testament ain't in; but I'll go and see;
and if the Testament is where I had it, I'll know I
didn't put it in, and that will show that I laid the
Testament down and took up the spoon, and&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Oh, for the land's sake! Give a body a rest!
Go 'long now, the whole kit and biling of ye; and
don't come nigh me again till I've got back my peace
of mind."
</p><p>
I'd 'a' heard her if she'd 'a' said it to herself, let
alone speaking it out; and I'd 'a' got up and obeyed
her if I'd 'a' been dead. As we was passing through
the setting-room the old man he took up his hat, and
the shingle-nail fell out on the floor, and he just
merely picked it up and laid it on the mantel-shelf,
and never said nothing, and went out. Tom see
him do it, and remembered about the spoon, and
says:
</p><p>
"Well, it ain't no use to send things by <i>him</i> no
more, he ain't reliable." Then he says: "But he
done us a good turn with the spoon, anyway, without
knowing it, and so we'll go and do him one
without <i>him</i> knowing it&mdash;stop up his rat-holes."
</p><p>
There was a noble good lot of them down cellar,
and it took us a whole hour, but we done the job
tight and good and shipshape. Then we heard
steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid;
and here comes the old man, with a candle in one
hand and a bundle of stuff in t'other, looking as
absent-minded as year before last. He went a-mooning
around, first to one rat-hole and then another,
till he'd been to them all. Then he stood about five
minutes, picking tallow-drip off of his candle and
thinking. Then he turns off slow and dreamy towards
the stairs, saying:
</p><p>
"Well, for the life of me I can't remember when
I done it. I could show her now that I warn't to
blame on account of the rats. But never mind&mdash;let
it go. I reckon it wouldn't do no good."
</p><p>
And so he went on a-mumbling up-stairs, and then
we left. He was a mighty nice old man. And
always is.
</p><p>
Tom was a good deal bothered about what to do
for a spoon, but he said we'd got to have it; so he
took a think. When he had ciphered it out he told
me how we was to do; then we went and waited
around the spoon-basket till we see Aunt Sally
coming, and then Tom went to counting the spoons
and laying them out to one side, and I slid one of
them up my sleeve, and Tom says:
</p><p>
"Why, Aunt Sally, there ain't but nine spoons
<i>yet</i>."
</p><p>
She says:
</p><p>
"Go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. I
know better, I counted 'm myself."
</p><p>
"Well, I've counted them twice, Aunty, and <i>I</i>
can't make but nine."
</p><p>
She looked out of all patience, but of course she
come to count&mdash;anybody would.
</p><p>
"I declare to gracious ther' <i>ain't</i> but nine!" she
says. "Why, what in the world&mdash;plague <i>take</i> the
things, I'll count 'm again."
</p><p>
So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got
done counting, she says:
</p><p>
"Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's <i>ten</i> now!"
and she looked huffy and bothered both. But Tom
says:
</p><p>
"Why, Aunty, I don't think there's ten."
</p><p>
"You numskull, didn't you see me <i>count</i> 'm?"
</p><p>
"I know, but&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Well, I'll count 'm again."
</p><p>
So I smouched one, and they come out nine, same
as the other time. Well, she <i>was</i> in a tearing way&mdash;just
a-trembling all over, she was so mad. But
she counted and counted till she got that addled
she'd start to count in the basket for a spoon sometimes;
and so, three times they come out right, and
three times they come out wrong. Then she grabbed
up the basket and slammed it across the house and
knocked the cat galley-west; and she said cler out
and let her have some peace, and if we come bothering
around her again betwixt that and dinner she'd
skin us. So we had the odd spoon, and dropped it
in her apron pocket whilst she was a-giving us our
sailing orders, and Jim got it all right, along with
her shingle-nail, before noon. We was very well
satisfied with this business, and Tom allowed it was
worth twice the trouble it took, because he said <i>now</i>
she couldn't ever count them spoons twice alike
again to save her life; and wouldn't believe she'd
counted them right if she <i>did</i>; and said that after
she'd about counted her head off for the next three
days he judged she'd give it up and offer to kill anybody
that wanted her to ever count them any more.
</p><p>
So we put the sheet back on the line that night,
and stole one out of her closet; and kept on putting
it back and stealing it again for a couple of days till
she didn't know how many sheets she had any more,
and she didn't <i>care</i>, and warn't a-going to bullyrag
the rest of her soul out about it, and wouldn't count
them again not to save her life; she druther die first.
</p><p>
So we was all right now, as to the shirt and the
sheet and the spoon and the candles, by the help of
the calf and the rats and the mixed-up counting; and
as to the candlestick, it warn't no consequence, it
would blow over by and by.
</p><p>
But that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble
with that pie. We fixed it up away down in the
woods, and cooked it there; and we got it done at
last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one
day; and we had to use up three wash-pans full of
flour before we got through, and we got burnt pretty
much all over, in places, and eyes put out with the
smoke; because, you see, we didn't want nothing but
a crust, and we couldn't prop it up right, and she
would always cave in. But of course we thought of
the right way at last&mdash;which was to cook the ladder,
too, in the pie. So then we laid in with Jim the
second night, and tore up the sheet all in little strings
and twisted them together, and long before daylight
we had a lovely rope that you could 'a' hung a person
with. We let on it took nine months to make it.
</p><p>
And in the forenoon we took it down to the woods,
but it wouldn't go into the pie. Being made of a
whole sheet, that way, there was rope enough for
forty pies if we'd 'a' wanted them, and plenty left
over for soup, or sausage, or anything you choose.
We could 'a' had a whole dinner.
</p><p>
But we didn't need it. All we needed was just
enough for the pie, and so we throwed the rest
away. We didn't cook none of the pies in the washpan&mdash;afraid
the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas
he had a noble brass warming-pan which he thought
considerable of, because it belonged to one of his
ancesters with a long wooden handle that come over
from England with William the Conqueror in the
<i>Mayflower</i> or one of them early ships and was hid
away up garret with a lot of other old pots and things
that was valuable, not on account of being any
account, because they warn't, but on account of
them being relicts, you know, and we snaked her out,
private, and took her down there, but she failed on
the first pies, because we didn't know how, but she
come up smiling on the last one. We took and lined
her with dough, and set her in the coals, and loaded
her up with rag rope, and put on a dough roof, and
shut down the lid, and put hot embers on top, and
stood off five foot, with the long handle, cool and
comfortable, and in fifteen minutes she turned out a
pie that was a satisfaction to look at. But the
person that et it would want to fetch a couple of
kags of toothpicks along, for if that rope ladder
wouldn't cramp him down to business I don't know
nothing what I'm talking about, and lay him in
enough stomach-ache to last him till next time, too.
Nat didn't look when we put the witch pie in Jim's
pan; and we put the three tin plates in the bottom of
the pan under the vittles; and so Jim got everything
all right, and as soon as he was by himself he busted
into the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his
straw tick, and scratched some marks on a tin plate
and throwed it out of the window-hole.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXXVIII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXXVIII</h2>
<br>
<p>
Making them pens was a distressid tough job,
and so was the saw; and Jim allowed the inscription
was going to be the toughest of all. That's
the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the
wall. But he had to have it; Tom said he'd <i>got</i> to;
there warn't no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling
his inscription to leave behind, and his coat of arms.
</p><p>
"Look at Lady Jane Grey," he says; "look at
Gilford Dudley; look at old Northumberland! Why,
Huck, s'pose it <i>is</i> considerble trouble?&mdash;what you
going to do?&mdash;how you going to get around it?
Jim's <i>got</i> to do his inscription and coat of arms.
They all do."
</p><p>
Jim says:
</p><p>
"Why, Mars Tom, I hain't got no coat o' arm;
I hain't got nuffn but dish yer ole shirt, en you
knows I got to keep de journal on dat."
</p><p>
"Oh, you don't understand, Jim; a coat of arms
is very different."
</p><p>
"Well," I says, "Jim's right, anyway, when he says
he ain't got no coat of arms, because he hain't."
</p><p>
"I reckon I knowed that," Tom says, "but you
bet he'll have one before he goes out of this&mdash;because
he's going out <i>right</i>, and there ain't going
to be no flaws in his record."
</p><p>
So whilst me and Jim filed away at the pens on a
brickbat apiece, Jim a-making his'n out of the brass
and I making mine out of the spoon, Tom set to
work to think out the coat of arms. By and by he
said he'd struck so many good ones he didn't hardly
know which to take, but there was one which he
reckoned he'd decide on. He says:
</p><p>
"On the scutcheon we'll have a bend <i>or</i> in the
dexter base, a saltire <i>murrey</i> in the fess, with a dog,
couchant, for common charge, and under his foot a
chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron <i>vert</i> in
a chief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field
<i>azure</i>, with the nombril points rampant on a dancette
indented; crest, a runaway nigger, <i>sable</i>, with his
bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a
couple of gules for supporters, which is you and
me; motto, <i>Maggiore fretta, minore atto</i>. Got it out
of a book&mdash;means the more haste the less speed."
</p><p>
"Geewhillikins," I says, "but what does the rest
of it mean?"
</p><p>
"We ain't got no time to bother over that," he
says; "we got to dig in like all git-out."
</p><p>
"Well, anyway," I says, "what's <i>some</i> of it?
What's a fess?"
</p><p>
"A fess&mdash;a fess is&mdash;<i>you</i> don't need to know what
a fess is. I'll show him how to make it when he gets
to it."
</p><p>
"Shucks, Tom," I says, "I think you might tell
a person. What's a bar sinister?"
</p><p>
"Oh, I don't know. But he's got to have it.
All the nobility does."
</p><p>
That was just his way. If it didn't suit him to explain
a thing to you, he wouldn't do it. You might
pump at him a week, it wouldn't make no difference.
He'd got all that coat-of-arms business fixed, so
now he started in to finish up the rest of that part
of the work, which was to plan out a mournful
inscription&mdash;said Jim got to have one, like they all
done. He made up a lot, and wrote them out on a
paper, and read them off, so:
</p>
<blockquote>
  <i>1. Here a captive heart busted.<br>
<br>
   2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and
   friends, fretted his sorrowful life.<br>
<br>
   3. Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went
   to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary captivity.<br>
<br>
   4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven
   years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger,
   natural son of Louis XIV.</i><br>
</blockquote>
<p>
Tom's voice trembled whilst he was reading them,
and he most broke down. When he got done he
couldn't no way make up his mind which one for
Jim to scrabble onto the wall, they was all so good;
but at last he allowed he would let him scrabble
them all on. Jim said it would take him a year to
scrabble such a lot of truck onto the logs with a
nail, and he didn't know how to make letters, besides;
but Tom said he would block them out for
him, and then he wouldn't have nothing to do but
just follow the lines. Then pretty soon he says:
</p><p>
"Come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they
don't have log walls in a dungeon: we got to dig the
inscriptions into a rock. We'll fetch a rock."
Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he
said it would take him such a pison long time to
dig them into a rock he wouldn't ever get out. But
Tom said he would let me help him do it. Then he
took a look to see how me and Jim was getting along
with the pens. It was most pesky tedious hard work
and slow, and didn't give my hands no show to get
well of the sores, and we didn't seem to make no
headway, hardly; so Tom says:
</p><p>
"I know how to fix it. We got to have a rock
for the coat of arms and mournful inscriptions, and
we can kill two birds with that same rock. There's
a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll
smouch it, and carve the things on it, and file out
the pens and the saw on it, too."
</p><p>
It warn't no slouch of an idea; and it warn't no
slouch of a grindstone nuther; but we allowed we'd
tackle it. It warn't quite midnight yet, so we
cleared out for the mill, leaving Jim at work. We
smouched the grindstone, and set out to roll her
home, but it was a most nation tough job. Sometimes,
do what we could, we couldn't keep her from
falling over, and she come mighty near mashing us
every time. Tom said she was going to get one of
us, sure, before we got through. We got her halfway;
and then we was plumb played out, and most
drownded with sweat. We see it warn't no use; we
got to go and fetch Jim. So he raised up his bed
and slid the chain off of the bed-leg, and wrapt it
round and round his neck, and we crawled out
through our hole and down there, and Jim and me
laid into that grindstone and walked her along like
nothing; and Tom superintended. He could out-superintend
any boy I ever see. He knowed how to
do everything.
</p><p>
Our hole was pretty big, but it warn't big enough
to get the grindstone through; but Jim he took the
pick and soon made it big enough. Then Tom
marked out them things on it with the nail, and set
Jim to work on them, with the nail for a chisel and
an iron bolt from the rubbage in the lean-to for a
hammer, and told him to work till the rest of his
candle quit on him, and then he could go to bed,
and hide the grindstone under his straw tick and
sleep on it. Then we helped him fix his chain back
on the bed-leg, and was ready for bed ourselves.
But Tom thought of something, and says:
</p><p>
"You got any spiders in here, Jim?"
</p><p>
"No, sah, thanks to goodness I hain't, Mars Tom."
</p><p>
"All right, we'll get you some."
</p><p>
"But bless you, honey, I doan' <i>want</i> none. I's
afeard un um. I jis' 's soon have rattlesnakes aroun'."
</p><p>
Tom thought a minute or two, and says:
</p><p>
"It's a good idea. And I reckon it's been done.
It <i>must</i> 'a' been done; it stands to reason. Yes, it's
a prime good idea. Where could you keep it?"
</p><p>
"Keep what, Mars Tom?"
</p><p>
"Why, a rattlesnake."
</p><p>
"De goodness gracious alive, Mars Tom! Why,
if dey was a rattlesnake to come in heah I'd take en
bust right out thoo dat log wall, I would, wid my
head."
</p><p>
"Why, Jim, you wouldn't be afraid of it after a
little. You could tame it."
</p><p>
"<i>Tame</i> it!"
</p><p>
"Yes&mdash;easy enough. Every animal is grateful for
kindness and petting, and they wouldn't <i>think</i> of
hurting a person that pets them. Any book will tell
you that. You try&mdash;that's all I ask; just try for
two or three days. Why, you can get him so in a
little while that he'll love you; and sleep with you;
and won't stay away from you a minute; and will let
you wrap him round your neck and put his head in
your mouth."
</p><p>
"<i>Please</i>, Tom&mdash;<i>doan</i>' talk so! I can't <i>stan'</i>
it! He'd <i>let</i> me shove his head in my mouf&mdash;fer a
favor, hain't it? I lay he'd wait a pow'ful long time
'fo' I <i>ast</i> him. En mo' en dat, I doan' <i>want</i> him to
sleep wid me."
</p><p>
"Jim, don't act so foolish. A prisoner's <i>got</i> to
have some kind of a dumb pet, and if a rattlesnake
hain't ever been tried, why, there's more glory to
be gained in your being the first to ever try it than
any other way you could ever think of to save your
life."
</p><p>
"Why, Mars Tom, I doan' <i>want</i> no sich glory.
Snake take 'n bite Jim's chin off, den <i>whah</i> is de
glory? No, sah, I doan' want no sich doin's."
</p><p>
"Blame it, can't you <i>try?</i> I only <i>want</i> you to try&mdash;you
needn't keep it up if it don't work."
</p><p>
"But de trouble all <i>done</i> ef de snake bite me while
I's a-tryin' him. Mars Tom, I's willin' to tackle
mos' anything 'at ain't onreasonable, but ef you en
Huck fetches a rattlesnake in heah for me to tame,
I's gwyne to <i>leave</i>, dat's <i>shore</i>."
</p><p>
"Well, then, let it go, let it go, if you're so bull-headed
 about it. We can get you some garter-snakes,
and you can tie some buttons on their tails,
and let on they're rattlesnakes, and I reckon that 'll
have to do."
</p><p>
"I k'n stan' <i>dem</i>, Mars Tom, but blame' 'f I
couldn' get along widout um, I tell you dat. I
never knowed b'fo' 'twas so much bother and trouble
to be a prisoner."
</p><p>
"Well, it <i>always</i> is when it's done right. You got
any rats around here?"
</p><p>
"No, sah, I hain't seed none."
</p><p>
"Well, we'll get you some rats."
</p><p>
"Why, Mars Tom, I doan' <i>want</i> no rats. Dey's
de dadblamedest creturs to 'sturb a body, en rustle
roun' over 'im, en bite his feet, when he's tryin' to
sleep, I ever see. No, sah, gimme g'yarter-snakes,
'f I's got to have 'm, but doan' gimme no rats; I
hain' got no use f'r um, skasely."
</p><p>
"But, Jim, you <i>got</i> to have 'em&mdash;they all do. So
don't make no more fuss about it. Prisoners ain't
ever without rats. There ain't no instance of it.
And they train them, and pet them, and learn them
tricks, and they get to be as sociable as flies. But
you got to play music to them. You got anything
to play music on?"
</p><p>
"I ain' got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o'
paper, en a juice-harp; but I reck'n dey wouldn' take
no stock in a juice-harp."
</p><p>
"Yes they would. <i>They</i> don't care what kind of
music 'tis. A jews-harp's plenty good enough for a
rat. All animals like music&mdash;in a prison they dote
on it. Specially, painful music; and you can't get
no other kind out of a jew's-harp. It always interests
them; they come out to see what's the matter
with you. Yes, you're all right; you're fixed very
well. You want to set on your bed nights before
you go to sleep, and early in the mornings, and play
your jew's-harp; play 'The Last Link is Broken'&mdash;that's
the thing that 'll scoop a rat quicker 'n anything
else; and when you've played about two
minutes you'll see all the rats, and the snakes, and
spiders and things begin to feel worried about you,
and come. And they'll just fairly swarm over you,
and have a noble good time."
</p><p>
"Yes, <i>dey</i> will, I reck'n, Mars Tom, but what kine
er time is <i>Jim</i> havin'? Blest if I kin see de pint.
But I'll do it ef I got to. I reck'n I better keep de
animals satisfied, en not have no trouble in de house."
</p><p>
Tom waited to think it over, and see if there
wasn't nothing else; and pretty soon he says:
</p><p>
"Oh, there's one thing I forgot. Could you raise
a flower here, do you reckon?"
</p><p>
"I doan' know but maybe I could, Mars Tom;
but it's tolable dark in heah, en I ain' got no use f'r
no flower, nohow, en she'd be a pow'ful sight o'
trouble."
</p><p>
"Well, you try it, anyway. Some other prisoners
has done it."
</p><p>
"One er dem big cat-tail-lookin' mullen-stalks
would grow in heah, Mars Tom, I reck'n, but she
wouldn't be wuth half de trouble she'd coss."
</p><p>
"Don't you believe it. We'll fetch you a little
one and you plant it in the corner over there, and
raise it. And don't call it mullen, call it Pitchiola&mdash;that's
its right name when it's in a prison. And you
want to water it with your tears."
</p><p>
"Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom."
</p><p>
"You don't <i>want</i> spring water; you want to water
it with your tears. It's the way they always do."
</p><p>
"Why, Mars Tom, I lay I kin raise one er dem
mullen-stalks twyste wid spring water whiles another
man's a start'n one wid tears."
</p><p>
"That ain't the idea. You <i>got</i> to do it with tears."
</p><p>
"She'll die on my han's, Mars Tom, she sholy
will; kase I doan' skasely ever cry."
</p><p>
So Tom was stumped. But he studied it over, and
then said Jim would have to worry along the best
he could with an onion. He promised he would go
to the nigger cabins and drop one, private, in Jim's
coffee-pot, in the morning. Jim said he would
"jis' 's soon have tobacker in his coffee"; and found
so much fault with it, and with the work and bother
of raising the mullen, and jew's-harping the rats, and
petting and flattering up the snakes and spiders and
things, on top of all the other work he had to do on
pens, and inscriptions, and journals, and things,
which made it more trouble and worry and responsibility
to be a prisoner than anything he ever undertook,
that Tom most lost all patience with him; and
said he was just loadened down with more gaudier
chances than a prisoner ever had in the world to
make a name for himself, and yet he didn't know
enough to appreciate them, and they was just about
wasted on him. So Jim he was sorry, and said he
wouldn't behave so no more, and then me and Tom
shoved for bed.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XXXIX"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XXXIX</h2>
<br>
<p>
In the morning we went up to the village and
bought a wire rat-trap and fetched it down, and
unstopped the best rat-hole, and in about an hour
we had fifteen of the bulliest kind of ones; and then
we took it and put it in a safe place under Aunt
Sally's bed. But while we was gone for spiders little
Thomas Franklin Benjamin Jefferson Elexander
Phelps found it there, and opened the door of it to
see if the rats would come out, and they did; and
Aunt Sally she come in, and when we got back she
was a-standing on top of the bed raising Cain, and
the rats was doing what they could to keep off the
dull times for her. So she took and dusted us both
with the hickry, and we was as much as two hours
catching another fifteen or sixteen, drat that meddlesome
cub, and they warn't the likeliest, nuther,
because the first haul was the pick of the flock. I
never see a likelier lot of rats than what that first
haul was.
</p><p>
We got a splendid stock of sorted spiders, and
bugs, and frogs, and caterpillars, and one thing or
another; and we like to got a hornet's nest, but we
didn't. The family was at home. We didn't give
it right up, but stayed with them as long as we could;
because we allowed we'd tire them out or they'd got
to tire us out, and they done it. Then we got
allycumpain and rubbed on the places, and was
pretty near all right again, but couldn't set down
convenient. And so we went for the snakes, and
grabbed a couple of dozen garters and house-snakes,
and put them in a bag, and put it in our room, and
by that time it was supper-time, and a rattling good
honest day's work: and hungry?&mdash;oh, no, I reckon
not! And there warn't a blessed snake up there
when we went back&mdash;we didn't half tie the sack, and
they worked out somehow, and left. But it didn't
matter much, because they was still on the premises
somewheres. So we judged we could get some of
them again. No, there warn't no real scarcity of
snakes about the house for a considerable spell.
You'd see them dripping from the rafters and places
every now and then; and they generly landed in
your plate, or down the back of your neck, and most
of the time where you didn't want them. Well,
they was handsome and striped, and there warn't
no harm in a million of them; but that never made
no difference to Aunt Sally; she despised snakes, be
the breed what they might, and she couldn't stand
them no way you could fix it; and every time one of
them flopped down on her, it didn't make no difference
what she was doing, she would just lay that
work down and light out. I never see such a woman.
And you could hear her whoop to Jericho. You
couldn't get her to take a-holt of one of them with
the tongs. And if she turned over and found one
in bed she would scramble out and lift a howl that
you would think the house was afire. She disturbed
the old man so that he said he could most wish there
hadn't ever been no snakes created. Why, after
every last snake had been gone clear out of the
house for as much as a week Aunt Sally warn't over
it yet; she warn't near over it; when she was setting
thinking about something you could touch her on the
back of her neck with a feather and she would jump
right out of her stockings. It was very curious.
But Tom said all women was just so. He said they
was made that way for some reason or other.
</p><p>
We got a licking every time one of our snakes come
in her way, and she allowed these lickings warn't
nothing to what she would do if we ever loaded up
the place again with them. I didn't mind the lickings,
because they didn't amount to nothing; but I
minded the trouble we had to lay in another lot.
But we got them laid in, and all the other things; and
you never see a cabin as blithesome as Jim's was
when they'd all swarm out for music and go for him.
Jim didn't like the spiders, and the spiders didn't like
Jim; and so they'd lay for him, and make it mighty
warm for him. And he said that between the rats
and the snakes and the grindstone there warn't no
room in bed for him, skasely; and when there was,
a body couldn't sleep, it was so lively, and it was
always lively, he said, because <i>they</i> never all slept at
one time, but took turn about, so when the snakes
was asleep the rats was on deck, and when the rats
turned in the snakes come on watch, so he always
had one gang under him, in his way, and t'other gang
having a circus over him, and if he got up to hunt
a new place the spiders would take a chance at him
as he crossed over. He said if he ever got out this
time he wouldn't ever be a prisoner again, not for
a salary.
</p><p>
Well, by the end of three weeks everything was in
pretty good shape. The shirt was sent in early, in
a pie, and every time a rat bit Jim he would get up
and write a line in his journal whilst the ink was
fresh; the pens was made, the inscriptions and so on
was all carved on the grindstone; the bed-leg was
sawed in two, and we had et up the sawdust, and it
give us a most amazing stomach-ache. We reckoned
we was all going to die, but didn't. It was the most
undigestible sawdust I ever see; and Tom said the
same. But as I was saying, we'd got all the work
done now, at last; and we was all pretty much fagged
out, too, but mainly Jim. The old man had wrote
a couple of times to the plantation below Orleans to
come and get their runaway nigger, but hadn't got
no answer, because there warn't no such plantation;
so he allowed he would advertise Jim in the St. Louis
and New Orleans papers; and when he mentioned the
St. Louis ones it give me the cold shivers, and I see
we hadn't no time to lose. So Tom said, now for
the nonnamous letters.
</p><p>
"What's them?" I says.
</p><p>
"Warnings to the people that something is up.
Sometimes it's done one way, sometimes another.
But there's always somebody spying around that
gives notice to the governor of the castle. When
Louis XVI. was going to light out of the Tooleries a
servant-girl done it. It's a very good way, and so
is the nonnamous letters. We'll use them both.
And it's usual for the prisoner's mother to change
clothes with him, and she stays in, and he slides out
in her clothes. We'll do that, too."
</p><p>
"But looky here, Tom, what do we want to <i>warn</i>
anybody for that something's up? Let them find it
out for themselves&mdash;it's their lookout."
</p><p>
"Yes, I know; but you can't depend on them.
It's the way they've acted from the very start&mdash;left
us to do <i>everything</i>. They're so confiding and mullet-headed
they don't take notice of nothing at all. So
if we don't <i>give</i> them notice there won't be nobody
nor nothing to interfere with us, and so after all our
hard work and trouble this escape 'll go off perfectly
flat; won't amount to nothing&mdash;won't be nothing
<i>to</i> it."
</p><p>
"Well, as for me, Tom, that's the way I'd like."
</p><p>
"Shucks!" he says, and looked disgusted. So I says:
</p><p>
"But I ain't going to make no complaint. Any
way that suits you suits me. What you going to
do about the servant-girl?"
</p><p>
"You'll be her. You slide in, in the middle of
the night, and hook that yaller girl's frock."
</p><p>
"Why, Tom, that 'll make trouble next morning;
because, of course, she prob'bly hain't got any but
that one."
</p><p>
"I know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes,
to carry the nonnamous letter and shove it
under the front door."
</p><p>
"All right, then, I'll do it; but I could carry it just
as handy in my own togs."
</p><p>
"You wouldn't look like a servant-girl <i>then</i>, would
you?"
</p><p>
"No, but there won't be nobody to see what I
look like, <i>anyway</i>."
</p><p>
"That ain't got nothing to do with it. The thing
for us to do is just to do our <i>duty</i>, and not worry
 about whether anybody <i>sees</i> us do it or not. Hain't
you got no principle at all?"
</p><p>
"All right, I ain't saying nothing; I'm the servant-girl.
Who's Jim's mother?"
</p><p>
"I'm his mother. I'll hook a gown from Aunt
Sally."
</p><p>
"Well, then, you'll have to stay in the cabin when
me and Jim leaves."
</p><p>
"Not much. I'll stuff Jim's clothes full of straw
and lay it on his bed to represent his mother in disguise,
and Jim 'll take the nigger woman's gown
off of me and wear it, and we'll all evade together.
When a prisoner of style escapes it's called an evasion.
It's always called so when a king escapes, f'rinstance.
And the same with a king's son; it don't make no
difference whether he's a natural one or an unnatural
one."
</p><p>
So Tom he wrote the nonnamous letter, and I
smouched the yaller wench's frock that night, and
put it on, and shoved it under the front door, the
way Tom told me to. It said:</p>
<blockquote>
   <i>Beware.&emsp;Trouble is brewing.&emsp;Keep a sharp lookout.<br>
   &emsp;&emsp;U<small>NKNOWN</small> F<small>RIEND.</small></i>
</blockquote>
<p>
Next night we stuck a picture, which Tom drawed
in blood, of a skull and crossbones on the front door;
and next night another one of a coffin on the back
door. I never see a family in such a sweat. They
couldn't 'a' been worse scared if the place had 'a' been
full of ghosts laying for them behind everything and
under the beds and shivering through the air. If a
door banged, Aunt Sally she jumped and said
"ouch!" if anything fell, she jumped and said
"ouch!" if you happened to touch her, when she
warn't noticing, she done the same; she couldn't face
no way and be satisfied, because she allowed there was
something behind her every time&mdash;so she was always
a-whirling around sudden, and saying "ouch," and
before she'd got two-thirds around she'd whirl back
again, and say it again; and she was afraid to go to
bed, but she dasn't set up. So the thing was working
very well, Tom said; he said he never see a thing
work more satisfactory. He said it showed it was
done right.
</p><p>
So he said, now for the grand bulge! So the very
next morning at the streak of dawn we got another
letter ready, and was wondering what we better do
with it, because we heard them say at supper they
was going to have a nigger on watch at both doors
all night. Tom he went down the lightning-rod to
spy around; and the nigger at the back door was
asleep, and he stuck it in the back of his neck and
come back. This letter said:
</p><p>
<i>Don't betray me, I wish to be your friend. There is a desprate
gang of cutthroats from over in the Indian Territory going to steal
your runaway nigger to-night, and they have been trying to scare
you so as you will stay in the house and not bother them. I am
one of the gang, but have got religgion and wish to quit it and
lead an honest life again, and will betray the helish design. They
will sneak down from northards, along the fence, at midnight
exact, with a false key, and go in the nigger's cabin to get him.
I am to be off a piece and blow a tin horn if I see any danger; but
stead of that I will BA like a sheep soon as they get in and not
blow at all; then whilst they are getting his chains loose, you slip
there and lock them in, and can kill them at your leasure. Don't
do anything but just the way I am telling you; if you do they will
suspicion something and raise whoop-jamboreehoo. I do not wish
any reward but to know I have done the right thing.</i>
</p><p>
<i>U<small>NKNOWN</small> F<small>RIEND.</small></i>
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XL"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XL</h2>
<br>
<p>
We was feeling pretty good after breakfast, and
took my canoe and went over the river a-fishing,
with a lunch, and had a good time, and took a
look at the raft and found her all right, and got home
late to supper, and found them in such a sweat and
worry they didn't know which end they was standing
on, and made us go right off to bed the minute
we was done supper, and wouldn't tell us what the
trouble was, and never let on a word about the new
letter, but didn't need to, because we knowed as
much about it as anybody did, and as soon as we
was half up-stairs and her back was turned we slid
for the cellar cubboard and loaded up a good lunch
and took it up to our room and went to bed, and
got up about half past eleven, and Tom put on
Aunt Sally's dress that he stole and was going to
start with the lunch, but says:
</p><p>
"Where's the butter?"
</p><p>
"I laid out a hunk of it," I says, "on a piece of a
corn-pone."
</p><p>
"Well, you <i>left</i> it laid out, then&mdash;it ain't here."
</p><p>
"We can get along without it," I says.
</p><p>
"We can get along <i>with</i> it, too," he says; "just
you slide down cellar and fetch it. And then mosey
right down the lightning-rod and come along. I'll
go and stuff the straw into Jim's clothes to represent
his mother in disguise, and be ready to <i>ba</i> like a
sheep and shove soon as you get there."
</p><p>
So out he went, and down cellar went I. The
hunk of butter, big as a person's fist, was where I
had left it, so I took up the slab of corn-pone with
it on, and blowed out my light, and started up-stairs
very stealthy, and got up to the main floor all right,
but here comes Aunt Sally with a candle, and I
clapped the truck in my hat, and clapped my hat
on my head, and the next second she see me; and
she says:
</p><p>
"You been down cellar?"
</p><p>
"Yes'm."
</p><p>
"What you been doing down there?"
</p><p>
"Noth'n."
</p><p>
"<i>Noth'n!</i>"
</p><p>
"No'm."
</p><p>
"Well, then, what possessed you to go down there
this time of night?"
</p><p>
"I don't know 'm."
</p><p>
"You don't <i>know?</i> Don't answer me that way.
Tom, I want to know what you been <i>doing</i> down
there."
</p><p>
"I hain't been doing a single thing, Aunt Sally,
I hope to gracious if I have."
</p><p>
I reckoned she'd let me go now, and as a generl
thing she would; but I s'pose there was so many
strange things going on she was just in a sweat about
every little thing that warn't yard-stick straight; so
she says, very decided:
</p><p>
"You just march into that setting-room and stay
there till I come. You been up to something you
no business to, and I lay I'll find out what it is
before <i>I'm</i> done with you."
</p><p>
So she went away as I opened the door and walked
into the setting-room. My, but there was a crowd
there! Fifteen farmers, and every one of them had
a gun. I was most powerful sick, and slunk to a
chair and set down. They was setting around, some
of them talking a little, in a low voice, and all of
them fidgety and uneasy, but trying to look like they
warn't; but I knowed they was, because they was
always taking off their hats, and putting them on,
and scratching their heads, and changing their seats,
and fumbling with their buttons. I warn't easy
myself, but I didn't take my hat off, all the same.
</p><p>
I did wish Aunt Sally would come, and get done
with me, and lick me, if she wanted to, and let me
get away and tell Tom how we'd overdone this thing,
and what a thundering hornet's nest we'd got ourselves
into, so we could stop fooling around straight
off, and clear out with Jim before these rips got out
of patience and come for us.
</p><p>
At last she come and begun to ask me questions,
but I <i>couldn't</i> answer them straight, I didn't know
which end of me was up; because these men was in
such a fidget now that some was wanting to start
right <i>now</i> and lay for them desperadoes, and saying
it warn't but a few minutes to midnight; and others
was trying to get them to hold on and wait for the
sheep-signal; and here was Aunty pegging away at
the questions, and me a-shaking all over and ready
to sink down in my tracks I was that scared; and the
place getting hotter and hotter, and the butter
beginning to melt and run down my neck and behind
my ears; and pretty soon, when one of them says,
"<i>I'm</i> for going and getting in the cabin <i>first</i> and
right <i>now</i>, and catching them when they come," I
most dropped; and a streak of butter come a-trickling
down my forehead, and Aunt Sally she see it, and
turns white as a sheet, and says:
</p><p>
"For the land's sake, what <i>is</i> the matter with the
child? He's got the brain-fever as shore as you're
born, and they're oozing out!"
</p><p>
And everybody runs to see, and she snatches off
my hat, and out comes the bread and what was left
of the butter, and she grabbed me, and hugged me,
and says:
</p><p>
"Oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad
and grateful I am it ain't no worse; for luck's against
us, and it never rains but it pours, and when I see
that truck I thought we'd lost you, for I knowed by
the color and all it was just like your brains would
be if&mdash;Dear, dear, whyd'nt you <i>tell</i> me that was
what you'd been down there for, <i>I</i> wouldn't 'a' cared.
Now cler out to bed, and don't lemme see no more
of you till morning!"
</p><p>
I was up-stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod
in another one, and shinning through the dark
for the lean-to. I couldn't hardly get my words out,
I was so anxious; but I told Tom as quick as I could
we must jump for it now, and not a minute to lose&mdash;the
house full of men, yonder, with guns!
</p><p>
His eyes just blazed; and he says:
</p><p>
"No!&mdash;is that so? <i>Ain't</i> it bully! Why, Huck,
 if it was to do over again, I bet I could fetch two
hundred! If we could put it off till&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Hurry! <i>hurry!</i>" I says. "Where's Jim?"
</p><p>
"Right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm
you can touch him. He's dressed, and everything's
ready. Now we'll slide out and give the sheep-signal."
</p><p>
But then we heard the tramp of men coming to
the door, and heard them begin to fumble with the
padlock, and heard a man say:
</p><p>
"I <i>told</i> you we'd be too soon; they haven't come&mdash;the
door is locked. Here, I'll lock some of you
into the cabin, and you lay for 'em in the dark
and kill 'em when they come; and the rest scatter
around a piece, and listen if you can hear 'em
coming."
</p><p>
So in they come, but couldn't see us in the dark,
and most trod on us whilst we was hustling to get
under the bed. But we got under all right, and out
through the hole, swift but soft&mdash;Jim first, me next,
and Tom last, which was according to Tom's orders.
Now we was in the lean-to, and heard trampings
close by outside. So we crept to the door, and Tom
stopped us there and put his eye to the crack, but
couldn't make out nothing, it was so dark; and
whispered and said he would listen for the steps to
get further, and when he nudged us Jim must glide
out first, and him last. So he set his ear to the crack
and listened, and listened, and listened, and the
steps a-scraping around out there all the time; and
at last he nudged us, and we slid out, and stooped
down, not breathing, and not making the least noise,
and slipped stealthy towards the fence in Injun file,
and got to it all right, and me and Jim over it; but
Tom's britches catched fast on a splinter on the top
rail, and then he hear the steps coming, so he had
to pull loose, which snapped the splinter and made
a noise; and as he dropped in our tracks and started
somebody sings out:
</p><p>
"Who's that? Answer, or I'll shoot!"
</p><p>
But we didn't answer; we just unfurled our heels
and shoved. Then there was a rush, and a <i>bang,</i>
<i>bang,</i> <i>bang!</i> and the bullets fairly whizzed around us!
We heard them sing out:
</p><p>
"Here they are! They've broke for the river!
After 'em, boys, and turn loose the dogs!"
</p><p>
So here they come, full tilt. We could hear them
because they wore boots and yelled, but we didn't
wear no boots and didn't yell. We was in the path
to the mill; and when they got pretty close onto us
we dodged into the bush and let them go by, and
then dropped in behind them. They'd had all the
dogs shut up, so they wouldn't scare off the robbers;
but by this time somebody had let them loose, and
here they come, making powwow enough for a
million; but they was our dogs; so we stopped in our
tracks till they catched up; and when they see it
warn't nobody but us, and no excitement to offer
them, they only just said howdy, and tore right
ahead towards the shouting and clattering; and then
we up-steam again, and whizzed along after them
till we was nearly to the mill, and then struck up
through the bush to where my canoe was tied, and
hopped in and pulled for dear life towards the middle
of the river, but didn't make no more noise than we
was obleeged to. Then we struck out, easy and
comfortable, for the island where my raft was; and
we could hear them yelling and barking at each
other all up and down the bank, till we was so far
away the sounds got dim and died out. And when
we stepped onto the raft I says:
</p><p>
"Now, old Jim, you're a free man <i>again</i>, and I
bet you won't ever be a slave no more."
</p><p>
"En a mighty good job it wuz, too, Huck. It 'uz
planned beautiful, en it 'uz <i>done</i> beautiful; en dey
ain't <i>nobody</i> kin git up a plan dat's mo' mixed up
en splendid den what dat one wuz."
</p><p>
We was all glad as we could be, but Tom was the
gladdest of all because he had a bullet in the calf
of his leg.
</p><p>
When me and Jim heard that we didn't feel as
brash as what we did before. It was hurting him
considerable, and bleeding; so we laid him in the
wigwam and tore up one of the duke's shirts for to
bandage him, but he says:
</p><p>
"Gimme the rags; I can do it myself. Don't stop
now; don't fool around here, and the evasion booming
along so handsome; man the sweeps, and set her
loose! Boys, we done it elegant!&mdash;'deed we did. I
wish <i>we'd</i> 'a' had the handling of Louis XVI., there
wouldn't 'a' been no 'Son of Saint Louis, ascend to
heaven!' wrote down in <i>his</i> biography; no, sir, we'd
'a' whooped him over the <i>border</i>&mdash;that's what we'd
'a' done with <i>him</i>&mdash;and done it just as slick as
nothing at all, too. Man the sweeps&mdash;man the
sweeps!"
</p><p>
</p><p>
But me and Jim was consulting&mdash;and thinking.
And after we'd thought a minute, I says:
</p><p>
"Say it, Jim."
</p><p>
So he says:
</p><p>
"Well, den, dis is de way it look to me, Huck.
Ef it wuz <i>him</i> dat 'uz bein' sot free, en one er de
boys wuz to git shot, would he say, 'Go on en save
me, nemmine 'bout a doctor f'r to save dis one'?
Is dat like Mars Tom Sawyer? Would he say dat?
You <i>bet</i> he wouldn't! <i>Well</i>, den, is <i>Jim</i> gywne to
say it? No, sah&mdash;I doan' budge a step out'n dis
place 'dout a <i>doctor</i>; not if it's forty year!"
</p><p>
I knowed he was white inside, and I reckoned he'd
say what he did say&mdash;so it was all right now, and
I told Tom I was a-going for a doctor. He raised
considerable row about it, but me and Jim stuck to
it and wouldn't budge; so he was for crawling out
and setting the raft loose himself; but we wouldn't
let him. Then he give us a piece of his mind, but
it didn't do no good.
</p><p>
So when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he
says:
</p><p>
"Well, then, if you're bound to go, I'll tell you
the way to do when you get to the village. Shut the
door and blindfold the doctor tight and fast, and
make him swear to be silent as the grave, and put a
purse full of gold in his hand, and then take and
lead him all around the back alleys and everywheres
in the dark, and then fetch him here in the canoe,
in a roundabout way amongst the islands, and
search him and take his chalk away from him, and
don't give it back to him till you get him back to the
village, or else he will chalk this raft so he can find
it again. It's the way they all do."
</p><p>
So I said I would, and left, and Jim was to hide
in the woods when he see the doctor coming till he
was gone again.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XLI"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XLI</h2>
<br>
<p>
The doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking
old man when I got him up. I told him
me and my brother was over on Spanish Island hunting
yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece of
a raft we found, and about midnight he must 'a'
kicked his gun in his dreams, for it went off and shot
him in the leg, and we wanted him to go over there
and fix it and not say nothing about it, nor let anybody
know, because we wanted to come home this
evening and surprise the folks.
</p><p>
"Who is your folks?" he says.
</p><p>
"The Phelpses, down yonder."
</p><p>
"Oh," he says. And after a minute, he says:
</p><p>
"How'd you say he got shot?"
</p><p>
"He had a dream," I says, "and it shot him."
</p><p>
"Singular dream," he says.
</p><p>
So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags,
and we started. But when he see the canoe he
didn't like the look of her&mdash;said she was big enough
for one, but didn't look pretty safe for two. I says:
</p><p>
"Oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the
three of us easy enough."
</p><p>
"What three?"
</p><p>
"Why, me and Sid, and&mdash;and&mdash;and <i>the guns</i>;
that's what I mean."
</p><p>
"Oh," he says.
</p><p>
But he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her,
and shook his head, and said he reckoned he'd look
around for a bigger one. But they was all locked
and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me
to wait till he come back, or I could hunt around
further, or maybe I better go down home and get
them ready for the surprise if I wanted to. But I
said I didn't; so I told him just how to find the raft,
and then he started.
</p><p>
I struck an idea pretty soon. I says to myself,
spos'n he can't fix that leg just in three shakes of a
sheep's tail, as the saying is? spos'n it takes him three
or four days? What are we going to do?&mdash;lay
around there till he lets the cat out of the bag?
No, sir; I know what <i>I'll</i> do. I'll wait, and when he
comes back if he says he's got to go any more I'll
get down there, too, if I swim; and we'll take and
tie him, and keep him, and shove out down the river;
and when Tom's done with him we'll give him what
it's worth, or all we got, and then let him get ashore.
</p><p>
So then I crept into a lumber-pile to get some
sleep; and next time I waked up the sun was away
up over my head! I shot out and went for the
doctor's house, but they told me he'd gone away in
the night some time or other, and warn't back yet.
Well, thinks I, that looks powerful bad for Tom, and
I'll dig out for the island right off. So away I
shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly rammed
my head into Uncle Silas's stomach! He says:
</p><p>
"Why, <i>Tom!</i> Where you been all this time, you
rascal?"
</p><p>
"<i>I</i> hain't been nowheres," I says, "only just
hunting for the runaway nigger&mdash;me and Sid."
</p><p>
"Why, where ever did you go?" he says. "Your
aunt's been mighty uneasy."
</p><p>
"She needn't," I says, "because we was all
right. We followed the men and the dogs, but they
outrun us, and we lost them; but we thought we
heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and
took out after them and crossed over, but couldn't
find nothing of them; so we cruised along up-shore
till we got kind of tired and beat out; and tied up
the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up
till about an hour ago; then we paddled over here
to hear the news, and Sid's at the post-office to see
what he can hear, and I'm a-branching out to get
something to eat for us, and then we're going home."
</p><p>
So then we went to the post-office to get "Sid";
but just as I suspicioned, he warn't there; so the old
man he got a letter out of the office, and we waited
awhile longer, but Sid didn't come; so the old man
said, come along, let Sid foot it home, or canoe it,
when he got done fooling around&mdash;but we would
ride. I couldn't get him to let me stay and wait
for Sid; and he said there warn't no use in it, and I
must come along, and let Aunt Sally see we was all
right.
</p><p>
When we got home Aunt Sally was that glad to
see me she laughed and cried both, and hugged me,
and give me one of them lickings of hern that don't
amount to shucks, and said she'd serve Sid the same
when he come.
</p><p>
And the place was plum full of farmers and farmers'
wives, to dinner; and such another clack a body
never heard. Old Mrs. Hotchkiss was the worst;
her tongue was a-going all the time. She says:
</p><p>
"Well, Sister Phelps, I've ransacked that-air
cabin over, an' I b'lieve the nigger was crazy. I
says to Sister Damrell&mdash;didn't I, Sister Damrell?&mdash;s'I,
he's crazy, s'I&mdash;them's the very words I said.
You all hearn me: he's crazy, s'I; everything shows
it, s'I. Look at that-air grindstone, s'I; want to tell
<i>me't</i> any cretur 't's in his right mind 's a goin' to
scrabble all them crazy things onto a grindstone? s'I.
Here sich 'n' sich a person busted his heart; 'n' here
so 'n' so pegged along for thirty-seven year, 'n' all
that&mdash;natcherl son o' Louis somebody, 'n' sich everlast'n
rubbage. He's plumb crazy, s'I; it's what I
says in the fust place, it's what I says in the middle,
'n' it's what I says last 'n' all the time&mdash;the nigger's
crazy&mdash;crazy 's Nebokoodneezer, s'I."
</p><p>
"An' look at that-air ladder made out'n rags,
Sister Hotchkiss," says old Mrs. Damrell; "what in
the name o' goodness <i>could</i> he ever want of&mdash;"
</p><p>
"The very words I was a-sayin' no longer ago th'n
this minute to Sister Utterback, 'n' she'll tell you
so herself. Sh-she, look at that-air rag ladder,
sh-she; 'n' s'I, yes, look at it, s'I&mdash;what <i>could</i> he
'a' wanted of it, s'I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss,
sh-she&mdash;"
</p><p>
"But how in the nation'd they ever <i>git</i> that
grindstone <i>in</i> there, <i>anyway?</i> 'n' who dug that-air
<i>hole?</i> 'n' who&mdash;"
</p><p>
"My very <i>words</i>, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin'&mdash;pass
that-air sasser o' m'lasses, won't ye?&mdash;I was
a-sayin' to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute, how <i>did</i>
they git that grindstone in there? s'I. Without <i>help,</i>
 mind you&mdash;'thout <i>help! Thar's</i> where 'tis. Don't
tell <i>me,</i> s'I; there <i>wuz</i> help, s'I; 'n' ther' wuz a <i>plenty</i>
help, too, s'I; ther's ben a <i>dozen</i> a-helpin' that nigger,
'n' I lay I'd skin every last nigger on this place but
<i>I'd</i> find out who done it, s'I; moreover, s'I&mdash;"
</p><p>
"A <i>dozen</i> says you!&mdash;<i>forty</i> couldn't 'a' done everything
that's been done. Look at them case-knife
saws and things, how tedious they've been made;
look at that bed-leg sawed off with 'm, a week's
work for six men: look at that nigger made out'n
straw on the bed; and look at&mdash;"
</p><p>
"You may <i>well</i> say it, Brer Hightower! It's jist
as I was a-sayin' to Brer Phelps, his own self. S'e,
what do <i>you</i> think of it, Sister Hotchkiss? s'e. Think
o' what, Brer Phelps? s'I. Think o' that bed-leg
sawed off that a way? s'e? <i>Think</i> of it? s'I. I lay
it never sawed <i>itself</i> off, s'I&mdash;somebody <i>sawed</i> it, s'I;
that's my opinion, take it or leave it, it mayn't be
no 'count, s'I, but sich as 't is, it's my opinion, s'I,
'n' if anybody k'n start a better one, s'I, let him <i>do</i>
it, s'I, that's all. I says to Sister Dunlap, s'I&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Why, dog my cats, they must 'a' ben a house-full
o' niggers in there every night for four weeks to 'a'
done all that work, Sister Phelps. Look at that
shirt&mdash;every last inch of it kivered over with secret
African writ'n done with blood! Must 'a' ben a raft
uv 'm at it right along, all the time, amost. Why,
I'd give two dollars to have it read to me; 'n' as for
the niggers that wrote it, I 'low I'd take 'n' lash 'm
t'll&mdash;"
</p><p>
"People to <i>help</i> him, Brother Marples! Well, I
reckon you'd <i>think</i> so if you'd 'a' been in this house
for a while back. Why, they've stole everything
they could lay their hands on&mdash;and we a-watching
all the time, mind you. They stole that shirt right
off o' the line! and as for that sheet they made the
rag ladder out of, ther' ain't no telling how many
times they <i>didn't</i> steal that; and flour, and candles,
and candlesticks, and spoons, and the old warming-pan,
and most a thousand things that I disremember
now, and my new calico dress; and me and Silas and
my Sid and Tom on the constant watch day <i>and</i>
night, as I was a-telling you, and not a one of us
could catch hide nor hair nor sight nor sound of
them; and here at the last minute, lo and behold
you, they slides right in under our noses and fools
us, and not only fools <i>us</i> but the Injun Territory
robbers too, and actuly gets <i>away</i> with that nigger
safe and sound, and that with sixteen men and twenty-two
dogs right on their very heels at that very time!
I tell you, it just bangs anything I ever <i>heard</i> of.
Why, <i>sperits</i> couldn't 'a' done better and been no
smarter. And I reckon they must 'a' <i>been</i> sperits&mdash;because,
because, <i>you</i> know our dogs, and ther' ain't no better;
well, them dogs never even got on the <i>track</i> of 'm once!
You explain <i>that</i> to me if you can!&mdash;<i>any</i> of you!"
</p><p>
"Well, it does beat&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Laws alive, I never&mdash;"
</p><p>
"So help me, I wouldn't 'a' be&mdash;"
</p><p>
"<i>House</i>-thieves as well as&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Goodnessgracioussakes, I'd 'a' ben afeard to <i>live</i>
in sich a&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Fraid to <i>live!</i>&mdash;why, I was that scared I dasn't
hardly go to bed, or get up, or lay down, or <i>set</i>
down, Sister Ridgeway. Why, they'd steal the very&mdash;why,
 goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of
a fluster I was in by the time midnight come last
night. I hope to gracious if I warn't afraid they'd
steal some o' the family! I was just to that pass I
didn't have no reasoning faculties no more. It looks
foolish enough <i>now</i>, in the daytime; but I says to
myself, there's my two poor boys asleep, 'way upstairs
in that lonesome room, and I declare to goodness
I was that uneasy 't I crep' up there and locked
'em in! I <i>did</i>. And anybody would. Because, you
know, when you get scared that way, and it keeps
running on, and getting worse and worse all the
time, and your wits gets to addling, and you get to
doing all sorts o' wild things, and by and by you
think to yourself, spos'n I was a boy, and was away
up there, and the door ain't locked, and you&mdash;"
She stopped, looking kind of wondering, and then
she turned her head around slow, and when her
eye lit on me&mdash;I got up and took a walk.
</p><p>
Says I to myself, I can explain better how we come
to not be in that room this morning if I go out to
one side and study over it a little. So I done it.
But I dasn't go fur, or she'd 'a' sent for me. And
when it was late in the day the people all went, and
then I come in and told her the noise and shooting
waked up me and "Sid," and the door was locked,
and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the
lightning-rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and
we didn't never want to try <i>that</i> no more. And then
I went on and told her all what I told Uncle Silas
before; and then she said she'd forgive us, and maybe
it was all right enough anyway, and about what a
body might expect of boys, for all boys was a pretty
harum-scarum lot as fur as she could see; and so, as
long as no harm hadn't come of it, she judged she
better put in her time being grateful we was alive
and well and she had us still, stead of fretting over
what was past and done. So then she kissed me,
and patted me on the head, and dropped into a kind
of a brown-study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says:
</p><p>
"Why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and Sid not
come yet! What <i>has</i> become of that boy?"
</p><p>
I see my chance; so I skips up and says:
</p><p>
"I'll run right up to town and get him," I says.
</p><p>
"No you won't," she says. "You'll stay right
wher' you are; <i>one's</i> enough to be lost at a time. If
he ain't here to supper, your uncle 'll go."
</p><p>
Well, he warn't there to supper; so right after
supper uncle went.
</p><p>
He come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn't
run across Tom's track. Aunt Sally was a good <i>deal</i>
uneasy; but Uncle Silas he said there warn't no
occasion to be&mdash;boys will be boys, he said, and you'll
see this one turn up in the morning all sound and
right. So she had to be satisfied. But she said
she'd set up for him awhile anyway, and keep a light
burning so he could see it.
</p><p>
And then when I went up to bed she come up with
me and fetched her candle, and tucked me in, and
mothered me so good I felt mean, and like I couldn't
look her in the face; and she set down on the bed
and talked with me a long time, and said what a
splendid boy Sid was, and didn't seem to want to
ever stop talking about him; and kept asking me
every now and then if I reckoned he could 'a' got
lost, or hurt, or maybe drownded, and might be
laying at this minute somewheres suffering or dead,
and she not by him to help him, and so the tears
would drip down silent, and I would tell her that
Sid was all right, and would be home in the morning,
sure; and she would squeeze my hand, or maybe kiss
me, and tell me to say it again, and keep on saying
it, because it done her good, and she was in so much
trouble. And when she was going away she looked
down in my eyes so steady and gentle, and says:
</p><p>
"The door ain't going to be locked, Tom, and
there's the window and the rod; but you'll be good,
<i>won't</i> you? And you won't go? For <i>my</i> sake."
</p><p>
Laws knows I <i>wanted</i> to go bad enough to see
about Tom, and was all intending to go; but after
that I wouldn't 'a' went, not for kingdoms.
</p><p>
But she was on my mind and Tom was on my
mind, so I slept very restless. And twice I went
down the rod away in the night, and slipped around
front, and see her setting there by her candle in the
window with her eyes towards the road and the
tears in them; and I wished I could do something for
her, but I couldn't, only to swear that I wouldn't
never do nothing to grieve her any more. And the
third time I waked up at dawn, and slid down, and
she was there yet, and her candle was most out, and
her old gray head was resting on her hand, and she
was asleep.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_XLII"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER XLII</h2>
<br>
<p>
The old man was uptown again before breakfast,
but couldn't get no track of Tom; and both of
them set at the table thinking, and not saying nothing,
and looking mournful, and their coffee getting
cold, and not eating anything. And by and by the
old man says:
</p><p>
"Did I give you the letter?"
</p><p>
"What letter?"
</p><p>
"The one I got yesterday out of the post-office."
</p><p>
"No, you didn't give me no letter."
</p><p>
"Well, I must 'a' forgot it."
</p><p>
So he rummaged his pockets, and then went off
somewheres where he had laid it down, and fetched
it, and give it to her. She says:
</p><p>
"Why, it's from St. Petersburg&mdash;it's from Sis."
</p><p>
I allowed another walk would do me good; but I
couldn't stir. But before she could break it open
she dropped it and run&mdash;for she see something. And
so did I. It was Tom Sawyer on a mattress; and
that old doctor; and Jim, in <i>her</i> calico dress, with his
hands tied behind him; and a lot of people. I hid
the letter behind the first thing that come handy, and
rushed. She flung herself at Tom, crying, and says:
</p><p>
"Oh, he's dead, he's dead, I know he's dead!"
</p><p>
And Tom he turned his head a little, and muttered
something or other, which showed he warn't in his
right mind; then she flung up her hands, and says:
</p><p>
"He's alive, thank God! And that's enough!"
and she snatched a kiss of him, and flew for the
house to get the bed ready, and scattering orders
right and left at the niggers and everybody else, as
fast as her tongue could go, every jump of the way.
</p><p>
I followed the men to see what they was going
to do with Jim; and the old doctor and Uncle Silas
followed after Tom into the house. The men was
very huffy, and some of them wanted to hang Jim
for an example to all the other niggers around there,
so they wouldn't be trying to run away like Jim done,
and making such a raft of trouble, and keeping a
whole family scared most to death for days and
nights. But the others said, don't do it, it wouldn't
answer at all; he ain't our nigger, and his owner
would turn up and make us pay for him, sure. So
that cooled them down a little, because the people
that's always the most anxious for to hang a nigger
that hain't done just right is always the very ones
that ain't the most anxious to pay for him when
they've got their satisfaction out of him.
</p><p>
They cussed Jim considerble, though, and give him
a cuff or two side the head once in a while, but Jim
never said nothing, and he never let on to know me,
and they took him to the same cabin, and put his
own clothes on him, and chained him again, and not
to no bed-leg this time, but to a big staple drove into
the bottom log, and chained his hands, too, and
both legs, and said he warn't to have nothing but
bread and water to eat after this till his owner come,
or he was sold at auction because he didn't come in a
certain length of time, and filled up our hole, and
said a couple of farmers with guns must stand watch
around about the cabin every night, and a bulldog
tied to the door in the daytime; and about this time
they was through with the job and was tapering off
with a kind of generl good-by cussing, and then
the old doctor comes and takes a look, and says:
</p><p>
"Don't be no rougher on him than you're obleeged
to, because he ain't a bad nigger. When I got to
where I found the boy I see I couldn't cut the bullet
out without some help, and he warn't in no condition
for me to leave to go and get help; and he got a
little worse and a little worse, and after a long time
he went out of his head, and wouldn't let me come
a-nigh him any more, and said if I chalked his raft
he'd kill me, and no end of wild foolishness like that,
and I see I couldn't do anything at all with him; so
I says, I got to have <i>help</i> somehow; and the minute
I says it out crawls this nigger from somewheres and
says he'll help, and he done it, too, and done it very
well. Of course I judged he must be a runaway
nigger, and there I <i>was!</i> and there I had to stick
right straight along all the rest of the day and all
night. It was a fix, I tell you! I had a couple of
patients with the chills, and of course I'd of liked to
run up to town and see them, but I dasn't, because
the nigger might get away, and then I'd be to blame;
and yet never a skiff come close enough for me to
hail. So there I had to stick plumb until daylight
this morning; and I never see a nigger that was a
better nuss or faithfuler, and yet he was risking
his freedom to do it, and was all tired out, too, and
I see plain enough he'd been worked main hard
lately. I liked the nigger for that; I tell you, gentlemen,
a nigger like that is worth a thousand dollars&mdash;and
kind treatment, too. I had everything I needed,
and the boy was doing as well there as he would 'a'
done at home&mdash;better, maybe, because it was so
quiet; but there I <i>was</i>, with both of 'm on my hands,
and there I had to stick till about dawn this morning;
then some men in a skiff come by, and as good luck
would have it the nigger was setting by the pallet
with his head propped on his knees sound asleep; so
I motioned them in quiet, and they slipped up on
him and grabbed him and tied him before he knowed
what he was about, and we never had no trouble.
And the boy being in a kind of a flighty sleep, too,
we muffled the oars and hitched the raft on, and
towed her over very nice and quiet, and the nigger
never made the least row nor said a word from the
start. He ain't no bad nigger, gentlemen; that's
what I think about him."
</p><p>
Somebody says:
</p><p>
"Well, it sounds very good, doctor, I'm obleeged
to say."
</p><p>
Then the others softened up a little, too, and I was
mighty thankful to that old doctor for doing Jim that
good turn; and I was glad it was according to my
judgment of him, too; because I thought he had a
good heart in him and was a good man the first time
I see him. Then they all agreed that Jim had acted
very well, and was deserving to have some notice
took of it, and reward. So every one of them
promised, right out and hearty, that they wouldn't
cuss him no more.
</p><p>
Then they come out and locked him up. I hoped
they was going to say he could have one or two of the
chains took off, because they was rotten heavy, or
could have meat and greens with his bread and
water; but they didn't think of it, and I reckoned
it warn't best for me to mix in, but I judged I'd get
the doctor's yarn to Aunt Sally somehow or other as
soon as I'd got through the breakers that was laying
just ahead of me&mdash;explanations, I mean, of how I
forgot to mention about Sid being shot when I was
telling how him and me put in that dratted night
paddling around hunting the runaway nigger.
</p><p>
But I had plenty time. Aunt Sally she stuck to
the sick-room all day and all night, and every time
I see Uncle Silas mooning around I dodged him.
</p><p>
Next morning I heard Tom was a good deal better,
and they said Aunt Sally was gone to get a nap. So
I slips to the sick-room, and if I found him awake I
reckoned we could put up a yarn for the family that
would wash. But he was sleeping, and sleeping very
peaceful, too; and pale, not fire-faced the way he was
when he come. So I set down and laid for him to
wake. In about half an hour Aunt Sally comes gliding
in, and there I was, up a stump again! She motioned
me to be still, and set down by me, and begun
to whisper, and said we could all be joyful now, because
all the symptoms was first-rate, and he'd been
sleeping like that for ever so long, and looking better
and peacefuler all the time, and ten to one he'd
wake up in his right mind.
</p><p>
So we set there watching, and by and by he stirs a
bit, and opened his eyes very natural, and takes a
look, and says:
</p><p>
"Hello!&mdash;why, I'm at <i>home!</i> How's that?
Where's the raft?"
</p><p>
"It's all right," I says.
</p><p>
"And <i>Jim?</i>"
</p><p>
"The same," I says, but couldn't say it pretty
brash. But he never noticed, but says:
</p><p>
"Good! Splendid! <i>Now</i> we're all right and safe!
Did you tell Aunty?"
</p><p>
I was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says:
</p><p>
"About what, Sid?"
</p><p>
"Why, about the way the whole thing was done."
</p><p>
"What whole thing?"
</p><p>
"Why, <i>the</i> whole thing. There ain't but one; how
we set the runaway nigger free&mdash;me and Tom."
</p><p>
"Good land! Set the run&mdash;What <i>is</i> the child
talking about! Dear, dear, out of his head again!"
</p><p>
"<i>No</i>, I ain't out of my HEAD; I know all what I'm
talking about. We <i>did</i> set him free&mdash;me and Tom.
We laid out to do it, and we <i>done</i> it. And we done
it elegant, too." He'd got a start, and she never
checked him up, just set and stared and stared, and
let him clip along, and I see it warn't no use for <i>me</i> to
put in. "Why, Aunty, it cost us a power of work&mdash;weeks
of it&mdash;hours and hours, every night, whilst you
was all asleep. And we had to steal candles, and the
sheet, and the shirt, and your dress, and spoons, and
tin plates, and case-knives, and the warming-pan, and
the grindstone, and flour, and just no end of things,
and you can't think what work it was to make the
saws, and pens, and inscriptions, and one thing or
another, and you can't think half the fun it was.
And we had to make up the pictures of coffins and
things, and nonnamous letters from the robbers,
and get up and down the lightning-rod, and dig the
hole into the cabin, and make the rope ladder and
send it in cooked up in a pie, and send in spoons and
things to work with in your apron pocket&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Mercy sakes!"
</p><p>
"&mdash;and load up the cabin with rats and snake's and
so on, for company for Jim; and then you kept Tom
here so long with the butter in his hat that you come
near spiling the whole business, because the men come
before we was out of the cabin, and we had to rush,
and they heard us and let drive at us, and I got my
share, and we dodged out of the path and let them go
by, and when the dogs come they warn't interested in
us, but went for the most noise, and we got our canoe,
and made for the raft, and was all safe, and Jim was
a free man, and we done it all by ourselves, and
<i>wasn't</i> it bully. Aunty!"
</p><p>
"Well, I never heard the likes of it in all my born
days! So it was <i>you</i>, you little rapscallions, that's
been making all this trouble, and turned everybody's
wits clean inside out and scared us all most to death.
I've as good a notion as ever I had in my life to take
it out o' you this very minute. To think, here I've
been, night after night, a&mdash;<i>you</i> just get well once, you
young scamp, and I lay I'll tan the Old Harry out o'
both o' ye!"
</p><p>
But Tom, he <i>was</i> so proud and joyful, he just
<i>couldn't</i> hold in, and his tongue just <i>went</i> it&mdash;she
a-chipping in, and spitting fire all along, and both of
them going it at once, like a cat convention; and she
says:
</p><p>
"<i>Well</i>, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it
<i>now</i>, for mind I tell you if I catch you meddling with
him again&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Meddling with <i>who</i> Tom says, dropping his
smile and looking surprised.
</p><p>
"With <i>who?</i> Why, the runaway nigger, of course.
Who'd you reckon?"
</p><p>
Tom looks at me very grave, and says:
</p><p>
"Tom, didn't you just tell me he was all right?
Hasn't he got away?"
</p><p>
"<i>Him?</i>" says Aunt Sally; "the runaway nigger?
'Deed he hasn't. They've got him back, safe and
sound, and he's in that cabin again, on bread and
water, and loaded down with chains, till he's claimed
or sold!"
</p><p>
Tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and
his nostrils opening and shutting like gills, and sings
out to me:
</p><p>
"They hain't no <i>right</i> to shut him up! <i>Shove!</i>&mdash;and
don't you lose a minute. Turn him loose! he
ain't no slave; he's as free as any cretur that walks
this earth!"
</p><p>
"What <i>does</i> the child mean?"
</p><p>
"I mean every word I <i>say</i>, Aunt Sally, and if somebody
don't go, <i>I'll</i> go. I've knowed him all his life,
and so has Tom, there. Old Miss Watson died two
months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going
to sell him down the river, and <i>said</i> so; and she set
him free in her will."
</p><p>
"Then what on earth did <i>you</i> want to set him free
for, seeing he was already free?"
</p><p>
"Well, that <i>is</i> a question, I must say; and <i>just</i> like
women! Why, I wanted the <i>adventure</i> of it; and
I'd 'a' waded neck-deep in blood to&mdash;goodness alive,
<i>Aunt Polly!"</i>
</p><p>
If she warn't standing right there, just inside the
door, looking as sweet and contented as an angel half
full of pie, I wish I may never!
</p><p>
Aunt Sally jumped for her, and most hugged the
head off of her, and cried over her, and I found a
good enough place for me under the bed, for it was
getting pretty sultry for <i>us</i>, seemed to me. And I
peeped out, and in a little while Tom's Aunt Polly
shook herself loose and stood there looking across at
Tom over her spectacles&mdash;kind of grinding him into
the earth, you know. And then she says:
</p><p>
"Yes, you <i>better</i> turn y'r head away&mdash;I would if I
was you, Tom."
</p><p>
"Oh, deary me!" says Aunt Sally; "<i>is</i> he changed
so? Why, that ain't <i>Tom</i>, it's Sid; Tom's&mdash;Tom's&mdash;why,
where is Tom? He was here a minute ago."
</p><p>
"You mean where's Huck <i>Finn</i>&mdash;that's what you
mean! I reckon I hain't raised such a scamp as my
Tom all these years not to know him when I <i>see</i> him.
That <i>would</i> be a pretty howdy-do. Come out from
under that bed, Huck Finn."
</p><p>
So I done it. But not feeling brash.
</p><p>
Aunt Sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking
persons I ever see&mdash;except one, and that was Uncle
Silas, when he come in and they told it all to him. It
kind of made him drunk, as you may say, and he
didn't know nothing at all the rest of the day, and
preached a prayer-meeting sermon that night that
gave him a rattling ruputation, because the oldest
man in the world couldn't 'a' understood it. So Tom's
Aunt Polly, she told all about who I was, and what;
and I had to up and tell how I was in such a tight
place that when Mrs. Phelps took me for Tom Sawyer&mdash;she
chipped in and says, "Oh, go on and call me
Aunt Sally, I'm used to it now, and 'taint no need
to change"&mdash;that when Aunt Sally took me for Tom
Sawyer I had to stand it&mdash;there warn't no other way,
and I knowed he wouldn't mind, because it would
be nuts for him, being a mystery, and he'd make an
adventure out of it, and be perfectly satisfied. And
so it turned out, and he let on to be Sid, and made
things as soft as he could for me.
</p><p>
And his Aunt Polly she said Tom was right about
old Miss Watson setting Jim free in her will; and so,
sure enough, Tom Sawyer had gone and took all that
trouble and bother to set a free nigger free! and I
couldn't ever understand before, until that minute
and that talk, how he <i>could</i> help a body set a nigger
free with his bringing-up.
</p><p>
Well, Aunt Polly she said that when Aunt Sally
wrote to her that Tom and <i>Sid</i> had come all right
and safe, she says to herself:
</p><p>
"Look at that, now! I might have expected it,
letting him go off that way without anybody to
watch him. So now I got to go and trapse all the
way down the river, eleven hundred mile, and find
out what that creetur's up to <i>this</i> time, as long as I
couldn't seem to get any answer out of you about it."
</p><p>
"Why, I never heard nothing from you," says
Aunt Sally.
</p><p>
"Well, I wonder! Why, I wrote you twice to ask
you what you could mean by Sid being here."
</p><p>
"Well, I never got 'em. Sis."
</p><p>
Aunt Polly she turns around slow and severe, and
says:
</p><p>
"You, Tom!"
</p><p>
"Well&mdash;<i>what?</i>" he says, kind of pettish.
</p><p>
"Don't you what <i>me</i>, you impudent thing&mdash;hand
out them letters."
</p><p>
"What letters?"
</p><p>
"<i>Them</i> letters. I be bound, if I have to take
a-holt of you I'll&mdash;"
</p><p>
"They're in the trunk. There, now. And they're
just the same as they was when I got them out of
the office. I hain't looked into them, I hain't
touched them. But I knowed they'd make trouble,
and I thought if you warn't in no hurry, I'd&mdash;"
</p><p>
"Well, you <i>do</i> need skinning, there ain't no mistake
about it. And I wrote another one to tell you
I was coming; and I s'pose he&mdash;"
</p><p>
"No, it come yesterday; I hain't read it yet, but
<i>it's</i> all right, I've got that one."
</p><p>
I wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn't,
but I reckoned maybe it was just as safe to not to.
So I never said nothing.
</p>
<br><br><br>
<a name="a_CHL"></a>
<h2 align="center">CHAPTER THE LAST</h2>
<br>
<p>
The first time I catched Tom private I asked him
what was his idea, time of the evasion?&mdash;what
it was he'd planned to do if the evasion worked all
right and he managed to set a nigger free that was
already free before? And he said, what he had
planned in his head from the start, if we got Jim out
all safe, was for us to run him down the river on the
raft, and have adventures plumb to the mouth of
the river, and then tell him about his being free, and
take him back up home on a steamboat, in style, and
pay him for his lost time, and write word ahead and
get out all the niggers around, and have them waltz
him into town with a torchlight procession and a
brass-band, and then he would be a hero, and so
would we. But I reckoned it was about as well the
way it was.
</p><p>
We had Jim out of the chains in no time, and
when Aunt Polly and Uncle Silas and Aunt Sally
found out how good he helped the doctor nurse Tom,
they made a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him up
prime, and give him all he wanted to eat, and a good
time, and nothing to do. And we had him up to the
sick-room, and had a high talk; and Tom give Jim
forty dollars for being prisoner for us so patient, and
doing it up so good, and Jim was pleased most to
death and busted out, and says:
</p><p>
"<i>Dah</i>, now, Huck, what I tell you?&mdash;what I tell
you up dah on Jackson Islan'? I tole you I got a
hairy breas', en what's de sign un it; en I <i>tole</i> you
I ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich <i>ag'in;</i> en
it's come true; en heah she <i>is! Dah</i>, now! doan'
talk to <i>me</i>&mdash;signs is <i>signs</i>, mine I tell you; en I
knowed jis' 's well 'at I 'uz gwineter be rich ag'in as
I's a-stannin' heah dis minute!"
</p><p>
And then Tom he talked along and talked along,
and says, le's all three slide out of here one of these
nights and get an outfit, and go for howling adventures
amongst the Injuns, over in the territory, for
a couple of weeks or two; and I says, all right, that
suits me, but I ain't got no money for to buy the
outfit, and I reckon I couldn't get none from home,
because it's likely pap's been back before now, and
got it all away from Judge Thatcher and drunk
it up.
</p><p>
"No, he hain't," Tom says; "it's all there yet&mdash;six
thousand dollars and more; and your pap hain't
ever been back since. Hadn't when I come away,
anyhow."
</p><p>
Jim says, kind of solemn:
</p><p>
"He ain't a-comin' back no mo', Huck."
</p><p>
I says:
</p><p>
"Why, Jim?"
</p><p>
"Nemmine why, Huck&mdash;but he ain't comin' back
no mo'."
</p><p>
But I kept at him; so at last he says:
</p><p>
"Doan' you 'member de house dat was float'n
down de river, en dey wuz a man in dah, kivered
up, en I went in en unkivered him and didn' let you
come in? Well, den, you kin git yo' money when
you wants it, kase dat wuz him."
</p><p>
Tom's most well now, and got his bullet around
his neck on a watch-guard for a watch, and is always
seeing what time it is, and so there ain't nothing
more to write about, and I am rotten glad of it,
because if I'd 'a' knowed what a trouble it was to
make a book I wouldn't 'a' tackled it, and ain't
a-going to no more. But I reckon I got to light out
for the territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt
Sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and
I can't stand it. I been there before.
</p><p>
<br><br>
<br><br>
<p class="pg1"><small>THE END</small></p>
<br><br>
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