Huckleberry Finn

by Mark Twain



 


 


NOTICE



PERSONS attempting to find a motive in this narra-


tive 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.



                  BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR,


                     Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance.



 


EXPLANATORY



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 hap-


hazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly,


and with the trustworthy guidance and support of


personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.



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.



                                      THE AUTHOR.



 


 


HUCKLEBERRY FINN



Scene: The Mississippi Valley


Time: Forty to fifty years ago



 


CHAPTER I.



YOU don't know about me without you have read a


book by the name of The Adventures of Tom


Sawyer; 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 -- Tom's Aunt Polly, she is -- 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.



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 -- 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 -- 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.



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, -- 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.



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.



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 any-


body, 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.



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 -- set up straight;"


and pretty soon she would say, "Don't gap and stretch


like that, Huckleberry -- why don't you try to be-


have?" 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.



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.



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 some-


body that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog cry-


ing 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 down-hearted 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.



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 -- boom -- boom -- twelve licks; and


all still again -- stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard


a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees --


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.



 


CHAPTER II.



WE went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees


back towards 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:



"Who dah?"



He listened some more; then he come 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 shoul-


ders. 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 -- if you are anywheres


where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch


all over in upwards of a thousand places. Pretty soon


Jim says:



"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 agin."



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 under-


neath. 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 --


and then I was pretty soon comfortable again.



Tom he made a sign to me -- kind of a little noise


with his mouth -- 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 dis-


turbance, 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.



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. Afterwards Jim said the witches be-


witched 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 some-


thing 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.



Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hill-


top 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 Jo 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.



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:



"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 of the list with blood and never men-


tioned again by the gang, but have a curse put on it


and be forgot forever.



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.



Some thought it would be good to kill the FAMILIES


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:



"Here's Huck Finn, he hain't got no family; what


you going to do 'bout him?"



"Well, hain't he got a father?" says Tom Sawyer.



"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."



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 -- 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


-- they could kill her. Everybody said:



"Oh, she'll do. That's all right. Huck can come


in."



Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get


blood to sign with, and I made my mark on the paper.



"Now," says Ben Rogers, "what's the line of busi-


ness of this Gang?"



"Nothing only robbery and murder," Tom said.



"But who are we going to rob? -- houses, or cattle,


or --"



"Stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't rob-


bery; it's burglary," says Tom Sawyer. "We ain't


burglars. That ain't no sort of style. We are high-


waymen. We stop stages and carriages on the road,


with masks on, and kill the people and take their


watches and money."



"Must we always kill the people?"



"Oh, certainly. It's best. Some authorities think


different, but mostly it's considered best to kill them --


except some that you bring to the cave here, and keep


them till they're ransomed."



"Ransomed? What's that?"



"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."



"But how can we do it if we don't know what it is?"



"Why, blame it all, we've GOT 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?"



"Oh, that's all very fine to SAY, Tom Sawyer, but


how in the nation are these fellows going to be ran-


somed if we don't know how to do it to them? -- that's


the thing I want to get at. Now, what do you reckon


it is?"



"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. "



"Now, that's something LIKE. 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 -- eating up everything, and always


trying to get loose."



"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?"



"A guard! Well, that IS 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?"



"Because it ain't in the books so -- that's why.


Now, Ben Rogers, do you want to do things regular,


or don't you? -- 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 YOU can learn


'em anything? Not by a good deal. No, sir, we'll


just go on and ransom them in the regular way."



"All right. I don't mind; but I say it's a fool


way, anyhow. Say, do we kill the women, too?"



"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."



"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 rob-


bers. But go ahead, I ain't got nothing to say."



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.



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.



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 to-


gether and fix a day as soon as they could, and then


we elected Tom Sawyer first captain and Jo Harper


second captain of the Gang, and so started home.



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.



 


CHAPTER III.



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.



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 snuffbox that was stole?


Why can't Miss Watson fat up? No, says I to my


self, 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 -- 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 -- except for the other peo-


ple; 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 Wat-


son'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.



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, be-


cause 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.



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 pre-


tended. 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 Jo 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.



"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."



"Well," I says, "s'pose we got some genies to


help US -- can't we lick the other crowd then?"



"How you going to get them?"



"I don't know. How do THEY get them?"



"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 superinten-


dent over the head with it -- or any other man."



"Who makes them tear around so?"



"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 -- 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."



"Well," says I, "I think they are a pack of flat-


heads for not keeping the palace themselves 'stead of


fooling them away like that. And what's more -- 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 rub-


bing of an old tin lamp."



"How you talk, Huck Finn. Why, you'd HAVE to


come when he rubbed it, whether you wanted to or


not."



"What! and I as high as a tree and as big as a


church? All right, then; I WOULD come; but I lay


I'd make that man climb the highest tree there was in


the country."



"Shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, Huck Finn.


You don't seem to know anything, somehow -- perfect


saphead."



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.



 


CHAPTER IV.



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, any-


way.



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.



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.



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 a while, 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.



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:



"Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did


you come for your interest?"



"No, sir," I says; "is there some for me?"



"Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night -- 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."



"No, sir," I says, "I don't want to spend it. I


don't want it at all -- nor the six thousand, nuther.


I want you to take it; I want to give it to you -- the


six thousand and all."



He looked surprised. He couldn't seem to make


it out. He says:



"Why, what can you mean, my boy?"



I says, "Don't you ask me no questions about it,


please. You'll take it -- won't you?"



He says:



"Well, I'm puzzled. Is something the matter?"



"Please take it," says I, "and don't ask me noth-


ing -- then I won't have to tell no lies."



He studied a while, and then he says:



"Oho-o! I think I see. You want to SELL all your


property to me -- not give it. That's the correct


idea."



Then he wrote something on a paper and read it


over, and says:



"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."



So I signed it, and left.



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.



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:



"Yo' ole father doan' know yit what he's a-gwyne


to do. Sometimes he spec he'll go 'way, en den agin


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 con-


sidable joy. Sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en


sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you's


gwyne to git well agin. 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."



When I lit my candle and went up to my room that


night there sat pap -- his own self!



 


CHAPTER V.



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


-- 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.



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 -- a tree-toad white, a


fish-belly white. As for his clothes -- 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 -- an old black slouch


with the top caved in, like a lid.



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:



"Starchy clothes -- very. You think you're a good


deal of a big-bug, DON'T you?"



"Maybe I am, maybe I ain't," I says.



"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 -- can read


and write. You think you're better'n your father,


now, don't you, because he can't? I'LL take it out of


you. Who told you you might meddle with such


hifalut'n foolishness, hey? -- who told you you could?"



"The widow. She told me."



"The widow, hey? -- and who told the widow she


could put in her shovel about a thing that ain't none of


her business?"



"Nobody never told her."



"Well, I'll learn her how to meddle. And looky


here -- 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 HE 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 THEY died. I can't; and here you're a-swelling


yourself up like this. I ain't the man to stand it --


you hear? Say, lemme hear you read."



I took up a book and begun something about Gen-


eral 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:



"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.



He took up a little blue and yaller picture of some


cows and a boy, and says:



"What's this?"



"It's something they give me for learning my


lessons good."



He tore it up, and says:



"I'll give you something better -- I'll give you a


cowhide.



He set there a-mumbling and a-growling a minute,


and then he says:



"AIN'T you a sweet-scented dandy, though? A


bed; and bedclothes; and a look'n'-glass; and a piece


of carpet on the floor -- 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 -- they say you're rich. Hey? -- how's that?"



"They lie -- that's how."



"Looky here -- mind how you talk to me; I'm a-


standing about all I can stand now -- 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 -- I want


it."



"I hain't got no money."



"It's a lie. Judge Thatcher's got it. You git it.


I want it."



"I hain't got no money, I tell you. You ask Judge


Thatcher; he'll tell you the same."



"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."



"I hain't got only a dollar, and I want that to --"



"It don't make no difference what you want it for


-- you just shell it out."



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.



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.



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.



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 HE was


satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make


it warm for HIM.



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:



"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 -- don't forget I said


them. It's a clean hand now; shake it -- don't be


afeard."



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 -- 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 beauti-


ful 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 towards 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.



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.



 


CHAPTER VI.



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 -- 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 -- this kind of thing was right in his line.



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,


WASN'T 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.



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 -- all but the cowhide part.



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 objec-


tions. It was pretty good times up in the woods


there, take it all around.



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 drowned,


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 -- big enough to


let me through. Well, it was a good long job, but I


was getting towards 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.



Pap warn't in a good humor -- 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 every-


thing 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.



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.



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.



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 -- he was just all mud. Whenever his liquor


begun to work he most always went for the govment.


his time he says:



"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 -- 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 HIM and give him a rest, the law


up and goes for him. And they call THAT 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


TOLD '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 agin. Them's the very words. I says


look at my hat -- if you call it a hat -- 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 -- such a hat for me to wear


-- one of the wealthiest men in this town if I could git


my rights.



"Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful.


Why, looky here. There was a free nigger there from


Ohio -- 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 -- the awful-


est 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 VOTE 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 agin. Them's the very words I said; they


all heard me; and the country may rot for all me --


I'll never vote agin as long as I live. And to see the


cool way of that nigger -- 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? -- 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 --


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 --"



Pap was agoing 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 -- mostly hove at the nigger and the gov-


ment, though he give the tub some, too, all along,


here and there. He hopped around the cabin con-


siderable, first on one leg and then on the other, hold-


ing 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 after-


wards. 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.



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.



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 -- 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 a while, 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 terri-


ble 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:



"Tramp -- tramp -- tramp; that's the dead; tramp


-- tramp -- tramp; they're coming after me; but I


won't go. Oh, they're here! don't touch me -- don't!


hands off -- they're cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil


alone!"



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.



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 SUCH 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.



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,


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.



 


CHAPTER VII.



RGIT up! What you 'bout?"



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 sourQand sick, too. He says:



"What you doin' with this gun?"



I judged he didn't know nothing about what he had


been doing, so I says:



"Somebody tried to get in, so I was laying for


him."



"Why didn't you roust me out?"



"Well, I tried to, but I couldn't; I couldn't budge


you."



"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."



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 float-


ing down, and pieces of log rafts -- sometimes a dozen


logs together; so all you have to do is to catch them


and sell them to the wood-yards and the sawmill.



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 lay-


ing 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 -- 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.



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.



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.



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 trust-


ing 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:



"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?"



Then he dropped down and went to sleep again; but


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.



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 -- 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.



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; I


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 -- everything


that was worth a cent. I cleaned out the place. I


wanted an axe, 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.



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.



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 fel-


low and took him into camp.



I took the axe 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 axe, and laid him down


on the ground to bleed; I say ground because it was


ground -- hard packed, and no boards. Well, next I


took an old sack and put a lot of big rocks in it -- all I


could drag -- 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.



Well, last I pulled out some of my hair, and blooded


the axe good, and stuck it on the back side, and slung


the axe 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 some-


thing 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 -- 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 -- 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.



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 sack-


ful 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.



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. Every-


thing was dead quiet, and it looked late, and SMELT


late. You know what I mean -- I don't know the


words to put it in.



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 -- 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.


Think's 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 WAS pap, sure


enough -- and sober, too, by the way he laid his oars.



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 towards 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 land-


ing. I heard what they said, too -- every word of it.


One man said it was getting towards the long days and


the short nights now. T'other one said THIS warn't


one of the short ones, he reckoned -- 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 -- 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.



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 -- it was all under water now.



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.



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 up


stream, 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 stab-


board!" I heard that just as plain as if the man was


by my side.



There was a little gray in the sky now; so I stepped


into the woods, and laid down for a nap before break-


fast.



 


CHAPTER VIII.



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.



I was powerful lazy and comfortable -- 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 -- 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.



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 -- 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 -- 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 quick-


silver, and set my teeth in. It was "baker's bread"


-- what the quality eat; none of your low-down


corn-pone.



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 -- 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.



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.



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 Jo 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:



"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."



"I didn't hope so. They all crowded up and leaned


over the rails, nearly in my face, and kept still, watch-


ing 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 a while. They turned around the foot


of the island and started up the channel on the Mis-


souri 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.



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.



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.



And so for three days and nights. No difference --


just the same thing. But the next day I went explor-


ing 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.



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.



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 an-


other 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.



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.



I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I


didn't see nothing, I didn't hear nothing -- I only


THOUGHT 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.



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 -- 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 PLUNKETY-


PLUNK, PLUNKETY-PLUNK, 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:



"We better camp here if we can find a good place;


the horses is about beat out. Let's look around."



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.



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.



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 out-


side 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:



"Hello, Jim!" and skipped out.



He bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he


drops down on his knees, and puts his hands together


and says:



"Doan' hurt me -- 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 agin,


whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to Ole Jim, 'at


'uz awluz yo' fren'."



Well, I warn't long making him understand I warn't


dead. I was ever so glad to see Jim. I warn't lone-


some now. I told him I warn't afraid of HIM telling


the people where I was. I talked along, but he only


set there and looked at me; never said nothing. Then


I says:



"It's good daylight. Le's get breakfast. Make up


your camp fire good."



"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."



"Strawberries and such truck," I says. "Is that


what you live on?"



"I couldn' git nuffn else," he says.



"Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?"



"I come heah de night arter you's killed."



"What, all that time?"



"Yes -- indeedy."



"And ain't you had nothing but that kind of rub-


bage to eat?"



"No, sah -- nuffn else."



"Well, you must be most starved, ain't you?"



"I reck'n I could eat a hoss. I think I could.


How long you ben on de islan'?"



"Since the night I got killed."



"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."



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.



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.


By and by Jim says:



"But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat 'uz killed


in dat shanty ef it warn't you?"



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:



"How do you come to be here, Jim, and how'd you


get here?"



He looked pretty uneasy, and didn't say nothing for


a minute. Then he says:



"Maybe I better not tell."



"Why, Jim?"



"Well, dey's reasons. But you wouldn' tell on me


ef I uz to tell you, would you, Huck?"



"Blamed if I would, Jim."



"Well, I b'lieve you, Huck. I -- I RUN OFF."



"Jim!"



"But mind, you said you wouldn' tell -- you know


you said you wouldn' tell, Huck."



"Well, I did. I said I wouldn't, and I'll stick to it.


Honest INJUN, I will. People would call me a low-


down Abolitionist and despise me for keeping mum --


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."



"Well, you see, it 'uz dis way. Ole missus -- dat's


Miss Watson -- 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' do it, but I never waited to hear de res'.


I lit out mighty quick, I tell you.



"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 tumble-down


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.



"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.



"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 agwyne 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' MAKE no track.



"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.



"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 --


bank too bluff. I 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan'


b'fo' I found' 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."



"And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all


this time? Why didn't you get mud-turkles?"



"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."



"Well, that's so. You've had to keep in the woods


all the time, of course. Did you hear 'em shooting


the cannon?"



"Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um


go by heah -- watched um thoo de bushes."



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.



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 table-cloth 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, be-


cause I had tried them lots of times myself, and they


wouldn't sting me.



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:



"Mighty few -- an' DEY 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


agwyne 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."



"Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast,


Jim?"



"What's de use to ax dat question? Don't you


see I has?"



"Well, are you rich?"



"No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich


agin. Wunst I had foteen dollars, but I tuck to


specalat'n', en got busted out."



"What did you speculate in, Jim?"



"Well, fust I tackled stock."



"What kind of stock?"



"Why, live stock -- 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."



"So you lost the ten dollars."



"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."



"You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you


speculate any more?"



"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 my-


sef. 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.



"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."



"What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?"



"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 -- 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."



"Well, what did come of it, Jim?"



"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 CENTS


back, I'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst."



"Well, it's all right anyway, Jim, long as you're


going to be rich again some time or other."



"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'."



 


CHAPTER IX.



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.



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.



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?



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.



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.



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 under-


side 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 -- FST! 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 rum-


bling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the


under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels


down stairs -- where it's long stairs and they bounce a


good deal, you know.



"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."



"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 gittn' mos' drownded, too; dat you


would, honey. Chickens knows when it's gwyne to


rain, en so do de birds, chile."



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 -- a half a mile --


because the Missouri shore was just a wall of high


bluffs.



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 -- 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.



One night we catched a little section of a lumber


raft -- 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 -- a solid, level floor.


We could see saw-logs go by in the daylight some-


times, but we let them go; we didn't show ourselves


in daylight.



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 -- clumb in at an upstairs window. But it was


too dark to see yet, so we made the canoe fast and set


in her to wait for daylight.



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:



"Hello, you!"



But it didn't budge. So I hollered again, and then


Jim says:



"De man ain't asleep -- he's dead. You hold still


-- I'll go en see."



He went, and bent down and looked, and says:



"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 -- it's too gashly."



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 -- 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.



We got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife with-


out 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


fishline as thick as my little finger with some mon-


strous 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 curry-comb,


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.



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.



 


CHAPTER X.



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 com-


fortable. 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.



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:



"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."



"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'."



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.



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.



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.



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.



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 him-


self 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.



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.



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 practiced 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.



I started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just after


dark.



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.



 


CHAPTER XI.



"COME in," says the woman, and I did. She


says: "Take a cheer."



I done it. She looked me all over with her little


shiny eyes, and says:



"What might your name be?"



"Sarah Williams."



"Where 'bouts do you live? In this neighbor-


hood?'



"No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've


walked all the way and I'm all tired out."



"Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something."



"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?"



"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."



"No," I says; "I'll rest a while, I reckon, and go


on. I ain't afeared of the dark."



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 rela-


tions 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 --


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 six thousand dollars (only she got


it ten) 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:



"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."



"Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of


people HERE that'd like to know who killed him. Some


think old Finn done it himself."



"No -- is that so?"



"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."



"Why HE --"



I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run


on, and never noticed I had put in at all:



"The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was


killed. So there's a reward out for him -- three hun-


dred dollars. And there's a reward out for old Finn,


too -- 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 mid-


night 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."



"Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the


way of it. Has everybody guit thinking the nigger


done it?"



"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."



"Why, are they after him yet?"



"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 -- 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 any-


body 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 -- 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."



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 -- and I


was, too -- and says:



"Three hundred dollars is a power of money. I


wish my mother could get it. Is your husband going


over there to-night?"



"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."



"Couldn't they see better if they was to wait till


daytime?"



"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 camp fire


all the better for the dark, if he's got one."



"I didn't think of that."



The woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and


I didn't feel a bit comfortable. Pretty soon she says"



"What did you say your name was, honey?"



"M -- Mary Williams."



Somehow it didn't seem to me that I said it was


Mary before, so I didn't look up -- seemed to me I


said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of cornered, and was


afeared 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:



"Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when


you first come in?"



"Oh, yes'm, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah's


my first name. Some calls me Sarah, some calls me


Mary."



"Oh, that's the way of it?"



"Yes'm."



I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of


there, anyway. I couldn't look up yet.



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:



"Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the


lead in your lap, handy."



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:



"Come, now, what's your real name?"



"Wh -- what, mum?"



"What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or


Bob? -- or what is it?"



I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know


hardly what to do. But I says:



"Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me,


mum. If I'm in the way here, I'll --"



"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."



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 musn'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.



"Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St.


Petersburg. Goshen's ten mile further up the river.


Who told you this was Goshen?"



"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."



"He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just ex-


actly wrong."



"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."



"Hold on a minute. I'll put you up a snack to eat.


You might want it."



So she put me up a snack, and says:



"Say, when a cow's laying down, which end of her


gets up first? Answer up prompt now -- don't stop


to study over it. Which end gets up first?"



"The hind end, mum."



"Well, then, a horse?"



"The for'rard end, mum."



"Which side of a tree does the moss grow on?"



"North side."



"If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how


many of them eats with their heads pointed the same


direction?"



"The whole fifteen, mum."



"Well, I reckon you HAVE lived in the country. I


thought maybe you was trying to hocus me again.


What's your real name, now?"



"George Peters, mum."



"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."



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 -- 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.



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:



"Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a


minute to lose. They're after us!"



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 every-


thing 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.



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 --


never saying a word.



 


CHAPTER XII.



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 EVERYTHING on the raft.



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.



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 tow-


head is a sandbar that has cottonwoods on it as thick


as harrow-teeth.



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 -- 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 -- 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.



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.



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, lay-


ing 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 -- only a little kind of a low chuckle. We


had mighty good weather as a general thing, and noth-


ing ever happened to us at all -- that night, nor the


next, nor the next.



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.



Every night now I used to slip ashore towards 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.



Mornings before daylight I slipped into cornfields


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 -- 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


towards 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.



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.



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-LO, Jim, looky yon-


der!" 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.



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 see 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:



"Le's land on her, Jim."



But Jim was dead against it at first. He says:



"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."



"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 -- and cost five cents


apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is always rich,


and get sixty dollars a month, and THEY 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 -- 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? --


wouldn't he spread himself, nor nothing? Why,


you'd think it was Christopher C'lumbus discovering


Kingdom-Come. I wish Tom Sawyer WAS here."



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.



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!



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:



"Oh, please don't, boys; I swear I won't ever


tell!"



Another voice said, pretty loud:



"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."



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:



"I'd LIKE to! And I orter, too -- a mean skunk!"



The man on the floor would shrivel up and say,


"Oh, please don't, Bill; I hain't ever goin' to tell."



And every time he said that the man with the lantern


would laugh and say:



"'Deed you AIN'T! 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 FOR? Jist


for noth'n. Jist because we stood on our RIGHTS --


that's what for. But I lay you ain't a-goin' to threaten


nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put UP that pistol,


Bill."



Bill says:



"I don't want to, Jake Packard. I'm for killin'


him -- and didn't he kill old Hatfield jist the same


way -- and don't he deserve it?"



"But I don't WANT him killed, and I've got my


reasons for it."



"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.



Packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung up


his lantern on a nail and started towards 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:



"Here -- come in here."



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 COULDN'T breathe and hear such talk. They


talked low and earnest. Bill wanted to kill Turner.


He says:



"He's said he'll tell, and he will. If we was to


give both our shares to him NOW 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 ME. I'm for putting him out of his troubles."



"So'm I," says Packard, very quiet.



"Blame it, I'd sorter begun to think you wasnUt.


Well, then, that's all right. Le's go and do it."



"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 thing's GOT to be done. But what 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?"



"You bet it is. But how you goin' to manage it


this time?"



"Well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and gather


up whatever pickins we've overlooked in the state-


rooms, 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 considerble 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?"



"Yes, I reck'n you are. But s'pose she DON'T


break up and wash off?"



"Well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see,


can't we?"



"All right, then; come along."



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:



"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 ALL of 'em in a


bad fix -- for the sheriff 'll get 'em. Quick -- hurry!


I'll hunt the labboard side, you hunt the stabboard.


You start at the raft, and --"



"Oh, my lordy, lordy! RAF'? Dey ain' no raf'


no mo'; she done broke loose en gone I -- en here


we is!"



 


CHAPTER XIII.



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 GOT


to find that boat now -- had to have it for ourselves.


So we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard


side, and slow work it was, too -- seemed a week be-


fore we got to the stern. No sign of a boat. Jim


said he didn't believe he could go any further -- 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:



"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 HE come out and got in. Packard says, in a low


voice:



"All ready -- shove off!"



I couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so


weak. But Bill says:



"Hold on -- 'd you go through him?"



"No. Didn't you?"



"No. So he's got his share o' the cash yet."



"Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and


leave money."



"Say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?"



"Maybe he won't. But we got to have it anyway.


Come along."



So they got out and went in.



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!



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.



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.



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 -- I reckon I hadn't had time to before.


I begun to think how dreadful it was, even for mur-


derers, 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:



"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."



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; every-


body 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.



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 -- 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.



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:



"Hello, what's up? Don't cry, bub. What's the


trouble?"



I says:



"Pap, and mam, and sis, and --"



Then I broke down. He says:



"Oh, dang it now, DON'T take on so; we all has to


have our troubles, and this 'n 'll come out all right.


What's the matter with 'em?"



"They're -- they're -- are you the watchman of the


boat?"



"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 some-


times I'm the freight and passengers. I ain't as rich


as old Jim Hornback, and I can't be so blame' gener-


ous 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'D live two mile out o' town, where


there ain't nothing ever goin' on, not for all his spon-


dulicks and as much more on top of it. Says I --"



I broke in and says:



"They're in an awful peck of trouble, and --"



"WHO is?"



"Why, pap and mam and sis and Miss Hooker;


and if you'd take your ferryboat and go up there --"



"Up where? Where are they?"



"On the wreck."



"What wreck?"



"Why, there ain't but one."



"What, you don't mean the Walter Scott?"



"Yes."



"Good land! what are they doin' THERE, for gracious


sakes?"



"Well, they didn't go there a-purpose."



"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?"



"Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting up


there to the town --"



"Yes, Booth's Landing -- go on."



"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-herQI


disremember her name -- 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 WE saddle-baggsed; but all of


us was saved but Bill Whipple -- and oh, he WAS the


best cretur ! -- I most wish 't it had been me, I do."



"My George! It's the beatenest thing I ever


struck. And THEN what did you all do?"



"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 --"



"By Jackson, I'd LIKE to, and, blame it, I don't


know but I will; but who in the dingnation's a-going'


to PAY for it? Do you reckon your pap --"



"Why THAT'S all right. Miss Hooker she tole me,


PARTICULAR, that her uncle Hornback --"



"Great guns! is HE 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."



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


woodboats; for I couldn't rest easy till I could see


the ferryboat start. But take it all around, I was feel-


ing 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.



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.



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.



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.



 


CHAPTER XIV.



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 spyglass, 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 HIM 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


your majesty, and your grace, and your lordship, and


so on, 'stead of mister; and Jim's eyes bugged out,


and he was interested. He says:



"I didn' know dey was so many un um. I hain't


hearn 'bout none un um, skasely, but ole King Soller-


mun, onless you counts dem kings dat's in a pack er


k'yards. How much do a king git?"



"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."



"AIN' dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?"



"THEY don't do nothing! Why, how you talk!


They just set around."



"No; is dat so?"



"Of course it is. They just set around -- except,


maybe, when there's a war; then they go to the war.


But other times they just lazy around; or go hawking


-- just hawking and sp -- Sh! -- d' you hear a noise?"



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.



"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."



"Roun' de which?"



"Harem."



"What's de harem?"



"The place where he keeps his wives. Don't you


know about the harem? Solomon had one; he had


about a million wives."



"Why, yes, dat's so; I -- 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 -- 'deed he wouldn't. A wise man 'ud take


en buil' a biler-factry; en den he could shet DOWN de


biler-factry when he want to res'."



"Well, but he WAS the wisest man, anyway; be-


cause the widow she told me so, her own self."



"I doan k'yer what de widder say, he WARN'T 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?"



"Yes, the widow told me all about it."



"WELL, den! Warn' dat de beatenes' notion in de


worl'? You jes' take en look at it a minute. Dah's


de stump, dah -- dat's one er de women; heah's you


-- 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 DO 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 TWO, 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? --


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."



"But hang it, Jim, you've clean missed the point --


blame it, you've missed it a thousand mile."



"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."



"But I tell you you don't get the point."



"Blame de point! I reck'n I knows what I knows.


En mine you, de REAL pint is down furder -- 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. HE 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. HE 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 fatch him!"



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.



"Po' little chap."



"But some says he got out and got away, and come


to America."



"Dat's good! But he'll be pooty lonesome -- dey


ain' no kings here, is dey, Huck?"



"No."



"Den he cain't git no situation. What he gwyne


to do?"



"Well, I don't know. Some of them gets on the


police, and some of them learns people how to talk


French."



"Why, Huck, doan' de French people talk de same


way we does?"



"NO, Jim; you couldn't understand a word they


said -- not a single word."



"Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat


come?"



"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 -- what would you


think?"



"I wouldn' think nuff'n; I'd take en bust him over


de head -- dat is, if he warn't white. I wouldn't 'low


no nigger to call me dat."



"Shucks, it ain't calling you anything. It's only


saying, do you know how to talk French?"



"Well, den, why couldn't he SAY it?"



"Why, he IS a-saying it. That's a Frenchman's


WAY of saying it."



"Well, it's a blame ridicklous way, en I doan' want


to hear no mo' 'bout it. Dey ain' no sense in it."



"Looky here, Jim; does a cat talk like we do?"



"No, a cat don't."



"Well, does a cow?"



"No, a cow don't, nuther."



"Does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a


cat?"



"No, dey don't."



"It's natural and right for 'em to talk different from


each other, ain't it?"



"Course."



"And ain't it natural and right for a cat and a cow


to talk different from US?"



"Why, mos' sholy it is."



"Well, then, why ain't it natural and right for a


FRENCHMAN to talk different from us? You answer me


that."



"Is a cat a man, Huck?"



"No."



"Well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a


man. Is a cow a man? -- er is a cow a cat?"



"No, she ain't either of them."



"Well, den, she ain't got no business to talk like


either one er the yuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman a


man?"



"Yes."



"WELL, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he TALK like


a man? You answer me DAT!"



I see it warn't no use wasting words -- you can't


learn a nigger to argue. So I quit.



 


CHAPTER XV.



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.



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 any-


thing 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 boom-


ing 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 -- 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.



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.



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 busi-


ness 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 -- 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.



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 BEHIND me. I was tangled good


now. That was somebody else's whoop, or else I was


turned around.



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.



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 currrent was tearing by them so swift.



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.



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.



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 FEEL 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 YOU'RE going, but


you catch your breath and think, my! how that snag's


tearing along. If you think it ain't dismal and lone-


some out in a fog that way by yourself in the night,


you try it once -- you'll see.



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 -- 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, be-


cause 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.



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 -- it was floating


a little faster than what I was.



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.



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.



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 sawlogs made fast together.


Then I see another speck, and chased that; then


another, and this time I was right. It was the raft.



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.



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:



"Hello, Jim, have I been asleep? Why didn't you


stir me up?"



"Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you


ain' dead -- you ain' drownded -- you's back agin?


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 agin, 'live en soun', jis de


same ole Huck -- de same ole Huck, thanks to good-


ness!"



"What's the matter with you, Jim? You been a-


drinking?"



"Drinkin'? Has I ben a-drinkin'? Has I had a


chance to be a-drinkin'?"



"Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?"



"How does I talk wild?"



"HOW? Why, hain't you been talking about my


coming back, and all that stuff, as if I'd been gone


away?"



"Huck -- Huck Finn, you look me in de eye; look


me in de eye. HAIN'T you ben gone away?"



"Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you


mean? I hain't been gone anywheres. Where would


I go to?"



"Well, looky here, boss, dey's sumf'n wrong, dey


is. Is I ME, or who IS I? Is I heah, or whah IS I?


Now dat's what I wants to know."



"Well, I think you're here, plain enough, but I


think you're a tangle-headed old fool, Jim."



"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 tow-


head?"



"No, I didn't. What tow-head? I hain't see no


tow-head."



"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?"



"What fog?"



"Why, de fog! -- 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 -- ain't it so? You answer me dat."



"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."



"Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in


ten minutes?"



"Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there


didn't any of it happen."



"But, Huck, it's all jis' as plain to me as --"



"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."



Jim didn't say nothing for about five minutes, but


set there studying over it. Then he says:



"Well, den, I reck'n I did dream it, Huck; but


dog my cats ef it ain't de powerfullest dream I ever


see. En I hain't ever had no dream b'fo' dat's tired


me like dis one."



"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."



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 keep-


ing 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.



It had clouded up pretty dark just after I got on to


the raft, but it was clearing up again now.



"Oh, well, that's all interpreted well enough as far


as it goes, Jim," I says; "but what does THESE things


stand for?"



It was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the


smashed oar. You could see them first-rate now.



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:



"What do dey stan' for? I'se 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 agin, 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 TRASH; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de


head er dey fren's en makes 'em ashamed."



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 HIS foot to get him to take it back.



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 afterwards, 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.



 


CHAPTER XVI.



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 mid-


dle, and a tall flag-pole at each end. There was a


power of style about her. It AMOUNTED to something


being a raftsman on such a craft as that.



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 -- 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.



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:



"Dah she is?"



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 WAS most free -- and who was to blame


for it? Why, ME. I couldn't get that out of my con-


science, 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 warn't to blame,


because 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 free-


dom, and you could a paddled ashore and told some-


body." That was so -- I couldn't get around that


noway. 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. THAT'S what she done."



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 WAS


Cairo I reckoned I would die of miserableness.



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 chil-


dren, and if their master wouldn't sell them, they'd


get an Ab'litionist to go and steal them.



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 -- children that belonged to


a man I didn't even know; a man that hadn't ever


done me no harm.



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 -- it ain't too late yet -- 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 sing-


ing to myself. By and by one showed. Jim sings


out:



"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!"



I says:



"I'll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It


mightn't be, you know."



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:



"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 ONLY fren' ole


Jim's got now."



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:



"Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on'y white


genlman dat ever kep' his promise to ole Jim."



Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I GOT to do it -- I


can't get OUT 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:



"What's that yonder?"



"A piece of a raft," I says.



"Do you belong on it?"



"Yes, sir."



"Any men on it?"



"Only one, sir."



"Well, there's five niggers run off to-night up yon-


der, above the head of the bend. Is your man white


or black?"



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 --


hadn't the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was weakening;


so I just give up trying, and up and says:



"He's white."



"I reckon we'll go and see for ourselves."



"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 -- and so is mam


and Mary Ann."



"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."



I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars.


When we had made a stroke or two, I says:



"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."



"Well, that's infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy,


what's the matter with your father?"



"It's the -- a -- the -- well, it ain't anything much."



They stopped pulling. It warn't but a mighty little


ways to the raft now. One says:



"Boy, that's a lie. What IS the matter with your


pap? Answer up square now, and it'll be the better


for you."



"I will, sir, I will, honest -- but don't leave us,


please. It's the -- the -- Gentlemen, if you'll only


pull ahead, and let me heave you the headline, you


won't have to come a-near the raft -- please do."



"Set her back, John, set her back!" says one.


They backed water. "Keep away, boy -- keep to


looard. Confound it, I just expect the wind has


blowed it to us. Your pap's got the small-pox, and


you know it precious well. Why didn't you come out


and say so? Do you want to spread it all over?"



"Well," says I, a-blubbering, "I've told every-


body before, and they just went away and left us."



"Poor devil, there's something in that. We are


right down sorry for you, but we -- well, hang it, we


don't want the small-pox, you see. Look here, I'll


tell you what to do. Don't you try to land by your-


self, 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 -- 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?"



"Hold on, Parker," says the other man, "here's a


twenty to put on the board for me. Good-bye, boy;


you do as Mr. Parker told you, and you'll be all


right."



"That's so, my boy -- good-bye, good-bye. If you


see any runaway niggers you get help and nab them,


and you can make some money by it."



"Good-bye, sir," says I; "I won't let no runaway


niggers get by me if I can help it."



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 STARTED right


when he's little ain't got no show -- 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 -- 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.



I went into the wigwam; Jim warn't there. I looked


all around; he warn't anywhere. I says:



"Jim!"



"Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o' sight yit? Don't


talk loud."



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:



"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 WUZ de smartes' dodge! I tell you,


chile, I'spec it save' ole Jim -- ole Jim ain't going to


forgit you for dat, honey."



Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty


good raise -- 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.



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.



That night about ten we hove in sight of the lights


of a town away down in a left-hand bend.



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:



"Mister, is that town Cairo?"



"Cairo? no. You must be a blame' fool."



"What town is it, mister?"



"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."



I paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed,


but I said never mind, Cairo would be the next place,


I reckoned.



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:



"Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night."



He says:



"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."



"I wish I'd never seen that snake-skin, Jim -- I do


wish I'd never laid eyes on it."



"It ain't yo' fault, Huck; you didn' know. Don't


you blame yo'self 'bout it."



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.



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!



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 -- and keep on fetching it, too, till


we knowed enough to keep still.



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.



So we shoved out after dark on the raft.



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.



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.



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 -- and as Jim went


overboard on one side and I on the other, she come


smashing straight through the raft.



I dived -- 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.



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.



It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile cross-


ings; 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 howl-


ing and barking at me, and I knowed better than to


move another peg.



 


CHAPTER XVII.



IN about a minute somebody spoke out of a window


without putting his head out, and says:



"Be done, boys! Who's there?"



I says:



"It's me."



"Who's me?"



"George Jackson, sir."



"What do you want?"



"I don't want nothing, sir. I only want to go


along by, but the dogs won't let me."



"What are you prowling around here this time of


night for -- hey?"



"I warn't prowling around, sir, I fell overboard off


of the steamboat."



"Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, some-


body. What did you say your name was?"



"George Jackson, sir. I'm only a boy."



"Look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't


be afraid -- 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?"



"No, sir, nobody."



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 -- 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."



"All ready."



"Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherd-


sons?"



"No, sir; I never heard of them."



"Well, that may be so, and it mayn't. Now, all


ready. Step forward, George Jackson. And mind,


don't you hurry -- come mighty slow. If there's any-


body with you, let him keep back -- if he shows him-


self he'll be shot. Come along now. Come slow;


push the door open yourself -- just enough to squeeze


in, d' you hear?"



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 -- put


your head in." I done it, but I judged they would


take it off.



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 -- all of them


fine and handsome -- 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:



"There; I reckon it's all right. Come in."



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 -- there warn't none on the side.


They held the candle, and took a good look at me,


and all said, "Why, HE ain't a Shepherdson -- 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 -- 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:



"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?"



"True for you, Rachel -- I forgot."



So the old lady says:



"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 -- 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."



Buck looked about as old as me -- thirteen or four-


teen 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:



"Ain't they no Shepherdsons around?"



They said, no, 'twas a false alarm.



"Well," he says, "if they'd a ben some, I reckon


I'd a got one."



They all laughed, and Bob says:



"Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you've


been so slow in coming."



"Well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right


I'm always kept down; I don't get no show."



"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."



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.



"Well, guess," he says.



"How'm I going to guess," says I, "when I never


heard tell of it before?"



"But you can guess, can't you? It's just as easy."



"WHICH candle?" I says.



"Why, any candle," he says.



"I don't know where he was," says I; "where


was he?"



"Why, he was in the DARK! That's where he was!"



"Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you


ask me for?"



"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 -- they


don't have no school now. Do you own a dog?


I've got a dog -- 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."



Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and butter-


milk -- 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:



"Can you spell, Buck?"



"Yes," he says.



"I bet you can't spell my name," says I.



"I bet you what you dare I can," says he.



"All right," says I, "go ahead."



"G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n -- there now," he says.



"Well," says I, "you done it, but I didn't think


you could. It ain't no slouch of a name to spell --


right off without studying."



I set it down, private, because somebody might want


ME 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; some-


times 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 mantel-


piece, 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.



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


bad 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, under-


neath.



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. An-


other 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 --


not bagged down in the middle and busted, like an


old basket.



They had pictures hung on the walls -- mainly


Washingtons and Lafayettes, and battles, and High-


land 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 -- 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 under-


neath 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 towards the moon --


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.



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:



  ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D



  And did young Stephen sicken,


    And did young Stephen die?


  And did the sad hearts thicken,


    And did the mourners cry?



  No; such was not the fate of


    Young Stephen Dowling Bots;


  Though sad hearts round him thickened,


    'Twas not from sickness' shots.



  No whooping-cough did rack his frame,


    Nor measles drear with spots;


  Not these impaired the sacred name


    Of Stephen Dowling Bots.



  Despised love struck not with woe


    That head of curly knots,


  Nor stomach troubles laid him low,


    Young Stephen Dowling Bots.



  O no. Then list with tearful eye,


    Whilst I his fate do tell.


  His soul did from this cold world fly


    By falling down a well.



  They got him out and emptied him;


    Alas it was too late;


  His spirit was gone for to sport aloft


    In the realms of the good and great.



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 -- the under-


taker 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 any-


thing 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.



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.



It was a double house, and the big open place be-


twixt 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!



 


CHAPTER XVIII.



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 black


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 -- you could feel that, you know,


and so you had confidence. Sometimes he smiled,


and it was good to see; but when he straightened him-


self 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 -- everybody was always good-


mannered where he was. Everybody loved to have


him around, too; he was sunshine most always -- I


mean he made it seem like good weather. When he


turned into a cloudbank it was awful dark for half a


minute, and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing


go wrong again for a week.



When him and the old lady come down in the morn-


ing 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 THEY 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.



Bob was the oldest and Tom next -- 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.



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.



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.



Each person had their own nigger to wait on them --


Buck too. My nigger had a monstrous easy time, be-


cause I warn't used to having anybody do anything


for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of the time.



This was all there was of the family now, but there


used to be more -- three sons; they got killed; and


Emmeline that died.



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 hand-


some lot of quality, I tell you.



There was another clan of aristocracy around there


-- five or six families -- mostly of the name of Shep-


herdson. They was as high-toned and well born and


rich and grand as the tribe of Grangerfords. The


Shepherdsons and Grangerfords used the same steam-


boat 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.



One day Buck and me was away out in the woods


hunting, and heard a horse coming. We was crossing


the road. Buck says:



"Quick! Jump for the woods!"



We done it, and then peeped down the woods


through the leaves. Pretty soon a splendid young


man come 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 -- to get his hat,


I reckon, but I couldn't see. We never stopped run-


ning till we got home. The old gentleman's eyes


blazed a minute -- 'twas pleasure, mainly, I judged --


then his face sort of smoothed down, and he says,


kind of gentle:



"I don't like that shooting from behind a bush.


Why didn't you step into the road, my boy?"



"The Shepherdsons don't, father. They always


take advantage."



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.



Soon as I could get Buck down by the corn-cribs


under the trees by ourselves, I says:



"Did you want to kill him, Buck?"



"Well, I bet I did."



"What did he do to you?"



"Him? He never done nothing to me."



"Well, then, what did you want to kill him for?"



"Why, nothing -- only it's on account of the feud."



"What's a feud?"



"Why, where was you raised? Don't you know


what a feud is?"



"Never heard of it before -- tell me about it."



"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 HIM; then the other


brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then


the COUSINS chip in -- 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."



"Has this one been going on long, Buck?"



"Well, I should RECKON! 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 -- which he would naturally


do, of course. Anybody would."



"What was the trouble about, Buck? -- land?"



"I reckon maybe -- I don't know."



"Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Granger-


ford or a Shepherdson?"



"Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago."



"Don't anybody know?"



"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."



"Has there been many killed, Buck?"



"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, any-


way. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and


Tom's been hurt once or twice."



"Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?"



"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 out-


run 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 HIM out."



"I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck."



"I reckon he WARN'T a coward. Not by a blame'


sight. There ain't a coward amongst them Shepherd-


sons -- 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 crip-


pled, but the Grangerfords had to be FETCHED home --


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 Shep-


herdsons, becuz they don't breed any of that KIND."



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 -- all about brotherly love, and such-like


tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good ser-


mon, 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.



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.



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 "HALF-PAST TWO" 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.



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:



"Mars Jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp


I'll show you a whole stack o' water-moccasins."



Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he said that yester-


day. 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:



"All right; trot ahead."



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:



"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'."



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 -- and, by jings, it was my old Jim!



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 sur-


prised. Said he swum along behind me that night,


and heard me yell every time, but dasn't answer, be-


cause he didn't want nobody to pick HIM up and take


him into slavery again. Says he:



"I got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so I wuz


a considable 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 -- I wuz 'fraid o' de dogs; but


when it 'uz all quiet agin 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-gitt'n along."



"Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here


sooner, Jim?"



"Well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck, tell we


could do sumfn -- 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 --"



"WHAT raft, Jim?"



"Our ole raf'."



"You mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all


to flinders?"



"No, she warn't. She was tore up a good deal --


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' 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 agin mos' as good as new, en we's got a new lot o'


stuff, in de place o' what 'uz los'."



"Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim


-- did you catch her?"



"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 satis-


fied, en wisht some mo' raf's 'ud come along en make


'm rich agin. 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."



"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 HE ain't mixed up in


it. He can say he never seen us together, and it 'll


be the truth."



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 -- 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 -- nobody around;


everything as still as a mouse. Just the same outside.


Thinks I, what does it mean? Down by the wood-


pile I comes across my Jack, and says:



"What's it all about?"



Says he:



"Don't you know, Mars Jawge?"



"No," says I, "I don't."



"Well, den, Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed she has.


She run off in de night some time -- nobody don't


know jis' when; run off to get married to dat young


Harney Shepherdson, you know -- leastways, so dey


'spec. De fambly foun' it out 'bout half an hour


ago -- maybe a little mo' -- en' I TELL you dey warn't


no time los'. Sich another hurryin' up guns en hosses


YOU 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."



"Buck went off 'thout waking me up."



"Well, I reck'n he DID! 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."



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.



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.



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.



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 -- 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 -- the Shepherdsons


was too strong for them. I asked him what was be-


come 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


-- I hain't ever heard anything like it.



All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or


four guns -- the men had slipped around through the


woods and come in from behind without their horses!


The boys jumped for the river -- both of them hurt --


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 ALL that happened --


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 --


lots of times I dream about them.



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.



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.



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:



"Good lan'! is dat you, honey? Doan' make no


noise."



It was Jim's voice -- 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:



"Laws bless you, chile, I 'uz right down sho' you's


dead agin. 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' 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 agin en tells me for certain


you IS dead. Lawsy, I's mighty glad to git you back


again, honey.



I says:



"All right -- that's mighty good; they won't find


me, and they'll think I've been killed, and floated down


the river -- there's something up there that 'll help them


think so -- so don't you lose no time, Jim, but just


shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can."



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 --


there ain't nothing in the world so good when it's


cooked right -- 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.



 


CHAPTER XIX.



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 --


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 -- 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 day-


light come. Not a sound anywheres -- perfectly still


-- 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 -- 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 -- trading scows, and such


things; and long black streaks -- 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 woodyard, 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 every-


thing smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just


going it!



A little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would


take some fish off of the lines and cook up a hot break-


fast. And afterwards we would watch the lonesome-


ness 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 -- 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 axe flash and come down -- you don't


hear nothing; you see that axe go up again, and by


the time it's above the man's head then you hear the


K'CHUNK! -- 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 -- 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:



"No; spirits wouldn't say, 'Dern the dern fog.'"



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 -- we was always


naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes would


let us -- 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.



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 -- which


was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on the


water you could see a spark or two -- 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 MAKE so many. Jim


said the moon could a LAID 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.



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.



After midnight the people on shore went to bed,


and then for two or three hours the shores was black --


no more sparks in the cabin windows. These sparks


was our clock -- the first one that showed again meant


morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and


tie up right away.



One morning about daybreak I found a canoe and


crossed over a chute to the main shore -- it was only


two hundred yards -- 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 ME -- 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 -- said they


hadn't been doing nothing, and was being chased for


it -- said there was men and dogs a-coming. They


wanted to jump right in, but I says:



"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 -- that'll throw


the dogs off the scent."



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 a while; 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.



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


woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed


into his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses -- 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.



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.



"What got you into trouble?" says the baldhead to


t'other chap.



"Well, I'd been selling an article to take the tartar


off the teeth -- and it does take it off, too, and generly


the enamel along with it -- 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 ex-


pecting trouble myself, and would scatter out WITH you.


That's the whole yarn -- what's yourn?



"Well, I'd ben a-running' 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 TELL you, and takin' as much as five


or six dollars a night -- ten cents a head, children and


niggers free -- 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 -- I warn't


hungry."



"Old man," said the young one, "I reckon we


might double-team it together; what do you think?"



"I ain't undisposed. What's your line -- mainly?"



"Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medi-


cines; theater-actor -- 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 -- oh, I do lots of things -- most


anything that comes handy, so it ain't work. What's


your lay?"



"I've done considerble in the doctoring way in my


time. Layin' on o' hands is my best holt -- 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."



Nobody never said anything for a while; then the


young man hove a sigh and says:



"Alas!"



"What 're you alassin' about?" says the bald-


head.



"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.



"Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough


for you?" says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.



" Yes, it IS 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 YOU, gentlemen --


far from it; I don't blame anybody. I deserve it all.


Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know --


there's a grave somewhere for me. The world may


go on just as it's always done, and take everything


from me -- loved ones, property, everything; but it


can't take that. Some day I'll lie down in it and for-


get it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest."


He went on a-wiping.



"Drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead;


"what are you heaving your pore broken heart at US


f'r? WE hain't done nothing."



"No, I know you haven't. I ain't blaming you,


gentlemen. I brought myself down -- yes, I did it


myself. It's right I should suffer -- perfectly right --


I don't make any moan."



"Brought you down from whar? Whar was you


brought down from?"



"Ah, you would not believe me; the world never


believes -- let it pass -- 'tis no matter. The secret of


my birth --"



"The secret of your birth! Do you mean to say --"



"Gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn,


"I will reveal it to you, for I feel I may have confi-


dence in you. By rights I am a duke!"



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?"



"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 free-


dom; 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 -- the infant


real duke was ignored. I am the lineal descendant of


that infant -- 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, heart-broken, and degraded to the companion-


ship of felons on a raft!"



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" -- 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.



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.



But the old man got pretty silent by and by -- 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:



"Looky here, Bilgewater," he says, "I'm nation


sorry for you, but you ain't the only person that's had


troubles like that."



"No?"



"No you ain't. You ain't the only person that's


ben snaked down wrongfully out'n a high place."



"Alas!"



"No, you ain't the only person that's had a secret


of his birth." And, by jings, HE begins to cry.



"Hold! What do you mean?"



"Bilgewater, kin I trust you?" says the old man,


still sort of sobbing.



"To the bitter death!" He took the old man by


the hand and squeezed it, and says, "That secret of


your being: speak!"



"Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!"



You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then


the duke says:



"You are what?"



"Yes, my friend, it is too true -- your eyes is look-


in' at this very moment on the pore disappeared


Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy the Six-


teen and Marry Antonette."



"You! At your age! No! You mean you're


the late Charlemagne; you must be six or seven hun-


dred years old, at the very least."



"Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done


it; trouble has brung these gray hairs and this prema-


ture balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see before you,


in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled, tram-


pled-on, and sufferin' rightful King of France."



Well, he cried and took on so that me and Jim


didn't know hardly what to do, we was so sorry -- 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 HIM. 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 HIS 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:



"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 on-


comfortable. It ain't my fault I warn't born a duke,


it ain't your fault you warn't born a king -- so what's


the use to worry? Make the best o' things the way


you find 'em, says I -- that's my motto. This ain't


no bad thing that we've struck here -- plenty grub


and an easy life -- come, give us your hand, duke, and


le's all be friends."



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.



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.



 


CHAPTER XX.



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 --


was Jim a runaway nigger? Says I:



"Goodness sakes! would a runaway nigger run


SOUTH?"



No, they allowed he wouldn't. I had to account


for things some way, so I says:



"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 be-


lieved he was a runaway nigger. We don't run day-


times no more now; nights they don't bother us."



The duke says:



"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 -- 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 -- it mightn't be


healthy."



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 -- 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 tickQbetter 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:



"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."



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:



"'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 -- let me suffer;


can bear it."



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 -- that was the town, you know --


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 every-


thing; 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


H-WHACK! -- bum! bum! bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-


bum-bum -- and the thunder would go rumbling and


grumbling away, and quit -- and then RIP comes an-


other flash and another sockdolager. 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.



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 -- 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 over-


board. It most killed Jim a-laughing. He was the


easiest nigger to laugh that ever was, anyway.



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.



The king got out an old ratty deck of cards after


breakfast, and him and the duke played seven-up a


while, 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 admis-


sion, and "furnish charts of character at twenty-five


cents apiece." The duke said that was HIM. In an-


other bill he was the "world-renowned Shakespearian


tragedian, Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane, Lon-


don." 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:



"But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you


ever trod the boards, Royalty?"



"No," says the king.



"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 sword


fight in Richard III. and the balcony scene in Romeo


and Juliet. How does that strike you?"



"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?"



"Easy!"



"All right. I'm jist a-freezn' for something fresh,


anyway. Le's commence right away."



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.



"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."



"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 night-


gown and her ruffled nightcap. Here are the costumes


for the parts."



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.



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.



When we got there there warn't nobody stirring;


streets empty, and perfectly dead and still, like Sun-


day. 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.



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 -- 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.



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.



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.



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 -- 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! -- A-a-MEN!" And so he went on, and


the people groaning and crying and saying amen:



"Oh, come to the mourners' bench! come, black


with sin! (AMEN!) come, sick and sore! (AMEN!)


come, lame and halt and blind! (AMEN!) come, pore


and needy, sunk in shame! (A-A-MEN!) come, all


that's worn and soiled and suffering! -- 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 -- oh, enter in


and be at rest!" (A-A-MEN! GLORY, GLORY HALLELUJAH!)



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.



Well, the first I knowed the king got a-going, and


you could hear him over everybody; and next he


went a-charging up on to the platform, and the


preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and


he done it. He told them he was a pirate -- been a


pirate for thirty years out in the Indian Ocean -- 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!"



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


HIM pass the hat around!" Then everybody said it,


the preacher too.



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 -- 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.



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.



The duke was thinking HE'D 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 -- horse


bills -- 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 -- 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 con-


dition 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 -- three


verses -- kind of sweet and saddish -- the name of it


was, "Yes, crush, cold world, this breaking heart" --


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.



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' planta-


tion, 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.



"Now," says the duke, "after to-night we can run


in the daytime if we want to. Whenever we see any-


body 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 -- we must preserve the unities, as we


say on the boards."



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.



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.



When Jim called me to take the watch at four in the


morning, he says:



"Huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost


any mo' kings on dis trip?"



"No," I says, "I reckon not."



"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."



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.



 


CHAPTER XXI.



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


practice 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 ROMEO! that way, like a


bull -- you must say it soft and sick and languishy,


so -- 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."



Well, next they got out a couple of long swords that


the duke made out of oak laths, and begun to practice


the sword fight -- 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.



After dinner the duke says:



"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."



"What's onkores, Bilgewater?"



The duke told him, and then says:



"I'll answer by doing the Highland fling or the


sailor's hornpipe; and you -- well, let me see -- oh,


I've got it -- you can do Hamlet's soliloquy."



"Hamlet's which?"



"Hamlet's soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated


thing in Shakespeare. Ah, it's sublime, sublime! Al-


ways fetches the house. I haven't got it in the book


-- I've only got one volume -- 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 recollec-


tion's vaults."



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 see before. This is the speech -- I learned it,


easy enough, while he was learning it to the king:



   To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin


   That makes calamity of so long life;


   For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do


     come to Dunsinane,


   But that the fear of something after death


   Murders the innocent sleep,


   Great nature's second course,


   And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune


   Than fly to others that we know not of.


   There's the respect must give us pause:


   Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst;


   For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,


   The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,


   The law's delay, and the quietus which his


     pangs might take,


   In the dead waste and middle of the night,


     when churchyards yawn


   In customary suits of solemn black,


   But that the undiscovered country from whose


     bourne no traveler returns,


   Breathes forth contagion on the world,


   And thus the native hue of resolution, like


     the poor cat i' the adage,


   Is sicklied o'er with care,


   And all the clouds that lowered o'er our housetops,


   With this regard their currents turn awry,


   And lose the name of action.


   'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.


     But soft you, the fair Ophelia:


   Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws,


   But get thee to a nunnery -- go!



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.



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 -- as the duke called it -- 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.



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 courthouse, and


we went around and stuck up our bills. They read


like this:



               Shaksperean Revival ! ! !


                 Wonderful Attraction!


                  For One Night Only!


             The world renowned tragedians,


  David Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane Theatre London,


                         and


   Edmund Kean the elder, of the Royal Haymarket Theatre,


   Whitechapel, Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the


        Royal Continental Theatres, in their sublime


            Shaksperean Spectacle entitled


                  The Balcony Scene


                         in


                Romeo and Juliet ! ! !


          Romeo...................Mr. Garrick


          Juliet..................Mr. Kean


      Assisted by the whole strength of the company!


        New costumes, new scenes, new appointments!


                         Also:


        The thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling


                 Broad-sword conflict


                 In Richard III. ! ! !


          Richard III.............Mr. Garrick


          Richmond................Mr. Kean


                         Also:


                 (by special request)


            Hamlet's Immortal Soliloquy ! !


               By The Illustrious Kean!


      Done by him 300 consecutive nights in Paris!


                  For One Night Only,


     On account of imperative European engagements!


  Admission 25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents.



Then we went loafing around town. The stores and


houses was most all old, shackly, dried up frame con-


cerns 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 over-


flowed. 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 dif-


ferent times; and they leaned every which way, and


had gates that didn't generly have but one hinge -- a


leather one. Some of the fences had been white-


washed some time or another, but the duke said it was


in Clumbus' time, like enough. There was generly


hogs in the garden, and people driving them out.



All the stores was along one street. They had


white domestic awnings in front, and the country peo-


ple hitched their horses to the awning-posts. There


was empty drygoods 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 -- 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:



"Gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, Hank "



"Cain't; I hain't got but one chaw left. Ask Bill."



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" -- which is a lie pretty much


everytime; it don't fool nobody but a stranger; but


Jack ain't no stranger, so he says:



"YOU 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."



"Well, I DID pay you back some of it wunst."



"Yes, you did -- 'bout six chaws. You borry'd


store tobacker and paid back nigger-head."



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:



"Here, gimme the CHAW, and you take the PLUG."



All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't


nothing else BUT mud -- mud as black as tar and nigh


about a foot deep in some places, and two or three


inches deep in ALL 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! SO


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 -- 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.



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, be-


cause 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.



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 some-


body sings out:



"Here comes old Boggs! -- in from the country for


his little old monthly drunk; here he comes, boys!"



All the loafers looked glad; I reckoned they was


used to having fun out of Boggs. One of them says:



"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."



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."



Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping


and yelling like an Injun, and singing out:



"Cler the track, thar. I'm on the waw-path, and


the price uv coffins is a-gwyne to raise."



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."



He see me, and rode up and says:



"Whar'd you come f'm, boy? You prepared to


die?"



Then he rode on. I was scared, but a man says:



"He don't mean nothing; he's always a-carryin'


on like that when he's drunk. He's the best natured-


est old fool in Arkansaw -- never hurt nobody, drunk


nor sober."



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:



"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!"



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 -- and he


was a heap the best dressed man in that town, too --


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 -- he says:



"I'm tired of this, but I'll endure it till one o'clock.


Till one o'clock, mind -- 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."



Then he turns and goes in. The crowd looked


mighty sober; nobody stirred, and there warn't no


more laughing. Boggs rode off blackguarding Sher-


burn 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 min-


utes, and so he MUST go home -- 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 -- up the street he would tear again, and give


Sherburn another cussing. By and by somebody says:



"Go for his daughter! -- quick, go for his daughter;


sometimes he'll listen to her. If anybody can persuade


him, she can."



So somebody started on a run. I walked down


street a ways and stopped. In about five or ten min-


utes here comes Boggs again, but not on his horse.


He was a-reeling across the street towards me, bare-


headed, 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:



"Boggs!"



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 -- 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 -- 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 -- bang! goes the second one,


and he tumbles backwards on to 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!"



Colonel Sherburn he tossed his pistol on to the


ground, and turned around on his heels and walked off.



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 -- 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.



Well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirm-


ing 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."



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. Every-


body that seen the shooting was telling how it hap-


pened, and there was a big crowd packed around each


one of these fellows, stretching their necks and listen-


ing. 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 bob-


bing their heads to show they understood, and stoop-


ing 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.



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 hang-


ing with.



 


CHAPTER XXII.



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.



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.



Just then Sherburn steps out on to 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.



Sherburn never said a word -- just stood there, look-


ing down. The stillness was awful creepy and uncom-


fortable. Sherburn run his eye slow along the crowd;


and wherever it struck the people tried a little to out-


gaze 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.



Then he says, slow and scornful:



"The idea of YOU lynching anybody! It's amusing.


The idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to


lynch a MAN! 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 MAN? Why, a MAN'S safe in the


hands of ten thousand of your kind -- as long as it's


daytime and you're not behind him.



"Do I know you? I know you clear through


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 -- whereas you're just AS


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 -- and it's just


what they WOULD do.



"So they always acquit; and then a MAN 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 PART of a man -- Buck


Harkness, there -- and if you hadn't had him to start


you, you'd a taken it out in blowing.



"You didn't want to come. The average man


don't like trouble and danger. YOU don't like trouble


and danger. But if only HALF a man -- like Buck


Harkness, there -- shouts 'Lynch him! lynch him!'


you're afraid to back down -- afraid you'll be found


out to be what you are -- COWARDS -- and so you raise


a yell, and hang yourselves on to 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 -- a mob; they don't


fight with courage that's born in them, but with cour-


age that's borrowed from their mass, and from their


officers. But a mob without any MAN at the head of


it is BENEATH pitifulness. Now the thing for YOU 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 MAN along.


Now LEAVE -- and take your half-a-man with you" --


tossing his gun up across his left arm and cocking it


when he says this.



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.



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 WASTING it on them.



It was a real bully circus. It was the splendidest


sight that ever was when they all come riding in, two


and two, a 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 -- there must a been twenty of them


-- and every lady with a lovely complexion, and per-


fectly 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.



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! -- hi!" and the clown crack-


ing 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 COULD think of so many of


them, and so sudden and so pat, was what I couldn't


noway understand. Why, I couldn't a thought of


them in a year. And by and by a drunk man tried to


get into the ring -- 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


towards 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


-- 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 -- and finally skipped off, and made his bow and


danced off to the dressing-room, and everybody just


a-howling with pleasure and astonishment.



Then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled,


and he WAS 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 ME; and wherever I run across it, it


can have all of MY custom every time.



Well, that night we had OUR show; but there warn't


only about twelve people there -- 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 -- 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:



            AT THE COURT HOUSE!


            FOR 3 NIGHTS ONLY!


      The World-Renowned Tragedians


        DAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER!


                    AND


          EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER!


      Of the London and Continental


                 Theatres,


      In their Thrilling Tragedy of


          THE KING'S CAMELEOPARD,


                    OR


         THE ROYAL NONESUCH ! ! !


            Admission 50 cents.



Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which


said:



LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED.



"There," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, I


don't know Arkansaw!"



 


CHAPTER XXIII.



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 on to 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 expecta-


tions 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 -- 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.



Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to


the people, and says the great tragedy will be per-


formed 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.



Twenty people sings out:



"What, is it over? Is that ALL?"



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:



"Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen." They stopped


to listen. "We are sold -- 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. NO. What we want is to go out of


here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell the REST of


the town! Then we'll all be in the same boat. Ain't


that sensible?" ("You bet it is! -- the jedge is


right!" everybody sings out.) "All right, then --


not a word about any sell. Go along home, and ad-


vise everybody to come and see the tragedy."



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.



The third night the house was crammed again -- 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 -- 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:



"Walk fast now till you get away from the houses,


and then shin for the raft like the dickens was after


you!"



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:



"Well, how'd the old thing pan out this time,


duke?" He hadn't been up-town at all.



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:



"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 THEIR turn now. Well, it IS their turn,


and I'd give something to know how much they'd take


for it. I WOULD just like to know how they're putting


in their opportunity. They can turn it into a picnic if


they want to -- they brought plenty provisions."



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.


By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim


says:



"Don't it s'prise you de way dem kings carries on,


Huck?"



"No," I says, "it don't."



"Why don't it, Huck?"



"Well, it don't, because it's in the breed. I reckon


they're all alike,"



"But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar rapscal-


lions; dat's jist what dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions."



"Well, that's what I'm a-saying; all kings is


mostly rapscallions, as fur as I can make out."



"Is dat so?"



"You read about them once -- you'll see. Look


at Henry the Eight; this 'n 's a Sunday-school Super-


intendent to HIM. 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 WAS a blossom. He used to marry a


new wife every day, and chop off her head next morn-


ing. 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' -- 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 -- 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 -- give notice? --


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 HIS style -- 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 -- drownded him in a butt of


mamsey, like a cat. S'pose people left money laying


around where he was -- 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 -- what did he do? He always done the other thing.


S'pose he opened his mouth -- 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


THAT 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."



"But dis one do SMELL so like de nation, Huck."



"Well, they all do, Jim. We can't help the way a


king smells; history don't tell no way."



"Now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some


ways."



"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."



"Well, anyways, I doan' hanker for no mo' un um,


Huck. Dese is all I kin stan'."



"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."



What was the use to tell Jim these warn't real kings


and dukes? It wouldn't a done no good; and, be-


sides, it was just as I said: you couldn't tell them from


the real kind.



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 'Liza-


beth! 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.



But this time I somehow got to talking to him about


his wife and young ones; and by and by he says:



"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:



"'Shet de do'.'



"She never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin' up


at me. It make me mad; en I says agin, mighty loud,


I says:



"'Doan' you hear me? Shet de do'!'



"She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. I


was a-bilin'! I says:



"'I lay I MAKE you mine!'



"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 YIT, en


dat chile stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin' down and


mournin', en de tears runnin' down. My, but I WUZ


mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis' den -- it


was a do' dat open innerds -- jis' den, 'long come de


wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-BLAM! -- en my


lan', de chile never move'! My breff mos' hop outer


me; en I feel so -- so -- I doan' know HOW 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 POW! jis' as


loud as I could yell. SHE NEVER BUDGE! 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 his-


self as long's he live!' Oh, she was plumb deef en


dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb -- en I'd ben a-


treat'n her so!"



 


CHAPTER XXIV.



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 any-


body 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 WAS kind of hard to


have to lay roped all day, and he'd cipher out some


way to get around it.



He was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he


soon struck it. He dressed Jim up in King Lear's


outfit -- 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:



  Sick Arab -- but harmless when not out of his head.



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 judg-


ment; 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.



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 -- 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 be-


fore. 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 lay-


ing at the shore away up under the point, about three


mile above the town -- been there a couple of hours,


taking on freight. Says the king:



"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."



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.



"Run her nose in shore," says the king. I done


it. "Wher' you bound for, young man?"



"For the steamboat; going to Orleans."



"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" -- meaning me, I


see.



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:



"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 AIN'T him, are you?"



"No, my name's Blodgett -- Elexander Blodgett --


REVEREND 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 --


which I hope he hasn't."



"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 -- which he mayn't mind, nobody


can tell as to that -- but his brother would a give


anything in this world to see HIM before he died;


never talked about nothing else all these three weeks;


hadn't seen him since they was boys together -- and


hadn't ever seen his brother William at all -- that's the


deef and dumb one -- 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."



"Did anybody send 'em word?"



"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 -- and William, too, for that matter -- 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 -- for George didn't leave


nothing. And that letter was all they could get him


to put a pen to."



"Why do you reckon Harvey don't come? Wher'


does he live?"



"Oh, he lives in England -- Sheffield -- preaches


there -- hasn't ever been in this country. He hasn't


had any too much time -- and besides he mightn't a


got the letter at all, you know."



"Too bad, too bad he couldn't a lived to see his


brothers, poor soul. You going to Orleans, you say?"



"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."



"It's a pretty long journey. But it'll be lovely;


wisht I was a-going. Is Mary Jane the oldest? How


old is the others?"



"Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and Joanna's


about fourteen -- that's the one that gives herself to


good works and has a hare-lip."



"Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world


so."



"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. Rob-


inson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley, and --


well, there's a lot of them; but these are the ones that


Peter was thickest with, and used to write about some-


times, when he wrote home; so Harvey 'll know where


to look for friends when he gets here."



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 -- which was a tanner; and about


George's -- which was a carpenter; and about Har-


vey's -- which was a dissentering minister; and so on,


and so on. Then he says:



"What did you want to walk all the way up to the


steamboat for?"



"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."



"Was Peter Wilks well off?"



"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."



"When did you say he died?"



"I didn't say, but it was last night."



"Funeral to-morrow, likely?"



"Yes, 'bout the middle of the day."



"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."



"Yes, sir, it's the best way. Ma used to always


say that."



When we struck the boat she was about done load-


ing, 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 pad-


dle up another mile to a lonesome place, and then he


got ashore and says:



"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."



I see what HE 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 -- 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:



"How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?"



The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had


played a deef and dumb person on the histronic boards.


So then they waited for a steamboat.



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:



"If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile


apiece to be took on and put off in a yawl, a steam-


boat kin afford to carry 'em, can't it?"



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:



"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:



"I'm sorry. sir, but the best we can do is to tell


you where he DID live yesterday evening."



Sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went an


to smash, and fell up against the man, and put his


chin on his shoulder, and cried down his back, and


says:



"Alas, alas, our poor brother -- gone, and we never


got to see him; oh, it's too, too hard!"



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.



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.



 


CHAPTER XXV.



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:



"Is it THEM?"



And somebody trotting along with the gang would


answer back and say:



"You bet it is."



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 WAS 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 Marsy Jane she jumped for them, and the


hare-lip jumped for the duke, and there they HAD it!


Everybody most, leastways women, cried for joy to


see them meet again at last and have such good times.



Then the king he hunched the duke private -- I see


him do it -- 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 shoul-


der, 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 shoul-


ders; 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 -- 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 dis-


gusting.



Well, by and by the king he gets up and comes for-


ward 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 sym-


pathy 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 cry-


ing fit to bust.



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.



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, vizz.: -- Rev. Mr.


Hobson, and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Mr. Ben Rucker,


and Abner Shackleford, and Levi Bell, and Dr. Robin-


son, and their wives, and the widow Bartley.



Rev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down to the


end of the town a-hunting together -- 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 -- goo-goo-


goo" all the time, like a baby that can't talk.



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.



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:



"Oh, THIS ain't bully nor noth'n! Oh, no, I reckon


not! Why, Biljy, it beats the Nonesuch, DON'T it?"



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:



"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."



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:



"Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four


hundred and fifteen dollars?"



They worried over that awhile, and ransacked all


around for it. Then the duke says:



"Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he


made a mistake -- 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."



"Oh, shucks, yes, we can SPARE it. I don't k'yer


noth'n 'bout that -- it's the COUNT 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 -- 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 --"



"Hold on," says the duke. "Le's make up the


deffisit," and he begun to haul out yaller-boys out of


his pocket.



"It's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke -- you HAVE


got a rattlin' clever head on you," says the king.


"Blest if the old Nonesuch ain't a heppin' us out


agin," and HE begun to haul out yaller-jackets and


stack them up.



It most busted them, but they made up the six


thousand clean and clear.



"Say," says the duke, "I got another idea. Le's


go up stairs and count this money, and then take and


GIVE IT TO THE GIRLS."



"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 --


this 'll lay 'em out."



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 -- 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:



"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 MORE generous by 'em


if he hadn't ben afeard o' woundin' his dear William


and me. Now, WOULDN'T he? Ther' ain't no question


'bout it in MY 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 -- yes,


ROB -- sech poor sweet lambs as these 'at he loved so at


sech a time? If I know William -- and I THINK I do --


he -- 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 a while; 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 THAT 'll convince anybody the way HE feels


about it. Here, Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner, take the


money -- take it ALL. It's the gift of him that lays


yonder, cold but joyful."



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:



"You DEAR good souls! -- how LOVELY! -- how COULD


you!"



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 any-


thing; and nobody saying anything to him either,


because the king was talking and they was all busy


listening. The king was saying -- in the middle of


something he'd started in on --



"-- they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased.


That's why they're invited here this evenin'; but to-


morrow we want ALL to come -- everybody; for he


respected everybody, he liked everybody, and so it's


fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public."



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,


"OBSEQUIES, 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:



"Poor William, afflicted as he is, his HEART'S aluz


right. Asks me to invite everybody to come to the


funeral -- wants me to make 'em all welcome. But he


needn't a worried -- it was jest what I was at."



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:



"I say orgies, not because it's the common term,


because it ain't -- obsequies bein' the common term --


but because orgies is the right term. Obsequies ain't


used in England no more now -- 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 ORGO, outside,


open, abroad; and the Hebrew JEESUM, to plant, cover


up; hence inTER. So, you see, funeral orgies is an


open er public funeral."



He was the WORST I ever struck. Well, the iron-


jawed man he laughed right in his face. Everybody


was shocked. Everybody says, "Why, DOCTOR!" and


Abner Shackleford says:



"Why, Robinson, hain't you heard the news? This


is Harvey Wilks."



The king he smiled eager, and shoved out his


flapper, and says:



"Is it my poor brother's dear good friend and phy-


sician? I --"



"Keep your hands off of me!" says the doctor.


"YOU talk like an Englishman, DON'T you? It's the


worst imitation I ever heard. YOU Peter Wilks's


brother! You're a fraud, that's what you are!"



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 'd showed in


forty ways that he WAS Harvey, and knowed every-


body by name, and the names of the very dogs, and


begged and BEGGED him not to hurt Harvey's feelings


and the poor girl's 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 cry-


ing; and all of a sudden the doctor ups and turns on


THEM. He says:



"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 -- has come here with a


lot of empty names and facts which he picked up


somewheres, and you take them for PROOFS, 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 --


I BEG you to do it. Will you?"



Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but she


was handsome! She says:



"HERE 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."



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:



"All right; I wash MY 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.



"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.



 


CHAPTER XXVI.



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 --


meaning me.



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.



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 --


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 -- said "How DO


you get biscuits to brown so nice?" and "Where, for


the land's sake, DID 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.



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:



"Did you ever see the king?"



"Who? William Fourth? Well, I bet I have -- 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:



"What -- regular?"



"Yes -- regular. His pew's right over opposite


ourn -- on t'other side the pulpit."



"I thought he lived in London?"



"Well, he does. Where WOULD he live?"



"But I thought YOU lived in Sheffield?"



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:



"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."



"Why, how you talk -- Sheffield ain't on the sea."



"Well, who said it was?"



"Why, you did."



"I DIDN'T nuther."



"You did!"



"I didn't."



"You did."



"I never said nothing of the kind."



"Well, what DID you say, then?"



"Said he come to take the sea BATHS -- that's what I


said."



"Well, then, how's he going to take the sea baths if


it ain't on the sea?"



"Looky here," I says; "did you ever see any


Congress-water?"



"Yes."



"Well, did you have to go to Congress to get


it?"



"Why, no."



"Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to


the sea to get a sea bath."



"How does he get it, then?"



"Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-


water -- 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."



"Oh, I see, now. You might a said that in the first


place and saved time."



When she said that I see I was out of the woods


again, and so I was comfortable and glad. Next, she


says:



"Do you go to church, too?"



"Yes -- regular."



"Where do you set?"



"Why, in our pew."



"WHOSE pew?"



"Why, OURN -- your Uncle Harvey's."



"His'n? What does HE want with a pew?"



"Wants it to set in. What did you RECKON he wanted


with it?"



"Why, I thought he'd be in the pulpit."



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:



"Blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one


preacher to a church?"



"Why, what do they want with more?"



"What! -- to preach before a king? I never did


see such a girl as you. They don't have no less than


seventeen."



"Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn't set out


such a string as that, not if I NEVER got to glory. It


must take 'em a week."



"Shucks, they don't ALL of 'em preach the same


day -- only ONE of 'em."



 


"Well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?"



"Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate


-- and one thing or another. But mainly they don't


do nothing."



"Well, then, what are they FOR?"



"Why, they're for STYLE. Don't you know noth-


ing?"



"Well, I don't WANT to know no such foolishness as


that. How is servants treated in England? Do they


treat 'em better 'n we treat our niggers?"



"NO! A servant ain't nobody there. They treat


them worse than dogs."



"Don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do,


Christmas and New Year's week, and Fourth of July?"



"Oh, just listen! A body could tell YOU hain't ever


been to England by that. Why, Hare-l -- 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."



"Nor church?"



"Nor church."



"But YOU always went to church."



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 HAD to go to church whether


he wanted to or not, and set with the family, on ac-


count 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:



"Honest injun, now, hain't you been telling me a


lot of lies?"



"Honest injun," says I.



"None of it at all?"



"None of it at all. Not a lie in it," says I.



"Lay your hand on this book and say it."



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:



"Well, then, I'll believe some of it; but I hope to


gracious if I'll believe the rest."



"What is it you won't believe, Joe?" 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?"



"That's always your way, Maim -- 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 DID say. I reckon he can stand a little


thing like that, can't he?"



"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 THEM


feel ashamed."



"Why, Maim, he said --"



"It don't make no difference what he SAID -- that


ain't the thing. The thing is for you to treat him


KIND, and not be saying things to make him remember


he ain't in his own country and amongst his own


folks."



I says to myself, THIS is a girl that I'm letting that


old reptle rob her of her money!



Then Susan SHE waltzed in; and if you'll believe


me, she did give Hare-lip hark from the tomb!



Says I to myself, and this is ANOTHER one that I'm


letting him rob her of her money!



Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went


in sweet and lovely again -- which was her way; but


when she got done there warn't hardly anything left o'


poor Hare-lip. So she hollered.



"All right, then," says the other girls; "you just


ask his pardon."



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.



I says to myself, this is ANOTHER 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.



So then I lit out -- 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 -- 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 --


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.



So, thinks I, I'll go and search them rooms. Up-


stairs 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 -- 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:



"Well, what is it? And cut it middlin' short, be-


cause 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."



"Well, this is it, Capet. I ain't easy; I ain't com-


fortable. 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."



"What is it, duke?"



"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 -- GIVEN 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."



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:



"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? -- and all good, salable


stuff, too."



The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was


enough, and he didn't want to go no deeper -- didn't


want to rob a lot of orphans of EVERYTHING they had.



"Why, how you talk!" says the king. "We


sha'n't rob 'em of nothing at all but jest this money.


The people that BUYS the property is the suff'rers;


because as soon 's it's found out 'at we didn't own


it -- which won't be long after we've slid -- the sale


won't be valid, and it 'll all go back to the estate.


These yer orphans 'll git their house back agin, and


that's enough for THEM; they're young and spry, and


k'n easy earn a livin'. THEY ain't a-goin to suffer.


Why, jest think -- there's thous'n's and thous'n's that


ain't nigh so well off. Bless you, THEY ain't got noth'n'


to complain of."



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:



"Cuss the doctor! What do we k'yer for HIM?


Hain't we got all the fools in town on our side? And


ain't that a big enough majority in any town?"



So they got ready to go down stairs again. The


duke says:



"I don't think we put that money in a good place."



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:



"Why?"



"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?"



"Your head's level agin, 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.



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.



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.



 


CHAPTER XXVII.



I CREPT to their doors and listened; they was snor-


ing. So I tiptoed along, and got down stairs 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 re-


mainders 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, show-


ing 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.



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.



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 WANTED 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 -- 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.



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.



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.



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 keep-


ing 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 -- because people always


blows them more at a funeral than they do at other


places except church.



When the place was packed full the undertaker he


slid around in his black gloves with his softy soother-


ing 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.



They had borrowed a melodeum -- 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


-- 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 -- 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 get-


ting 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 under-


taker'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, "HE HAD A RAT!" 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.



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? -- now how do 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!



They buried him, and we come back home, and I


went to watching faces again -- I couldn't help it, and


I couldn't rest easy. But nothing come of it; the


faces didn't tell me nothing.                                



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 congrega-


tion 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 every-


body too, because then the girls would be well fixed and


amongst their own relations; and it pleased the girls,


too -- 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.



Well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and


the niggers and all the property for auction straight


off -- sale two days after the funeral; but anybody


could buy private beforehand if they wanted to.



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.



The thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a


good many come out flatfooted and said it was scandal-


ous 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.



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:



"Was you in my room night before last?"



"No, your majesty" -- which was the way I always


called him when nobody but our gang warn't around.



"Was you in there yisterday er last night?"



"No, your majesty."



"Honor bright, now -- no lies."



"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."



The duke says:



"Have you seen anybody else go in there?"



"No, your grace, not as I remember, I believe."



"Stop and think."



I studied awhile and see my chance; then I says:



"Well, I see the niggers go in there several times."



Both of them gave a little jump, and looked like


they hadn't ever expected it, and then like they HAD.


Then the duke says:



"What, all of them?"



"No -- leastways, not all at once -- that is, I don't


think I ever see them all come OUT at once but just one


time."



"Hello! When was that?"



"It was the day we had the funeral. In the morn-


ing. It warn't early, because I overslept. I was just


starting down the ladder, and I see them."



"Well, go on, GO on! What did they do? How'd


they act?"



"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 WARN'T 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."



"Great guns, THIS 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:



"It does beat all how neat the niggers played their


hand. They let on to be SORRY they was going out of


this region! And I believed they WAS sorry, and so


did you, and so did everybody. Don't ever tell ME


any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic talent.


Why, the way they played that thing it would fool


ANYBODY. 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 -- and here we've gone and sold 'em


for a song. Yes, and ain't privileged to sing the song


yet. Say, where IS that song -- that draft?"



"In the bank for to be collected. Where WOULD it


be?"



"Well, THAT'S all right then, thank goodness."



Says I, kind of timid-like:



"Is something gone wrong?"



The king whirls on me and rips out:



"None o' your business! You keep your head


shet, and mind y'r own affairs -- if you got any.


Long as you're in this town don't you forgit THAT --


you hear?" Then he says to the duke, "We got to


jest swaller it and say noth'n': mum's the word for US."



As they was starting down the ladder the duke he


chuckles again, and says:



"Quick sales AND small profits! It's a good busi-


ness -- yes."



The king snarls around on him and says:



"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?"



"Well, THEY'D be in this house yet and we WOULDN'T


if I could a got my advice listened to."



The king sassed back as much as was safe for him,


and then swapped around and lit into ME again. He


give me down the banks for not coming and TELLING


him I see the niggers come out of his room acting that


way -- said any fool would a KNOWED something was


up. And then waltzed in and cussed HIMSELF 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 on to the niggers,


and yet hadn't done the niggers no harm by it.



 


CHAPTER XXVIII.



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 -- 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:



"Miss Mary Jane, you can't a-bear to see people


in trouble, and I can't -- most always. Tell me


about it."



So she done it. And it was the niggers -- I just


expected it. She said the beautiful trip to England


was most about spoiled for her; she didn't know HOW


she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the


mother and the children warn't ever going to see


each other no more -- and then busted out bitterer


than ever, and flung up her hands, and says:



"Oh, dear, dear, to think they ain't EVER going to


see each other any more!"



"But they WILL -- and inside of two weeks -- and I


KNOW it!" says I.



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 AGAIN, say it AGAIN, say it AGAIN!



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 ex-


cited 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 SAFER 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 like setting down on a


kag of powder and touching it off just to see where


you'll go to. Then I says:



"Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a


little ways where you could go and stay three or four


days?"



"Yes; Mr. Lothrop's. Why?"



"Never mind why yet. If I'll tell you how I know


the niggers will see each other again inside of two


weeks -- here in this house -- and PROVE how I know


it -- will you go to Mr. Lothrop's and stay four days?"



"Four days!" she says; "I'll stay a year!"



"All right," I says, "I don't want nothing more


out of YOU than just your word -- I druther have it than


another man's kiss-the-Bible." She smiled and red-


dened up very sweet, and I says, "If you don't mind


it, I'll shut the door -- and bolt it."



Then I come back and set down again, and says:



"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 -- regular dead-beats. There, now we're


over the worst of it, you can stand the rest middling


easy."



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 on to the king's


breast at the front door and he kissed her sixteen or


seventeen times -- and then up she jumps, with her


face afire like sunset, and says:



"The brute! Come, don't waste a minute -- not a


SECOND -- we'll have them tarred and feathered, and


flung in the river!"



Says I:



"Cert'nly. But do you mean BEFORE you go to Mr.


Lothrop's, or --"



"Oh," she says, "what am I THINKING about!"


she says, and set right down again. "Don't mind


what I said -- please don't -- you WON'T, now, WILL


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."



"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 -- 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 HIM, hain't we? Of course. Well, then, we


won't blow on them."



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 any-


body aboard to answer questions but me; so I didn't


want the plan to begin working till pretty late to-night.


I says:



"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?"



"A little short of four miles -- right out in the


country, back here."



"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 -- 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 TILL eleven, and THEN 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."



"Good," she says, "I'll do it."



"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."



"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.



"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 WAS 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


-- 'Royal Nonesuch, Bricksville.' Put it away, and


don't lose it. When the court wants to find out some-


thing 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 -- why, you'll


have that entire town down here before you can hardly


wink, Miss Mary. And they'll come a-biling, too."



I judged we had got everything fixed about right


now. So I says:



"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 -- it warn't no sale, and the niggers will be


back before long. Why, they can't collect the money


for the NIGGERS yet -- they're in the worst kind of a


fix, Miss Mary."



"Well," she says, "I'll run down to breakfast now,


and then I'll start straight for Mr. Lothrop's."



"'Deed, THAT ain't the ticket, Miss Mary Jane," I


says, "by no manner of means; go BEFORE breakfast."



"Why?"



"What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all


for, Miss Mary?"



"Well, I never thought -- and come to think, I


don't know. What was it?"



"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 --"



"There, there, don't! Yes, I'll go before break-


fast -- I'll be glad to. And leave my sisters with


them?"



"Yes; never mind about them. They've got to


stand it yet a while. 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 neigh-


bor 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."



"Gone to see a friend is all right, but I won't have


my love given to them."



"Well, then, it sha'n't be." It was well enough to


tell HER so -- 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


-- that bag of money."



"Well, they've got that; and it makes me feel


pretty silly to think HOW they got it."



"No, you're out, there. They hain't got it."



"Why, who's got it?"



"I wish I knowed, but I don't. I HAD 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 -- and


it warn't a good place."



"Oh, stop blaming yourself -- it's too bad to do it,


and I won't allow it -- you couldn't help it; it wasn't


your fault. Where did you hide it?"



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:



"I'd ruther not TELL 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?"



"Oh, yes."



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."



It made my eyes water a little to remember her cry-


ing 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:



"GOOD-bye. 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 PRAY for you, too!" -- and


she was gone.



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 -- she was just that kind.


She had the grit to pray for Judus if she took the


notion -- 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 -- and goodness, too -- 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 HER, blamed if I wouldn't


a done it or bust.



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:



"What's the name of them people over on t'other


side of the river that you all goes to see sometimes?"



They says:



"There's several; but it's the Proctors, mainly."



"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 -- one of them's


sick."



"Which one?"



"I don't know; leastways, I kinder forget; but I


thinks it's --"



"Sakes alive, I hope it ain't HANNER?"



"I'm sorry to say it," I says, "but Hanner's the


very one."



"My goodness, and she so well only last week! Is


she took bad?"



"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."



"Only think of that, now! What's the matter with


her?"



I couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off


that way, so I says:



"Mumps."



"Mumps your granny! They don't set up with


people that's got the mumps."



"They don't, don't they? You better bet they do


with THESE mumps. These mumps is different. It's a


new kind, Miss Mary Jane said."



"How's it a new kind?"



"Because it's mixed up with other things."



"What other things?"



"Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas,


and consumption, and yaller janders, and brain-fever,


and I don't know what all."



"My land! And they call it the MUMPS?"



"That's what Miss Mary Jane said."



"Well, what in the nation do they call it the MUMPS


for?"



"Why, because it IS the mumps. That's what it


starts with."



"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 some-


body come along and ask what killed him, and some


numskull up and say, 'Why, he stumped his TOE.'


Would ther' be any sense in that? NO. And ther'


ain't no sense in THIS, nuther. Is it ketching?"



"Is it KETCHING? Why, how you talk. Is a HARROW


catching -- 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 -- and


it ain't no slouch of a harrow, nuther, you come to


get it hitched on good."



"Well, it's awful, I think," says the hare-lip.


"I'll go to Uncle Harvey and --"



"Oh, yes," I says, "I WOULD. Of COURSE I would.


I wouldn't lose no time."



"Well, why wouldn't you?"



"Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see.


Hain't your uncles obleegd to get along home to Eng-


land 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? YOU know they'll wait for


you. So fur, so good. Your uncle Harvey's a


preacher, ain't he? Very well, then; is a PREACHER


going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to


deceive a SHIP CLERK? -- so as to get them to let Miss


Mary Jane go aboard? Now YOU know he ain't.


What WILL 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 --"



"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."



"Well, anyway, maybe you'd better tell some of


the neighbors."



"Listen at that, now. You do beat all for natural


stupidness. Can't you SEE that THEY'D go and tell?


Ther' ain't no way but just to not tell anybody at ALL."



"Well, maybe you're right -- yes, I judge you ARE


right."



"But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she's


gone out a while, anyway, so he won't be uneasy


about her?"



"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.' -- Mr. -- what IS the name of that


rich family your uncle Peter used to think so much


of? -- I mean the one that --"



"Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain't it?"



"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 Proc-


tors, but only about the Apthorps -- which 'll be per-


fectly true, because she is going there to speak about


their buying the house; I know it, because she told


me so herself."



"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.



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 -- 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.



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 sym-


pathy all he knowed how, and just spreading himself


generly.



But by and by the thing dragged through, and


everything was sold -- everything but a little old trifling


lot in the graveyard. So they'd got to work that off


-- I never see such a girafft as the king was for want-


ing to swallow EVERYTHING. 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:



"HERE'S your opposition line! here's your two sets


o' heirs to old Peter Wilks -- and you pays your


money and you takes your choice!"



 


CHAPTER XXIX.



THEY was fetching a very nice-looking old gentle-


man 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 THEY 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 puz-


zled to death. Pretty soon he begun to speak, and I


see straight off he pronounced LIKE an Englishman --


not the king's way, though the king's WAS 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:



"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' brother Harvey, and this is his brother William,


which can't hear nor speak -- 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."



So him and the new dummy started off; and the king


he laughs, and blethers out:



"Broke his arm -- VERY likely, AIN'T it? -- and very


convenient, too, for a fraud that's got to make signs,


and ain't learnt how. Lost their baggage! That's


MIGHTY good! -- and mighty ingenious -- under the


CIRCUMSTANCES!



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 -- 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 gentleman said, and was listening to the


king now. And when the king got done this husky


up and says:



"Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when'd


you come to this town?"



"The day before the funeral, friend," says the king.



"But what time o' day?"



"In the evenin' -- 'bout an hour er two before sun-


down."



"HOW'D you come?"



"I come down on the Susan Powell from Cincin-


nati."



"Well, then, how'd you come to be up at the Pint


in the MORNIN' -- in a canoe?"



"I warn't up at the Pint in the mornin'."



"It's a lie."



Several of them jumped for him and begged him not


to talk that way to an old man and a preacher.



"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."



The doctor he up and says:



"Would you know the boy again if you was to see


him, Hines?"



"I reckon I would, but I don't know. Why,


yonder he is, now. I know him perfectly easy."



It was me he pointed at. The doctor says:



"Neighbors, I don't know whether the new couple


is frauds or not; but if THESE 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 SOMETHING before we get through."



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.



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:



"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 -- ain't that so?"



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:



"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."



"Where is it, then?"



"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, gentle-


men."



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:



"Are YOU English, too?"



I says yes; and him and some others laughed, and


said, "Stuff!"



Well, then they sailed in on the general investiga-


tion, 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 -- and so they kept it


up, and kept it up; and it WAS 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 any-


body but a lot of prejudiced chuckleheads would a SEEN


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:



"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."



I didn't care nothing for the compliment, but I was


glad to be let off, anyway.



The doctor he started to say something, and turns


and says:



"If you'd been in town at first, Levi Bell --


"


The king broke in and reached out his hand, and


says:



"Why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend


that he's wrote so often about?"



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:



"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."



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 -- 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:



"You and your brother please write a line or two


and sign your names."



The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't read


it. The lawyer looked powerful astonished, and says:



"Well, it beats ME -- and snaked a lot of old letters


out of his pocket, and examined them, and then ex-


amined the old man's writing, and then THEM again;


and then says: "These old letters is from Harvey


Wilks; and here's THESE two handwritings, and any-


body can see they 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 THIS old


gentleman's hand writing, and anybody can tell, easy


enough, HE didn't write them -- fact is, the scratches


he makes ain't properly WRITING at all. Now, here's


some letters from --"



The new old gentleman says:



"If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read


my hand but my brother there -- so he copies for me.


It's HIS hand you've got there, not mine."



"WELL!" says the lawyer, "this IS 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 --"



"He CAN'T 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 -- they're by the same


hand."



The lawyer done it, and says:



"I believe it's so -- 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 any-


way, one thing is proved -- THESE two ain't either of


'em Wilkses" -- and he wagged his head towards the


king and the duke.



Well, what do you think? That muleheaded old


fool wouldn't give in THEN! 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 tried


to write -- HE 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 HIM-


SELF; but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and


says:



"I've thought of something. Is there anybody


here that helped to lay out my br -- helped to lay out


the late Peter Wilks for burying?"



"Yes," says somebody, "me and Ab Turner done


it. We're both here."



Then the old man turns towards the king, and


says:



"Peraps this gentleman can tell me what was


tattooed on his breast?"



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 ANYBODY sqush to get fetched such a solid one as


that without any notice, because how was HE 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, NOW he'll throw up


the sponge -- 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:



"Mf! It's a VERY tough question, AIN'T it! YES,


sir, I k'n tell you what's tattooed on his breast. It's


jest a small, thin, blue arrow -- that's what it is; and


if you don't look clost, you can't see it. NOW what


do you say -- hey?"



Well, I never see anything like that old blister for


clean out-and-out cheek.



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 THIS time, and says:



"There -- you've heard what he said! Was there


any such mark on Peter Wilks' breast?"



Both of them spoke up and says:



"We didn't see no such mark."



"Good!" says the old gentleman. "Now, what


you DID 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, with dashes between them, so: P -- B --


W" -- and he marked them that way on a piece of


paper. "Come, ain't that what you saw?"



Both of them spoke up again, and says:



"No, we DIDN'T. We never seen any marks at all."



Well, everybody WAS in a state of mind now, and


they sings out:



"The whole BILIN' 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 rat-


tling powwow. But the lawyer he jumps on the table


and yells, and says:



"Gentlemen -- gentleMEN! Hear me just a word --


just a SINGLE word -- if you PLEASE! There's one way


yet -- let's go and dig up the corpse and look."



That took them.



"Hooray!" they all shouted, and was starting right


off; but the lawyer and the doctor sung out:



"Hold on, hold on! Collar all these four men and


the boy, and fetch THEM along, too!"



"We'll do it!" they all shouted; "and if we don't


find them marks we'll lynch the whole gang!"



I WAS 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.



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.



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 --



I couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, some-


how, 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 -- Hines -- 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.



When they got there they swarmed into the grave-


yard 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 light-


ning, and sent a man to the nearest house, a half a


mile off, to borrow one.



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.



At last they got out the coffin and begun to unscrew


the lid, and then such another crowding and shoulder-


ing 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.



All of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice


of white glare, and somebody sings out:



"By the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his


breast!"



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.



I had the road all to myself, and I fairly flew --


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!



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 --


which made me feel sorry and disappointed, I didn't


know why. But at last, just as I was sailing by, FLASH


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 WAS the best girl I ever see, and had the


most sand.



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:



"Out with you, Jim, and set her loose! Glory be


to goodness, we're shut of them!"



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:



"Not now; have it for breakfast, have it for break-


fast! Cut loose and let her slide!"



So in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the


river, and it DID 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 -- 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! -- and just a-


laying to their oars and making their skiff hum! It


was the king and the duke.



So I wilted right down on to the planks then, and


give up; and it was all I could do to keep from crying.



 


CHAPTER XXX.



WHEN they got aboard the king went for me, and


shook me by the collar, and says:



"Tryin' to give us the slip, was ye, you pup!


Tired of our company, hey?"



I says:



"No, your majesty, we warn't -- PLEASE don't, your


majesty!"



"Quick, then, and tell us what WAS your idea, or


I'll shake the insides out o' you!"



"Honest, I'll tell you everything just as it hap-


pened, 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 whis-


pers, 'Heel it now, or they'll hang ye, sure!' and I


lit out. It didn't seem no good for ME to stay -- I


couldn't do nothing, and I didn't want to be hung 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 MIGHTY likely!" and


shook me up again, and said he reckoned he'd drownd


me. But the duke says:



"Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would YOU a done


any different? Did you inquire around for HIM when


you got loose? I don't remember it."



So the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that


town and everybody in it. But the duke says:



"You better a blame' sight give YOURSELF 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 WAS bright --


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 -- and then --


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 -- cravats warranted to WEAR, too


-- longer than WE'D need 'em."



They was still a minute -- thinking; then the king


says, kind of absent-minded like:



"Mf! And we reckoned the NIGGERS stole it!"



That made me squirm!



"Yes," says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate


and sarcastic, "WE did."



After about a half a minute the king drawls out:



"Leastways, I did."



The duke says, the same way:



"On the contrary, I did."



The king kind of ruffles up, and says:



"Looky here, Bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?"



The duke says, pretty brisk:



"When it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask,


what was YOU referring to?"



"Shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but I


don't know -- maybe you was asleep, and didn't know


what you was about."



The duke bristles up now, and says:



"Oh, let UP 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?"



"YES, sir! I know you DO know, because you done


it yourself!"



"It's a lie!" -- and the duke went for him. The


king sings out:



"Take y'r hands off! -- leggo my throat! -- I take it


all back!"



The duke says:



"Well, you just own up, first, that you DID 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."



"Wait jest a minute, duke -- 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 every-


thing I said."



"You old scoundrel, I didn't, and you know I


didn't. There, now!"



"Well, then, I b'lieve you. But answer me only


jest this one more -- now DON'T git mad; didn't you


have it in your mind to hook the money and hide it?"



The duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he


says:



"Well, I don't care if I DID, I didn't DO it, anyway.


But you not only had it in mind to do it, but you


DONE it."



"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


WAS; but you -- I mean somebody -- got in ahead o'


me."



"It's a lie! You done it, and you got to SAY you


done it, or --"



The king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out:



"'Nough! -- I OWN UP!"



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:



"If you ever deny it again I'll drown you. It's


WELL for you to set there and blubber like a baby -- it's


fitten for you, after the way you've acted. I never


see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble every-


thing -- and I a-trusting you all the time, like you was


my own father. You ought to been ashamed of your-


self 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 BELIEVE


that rubbage. Cuss you, I can see now why you was


so anxious to make up the deffisit -- you wanted to


get what money I'd got out of the Nonesuch and one


thing or another, and scoop it ALL!"



The king says, timid, and still a-snuffling:



"Why, duke, it was you that said make up the


deffisit; it warn't me."



"Dry up! I don't want to hear no more out of


you!" says the duke. "And NOW you see what you


GOT by it. They've got all their own money back, and


all of OURN but a shekel or two BESIDES. G'long to bed,


and don't you deffersit ME no more deffersits, long 's


YOU live!"



So the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to


his bottle for comfort, and before long the duke tackled


HIS 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.



 


CHAPTER XXXI.



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.



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 mesmeriz-


ing, 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.



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 MEAN," 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 -- 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.



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 -- and maybe a chance for THE


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 bullyrag-


ging 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:



"Set her loose, Jim! we're all right now!"



But there warn't no answer, and nobody come out


of the wigwam. Jim was gone! I set up a shout --


and then another -- and then another one; and run


this way and that in the woods, whooping and screech-


ing; but it warn't no use -- 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:



"Yes."



"Whereabouts?" says I.



"Down to Silas Phelps' place, two mile below


here. He's a runaway nigger, and they've got him.


Was you looking for him?"



"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 -- and told me to lay down and


stay where I was; and I done it. Been there ever


since; afeard to come out."



"Well," he says, "you needn't be afeard no more,


becuz they've got him. He run off f'm down South,


som'ers."



"It's a good job they got him."



"Well, I RECKON! There's two hunderd dollars re-


ward on him. It's like picking up money out'n the


road."



"Yes, it is -- and I could a had it if I'd been big


enough; I see him FIRST. Who nailed him?"



"It was an old fellow -- a stranger -- 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'D wait, if it was seven year."



"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."



"But it IS, though -- straight as a string. I see the


handbill myself. It tells all about him, to a dot --


paints him like a picture, and tells the plantation he's


frum, below NewrLEANS. No-sirree-BOB, they ain't no


trouble 'bout THAT speculation, you bet you. Say,


gimme a chaw tobacker, won't ye?"



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.



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 GOT 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


ME! 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 feel-


ing. 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."



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 ME, 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 ON 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 SAY 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 -- I found that out.



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 -- 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:



   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.



                                  HUCK FINN.



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 -- 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, some-


times 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 sleep-


ing; 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 small-pox aboard,


and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend


old Jim ever had in the world, and the ONLY one he's


got now; and then I happened to look around and see


that paper.



It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in


my hand. I was a-trembling, because I'd got to de-


cide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I


studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then


says to myself:



"All right, then, I'll GO to hell" -- 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; be-


cause as long as I was in, and in for good, I might as


well go the whole hog.



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.



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 -- 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 --


three-night performance -- like that other time. They


had the cheek, them frauds! I was right on him be-


fore I could shirk. He looked astonished, and says:



"Hel-LO! Where'd YOU come from?" Then he


says, kind of glad and eager, "Where's the raft? --


got her in a good place?"



I says:



"Why, that's just what I was going to ask your


grace."



Then he didn't look so joyful, and says:



"What was your idea for asking ME?" he says.



"Well," I says, "when I see the king in that dog-


gery 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 noth-


ing, and no way to make my living;' so I set down


and cried. I slept in the woods all night. But what


DID become of the raft, then? -- and Jim -- poor Jim!"



"Blamed if I know -- 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.'"



"I wouldn't shake my NIGGER, would I? -- the only


nigger I had in the world, and the only property."



"We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we'd


come to consider him OUR nigger; yes, we did consider


him so -- 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."



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:



"Do you reckon that nigger would blow on us?


We'd skin him if he done that!"



"How can he blow? Hain't he run off?"



"No! That old fool sold him, and never divided


with me, and the money's gone."



"SOLD him?" I says, and begun to cry; "why, he


was MY nigger, and that was my money. Where is


he? -- I want my nigger."



"Well, you can't GET your nigger, that's all -- so


dry up your blubbering. Looky here -- do you think


YOU'D venture to blow on us? Blamed if I think I'd


trust you. Why, if you WAS to blow on us --"



He stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly out


of his eyes before. I went on a-whimpering, and says:



"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."



He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his


bills fluttering on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up


his forehead. At last he says:



"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."



So I promised, and he says:



"A farmer by the name of Silas Ph----" 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:



"The man that bought him is named Abram Foster


-- Abram G. Foster -- and he lives forty mile back


here in the country, on the road to Lafayette."



"All right," I says, "I can walk it in three days.


And I'll start this very afternoon."



"No you wont, you'll start NOW; 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 US, d'ye hear?"



That was the order I wanted, and that was the one I


played for. I wanted to be left free to work my plans.



"So clear out," he says; "and you can tell Mr.


Foster whatever you want to. Maybe you can get


him to believe that Jim IS your nigger -- some idiots


don't require documents -- 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


BETWEEN here and there."



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'. 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.



 


CHAPTER XXXII.



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 lone-


some 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 whisper-


ing -- spirits that's been dead ever so many years --


and you always think they're talking about YOU. As a


general thing it makes a body wish HE was dead, too,


and done with it all.



Phelps' was one of these little one-horse cotton plan-


tations, 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 on to 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 -- 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 smoke-


house back of the kitchen; three little log nigger-cabins


in a row t'other side the smoke-house; 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.



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 -- for


that IS the lonesomest sound in the whole world.



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.



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 -- spokes made out of dogs -- 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 sail-


ing over fences and around corners from everywheres.



A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with


a rolling-pin in her hand, singing out, "Begone YOU


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.



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 -- and says:



"It's YOU, at last! -- AIN'T it?"



I out with a "Yes'm" before I thought.



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! -- tell him howdy."



But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in


their mouths, and hid behind her. So she run on:



"Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right


away -- or did you get your breakfast on the boat?"



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:



"Now I can have a GOOD 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? -- boat get aground?"



"Yes'm -- she --"



"Don't say yes'm -- say Aunt Sally. Where'd she


get aground?"



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 -- 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 -- or -- Now I struck an idea,


and fetched it out:



"It warn't the grounding -- that didn't keep us back


but a little. We blowed out a cylinder-head."



"Good gracious! anybody hurt?"



"No'm. Killed a nigger."



"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 DID die. Mortification set in, and they had to


amputate him. But it didn't save him. Yes, it was


mortification -- 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? -- oldish man, with a --"



"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."



"Who'd you give the baggage to?"



"Nobody."



"Why, child, it 'll be stole!"



"Not where I hid it I reckon it won't," I says.



"How'd you get your breakfast so early on the


boat?"



It was kinder thin ice, but I says:



"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."



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:



"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 EVERYTHING -- tell me all about 'm all


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."



Well, I see I was up a stump -- 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 -- 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:



"Here he comes! Stick your head down lower --


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."



I see I was in a fix 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.



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?"



"No," says her husband.



"Good-NESS gracious!" she says, "what in the


warld can have become of him?"



"I can't imagine," says the old gentleman; "and


I must say it makes me dreadful uneasy."



"Uneasy!" she says; "I'm ready to go distracted!


He MUST a come; and you've missed him along the


road. I KNOW it's so -- something tells me so."



"Why, Sally, I COULDN'T miss him along the road --


YOU know that."



"But oh, dear, dear, what WILL Sis say! He must a


come! You must a missed him. He --"



"Oh, don't distress me any more'n I'm already dis-


tressed. 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 COULDN'T come and me miss him.


Sally, it's terrible -- just terrible -- something's hap-


pened to the boat, sure!"



"Why, Silas! Look yonder! -- up the road! -- ain't


that somebody coming?"



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-smil-


ing like a house afire, and I standing pretty meek and


sweaty alongside. The old gentleman stared, and


says:



"Why, who's that?"



"Who do you reckon 't is?"



"I hain't no idea. Who IS it?"



"It's TOM SAWYER!"



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 shak-


ing; 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.



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 -- I mean the Sawyer family -- than


ever happened to any six Sawyer families. And I ex-


plained 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; be-


cause THEY 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.



Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one


side, and pretty uncomfortable all up the other. Be-


ing 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?



Well, I couldn't HAVE 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.



 


CHAPTER XXXIII.



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:



"I hain't ever done you no harm. You know that.


So, then, what you want to come back and ha'nt ME


for?"



I says:



"I hain't come back -- I hain't been GONE."



When he heard my voice it righted him up some, but


he warn't quite satisfied yet. He says:



"Don't you play nothing on me, because I wouldn't


on you. Honest injun, you ain't a ghost?"



"Honest injun, I ain't," I says.



"Well -- I -- I -- 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 AT ALL?"



"No. I warn't ever murdered at all -- I played it


on them. You come in here and feel of me if you


don't believe me."



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:



"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."



I says:



"All right; but wait a minute. There's one more


thing -- a thing that NOBODY 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 JIM -- old Miss Wat-


son's Jim."



He says:



" What ! Why, Jim is --"



He stopped and went to studying. I says:



"I know what you'll say. You'll say it's dirty, low-


down business; but what if it is? I'm low down; and


I'm a-going to steal him, and I want you keep mum


and not let on. Will you?"



His eye lit up, and he says:



"I'll HELP you steal him!"



Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It


was the most astonishing speech I ever heard -- and


I'm bound to say Tom Sawyer fell considerable in my


estimation. Only I couldn't believe it. Tom Sawyer a


NIGGER-STEALER!



"Oh, shucks!" I says; "you're joking."



"I ain't joking, either."



"Well, then," I says, "joking or no joking, if you


hear anything said about a runaway nigger, don't for-


get to remember that YOU don't know nothing about


him, and I don't know nothing about him."



Then we 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:



"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 -- not a


hair. It's wonderful. Why, I wouldn't take a hundred


dollars for that horse now -- I wouldn't, honest; and


yet I'd a sold her for fifteen before, and thought 'twas


all she was worth."



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 noth-


ing for his preaching, and it was worth it, too. There


was plenty other farmer-preachers like that, and done


the same way, down South.



In about half an hour Tom's wagon drove up to the


front stile, and Aunt Sally she see it through the win-


dow, because it was only about fifty yards, and says:



"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."



Everybody made a rush for the front door, because,


of course, a stranger don't come EVERY 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 -- and that


was always nuts for Tom Sawyer. In them circum-


stances 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:



"Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?"



"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."



Tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says,


"Too late -- he's out of sight."



"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."



"Oh, I CAN'T make you so much trouble; I couldn't


think of it. I'll walk -- I don't mind the distance."



"But we won't LET you walk -- it wouldn't be South-


ern hospitality to do it. Come right in."



"Oh, DO," 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 disap-


point us. Come right in and make yourself at home."



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 -- and he


made another bow.



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:



"You owdacious puppy!"



He looked kind of hurt, and says:



"I'm surprised at you, m'am."



"You're s'rp -- Why, what do you reckon I am?


I've a good notion to take and -- Say, what do you


mean by kissing me?"



He looked kind of humble, and says:



"I didn't mean nothing, m'am. I didn't mean no


harm. I -- I -- thought you'd like it."



"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?"



"Well, I don't know. Only, they -- they -- told


me you would."



"THEY told you I would. Whoever told you's


ANOTHER lunatic. I never heard the beat of it. Who's


THEY?"



"Why, everybody. They all said so, m'am."



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:



"Who's 'everybody'? Out with their names, or


ther'll be an idiot short."



He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his


hat, and says:



"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 -- every one of


them. But I'm sorry, m'am, and I won't do it no


more -- I won't, honest."



"You won't, won't you? Well, I sh'd RECKON you


won't!"



"No'm, I'm honest about it; I won't ever do it


again -- till you ask me."



"Till I ASK you! Well, I never see the beat of it in


my born days! I lay you'll be the Methusalem-num-


skull of creation before ever I ask you -- or the likes of


you."



"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 --" 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 YOU think she'd like


me to kiss her, sir?"



"Why, no; I -- I -- well, no, I b'lieve I didn't."



Then he looks on around the same way to me, and


says:



"Tom, didn't YOU think Aunt Sally 'd open out her


arms and say, 'Sid Sawyer --'"



"My land!" she says, breaking in and jumping for


him, "you impudent young rascal, to fool a body


so --" and was going to hug him, but he fended her


off, and says:



"No, not till you've asked me first."



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:



"Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We


warn't looking for YOU at all, but only Tom. Sis never


wrote to me about anybody coming but him."



"It's because it warn't INTENDED 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, com-


ing 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."



"No -- 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 -- I'd be willing to stand a thousand such


jokes to have you here. Well, to think of that per-


formance! I don't deny it, I was most putrified with


astonishment when you give me that smack."



We had dinner out in that broad open passage be-


twixt the house and the kitchen; and there was things


enough on that table for seven families -- 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.


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:



"Pa, mayn't Tom and Sid and me go to the show?"



"No," says the old man, "I reckon there ain't go-


ing to be any; and you couldn't go if there was; be-


cause 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 loaf-


ers out of town before this time."



So there it was! -- but 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.



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  -- here comes a


raging rush of people with torches, and an awful


whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blow-


ing 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 -- that is, I knowed it WAS


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 -- 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 CAN be awful cruel to one another.



We see we was too late -- 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.



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 -- 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 anyway. 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.



 


CHAPTER XXXIV.



WE stopped talking, and got to thinking. By and by


Tom says:



"Looky here, Huck, what fools we are to not think


of it before! I bet I know where Jim is."



"No! Where?"



"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?"



"Yes."



"What did you think the vittles was for?"



"For a dog."



"So 'd I. Well, it wasn't for a dog."



"Why?"



"Because part of it was watermelon."



"So it was -- I noticed it. Well, it does beat all


that I never thought about a dog not eating water-


melon. It shows how a body can see and don't see at


the same time."



"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 -- 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 -- 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."



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:



"Ready?"



"Yes," I says.



"All right -- bring it out."



"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 be-


fore. Wouldn't that plan work?"



"WORK? Why, cert'nly it would work, like rats


a-fighting. But it's too blame' simple; there ain't


nothing TO 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 break-


ing into a soap factory."



I never said nothing, because I warn't expecting noth-


ing different; but I knowed mighty well that whenever


he got HIS plan ready it wouldn't have none of them


objections to it.



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 bull-


inesses wherever he got a chance. And that is what


he done.



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 feel-


ing, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a


shame, and his family a shame, before everybody. I


COULDN'T understand it no way at all. It was outra-


geous, 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 DID start


to tell him; but he shut me up, and says:



"Don't you reckon I know what I'm about? Don't


I generly know what I'm about?"



"Yes."



"Didn't I SAY I was going to help steal the nigger?"



"Yes."



"WELL, then."



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.



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 --


which was the north side -- we found a square window-


hole, up tolerable high, with just one stout board nailed


across it. I says:



"Here's the ticket. This hole's big enough for Jim


to get through if we wrench off the board."



Tom says:



"It's as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as


easy as playing hooky. I should HOPE we can find a


way that's a little more complicated than THAT, Huck


Finn."



"Well, then," I says, "how 'll it do to saw him out,


the way I done before I was murdered that time?"



"That's more LIKE," 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."



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


-- 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;



"Now we're all right. We'll DIG him out. It 'll


take about a week!"



Then we started for the house, and I went in the


back door -- you only have to pull a buckskin latch-


string, they don't fasten the doors -- 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.



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 -- if it WAS Jim that was


being fed. The niggers was just getting through break-


fast 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.



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 mak-


ing 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:



"What's the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?"



The nigger kind of smiled around graduly over his


face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle,


and he says:



"Yes, Mars Sid, A dog. Cur'us dog, too. Does


you want to go en look at 'im?"



"Yes."



I hunched Tom, and whispers:



"You going, right here in the daybreak? THAT


warn't the plan."



"No, it warn't; but it's the plan NOW."



So, drat him, we went along, but I didn't like it


much. When we got in we couldn't hardly see any-


thing, it was so dark; but Jim was there, sure enough,


and could see us; and he sings out:



"Why, HUCK! En good LAN'! ain' dat Misto Tom?"



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:



"Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genl-


men?"



We could see pretty well now. Tom he looked at


the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says:



"Does WHO know us?"



"Why, dis-yer runaway nigger."



"I don't reckon he does; but what put that into


your head?"



"What PUT it dar? Didn' he jis' dis minute sing


out like he knowed you?"



Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way:



"Well, that's mighty curious. WHO sung out?


WHEN did he sing out? WHAT did he sing out?"


And turns to me, perfectly ca'm, and says, "Did


YOU hear anybody sing out?"



Of course there warn't nothing to be said but the one


thing; so I says:



"No; I ain't heard nobody say nothing."



Then he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he


never see him before, and says:



"Did you sing out?"



"No, sah," says Jim; " I hain't said nothing, sah."



"Not a word?"



"No, sah, I hain't said a word."



"Did you ever see us before?"



"No, sah; not as I knows on."



So Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild


and distressed, and says, kind of severe:



"What do you reckon's the matter with you, any-


way? What made you think somebody sung out?"



"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 AIN'T no witches. I jis' wish to good-


ness he was heah now -- DEN what would he say! I


jis' bet he couldn' fine no way to git aroun' it DIS time.


But it's awluz jis' so; people dat's SOT, stays sot; dey


won't look into noth'n'en fine it out f'r deyselves, en


when YOU fine it out en tell um 'bout it, dey doan'


b'lieve you."



Tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn't tell no-


body; and told him to buy some more thread to tie up


his wool with; and then looks at Jim, and says:



"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:



"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."



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, be-


cause the witches went for him mostly in the dark, and


it was good to have folks around then.



 


CHAPTER XXXV.



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 SOME 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:



"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 watch-


man to be drugged -- now there OUGHT to be a watch-


man. There ain't even a dog to give a sleeping-mix-


ture 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 ALL 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 -- 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 LET ON that a lantern's resky. Why, we


could work with a torchlight procession if we wanted


to, 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."



"What do we want of a saw?"



"What do we WANT of a saw? Hain't we got to


saw the leg of Jim's bed off, so as to get the chain


loose?"



"Why, you just said a body could lift up the bed-


stead and slip the chain off."



"Well, if that ain't just like you, Huck Finn. You


CAN get up the infant-schooliest ways of going at a


thing. Why, hain't you ever read any books at all?


-- Baron Trenck, nor Casanova, nor Benvenuto Chel-


leeny, 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 authori-


ties 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 it's 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 -- because a rope


ladder is nineteen foot too short, you know -- 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."



I says:



"What do we want of a moat when we're going to


snake him out from under the cabin?"



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:



"No, it wouldn't do -- there ain't necessity enough


for it."



"For what?" I says.



"Why, to saw Jim's leg off," he says.



"Good land!" I says; "why, there ain't NO neces-


sity for it. And what would you want to saw his leg


off for, anyway?"



"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 -- 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."



"Why, Tom Sawyer, how you talk," I says; "Jim


ain't got no use for a rope ladder."



"He HAS got use for it. How YOU talk, you better


say; you don't know nothing about it. He's GOT to


have a rope ladder; they all do."



"What in the nation can he DO with it?"



"DO with it? He can hide it in his bed, can't he?"


That's what they all do; and HE'S 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 DON'T do nothing with it? ain't


it there in his bed, for a clew, after he's gone? and


don't you reckon they'll want clews? Of course they


will. And you wouldn't leave them any? That would


be a PRETTY howdy-do, WOULDN'T it! I never heard of


such a thing."



"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 -- 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 --"



"Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant as


you I'd keep still -- that's what I'D do. Who ever


heard of a state prisoner escaping by a hickry-bark


ladder? Why, it's perfectly ridiculous."



"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 clothesline."



He said that would do. And that gave him another


idea, and he says:



"Borrow a shirt, too."



"What do we want of a shirt, Tom?"



"Want it for Jim to keep a journal on."



"Journal your granny -- JIM can't write."



"S'pose he CAN'T write -- 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?"



"Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose


and make him a better one; and quicker, too."



"PRISONERS don't have geese running around the


donjon-keep to pull pens out of, you muggins. They


ALWAYS make their pens out of the hardest, toughest,


troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or some-


thing 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 rub-


bing it on the wall. THEY wouldn't use a goose-quill if


they had it. It ain't regular."



"Well, then, what'll we make him the ink out of?"



"Many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but


that's the common sort and women; the best authori-


ties 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."



"Jim ain't got no tin plates. They feed him in a


pan."



"That ain't nothing; we can get him some."



"Can't nobody READ his plates."



"That ain't got anything to DO with it, Huck Finn.


All HE'S got to do is to write on the plate and throw


it out. You don't HAVE 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."



"Well, then, what's the sense in wasting the plates?"



"Why, blame it all, it ain't the PRISONER'S plates."



"But it's SOMEBODY'S plates, ain't it?"



"Well, spos'n it is? What does the PRISONER care


whose --"



He broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-


horn blowing. So we cleared out for the house.



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 every-


thing 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 NEEDED. 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.



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:



"Everything's all right now except tools; and that's


easy fixed."



"Tools?" I says.



"Yes."



"Tools for what?"



"Why, to dig with. We ain't a-going to GNAW him


out, are we?"



"Ain't them old crippled picks and things in there


good enough to dig a nigger out with?" I says.



He turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a


body cry, and says:



"Huck Finn, did you EVER 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 -- if you got any reasonableness in you at all


-- what kind of a show would THAT give him to be a


hero? Why, they might as well lend him the key and


done with it. Picks and shovels -- why, they wouldn't


furnish 'em to a king."



"Well, then," I says, "if we don't want the picks


and shovels, what do we want?"



"A couple of case-knives."



"To dig the foundations out from under that cabin


with?"



"Yes."



"Confound it, it's foolish, Tom."



"It don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's


the RIGHT way -- and it's the regular way. And there


ain't no OTHER 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 -- 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 HE at it, you reckon?"



"I don't know."



"Well, guess."



"I don't know. A month and a half."



"THIRTY-SEVEN YEAR -- and he come out in China.


THAT'S the kind. I wish the bottom of THIS fortress


was solid rock."



"JIM don't know nobody in China."



"What's THAT 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?"



"All right -- I don't care where he comes out, so he


COMES out; and Jim don't, either, I reckon. But


there's one thing, anyway -- Jim's too old to be dug


out with a case-knife. He won't last."



"Yes he will LAST, too. You don't reckon it's going


to take thirty-seven years to dig out through a DIRT


foundation, do you?"



"How long will it take, Tom?"



"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 LET ON, 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."



"Now, there's SENSE 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."



"Smouch three," he says; "we want one to make


a saw out of."



"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


smoke-house."



He looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and


says:



"It ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, Huck.


Run along and smouch the knives -- three of them."


So I done it.



 


CHAPTER XXXVI.



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 mid-


dle 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 counter-


pin 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:



"This ain't no thirty-seven year job; this is a


thirty-eight year job, Tom Sawyer."



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:



"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 WE 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 --


couldn't touch a case-knife with them sooner."



"Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?"



"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 LET ON it's case-knives."



"NOW you're TALKING!" 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 water-


melon, 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 au-


thorities thinks about it nuther."



"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 -- 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 YOU to dig Jim out with a pick, WITHOUT 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."



He had his own by him, but I handed him mine.


He flung it down, and says:



"Gimme a CASE-KNIFE."



I didn't know just what to do -- but then I thought.


I scratched around amongst the old tools, and got a


pickaxe and give it to him, and he took it and went to


work, and never said a word.



He was always just that particular. Full of principle.



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:



"It ain't no use, it can't be done. What you


reckon I better do? Can't you think of no way?"



"Yes," I says, "but I reckon it ain't regular.


Come up the stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod."



So he done it.



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 -- then we could tote


them back and he could use them over again. So


Tom was satisfied. Then he says:



"Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the


things to Jim."



"Take them in through the hole," I says, "when


we get it done."



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.



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, SURE. 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 ques-


tions, 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:



"NOW I know how to fix it. We'll send you some


things by them."



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.



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.



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.



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 any-


thing 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.



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 on to


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:



"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 FELT um -- I FELT 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 --


on'y jis' wunst -- it's all I'd ast. But mos'ly I wisht


dey'd lemme 'lone, I does."



Tom says:



"Well, I tell you what 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 YOU to


do."



"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'."



"Well, then, I'll have to make it myself."



"Will you do it, honey? -- Qwill you? I'll wusshup


de groun' und' yo' foot, I will!"



"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 -- something


might happen, I don't know what. And above all,


don't you HANDLE the witch-things."



"HANNEL 'm, Mars Sid? What IS 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."



 


CHAPTER XXXVII.



THAT 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 chil-


dren say their pa and ma was going to the runaway


nigger's house this morning, and then went to break-


fast, 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.



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:



"I've hunted high and I've hunted low, and it does


beat all what HAS become of your other shirt."



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


warwhoop, 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 -- it


was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so kind


of cold. Uncle Silas he says:



"It's most uncommon curious, I can't understand


it. I know perfectly well I took it OFF, because --"



"Because you hain't got but one ON. Just LISTEN 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 -- 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 DO with 'm all is more'n I


can make out. A body 'd think you WOULD learn to


take some sort of care of 'em at your time of life."



"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 OFF of me."



"Well, it ain't YOUR 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 THAT ain't all. There was ten, and now ther's only


nine. The calf got the shirt, I reckon, but the calf


never took the spoon, THAT'S certain."



"Why, what else is gone, Sally?"



"Ther's six CANDLES gone -- 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 -- YOU'D never find it out; but you can't lay


the SPOON on the rats, and that I know."



"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."



"Oh, I wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. Matilda


Angelina Araminta PHELPS!"



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 on to the


passage, and says:



"Missus, dey's a sheet gone."



"A SHEET gone! Well, for the land's sake!"



"I'll stop up them holes to-day," says Uncle Silas,


looking sorrowful.



"Oh, DO shet up! -- s'pose the rats took the SHEET?


WHERE'S it gone, Lize?"



"Clah to goodness I hain't no notion, Miss' Sally.


She wuz on de clo'sline yistiddy, but she done gone:


she ain' dah no mo' now."



"I reckon the world IS coming to an end. I NEVER


see the beat of it in all my born days. A shirt, and a


sheet, and a spoon, and six can --"



"Missus," comes a young yaller wench, "dey's a


brass cannelstick miss'n."



"Cler out from here, you hussy, er I'll take a skillet


to ye!"



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:



"It's JUST 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?"



"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 break-


fast, 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 --"



"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."



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:



"Well, it ain't no use to send things by HIM 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


HIM knowing it -- stop up his rat-holes."



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:



"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 -- let it go. I


reckon it wouldn't do no good."



And so he went on a-mumbling up stairs, and then


we left. He was a mighty nice old man. And


always is.



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:



"Why, Aunt Sally, there ain't but nine spoons


YET."



She says:



"Go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. I


know better, I counted 'm myself."



"Well, I've counted them twice, Aunty, and I can't


make but nine."



She looked out of all patience, but of course she


come to count -- anybody would.



"I declare to gracious ther' AIN'T but nine!" she


says. "Why, what in the world -- plague TAKE the


things, I'll count 'm again."



So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got


done counting, she says:



"Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's TEN now!"


and she looked huffy and bothered both. But Tom


says:



"Why, Aunty, I don't think there's ten."



"You numskull, didn't you see me COUNT 'm?"



"I know, but --"



"Well, I'll count 'm AGAIN."



So I smouched one, and they come out nine, same


as the other time. Well, she WAS in a tearing way --


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 cle'r 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 NOW 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 DID;


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.



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 CARE, 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.



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.



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 -- 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.



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.



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 wash-pan --


afraid the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas he had a


noble brass warming-pan which he thought consider-


able of, because it belonged to one of his ancesters


with a long wooden handle that come over from Eng-


land with William the Conqueror in the Mayflower 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, be-


cause 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 satisfac-


tion 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.



 


CHAPTER XXXVIII.



MAKING them pens was a distressid tough job,


and so was the saw; and Jim allowed the in-


scription 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 GOT to; there


warn't no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling his


inscription to leave behind, and his coat of arms.



"Look at Lady Jane Grey," he says; "look at


Gilford Dudley; look at old Northumberland! Why,


Huck, s'pose it IS considerble trouble? -- what you


going to do? -- how you going to get around it?


Jim's GOT to do his inscription and coat of arms. They


all do."



Jim says:



"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."



"Oh, you don't understand, Jim; a coat of arms is


very different."



"Well," I says, "Jim's right, anyway, when he


says he ain't got no coat of arms, because he hain't."



"I reckon I knowed that," Tom says, "but you


bet he'll have one before he goes out of this -- because


he's going out RIGHT, and there ain't going to be no


flaws in his record."



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:



"On the scutcheon we'll have a bend OR in the


dexter base, a saltire MURREY in the fess, with a dog,


couchant, for common charge, and under his foot a


chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron VERT in a


chief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field


AZURE, with the nombril points rampant on a dancette


indented; crest, a runaway nigger, SABLE, with his


bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a


couple of gules for supporters, which is you and me;


motto, MAGGIORE FRETTA, MINORE OTTO. Got it out of a


book -- means the more haste the less speed."



"Geewhillikins," I says, "but what does the rest of


it mean?"



"We ain't got no time to bother over that," he


says; "we got to dig in like all git-out."



"Well, anyway," I says, "what's SOME of it?


What's a fess?"



"A fess -- a fess is -- YOU don't need to know what


a fess is. I'll show him how to make it when he gets


to it."



"Shucks, Tom," I says, "I think you might tell a


person. What's a bar sinister?"



"Oh, I don't know. But he's got to have it. All


the nobility does."



That was just his way. If it didn't suit him to ex-


plain 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 inscrip-


tion -- 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:



   1. Here a captive heart busted.


   2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world


      and friends, fretted his sorrowful life.


   3. Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit


      went to its rest, after thirty-seven years


      of solitary captivity.


   4. Here, homeless and friendless, after


      thirty-seven years of bitter captivity,


      perished a noble stranger, natural son of 


      Louis XIV.



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 on to 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 on to 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:



"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:



"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."



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 half way; 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.



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:



"You got any spiders in here, Jim?"



"No, sah, thanks to goodness I hain't, Mars Tom."



"All right, we'll get you some."



"But bless you, honey, I doan' WANT none. I's


afeard un um. I jis' 's soon have rattlesnakes aroun'."



Tom thought a minute or two, and says:



"It's a good idea. And I reckon it's been done.


It MUST a been done; it stands to reason. Yes, it's a


prime good idea. Where could you keep it?"



"Keep what, Mars Tom?"



"Why, a rattlesnake."



"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."



Why, Jim, you wouldn't be afraid of it after a


little. You could tame it."



"TAME it!"



"Yes -- easy enough. Every animal is grateful for


kindness and petting, and they wouldn't THINK of hurt-


ing a person that pets them. Any book will tell you


that. You try -- 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."



"PLEASE, Mars Tom -- DOAN' talk so! I can't STAN'


it! He'd LET me shove his head in my mouf -- fer a


favor, hain't it? I lay he'd wait a pow'ful long time


'fo' I AST him. En mo' en dat, I doan' WANT him to


sleep wid me."



"Jim, don't act so foolish. A prisoner's GOT 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."



"Why, Mars Tom, I doan' WANT no sich glory.


Snake take 'n bite Jim's chin off, den WHAH is de


glory? No, sah, I doan' want no sich doin's."



"Blame it, can't you TRY? I only WANT you to try


-- you needn't keep it up if it don't work."



"But de trouble all DONE 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 LEAVE, dat's SHORE."



"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."



"I k'n stan' DEM, Mars Tom, but blame' 'f I


couldn' get along widout um, I tell you dat. I never


knowed b'fo' 't was so much bother and trouble to be


a prisoner."



"Well, it ALWAYS is when it's done right. You got


any rats around here?"



"No, sah, I hain't seed none."



"Well, we'll get you some rats."



"Why, Mars Tom, I doan' WANT 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."



"But, Jim, you GOT to have 'em -- 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?"



"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."



"Yes they would. THEY don't care what kind of


music 'tis. A jews-harp's plenty good enough for a


rat. All animals like music -- in a prison they dote


on it. Specially, painful music; and you can't get no


other kind out of a jews-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 jews-


harp; play 'The Last Link is Broken' -- 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."



"Yes, DEY will, I reck'n, Mars Tom, but what kine


er time is JIM 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."



Tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn't


nothing else; and pretty soon he says:



"Oh, there's one thing I forgot. Could you raise


a flower here, do you reckon?"



"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."



"Well, you try it, anyway. Some other prisoners


has done it."



"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."



"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 -- that's its


right name when it's in a prison. And you want to


water it with your tears."



"Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom."



"You don't WANT spring water; you want to water


it with your tears. It's the way they always do."



"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."



"That ain't the idea. You GOT to do it with tears."



"She'll die on my han's, Mars Tom, she sholy


will; kase I doan' skasely ever cry."



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 jews-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 in-


scriptions, 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.



 


CHAPTER XXXIX.



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.



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? -- oh, no, I reckon not! And there warn't a


blessed snake up there when we went back -- 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 consider-


able 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.



We got a licking every time one of our snakes come


in her way, and she allowed these lickings warn't noth-


ing 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


THEY 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.



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 little 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 run-


away nigger, but hadn't got no answer, because there


warn't no such plantation; so he allowed he would ad-


vertise 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.



"What's them?" I says.



"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."



"But looky here, Tom, what do we want to WARN


anybody for that something's up? Let them find it


out for themselves -- it's their lookout."



"Yes, I know; but you can't depend on them.


It's the way they've acted from the very start -- left


us to do EVERYTHING. They're so confiding and mullet-


headed they don't take notice of nothing at all. So if


we don't GIVE 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 -- won't be nothing TO it."



"Well, as for me, Tom, that's the way I'd like."



"Shucks!" he says, and looked disgusted. So I


says:



"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?"



"You'll be her. You slide in, in the middle of the


night, and hook that yaller girl's frock."



"Why, Tom, that 'll make trouble next morning;


because, of course, she prob'bly hain't got any but


that one."



"I know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes,


to carry the nonnamous letter and shove it under the


front door."



"All right, then, I'll do it; but I could carry it just


as handy in my own togs."



"You wouldn't look like a servant-girl THEN, would


you?"



"No, but there won't be nobody to see what I look


like, ANYWAY."



"That ain't got nothing to do with it. The thing


for us to do is just to do our DUTY, and not worry


about whether anybody SEES us do it or not. Hain't


you got no principle at all?"



"All right, I ain't saying nothing; I'm the servant-


girl. Who's Jim's mother?"



"I'm his mother. I'll hook a gown from Aunt


Sally."



"Well, then, you'll have to stay in the cabin when


me and Jim leaves."



"Not much. I'll stuff Jim's clothes full of straw


and lay it on his bed to represent his mother in dis-


guise, 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 differ-


ence whether he's a natural one or an unnatural one."



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:



   Beware. Trouble is brewing. Keep a sharp lookout.


                                        UNKNOWN FRIEND.



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


noway and be satisfied, because she allowed there was


something behind her every time -- 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.



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:



 


   Don't betray me, I wish to be your friend. There


   is a desprate gang of cut-throats 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.


                                   UNKNOWN FRIEND.



 


 


CHAPTER XL.



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:



"Where's the butter?"



"I laid out a hunk of it," I says, "on a piece of a


corn-pone."



"Well, you LEFT it laid out, then -- it ain't here."



"We can get along without it," I says.



"We can get along WITH 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 BA like a sheep


and shove soon as you get there."



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:



"You been down cellar?"



"Yes'm."



"What you been doing down there?"



"Noth'n."



"NOTH'N!"



"No'm."



"Well, then, what possessed you to go down there


this time of night?"



"I don't know 'm."



"You don't KNOW? Don't answer me that way.


Tom, I want to know what you been DOING down


there."



"I hain't been doing a single thing, Aunt Sally, I


hope to gracious if I have."



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:



"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'M


done with you."



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.



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.



At last she come and begun to ask me questions,


but I COULDN'T 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


NOW 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'M for going and


getting in the cabin FIRST and right NOW, 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:



"For the land's sake, what IS the matter with the


child? He's got the brain-fever as shore as you're


born, and they're oozing out!"



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:



"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 --


Dear, dear, whyd'nt you TELL me that was what you'd


been down there for, I wouldn't a cared. Now cler


out to bed, and don't lemme see no more of you till


morning!"



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 --


the house full of men, yonder, with guns!



His eyes just blazed; and he says:



"No! -- is that so? AIN'T it bully! Why, Huck,


if it was to do over again, I bet I could fetch two hun-


dred! If we could put it off till --"



"Hurry! HURRY!" I says. "Where's Jim?"



"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."



But then we heard the tramp of men coming to the


door, and heard them begin to fumble with the pad-


lock, and heard a man say:



"I TOLD you we'd be too soon; they haven't come


-- 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."



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 -- 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 out-


side. 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:



"Who's that? Answer, or I'll shoot!"



But we didn't answer; we just unfurled our heels


and shoved. Then there was a rush, and a BANG, BANG,


BANG! and the bullets fairly whizzed around us! We


heard them sing out:



"Here they are! They've broke for the river!


After 'em, boys, and turn loose the dogs!"



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 on to 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 on to the raft I says:



"NOW, old Jim, you're a free man again, and I bet


you won't ever be a slave no more."



"En a mighty good job it wuz, too, Huck. It 'uz


planned beautiful, en it 'uz done beautiful; en dey


ain't NOBODY kin git up a plan dat's mo' mixed-up en


splendid den what dat one wuz."



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.



When me and Jim heard that we didn't feel so brash


as what we did before. It was hurting him consider-


able, 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:



"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! -- 'deed we did. I


wish WE'D a had the handling of Louis XVI., there


wouldn't a been no 'Son of Saint Louis, ascend to


heaven!' wrote down in HIS biography; no, sir, we'd


a whooped him over the BORDER -- that's what we'd a


done with HIM -- and done it just as slick as nothing


at all, too. Man the sweeps -- man the sweeps!"



But me and Jim was consulting -- and thinking.


And after we'd thought a minute, I says:



"Say it, Jim."



So he says:



"Well, den, dis is de way it look to me, Huck. Ef


it wuz HIM 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 BET


he wouldn't! WELL, den, is JIM gywne to say it?


No, sah -- I doan' budge a step out'n dis place 'dout


a DOCTOR, not if it's forty year!"



I knowed he was white inside, and I reckoned he'd


say what he did say -- so it was all right now, and I


told Tom I was a-going for a doctor. He raised con-


siderable row about it, but me and Jim stuck to it and


wouldn't budge; so he was for crawling out and set-


ting 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.



So when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he


says:



"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."



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.



 


CHAPTER XLI.



THE doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-look-


ing old man when I got him up. I told him


me and my brother was over on Spanish Island hunt-


ing 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, be-


cause we wanted to come home this evening and sur-


prise the folks.



"Who is your folks?" he says.



"The Phelpses, down yonder."



"Oh," he says. And after a minute, he says:



"How'd you say he got shot?"



"He had a dream," I says, "and it shot him."



"Singular dream," he says.



So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and


we started. But when he sees the canoe he didn't like


the look of her -- said she was big enough for one, but


didn't look pretty safe for two. I says:



"Oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the


three of us easy enough."



"What three?"



"Why, me and Sid, and -- and -- and THE GUNS;


that's what I mean."



"Oh," he says.



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.



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? -- lay around


there till he lets the cat out of the bag? No, sir; I


know what I'LL 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.



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:



"Why, TOM! Where you been all this time, you


rascal?"



"I hain't been nowheres," I says, "only just hunt-


ing for the runaway nigger -- me and Sid."



"Why, where ever did you go?" he says. "Your


aunt's been mighty uneasy."



"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-branch-


ing out to get something to eat for us, and then we're


going home."



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 -- 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.



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.



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:



"Well, Sister Phelps, I've ransacked that-air cabin


over, an' I b'lieve the nigger was crazy. I says to


Sister Damrell -- didn't I, Sister Damrell? -- s'I, he's


crazy, s'I -- 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 ME't 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 --


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 -- the nigger's crazy --


crazy 's Nebokoodneezer, s'I."



"An' look at that-air ladder made out'n rags, Sister


Hotchkiss," says old Mrs. Damrell; "what in the


name o' goodness COULD he ever want of --"



"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 -- what COULD he a-wanted


of it, s'I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she --"



"But how in the nation'd they ever GIT that grind-


stone IN there, ANYWAY? 'n' who dug that-air HOLE? 'n'


who --"



"My very WORDS, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin' --


pass that-air sasser o' m'lasses, won't ye? -- I was


a-sayin' to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute, how DID they


git that grindstone in there, s'I. Without HELP, mind


you -- 'thout HELP! THAT'S wher 'tis. Don't tell ME,


s'I; there WUZ help, s'I; 'n' ther' wuz a PLENTY help,


too, s'I; ther's ben a DOZEN a-helpin' that nigger, 'n' I


lay I'd skin every last nigger on this place but I'D find


out who done it, s'I; 'n' moreover, s'I --"



"A DOZEN says you! -- FORTY couldn't a done every


thing 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 --"



"You may WELL say it, Brer Hightower! It's jist as


I was a-sayin' to Brer Phelps, his own self. S'e, what


do YOU 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? THINK of it, s'I? I lay it never


sawed ITSELF off, s'I -- somebody SAWED 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 any


body k'n start a better one, s'I, let him DO it, s'I,


that's all. I says to Sister Dunlap, s'I --"



"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 --


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 --"



"People to HELP him, Brother Marples! Well, I


reckon you'd THINK so if you'd a been in this house for


a while back. Why, they've stole everything they


could lay their hands on -- 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 DIDN'T


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 AND 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 US but the Injun Terri-


tory robbers too, and actuly gets AWAY 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 HEARD of.


Why, SPERITS couldn't a done better and been no


smarter. And I reckon they must a BEEN sperits -- be-


cause, YOU know our dogs, and ther' ain't no better;


well, them dogs never even got on the TRACK of 'm


once! You explain THAT to me if you can! -- ANY of


you!"



"Well, it does beat --"



"Laws alive, I never --"



"So help me, I wouldn't a be --"



"HOUSE-thieves as well as --"



"Goodnessgracioussakes, I'd a ben afeard to live in


sich a --"



"'Fraid to LIVE! -- why, I was that scared I dasn't


hardly go to bed, or get up, or lay down, or SET down,


Sister Ridgeway. Why, they'd steal the very -- 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 reason-


ing faculties no more. It looks foolish enough NOW, in


the daytime; but I says to myself, there's my two poor


boys asleep, 'way up stairs in that lonesome room, and


I declare to goodness I was that uneasy 't I crep' up


there and locked 'em in! I DID. 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 --" She


stopped, looking kind of wondering, and then she


turned her head around slow, and when her eye lit on


me -- I got up and took a walk.



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 THAT 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:



"Why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and Sid not


come yet! What HAS become of that boy?"



I see my chance; so I skips up and says:



"I'll run right up to town and get him," I says.



"No you won't," she says. "You'll stay right


wher' you are; ONE'S enough to be lost at a time. If


he ain't here to supper, your uncle 'll go."



Well, he warn't there to supper; so right after


supper uncle went.



He come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn't


run across Tom's track. Aunt Sally was a good DEAL


uneasy; but Uncle Silas he said there warn't no occa-


sion to be -- 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 a while anyway, and keep a light burning so he


could see it.



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:



"The door ain't going to be locked, Tom, and


there's the window and the rod; but you'll be good,


WON'T you? And you won't go? For MY sake."



Laws knows I WANTED 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.



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.



 


CHAPTER XLII.



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:



"Did I give you the letter?"



"What letter?"



"The one I got yesterday out of the post-office."



"No, you didn't give me no letter."



"Well, I must a forgot it."



So he rummaged his pockets, and then went off some-


wheres where he had laid it down, and fetched it, and


give it to her. She says:



"Why, it's from St. Petersburg -- it's from Sis."



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 -- for she see something. And so


did I. It was Tom Sawyer on a mattress; and that old


doctor; and Jim, in HER 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:



"Oh, he's dead, he's dead, I know he's dead!"



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:



"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.



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, be-


cause 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.



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 bot-


tom 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 auc-


tion 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 day-


time; and about this time they was through with the


job and was tapering off with a kind of generl good-bye


cussing, and then the old doctor comes and takes a


look, and says:



"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 HELP 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 WAS!


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 faithfuller, 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 -- and kind


treatment, too. I had everything I needed, and the


boy was doing as well there as he would a done at


home -- better, maybe, because it was so quiet; but


there I WAS, 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."



Somebody says:



"Well, it sounds very good, doctor, I'm obleeged to


say."



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 judg-


ment 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.



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 --


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 run-


away nigger.



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.



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 peace-


fuller all the time, and ten to one he'd wake up in his


right mind.



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:



"Hello! -- why, I'm at HOME! How's that?


Where's the raft?"



"It's all right," I says.



"And JIM?"



"The same," I says, but couldn't say it pretty


brash. But he never noticed, but says:



"Good! Splendid! NOW we're all right and safe!


Did you tell Aunty?"



I was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says:


"About what, Sid?"



"Why, about the way the whole thing was done."



"What whole thing?"



"Why, THE whole thing. There ain't but one; how


we set the runaway nigger free -- me and Tom."



"Good land! Set the run -- What IS the child


talking about! Dear, dear, out of his head again!"



"NO, I ain't out of my HEAD; I know all what I'm


talking about. We DID set him free -- me and Tom.


We laid out to do it, and we DONE 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 ME to put


in. "Why, Aunty, it cost us a power of work --


weeks of it -- 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 non-


namous letters from the robbers, and get up and down


the lightning-rod, and dig the hole into the cabin, and


made 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 --"



"Mercy sakes!"



"-- and load up the cabin with rats and snakes 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 WASN'T


it bully, Aunty!"



"Well, I never heard the likes of it in all my born


days! So it was YOU, 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 -- YOU just get well once, you young


scamp, and I lay I'll tan the Old Harry out o' both o'


ye!"



But Tom, he WAS so proud and joyful, he just COULDN'T


hold in, and his tongue just WENT it -- she a-chipping


in, and spitting fire all along, and both of them going


it at once, like a cat convention; and she says:



"WELL, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it


NOW, for mind I tell you if I catch you meddling with


him again --"



"Meddling with WHO?" Tom says, dropping his


smile and looking surprised.



"With WHO? Why, the runaway nigger, of course.


Who'd you reckon?"



Tom looks at me very grave, and says:



"Tom, didn't you just tell me he was all right?


Hasn't he got away?"



"HIM?" 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!"



Tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and


his nostrils opening and shutting like gills, and sings


out to me:



"They hain't no RIGHT to shut him up! SHOVE! --


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!"



"What DOES the child mean?"



"I mean every word I SAY, Aunt Sally, and if some-


body don't go, I'LL 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 SAID so; and she set


him free in her will."



"Then what on earth did YOU want to set him free


for, seeing he was already free?"



"Well, that IS a question, I must say; and just like


women! Why, I wanted the ADVENTURE of it; and I'd


a waded neck-deep in blood to -- goodness alive, AUNT


POLLY!"



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!



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 us, 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 -- kind of grinding him into


the earth, you know. And then she says:



"Yes, you BETTER turn y'r head away -- I would if I


was you, Tom."



"Oh, deary me!" says Aunt Sally; "IS he changed


so? Why, that ain't TOM, it's Sid; Tom's -- Tom's


-- why, where is Tom? He was here a minute ago."



"You mean where's Huck FINN -- 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 SEE him.


That WOULD be a pretty howdy-do. Come out from


under that bed, Huck Finn."



So I done it. But not feeling brash.



Aunt Sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking


persons I ever see -- 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 -- she


chipped in and says, "Oh, go on and call me Aunt


Sally, I'm used to it now, and 'tain't no need to


change" -- that when Aunt Sally took me for Tom


Sawyer I had to stand it -- 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 ad-


venture 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.



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 COULD help a body set a nigger free


with his bringing-up.



Well, Aunt Polly she said that when Aunt Sally


wrote to her that Tom and SID had come all right and


safe, she says to herself:



"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 THIS time, as long as I couldn't seem to


get any answer out of you about it."



"Why, I never heard nothing from you," says


Aunt Sally.



"Well, I wonder! Why, I wrote you twice to ask


you what you could mean by Sid being here."



"Well, I never got 'em, Sis."



Aunt Polly she turns around slow and severe, and


says:



"You, Tom!"



"Well -- WHAT?" he says, kind of pettish.



"Don t you what ME, you impudent thing -- hand


out them letters."



"What letters?"



"THEM letters. I be bound, if I have to take a-


holt of you I'll --"



"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 --"



"Well, you DO 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 --"



"No, it come yesterday; I hain't read it yet, but


IT'S all right, I've got that one."



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.



 


CHAPTER THE LAST



THE first time I catched Tom private I asked him


what was his idea, time of the evasion? -- 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.



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:



"DAH, now, Huck, what I tell you? -- 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 TOLE you I


ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich AGIN; en it's


come true; en heah she is! DAH, now! doan' talk


to ME -- signs is SIGNS, mine I tell you; en I knowed


jis' 's well 'at I 'uz gwineter be rich agin as I's a-


stannin' heah dis minute!"



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.



"No, he hain't," Tom says; "it's all there yet --


six thousand dollars and more; and your pap hain't


ever been back since. Hadn't when I come away,


anyhow."



Jim says, kind of solemn:



"He ain't a-comin' back no mo', Huck."



I says:



"Why, Jim?"



"Nemmine why, Huck -- but he ain't comin' back


no mo."



But I kept at him; so at last he says:



"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."



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.



                       THE END