
                                   Mark Twain

                         Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

                                     Notice

Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted;
persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to
find a plot in it will be shot.
 
                             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 South-Western 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 guess-work; but pains-takingly, 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.
 

                                   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't clean, and I must try to
not do it any more. That is just the way with some people. They get down on a
thing when they don't know nothing about it. Here she was a bothering about
Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet
finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And
she took snuff too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself.
    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, »Dont 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
behave?« Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I was
there. She got mad, then, but I didn't mean no harm. All I wanted was to go
somewhere; 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 was shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I
heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a
whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to die; and the wind
was trying to whisper something to me and I couldn't make out what it was, and
so it made the cold shivers run over me. Then away out in the woods I heard that
kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's
on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its
grave and has to go about that way every night grieving. I got so 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 horse-shoe 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 onto the shed. Then I slipped
down to the ground and crawled in amongst the trees, and sure enough there was
Tom Sawyer waiting for me.
 

                                   Chapter II

We went tip-toeing 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 tip-toeing down and stood right between
us; we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes that
there warn't a sound, and we all there so close together. There was a place on
my ankle that got to itching; but I dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to
itch; and next my back, right between my shoulders. Seemed like I'd die if I
couldn't scratch. Well, I've noticed that thing plenty of 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
knows what I's gwyne to do. I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears
it again.«
    So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up
against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of
mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I
dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching
underneath. I didn't know how I was going to set still. This miserableness went
on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I
was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it
more'n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then
Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore - 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 disturbance, and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then
Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get
some more. I didn't want him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom
wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid five
cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away;
but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and
knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it seemed a good while,
everything was so still and lonesome.
    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 bewitched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the State,
and then set him under the trees again and hung his hat on a limb to show who
done it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans:
and after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till by-and-by
he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his
back was all over saddle-boils. Jim was monstrous proud about it, and he got so
he wouldn't hardly notice the other niggers. Niggers would come miles to hear
Jim tell about it, and he was more looked up to than any nigger in that country.
Strange niggers would stand with their mouths open and look him all over, same
as if he was a wonder. Niggers is always talking about witches in the dark by
the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and letting on to know all about
such things, Jim would happen in and say, »Hm! What you know 'bout witches?« and
that nigger was corked up and had to take a back seat. Jim always kept that
five-centre piece around his neck with a string and said it was a charm the
devil give to him with his own hands and told him he could cure anybody with it
and fetch witches whenever he wanted to, just by saying something to it; but he
never told what it was he said to it. Niggers would come from all around there
and give Jim anything they had, just for a sight of that five-centre 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 so 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, may be; 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 mentioned 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 it 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, 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 business 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 robbery, it's burglary,« says
Tom Sawyer. »We ain't burglars. That ain't no sort of style. We are highwaymen.
We stop stages and carriages on the road, with masks on, and kill the people and
take their watches and money.«
    »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 ransomed 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 robbers. 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 together 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 a while 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
snuff-box that was stole? Why can't Miss Watson fat up? No, says I to myself,
there ain't nothing in it. I went and told the widow about it, and she said the
thing a body could get by praying for it was spiritual gifts. This was too many
for me, but she told me what she meant - 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 people - so at last I reckoned I
wouldn't worry about it any more, but just let it go. Sometimes the widow would
take me one side and talk about Providence in a way to make a body's mouth
water; but maybe next day Miss Watson would take hold and knock it all down
again. I judged I could see that there was two Providences, and a poor chap
would stand considerable show with the widow's Providence, but if Miss Watson's
got him there warn't no help for him any more. I thought it all out, and
reckoned I would belong to the widow's, if he wanted me, though I couldn't make
out how he was agoing 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
drowned, about twelve mile above town, so people said. They judged it was him,
anyway; said this drowned man was just his size, and was ragged, and had
uncommon long hair - which was all like pap - but they couldn't make nothing out
of the face, because it had been in the water so long it warn't much like a face
at all. They said he was floating on his back in the water. They took him and
buried him on the bank. But I warn't comfortable long, because I happened to
think of something. I knew mighty well that a drowned man don't float on his
back, but on his face. So I knew, then, that this warn't pap, but a woman
dressed up in 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, we hadn't killed any people, but only just
pretended. We used to hop out of the woods and go charging down on hog-drovers
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 pow-wow 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 broom-sticks, 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,« says 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
superintendent 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 flatheads 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 rubbing 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 sap-head.«
    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 Indian, 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, anyway.
    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 break-fast. 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 knew 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'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 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 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 nothing - 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 knew 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 knew 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' old father doan' know, yit, what he's a-gwyne to do. Sometimes he spec
he'll go 'way, en den again he spec he'll stay. De bes' way is to res' easy en
let de old man take his own way. Dey's two angels hoverin' roun' 'bout him. One
uv 'em is white en shiny, en 'tother one is black. De white one gits him to go
right, a little while, den de black one sail in en bust it all up. A body can't
tell, yit, which one gwyne to fetch him at de las'. But you is all right. You
gwyne to have considable trouble in yo' life, en considable joy. Sometimes you
gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you's
gwyne to git well again. Dey's two gals flyin' 'bout you in yo' life. One uv
'em's light en 'tother one is dark. One is rich en 'tother 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 set 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 bothering 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 colour 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 'tother 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 considerble
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 General Washington and the wars.
When I'd read about a half a minute, he fetched the book a whack with his hand
and knocked it across the house. He says:
    »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 agoing 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 agoing 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 ahold 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
afraid.«
    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 beautiful room, which was the spare room, and in the
night sometime he got powerful thirsty and clumb out onto 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 shot-gun, 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 caught me a couple of times and thrashed me,
but I went to school just the same, and dodged him or out-run 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'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 caught 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 objections. 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'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 enought 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 humour - so he was his natural self. He said he was down
to 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 knew how to
do it. And he said people allowed there'd be another trial to get me away from
him and give me to the widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win,
this time. This shook me up considerable, because I didn't want to go back to
the widow's any more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as they called it. Then
the old man got to cussing, and cussed everything and everybody he could think
of, and then cussed them all over again to make sure he hadn't skipped any, and
after that he polished off with a kind of a general cuss all round, including a
considerable parcel of people which he didn't know the names of, and so called
them what's-his-name, when he got to them, and went right along with his
cussing.
    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 knew 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 drowned.
    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. This 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 upards, 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 anear it again. 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' stovepipe. 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 awfulest old gray-headed nabob
in the State. And what do you think? they said he was a p'fessor in a college,
and could talk all kinds of languages, and knew 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 again. Them's the very words I said; they all
heard me; and the country may rot for all me - I'll never vote again 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 ahold 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 govment, though he give the tub some, too, all along,
here and there. He hopped around the cabin considerable, first on one leg and
then on the other, holding first one shin and then the other one, and at last he
let out with his left foot all of a sudden and fetched the tub a rattling kick.
But it warn't good judgment, because that was the boot that had a couple of his
toes leaking out of the front end of it; so now he raised a howl that fairly
made a body's hair raise, and down he went in the dirt, and rolled there, and
held his toes; and the cussing he done then laid over anything he had ever done
previous. He said so his own self, afterwards. He had heard old Sowberry Hagan
in his best days, and he said it laid over him, too; but I reckon that was sort
of piling it on, maybe.
    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 'tother. 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 knew 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 ahold 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 terrible still. He was
laying over by the corner. By-and-by he raised up, part way, and listened, with
his head to one side. He says very low:
    »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, and then I laid it across
the turnip barrel, pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him
to stir. And how slow and still the time did drag along.
 

                                  Chapter VII

»Git 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
sour - and sick, too. He says -
    »What you doing' 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
knew 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 cord-wood floating 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 'tother one out for
what the rise might fetch along. Well, all at once, here comes a canoe; just a
beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long, riding high like a duck. I
shot head first off of the bank, like a frog, clothes and all on, and struck out
for the canoe. I just expected there'd be somebody laying down in it, because
people often done that to fool folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff out
most to it they'd raise up and laugh at him. But it warn't so this time. It was
a drift-canoe, sure enough, and I clumb in and paddled her ashore. Thinks I, the
old man will be glad when he sees this - she's worth ten dollars. But when I got
to shore pap wasn't'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 apiece 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 knew he would see I was wet, and then he would be asking
questions. We got five cat-fish off of 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 trusting to luck to
get far enough off before they missed me; you see, all kinds of things might
happen. Well, I didn't see no way for a while, but by-and-by pap raised up a
minute, to drink another barrel of water, and he says:
    »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 drift-wood 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 'tother 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't any,
only the one out at the wood pile, and I knew 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 ever 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 fellow 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 knew 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 bloodied 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
something else. So I went and got the bag of meal and my old saw out of the
canoe and fetched them to the house. I took the bag to where it used to stand,
and ripped a hole in the bottom of it with the saw, for there warn't no knives
and forks on the place - 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 sackful of rocks to the shore and then drag the river for me. And they'll
follow that meal track to the lake and go browsing down the creek that leads out
of it to find the robbers that killed me and took the things. They won't ever
hunt the river for anything but my dead carcass. They'll soon get tired of that,
and won't bother no more about me. All right; I can stop anywhere I want to.
Jackson's Island is good enough for me; I know that island pretty well, and
nobody ever comes there. And then I can paddle over to town, nights, and slink
around and pick up things I want. Jackson's Island's the place.
    I was pretty tired, and the first thing I knew, I was asleep. When I woke
up I didn't know where I was, for a minute. I set up and looked around, a little
scared. Then I remembered. The river looked miles and miles across. The moon was
so bright I could a counted the drift logs that went a slipping along, black and
still, hundreds of yards out from shore. Everything was dead quiet, and it
looked late, and 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. Thinks I, maybe it's pap, though I warn't expecting him. He dropped
below me, with the current, and by-and-by he come 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 to 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 drift-wood 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 knew it before. And how far a body
can hear on the water such nights! I heard people talking at the ferry landing.
I heard what they said, too, every word of it. One man said it was getting
towards the long days and the short nights, now. 'Tother 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 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 knew 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 stabboard!« 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 breakfast.
 

                                  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 knew what was the matter, now. »Boom!« I see the white smoke squirt
out of the ferry-boat'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 drowned 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 knew enough
for that. But by-and-by along comes another one, and this time I won. I took out
the plug and shook out the little dab of quicksilver, and set my teeth in. It
was baker's bread - 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 ferry-boat
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, watching with all their might. I could see them
first-rate, but they couldn't see me. Then the captain sung out:
    »Stand away!« and the cannon let off such a blast right before me that it
made me deef with the noise and pretty near blind with the smoke, and I judged I
was gone. If they'd a had some bullets in, I reckon they'd a got the corpse they
was after. Well, I see I warn't hurt, thanks to goodness. The boat floated on
and went out of sight around the shoulder of the island. I could hear the
booming, now and then, further and further off, and by-and-by after an hour, I
didn't hear it no more. The island was three mile long. I judged they had got to
the foot, and was giving it up. But they didn't yet a while. They turned around
the foot of the island and started up the channel on the Missouri side, under
steam, and booming once in a while as they went. I crossed over to that side and
watched them. When they got abreast the head of the island they quit shooting
and dropped over to the Missouri shore and went home to the town.
    I knew 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 caught a cat-fish 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
satisfied; but by-and-by it got sort of lonesome, and so I went and set on the
bank and listened to the currents washing 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 exploring around down through the island. I was boss of it;
it all belonged to me, so to say, and I wanted to know all about it; but mainly
I wanted to put in the time. I found plenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and
green summer-grapes, and green razberries; and the green blackberries was just
beginning to show. They would all come handy by-and-by, I judged.
    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 tip-toes as fast as ever I could.
Every now and then I stopped a second, amongst the thick leaves, and listened;
but my breath come so hard I couldn't hear nothing else. I slunk along another
piece further, then listened again; and so on, and so on; if I see a stump, I
took it for a man; if I trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a
person had cut one of my breaths in two and I only got half, and the short half,
too.
    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 agoing 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 outside
of the shadows it made it most as light as day. I poked along well onto 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 set 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 tree-tops, and knew 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
caught 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 fan-tods. 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 awluz liked
dead people, en done all I could for 'em. You go en git in de river again, 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 lonesome, 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 making' up de camp fire to cook strawbries en such 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 rubbage 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 been 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 caught a
good big cat-fish, 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 was 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't tell - you know you said you wouldn't 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 Ablitionist and despise me for keeping mum - but
that don't make no difference. I ain't agoing to tell, and I ain't agoing 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 was 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 such 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 was people a-stirrin' yit, so I hid in de old
tumble-down cooper shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go 'way. Well, I was
dah all night. Dey was 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 was talking' 'bout how yo' pap come over to de town en say you's killed.
Dese las' skifts was full o' ladies en genlmen agoin' 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 shavins all day. I 'uz hungry, but I warn't afraid;
bekase I knew old missus en de widder was goin' to start to de camp-meetn'
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 old 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 dev warn't no houses. I'd made up my mine 'bout what I's agwyne
to do. You see ef I kept' 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 kept' my head down low, en kinder swum again de current tell de
raff come along. Den I swum to de stern uv it, en tuck aholt. 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 was. De river was arisin'
en dey was 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 Illinoi 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 foun' a good place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn' fool
wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug
er dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so I 'uz all right.«
    »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 knew 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 caught a
bird, and his old granny said his father would die, and he did.
    And Jim said you musn'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 bee-hive, and that man died, the bees must
be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken
down and quit work and die. Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't
believe that, because I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't
sting me.
    I had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them. Jim
knew all kinds of signs. He said he knew 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' 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 axe dat question? don' you see I has?«
    »Well, are you rich?«
    »No, but I been rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich again. 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' 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 dat 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' have much.
I was de on'y one dat had much. So I stuck out for mo' dan fo' dollars, en I
said 'f I didn't git it I'd start a bank mysef. Well o' course dat nigger want'
to keep me out er de business, bekase he say dey warn't business 'nough for two
banks, so he say I could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty- 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 was 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 chuckle-heads, 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 was 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 was 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 underside of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would
follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just
wild; and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest - 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 rumbling, 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 been here, 'f it hadn't a been for Jim. You'd a been down
dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittin' mos' drowned, too, dat you would,
honey. Chickens knows when its 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 caught 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, sometimes, 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
up-stairs window. But it was too dark to see yet, so we made the canoe fast and
set in her to wait for daylight.
    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 been shot in de back. I
reck'n he's been 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 without any handle, and a
bran-new Barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot of tallow candles,
and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup, and a ratty old bed-quilt off
the bed, and a reticule with needles and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread
and all such truck in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a fish-line as thick
as my little finger, with some monstrous hooks on it, and a roll of buckskin,
and a leather dog-collar, and a horse-shoe, 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 comfortable. That
sounded pretty reasonable, so I didn't say no more; but I couldn't keep from
studying over it and wishing I knew 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 knew 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 aholt of a
snake-skin again with my hands, now that I see what had come of it. Jim said he
reckoned I would believe him next time. And he said that handling a snake-skin
was such awful bad luck that maybe we hadn't got to the end of it yet. He said
he druther see the new moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand times
than take up a snake-skin in his hand. Well, I was getting to feel that way
myself, though I've always reckoned that looking at the new moon over your left
shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things a body can do. Old Hank
Bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in less than two years he got
drunk and fell off of the shot tower and spread himself out so that he was just
a kind of a layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn
doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they say, but I didn't see it. Pap
told me. But anyway, it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a fool.
    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 cat-fish 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 drowned. 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 caught
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 trowser-legs to my knees
and got into it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit. I
put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in
and see my face was like looking down a joint of stove-pipe. Jim said nobody
would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. I practised around all day to get
the hang of 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 neighbourhood?«
    »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 mile 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 afraid 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 relations up the river, and
her relations down the river, and about how much better off they used to was,
and how they didn't know but they'd made a mistake coming to our town, instead
of letting well alone - and so on and so on, till I was afraid I had made a
mistake coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by-and-by
she dropped onto 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 thinks 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 hundred 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 ferry-boat 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 been
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 give him some, and that evening he got drunk and was
around till after midnight with a couple of mighty hard looking strangers, and
then went off with them. Well, he hain't come back sence, and they ain't looking
for him back till this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now that he
killed his boy and fixed things so folks would think robbers done it, and then
he'd get Huck's money without having to bother a long time with a lawsuit.
People do say he warn't any too good to do it. Oh, he's sly, I reckon. If he
don't come back for a year, he'll be all right. You can't prove anything on him,
you know; everything will be quieted down then, and he'll walk into Huck's money
as easy as nothing.«
    »Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the way of it. Has everybody
quit 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 round
every day for people to pick up? Some folks thinks 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 anybody live there? says I. No, nobody, says they.
I didn't say any more, but I done some thinking. I was pretty near certain I'd
seen smoke over there, about the head of the island, a day or two before that,
so I says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding over there; anyway, says
I, it's worth the trouble to give the place a hunt. I hain't seen any smoke
sence, so I reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but husband's going over to
see - 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 she 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
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, but 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 any 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 mustn't go back on her
promise. Then I told her my father and mother was dead, and the law had bound me
out to a mean old farmer in the country thirty mile back from the river, and he
treated me so bad I couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a
couple of days, and so I took my chance and stole some of his daughter's old
clothes, and cleared out, and I had been three nights coming the thirty miles; I
travelled 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 day-break 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 exactly 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 most 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 'tother way. And when you throw at a rat or
anything, hitch yourself up a tip-toe, and fetch your hand up over your head as
awkard 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 caught 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 hear 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
everything we had in the world was on our raft and she was ready to be shoved
out from the willow cove where she was hid. We put out the camp fire at the
cavern the first thing, and didn't show a candle outside after that.
    I took the canoe out from 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 onto 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 into 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 begun to show, we tied up to a tow-head in a
big bend on the Illinois side, and hacked off cotton-wood 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 sand-bar that has cotton-woods 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 tow-head 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 the 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 upstream
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 caught fish, and talked, and we took a
swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was kind of solemn, drifting down
the big still river, laying on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn't
ever feel like talking loud, and it warn't often that we laughed, only a little
kind of a low chuckle. We had mighty good weather, as a general thing, and
nothing ever happened to us at all, 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 corn fields and borrowed a
watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new corn, or things of that
kind. Pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things, if you was meaning to
pay them back, sometime; 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 around, 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 yonder!« It was a steamboat
that had killed herself on a rock. We was drifting straight down for her. The
lightning showed her very distinct. She was leaning over, with part of her upper
deck above water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy clean and clear,
and a chair by the big bell, with an old slouch hat hanging on the back of it
when the flashes come.
    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 doing' 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 starboard 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 onto 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 agoing 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 about 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 agoin' 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 just 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 caught I
crawled into a stateroom on the upper side. The man come 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 wasn't't. Well, then, that's all
right. Les' 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 just 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 gether up whatever pickins
we've overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck. Then
we'll wait. Now I say it ain't agoin' to be more 'n two hours befo' this wrack
breaks up and washes off down the river. See? He'll be drowned, 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 unfavourable to killin' a man as long as you can git
around 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! - 'en here we is!«
 

                                  Chapter XIII

Well, I caught 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 before 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 onto 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 a 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' 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 knew 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 knew 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 murderers, to be in such a fix. I
says to myself, there ain't no telling but I might come to be a murderer myself,
yet, and then how would I like it? So says I to Jim:
    »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;
everybody in bed, I reckon. We boomed along down the river, watching for lights
and watching for our raft. After a long time the rain let up, but the clouds
staid, 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 onto 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 ferry-boat. 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 give
his shoulder two or three little shoves, and begun to cry.
    He stirred up, in a kind of a startlish way; 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
sometimes I'm the freight and passengers. I ain't as rich as old Jim Hornback,
and I can't be so blame' generous and good to Tom, Dick and Harry as what he is,
and slam around money the way he does; but I've told him a many a time 't I
wouldn't trade places with him; for, says I, a sailor's life's the life for me,
and I'm derned if I'd live two mile out o' town, where there ain't nothing ever
goin' on, not for all his spondulicks and as much more on top of it. Says I -«
    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
ferry-boat 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 doing' 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-her, I 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 ferry man
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 agoin' to pay for it? Do you reckon your pap -«
    »Why that's all right. Miss Hooker she told 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 agoing 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 ferry-boat start. But take it all
around, I was feeling ruther comfortable on accounts of taking all this trouble
for that gang, for not many would a done it. I wished the widow knew 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'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 ferry-boat; 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 ferry-boat give it up and went for 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 ferry-boat; 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 drowned; 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 old King Sollermun, 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 keep 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 such a blimblammin' 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; because 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 neighbours 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 ask 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 would'n 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 such doing'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 child 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 pint! I reck'n I knows what I knows. En mine you, de real pint is
down further - it's down deeper. It lays in de way Sollermun was raised. You take
a man dat's got on'y one er 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 fetch 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. Spose
a man was to come to you and say Polly-voo-franzy - what would you think?«
    »I wouldn't 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 talking' 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' 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 tow-head to
tie to, for it wouldn't do to try to run in fog; but when I paddled ahead in the
canoe, with the line, to make fast, there warn't anything but little saplings to
tie to. I passed the line around one of them right on the edge of the cut bank,
but there was a stiff current, and the raft come booming down so lively she tore
it out by the roots and away she went. I see the fog closing down, and it made
me so sick and scared I couldn't budge for most a half a minute it seemed to me
- 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 tow-head. That was all right as far as it went, but the tow-head 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
tow-head or something; I got to set still and float, and yet it's mighty fidgety
business to have to hold your hands still at such a time. I whooped and
listened. Away down there, somewhere, 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 'tother, 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 knew 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 current 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 knew what the matter was. That cut bank was an
island, and Jim had gone down 'tother side of it. It warn't no tow-head, that
you could float by in ten minutes. It had the big timber of a regular island; it
might be five or six mile long and more than a 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 mile 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 lonesome 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 tow-heads, 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 knew 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 losing the whoops, down amongst the tow-heads; and I only tried to
chase them a little while, anyway, because it was worse than chasing a
Jack-o-lantern. You never knew 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- 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 just 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 begun 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 out after
it; but when I got to it it warn't nothing but a couple of saw-logs made fast
together. Then I see another speck, and chased that; then another, and this time
I was right. It was the raft.
    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 begun 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' drowned -
you's back again? 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 again, 'live
en soun', jis de same old Huck - de same old Huck, thanks to goodness!«
    »What's the matter with you, Jim? You been a drinking?«
    »Drinkin'? Has I been 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 been
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 seen no tow-head.«
    »You hain't seen no tow-head? 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
'tother one was jis' as good as los', 'kase he didn't know whah he was? En
didn't I bust up again a lot er dem islands en have a turrible time en mos' git
drowned? 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 tow-head stood
for a man that would try to do us some good, but the current was another man
that would get us away from him. The whoops was warnings that would come to us
every now and then, and if we didn't try hard to make out to understand them
they'd just take us into bad luck, 'stead of keeping us out of it. The lot of
tow-heads 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 onto 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's gwyne to tell you. When I got all wore out wid
work, en wid de callin' for you, en went to sleep, my heart was mos' broke
bekase you was los', en I didn' k'yer no mo' what become er me en de raf'. En
when I wake up en fine you back again', 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 was
thinking 'bout was how you could make a fool uv old 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
knew 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 middle,
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 the 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 conscience, no how nor no way. It got to troubling
me so I couldn't rest; I couldn't stay still in one place. It hadn't ever come
home to me before, what this thing was that I was doing. But now it did; and it
staid 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 knew he was
running for his freedom, and you could a paddled ashore and told somebody.« 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 knew 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 children, 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 singing
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 old
Cairo at las', I jis knows it!«
    I says:
    »I'll take the canoe and go 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 been free ef it hadn' been 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' old 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 old true Huck; de on'y white genlman dat ever kept' his
promise to old 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 yonder 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 obliged 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 head-line, 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 everybody before, and then 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 smallpox, you see. Look here, I'll tell
you what to do. Don't you try to land by yourself, or you'll smash everything to
pieces. You float along down about twenty miles and you'll come to a town on the
left-hand side of the river. It will be long after sun-up, then, and when you
ask for help, you tell them your folks are all down with chills and fever. Don't
be a fool again, and let people guess what is the matter. Now we're trying to do
you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us, that's a good boy. It
wouldn't do any good to land yonder where the light is - 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
knew 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 was 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' again when
dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool 'em, Huck! Dat was de smartes' dodge!
I tell you, chile, I 'speck it save' old Jim - old Jim ain't gwyne 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 tow-head 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' less' talk about it, Huck. Po' niggers can't have no luck. I awluz
'spected dat rattle-snake skin warn't done wid it's 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 in shore, 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
cotton-wood 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
knew well enough it was some more work of the rattle-snake 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
knew 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 to 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
pow-wow 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 staid under water a minute and a
half. Then I bounced for the top in a hurry, for I was nearly busting. I popped
out to my arm-pits 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 crossings; so I was a good long
time in getting over. I made a safe landing, and clum up the bank. I couldn't
see but a little ways, but I went poking along over rough ground for a quarter
of a mile or more, and then I run across a big old-fashioned double log house
before I noticed it. I was going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs
jumped out and went to howling and barking at me, and I knew better than to
move another peg.
 

                                  Chapter XVII

In about half 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, somebody. 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 Shepherdsons?«
    »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 anybody with
you, let him keep back - if he shows himself 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 parlour that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and got together in a
corner that was out of 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 fourteen or along there, though
he was a little bigger than me. He hadn't on anything but a shirt, and he was
very frowzy-headed. He come 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 been 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 telling me about a blue jay and
a young rabbit he had caught 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 about 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 knew 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
old 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-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 a town. There warn't no
bed in the parlour, not a sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds
in them. There was a big fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the
bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with
another brick; sometimes they washed 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
swing 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 a table in the middle
of the room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges
and peaches and grapes piled up in it which was much redder and yellower and
prettier than real ones is, but they warn't real because you could see where
pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk or whatever it was,
underneath.
    This table had a cover made out of beautiful oil-cloth, with a red and blue
spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around. It come all the way
from Philadelphia, they said. There was some books too, piled up perfectly
exact, on each corner of the table. One was a big family Bible, full of
pictures. One was »Pilgrim's Progress,« about a man that left his family it
didn't say why. I read considerable in it now and then. The statements was
interesting, but tough. Another was »Friendship's Offering,« full of beautiful
stuff and poetry; but I didn't read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay's
Speeches, and another was Dr. Gunn's Family Medicine, which told you all about
what to do if a body was sick or dead. There was a Hymn Book, and a lot of other
books. And there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too - 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 Highland Marys, and one called »Signing the Declaration.« There was
some that they called crayons, which one of the daughters which was dead made
her own self when she was only fifteen years old. They was different from any
pictures I ever see before; blacker, mostly, than is common. One was a woman in
a slim black dress, belted small under the arm-pits, with bulges like a cabbage
in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black
veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and very wee black
slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on a tombstone on her right
elbow, under a weeping willow, and her other hand hanging down her side holding
a white handkerchief and a reticule, and underneath the picture it said »Shall I
Never See Thee More Alas.« Another one was a young lady with her hair all combed
up straight to the top of her head, and knotted there in front of a comb like a
chair-back, and she was crying into a handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on
its back in her other hand with its heels up, and underneath the picture it said
»I Shall Never Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas.« There was one where a young
lady was at a window looking up at the moon, and tears running down her cheeks;
and she had an open letter in one hand with black sealing-wax showing on one
edge of it, and she was mashing a locket with a chain to it against her mouth,
and underneath the picture it said »And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone Alas.«
These was all nice pictures, I reckon, but I didn't somehow seem to take to
them, because if ever I was down a little, they always give me the fan-tods.
Everybody was sorry she died, because she had laid out a lot more of these
pictures to do, and a body could see by what she had done what they had lost.
But I reckoned, that with her disposition, she was having a better time in the
graveyard. She was at work on what they said was her greatest picture when she
took sick, and every day and every night it was her prayer to be allowed to live
till she got it done, but she never got the chance. It was a picture of a young
woman in a long white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump
off, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the moon, with the tears
running down her face, and she had two arms folded across her breast, and two
arms stretched out in front, and two more reaching up 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 drowned:
 

                      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
she 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 neighbours said it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then
the undertaker - the undertaker never got in ahead of Emmeline but once, and
then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which was Whistler.
She warn't ever the same, after that; she never complained, but she kind of
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 scrapbook
and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and I had soured on her
a little. I liked all that family, dead ones and all, and warn't going to let
anything come between us. Poor Emmeline made poetry about all the dead people
when she was alive, and it didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make
some about her, now she was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself,
but I couldn't seem to make it go, somehow. They kept Emmeline's room trim and
nice and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked to have them when she
was alive, and nobody ever slept there. The old lady took care of the room
herself, though there was plenty of niggers, and she sewed there a good deal and
read her Bible there, mostly.
    Well, as I was saying about the parlour, 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 betwixt them was roofed and
floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the middle of the day, and it
was a cool, comfortable place. Nothing couldn't be better. And warn't the
cooking good, and just bushels of it too!
 

                                 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 mud-cat, 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 himself up
like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to flicker out from under his
eyebrows you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was
afterwards. He didn't ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners -
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 cloud-bank it was awful dark for a 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 morning, all the family got up
out of their chairs and give them good-day, and didn't set down again till they
had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard where the decanters 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, because 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, day-times, and balls at the
house, nights. These people was mostly kin-folks of the family. The men brought
their guns with them. It was a handsome lot of quality, I tell you.
    There was another clan of aristocracy around there - five or six families -
mostly of the name of Shepherdson. They was as high-toned, and well born, and
rich and grand, as the tribe of Grangerfords. The Shepherdsons and the
Grangerfords used the same steamboat landing, which was about two mile above our
house; so sometimes when I went up there with a lot of our folks I used to see a
lot of the Shepherdsons there, on their fine horses.
    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
running 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 colour 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 again 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 Grangerford 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 folks; 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 buck-shot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't weigh much anyway.
Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and Tom's been hurt once or twice.«
    »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 outrun him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or more,
the old man a-gaining all the time; so at last Bud seen it warn't any use, so he
stopped and faced around so as to have the bullet holes in front, you know, and
the old man he rode up and shot him down. But he didn't git much chance to enjoy
his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid 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 Shepherdsons - not a one. And there ain't no cowards amongst the
Grangerfords, either. Why, that old man kept' up his end in a fight one day, for
a 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 wood-pile, and kept'
his horse before him to stop the bullets; but the Grangerfords staid on their
horses and capered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and he peppered
away at them. Him and his horse both went home pretty leaky and crippled, but
the Grangerfords had to be 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 Shepherdsons, 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 tire-someness; but
everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and
had such a powerful lot to say about faith, and good works, and free grace, and
prefore-ordestination, 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 up stairs, 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 yesterday. He oughter know a
body don't love water-moccasins enough to go around hunting for them. What is he
up to anyway? So I says -
    »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, just 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
surprised. He said he swum along behind me, that night, and heard me yell every
time, but dasn't answer, because he didn't want nobody to pick him up, and take
him into slavery again. Says he -
    »I got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so I was a considerable ways
behine you, towards de las'; when you landed I reck'ned I could ketch up wid you
on de lan' 'dout having' 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 was 'fraid o' de dogs -
but when it 'uz all quiet again, I knew 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 tuck 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 been a-buyin' pots en pans en vittles, as I got a chanst,
en a patchin' up de raf', nights, when -«
    »What raft, Jim?«
    »Our old 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' been so dark, en we warn't
so sk'yerd, en been such punkin-heads, as de saying' is, we'd a seed de raf'. But
it's jis' as well we didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed up again mos' as good as
new, en we's got a new lot o' stuff, too, 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 been', en dey hid her in a crick,
'mongst de willows, en dey was 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 telling' 'um she don't b'long to none uv um, but to you en me; en I ast 'm if
dey gwyne to grab a young white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? Den I
gin 'm ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo'
raf's 'ud come along en make 'm rich again. 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 agoing 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- 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,
sometime - nobody don't know jis' when - run off to git 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 old 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 come in sight of the log store and the wood-pile
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 cotton-wood 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 wood-pile 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 wood-pile 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 become of young Harney and Miss Sophia. He said
they'd got across the river and was safe. I was glad of that; but the way Buck
did take on because he didn't manage to kill Harney that day he shot at him - 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 agoing 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 staid 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
agoing on. I was mighty down-hearted; 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 somewhere 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 again. Jack's been
heah, he say he reck'n you's been 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 again 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 to 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 day-times; soon as night was most gone, we
stopped navigating and tied up - nearly always in the dead water under a
tow-head; and then cut young cotton-woods and willows and hid the raft with
them. Then we set out the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim, so
as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the
water was about knee deep, and watched the daylight come. Not a sound, anywheres
- perfectly still - just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the
bull-frogs 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 wood-yard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can
throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes
fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh, and sweet to smell, on account
of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they've left
dead fish laying around, gars, and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next
you've got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds
just going it!
    A little smoke couldn't be noticed, now, so we would take some fish off of
the lines, and cook up a hot breakfast. And afterwards we would watch the
lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by-and-by lazy off to
sleep. Wake up, by-and-by, and look to see what done it, and maybe see a
steamboat, coughing along up stream, so far off towards the other side you
couldn't tell nothing about her only whether she was 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 pow-wow 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 day-break, 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 cow-path 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 tow-head, 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 tow-head and hid in the cotton-woods 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
woolen 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 staid about
one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the act of sliding out when I
ran across you on the trail this side of town, and you told me they were coming,
and begged me to help you to get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble
myself and would scatter out with you. That's the whole yarn - what's yourn?«
    »Well, I'd been a-runnin' a little temperance revival there, 'bout a week, and
was the pet of the women-folks, big and little, for I was making' it mighty warm
for the rummies, I tell you, and taken' 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,« says 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 medicines; theatre-actor -
tragedy, you know; take a turn at 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 such 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 baldhead.
    »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 its 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 forget 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 confidence 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 Bridge-water, fled to
this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of
freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the
same time. The second son of the late duke seized the title 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 companionship 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 been 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
jing, 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, »The 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 looking' at this very moment
on the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy the Sixteen and
Marry Antonette.«
    »You! At your age! No! You mean you're the late Charlemagne; you must be six
or seven hundred years old, at the very least.«
    »Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has brung
these gray hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see before
you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled, trampled-on and sufferin'
rightful King of France.«
    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 staid 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
oncomfortable. 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
less 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 day-time 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 forward corner of the raft, one
night, and we all went overboard and dove under the wheel; Jim and me come up,
all right, but pa was drunk, and Ike was only four years old, so they never come
up no more. Well, for the next day or two we had considerable trouble, because
people was always coming out in skiffs and trying to take Jim away from me,
saying they believed he was a runaway nigger. We don't run 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 day-time 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 tick - better than Jim's, which was a corn-shuck tick; there's
always cobs around about in a shuck tick, and they poke into you and hurt; and
when you roll over, the dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of
dead leaves; it makes such a rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke allowed
he would take my bed; but the king allowed he wouldn't. He says -
    »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; I 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
everything; so the king told us to both stay on watch till the weather got
better; then him and the duke crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the
night. It was my watch below, till twelve, but I wouldn't a turned in, anyway,
if I'd had a bed; because a body don't see such a storm as that every day in the
week, not by a long sight. My souls, how the wind did scream along! And every
second or two there'd come a glare that lit up the white-caps for a half a mile
around, and you'd see the islands looking dusty through the rain, and the trees
thrashing around in the wind; then comes a h-wack! - bum! bum!
bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum - and the thunder would go rumbling and
grumbling away, and quit - and then rip comes another 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 overboard. 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 admission, and »furnish charts of character at
twenty-five cents apiece.« The duke said that was him. In another bill he was
the »world renowned Shaksperean tragedian, Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane,
London.« In other bills he had a lot of other names and done other wonderful
things, like finding water and gold with a divining rod, dissipating
witch-spells, and so on. By-and-by he says -
    »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-actn', 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 just a-freezn' for something fresh, anyway. Less 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 uncommon 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 night-cap. Here are the costumes
for the parts.«
    He got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which he said was meedyevil
armour for Richard III. and t'other chap, and a long white cotton night-shirt and
a ruffled night-cap 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 go there, there warn't nobody stirring; streets empty, and perfectly
dead and still, like Sunday. We found a sick nigger sunning himself in a back
yard, and he said everybody that warn't too young or too sick or too old, was
gone to camp-meeting, about two mile back in the woods. The king got the
directions, and allowed he'd go and work that camp-meeting for all it was worth,
and I might go, too.
    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 water-melons 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 knew, the king got agoing; 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 steam-boat 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 the 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 honour; 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 we 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
condition of them paying him in advance; they were going to pay in cord-wood 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'
plantation, forty mile below New Orleans, last winter, and likely went north,
and whoever would catch him and send him back, he could have the reward and
expenses.
    »Now,« says the duke, »after to-night we can run in the day-time if we want
to. Whenever we see anybody coming, we can tie Jim hand and foot with a rope,
and lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and say we captured him up the
river, and were too poor to travel on a steamboat, so we got this little raft on
credit from our friends and are going down to get the reward. Handcuffs and
chains would look still better on Jim, but it wouldn't go well with the story of
us being so poor. Too much like jewellery. 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 pow-wow 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 a 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 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 don'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 horn-pipe; 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! Always 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
recollection'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 traveller 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 court house, 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,
                                        
            White-chapel, 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 scenery, 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 the town. The stores and houses was most all old
shackly dried-up frame concerns that hadn't ever been painted; they was set up
three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to be out of reach of the water
when the river was overflowed. The houses had little gardens around them, but
they didn't seem to raise hardly anything in them but jimpson weeds, and
sunflowers, and ash-piles, and old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces of
bottles, and rags, and played-out tin-ware. The fences was made of different
kinds of boards, nailed on at different times; and they leaned every which-way,
and had gates that didn't generly have but one hinge - a leather one. Some of
the fences had been white-washed, some time or another, but the duke said it was
in Clumbus's 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 people hitched their horses to the awning-posts. There
was empty dry-goods boxes under the awnings, and loafers roosting on them all
day long, whittling them with their Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and
gaping and yawning and stretching - 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 just this minute give Ben
Thompson the last chaw I had« - which is a lie, pretty much every time; it don't
fool nobody but a stranger; but Jack ain't no stranger, so he says -
    »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 entrust, 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 they 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 danger-some,
because sometimes a strip of land as wide as a house caves in at a time.
Sometimes a belt of land a quarter of a mile deep will start in and cave along
and cave along till it all caves into the river in one summer. Such a town as
that has to be always moving back, and back, and back, because the river's
always gnawing at it.
    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 whiskey drinking going on, and I seen three fights. By-and-by
somebody 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 been a gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty year, he'd have a considerble
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
Indian, and singing out -
    »Cler the track, there. 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-naturedest 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 Sherburn as loud
as he could yell, all down the street; and pretty soon back he comes and stops
before the store, still keeping it up. Some men crowded around him and tried to
get him to shut up, but he wouldn't; they told him it would be one o'clock in
about fifteen minutes, and so he 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 minutes, here comes Boggs again - but not on his horse. He was
a-reeling across the street towards me, bareheaded, with a friend on both sides
of him aholt 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 onto
the ground, heavy and solid, with his arms spread out. That young girl screamed
out, and comes rushing, and down she throws herself on her father, crying, and
saying, »Oh, he's killed him, he's killed him!« The crowd closed up around them,
and shouldered and jammed one another, with their necks stretched, trying to
see, and people on the inside trying to shove them back, and shouting, »Back,
back! give him air, give him air!«
    Colonel Sherburn he tossed his pistol onto 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, squirming and scrouging and
pushing and shoving to get at the window and have a look, but people that had
the places wouldn't give them up, and folks behind them was saying all the time,
»Say, now, you've looked enough, you fellows; 'taint right and 'taint fair, for
you to stay there 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. Everybody
that seen the shooting was telling how it happened, and there was a big crowd
packed around each one of these fellows, stretching their necks and listening.
One long lanky man, with long hair and a big white fur stove-pipe hat on the
back of his head, and a crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the
ground where Boggs stood, and where Sherburn stood, and the people following him
around from one place to t'other and watching everything he done, and bobbing
their heads to show they understood, and stooping a little and resting their
hands on their thighs to watch him mark the places on the ground with his cane;
and then he stood up straight and stiff where Sherburn had stood, frowning and
having his hat-brim down over his eyes, and sung out, »Boggs!« and then fetched
his cane down slow to a level, and says »Bang!« staggered backwards, says
»Bang!« again, and fell down flat on his back. The people that had seen the
thing said he done it perfect; said it was just exactly the way it all happened.
Then as much as a dozen people got out their bottles and treated him.
    Well, by-and-by somebody said Sherburn ought to be lynched. In about a
minute everybody was saying it; so away they went, mad and yelling, and
snatching down every clothes-line they come to, to do the hanging with.
 

                                  Chapter XXII

They swarmed up the street towards Sherburn's house, a-whooping and yelling 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, looking down. The stillness
was awful creepy and uncomfortable. Sherburn run his eye slow along the crowd;
and wherever it struck, the people tried a little to outgaze him, but they
couldn't; they dropped their eyes and looked sneaky. Then pretty soon Sherburn
sort of laughed; not the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like
when you are eating bread that's got sand in it.
    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 day-time and you're not
behind him.
    Do I know you? I know you clear through. I was born and raised in the South,
and I've lived in the North; so I know the average all around. The average man's
a coward. In the North he lets anybody walk over him that wants to, and goes
home and prays for a humble spirit to bear it. In the South one man, all by
himself, has stopped a stage full of men, in the day-time, 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 onto that half-a-man's coat tail, and come raging up here, swearing
what big things you're going to do. The pitifulest thing out is a mob; that's
what an army is - a mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in them, but
with courage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their officers. But a mob
without any 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 staid, if I'd a 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 perfectly
beautiful, and looking just like a gang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed
in clothes that cost millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. It
was a powerful fine sight; I never see anything so lovely. And then one by one
they got up and stood, and went a-weaving around the ring so gentle and wavy and
graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy and straight, with their heads
bobbing and skimming along, away up there under the tent-roof, and every lady's
rose-leafy dress flapping soft and silky around her hips, and she looking like
the most loveliest parasol.
    And then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing, first one foot
stuck out in the air and then the other, the horses leaning more and more, and
the ring-master going round and round the centre-pole, cracking his whip and
shouting »hi! - hi!« and the clown cracking jokes behind him; and by-and-by all
hands dropped the reins, and every lady put her knuckles on her hips and every
gentleman folded his arms, and then how the horses did lean over and hump
themselves! And so, one after the other they all skipped off into the ring, and
made the sweetest bow I ever see, and then scampered out, and everybody clapped
their hands and went just about wild.
    Well, all through the circus they done the most astonishing things; and all
the time that clown carried on so it most killed the people. The ring-master
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 ring-master 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 onto his bridle trying to hold him,
and the drunk man hanging onto his neck, and his heels flying in the air every
jump, and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting and laughing till the
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 agoing 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 ring-master he see how he had been fooled, and he was the sickest
ring-master 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 ring-master'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 may be 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 CAMELOPARD
                                       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 onto the stage and stood up
before the curtain, and made a little speech, and praised up this tragedy, and
said it was the most thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on
a-bragging about the tragedy and about Edmund Kean the Elder, which was to play
the main principal part in it; and at last when he'd got everybody's
expectations up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next minute the
king come a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was painted all over,
ring-streaked-and-striped, all sorts of colours, 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 a made 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 performed only two nights more, on accounts of pressing
London engagements, where the seats is all sold already for it in Drury Lane;
and then he makes them another bow, and says if he has succeeded in pleasing
them and instructing them, he will be deeply obliged 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 agoing 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 advise 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 that 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- 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 'sprise 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 regular rapscallions; dat's just 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 Superintendent 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 morning. And he would do it just as indifferent as if
he was ordering up eggs. Fetch up Nell Gwynn, he says. They fetch her up. Next
morning, Chop off her head! And they chop it off. Fetch up Jane Shore, he says;
and up she comes. Next morning Chop off her head - 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 - drowned him in a butt of mamsey, like a cat. Spose people
left money laying around where he was - what did he do? He collared it. Spose 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. Spose 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 besides, 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 day-break, he was setting there with his head
down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself. I didn't take notice,
nor let on. I knew what it was about. He was thinking about his wife and his
children, away up yonder, and he was low and homesick; because he hadn't ever
been away from home before in his life; and I do believe he cared just as much
for his people as white folks does for their'n. It don't seem natural, but I
reckon it's so. He was often moaning and mourning that way, nights, when he
judged I was asleep, and saying, »Po' little 'Lizabeth! po' little Johnny! Its
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 old, 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 again, 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-looking' down and mournin', en de tears runnin' down. My, but I was mad, I was
agwyne 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' old Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive himself as long's he
live! Oh, she was plumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb - en I'd been
a-treat'n her so!«
 

                                  Chapter XXIV

Next day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow tow-head out in the
middle, where there was a village on each side of the river, and the duke and
the king begun to lay out a plan for working them towns. Jim he spoke to the
duke, and said he hoped it wouldn't take but a few hours, because it got mighty
heavy and tiresome to him when he had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with the
rope. You see, when we left him all alone we had to tie him, because if anybody
happened on 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 theatre-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 drowned 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 laying tied a couple of years every day and trembling all over every time
there was a sound. The duke told him to make himself free and easy, and if
anybody ever come meddling around, he must hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a
little, and fetch a howl or two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would
light out and leave him alone. Which was sound enough judgment; but you take the
average man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. Why, he didn't only look like
he was dead, he looked considerable more than that.
    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
knew how clothes could change a body before. Why, before, he looked like the
orneriest old rip that ever was; but now, when he'd take off his new white
beaver and make a bow and do a smile, he looked that grand and good and pious
that you'd say he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old Leviticus
himself. Jim cleaned up the canoe, and I got my paddle ready. There was a big
steamboat laying at the shore away up under the point, about three mile above
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 spose I must say, as I'm one o' the Lord's poor servants. But still I'm just
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 was 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; I wisht I was agoing. 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. Robinson, 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 sometimes, when he wrote home; so Harvey 'll know where to look for
friends when he gets here.«
    Well, the old man he 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 all the Wilkses; and about Peter's business -
which was a tanner; and about George's - which was a carpenter; and about
Harvey'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 afraid 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 loading, and pretty soon she got
off. The king never said nothing about going aboard, so I lost my ride, after
all. When the boat was gone, the king made me paddle up another mile to a
lonesome place, and then he got ashore, and says:
    »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 agoing 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 histrionic 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 give 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 steamboat 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 all 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 gethered 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 tile noise of the
tramping was like a soldier-march. The windows and door-yards 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 Mary 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 shoulder, and t'other hand to
their eyes, walked slow and solemn over there, everybody dropping back to give
them room, and all the talk and noise stopping, people saying »Sh!« and all the
men taking their hats off and drooping their heads, so you could a heard a pin
fall. And when they got there, they bent over and looked in the coffin, and took
one sight, and then they bust out a crying so you could a heard them to Orleans,
most; and then they put their arms around each other's necks, and hung their
chins over each other's shoulders; and then for three minutes, or maybe four, I
never see two men leak the way they done. And mind you, everybody was doing the
same; and the place was that damp I never see anything like it. Then one of them
got on one side of the coffin, and t'other on t'other side, and they kneeled
down and rested their foreheads on the coffin, and let on to pray all to
theirselves. Well, when it come to that, it worked the crowd like you never see
anything like it, and so 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 disgusting.
    Well, by-and-by the king he gets up and comes forward a little, and works
himself up and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears and flapdoodle about its
being a sore trial for him and his poor brother to lose the diseased, and to
miss seeing diseased alive, after the long journey of four thousand mile, but
its a trial that's sweetened and sanctified to us by this dear sympathy and
these holy tears, and so he thanks them out of his heart and out of his
brother's heart, because out of their mouths they can't, words being too weak
and cold, and all that kind of rot and slush, till it was just sickening; and
then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody Amen, and turns himself loose and goes
to crying fit to bust.
    And the minute the words was 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. Robinson, 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
some 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 blatted 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 talking'; 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 there' 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 a while, 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 thinking' 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 there' ain't noth'n suspicious. But when the dead man
says there's six thous'n dollars, you know, we don't want to -«
    »Hold on,« says the duke. »Less 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. »blessed if the old Nonesuch ain't a heppin' us out again«
- 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, there' 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 knew him, knows that he would a done more
generous by 'em if he hadn't been afraid 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 knew 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 anything; 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' particular 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 physician? I -«
    »Keep your hands off of me!« says the doctor. »You talk like an Englishman -
don't you? It's the worse 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 knew everybody by name, and the names of
the very dogs, and begged and begged him not to hurt Harvey's feelings and the
poor girls' feelings, and all that; but it warn't no use, he stormed right
along, and said any man that pretended to be an Englishman and couldn't imitate
the lingo no better than what he did, was a fraud and a liar. The poor girls was
hanging to the king and crying; and all of a sudden the doctor ups and turns on
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 has picked up somewhere, 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 it 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 knick-knacks 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 along side 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 knew everything was tip-top, 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 blessed 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 knew
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 'tother 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 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 nothing?«
    »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 theatre, 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 account of it's 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'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 agoing 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'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, because it's better for us to
be down there a whoopin'-up the mournin', than up here givin' 'em a chance to
talk us over.«
    »Well, this is it, Capet. I ain't easy; I ain't comfortable. That doctor
lays on my mind. I wanted to know your plans. I've got a notion, and I think
it's a sound one.«
    »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 o'
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 shan'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 again, and that's enough for them; they're young
and spry, and k'n easy earn a living'. They ain't agoing 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 blame 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, again, duke,« says the king; and he come 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 caught 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 knew 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 somewhere,
because if they missed it they would give the house a good ransacking. I knew
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 of 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 snoring, 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 parlour, where the
corpse was laying, and there was a candle in both rooms. I passed along, and the
parlour door was open; but I see there warn't nobody in there but the remainders
of Peter; so I shoved on by; but the front door was locked, and the key wasn't't
there. Just then I heard somebody coming down the stairs, back behind me. I run
in the parlour, and took a swift look around, and the only place I see to hide
the bag was in the coffin. The lid was shoved along about a foot, showing the
dead man's face down in there, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on. I
tucked the money-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his hands was
crossed, which made me creep, they was so cold, and then I run back across the
room and in behind the door.
    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 caught - caught 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 parlour 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 neighbours till the hall and the
parlour 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 keeping their heads bent,
and sobbing a little. There warn't no other sound but the scraping of the feet
on the floor, and blowing noses - 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 soothering ways, putting on the last touches, and getting
people and things all shipshape 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 passage-ways, and done it all 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
pow-wow and racket getting more and more outrageous all the time; and at last,
when he had gone around two sides of the room, he disappears down cellar. Then,
in about two seconds we heard a whack, and the dog he finished up with a most
amazing howl or two, and then everything was dead still, and the parson begun
his solemn talk where he left off. In a minute or two here comes this
undertaker's back and shoulders gliding along the wall again; and so he glided,
and glided, around three sides of the room, and then rose up, and shaded his
mouth with his hands, and stretched his neck out towards the preacher, over the
people's heads, and says, in a kind of a coarse whisper, »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, spose somebody has hogged that bag on the sly? - now how do I
know whether to write to Mary Jane or not? 'Spose 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 every body up, and
made himself ever so friendly; and he give out the idea that his congregation
over in England would be in a sweat about him, so he must hurry and settle up
the estate right away, and leave for home. He was very sorry he was so pushed,
and so was everybody; they wished he could stay longer, but they said they could
see it couldn't be done. And he said of course him and William would take the
girls home with them; and that pleased everybody too, because then the girls
would be well fixed, and amongst their own relations; and it pleased the girls,
too - 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 noontime, 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 knew 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 scandalous to separate the mother and the children
that way. It injured the frauds some; but the old fool he bulled right along,
spite of all the duke could say or do, and I tell you the duke was powerful
uneasy.
    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 anear
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 a while, and see my chance, then I says:
    »Well, I see the niggers go in there several times.«
    Both of them give 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 morning. 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 tip-toed away; so I seen, easy enough, that they'd shoved in there to do up
your majesty's room, or something, sposing 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 then 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 theatre,
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 business - yes.«
    The king snarls around on him and says,
    »I was trying to do for the best, in sellin' 'm 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
knew something was up. And then waltzed in and cussed himself a while; and
said it all come of him not laying late and taking his natural rest that
morning, and he'd be blamed if he'd ever do it again. So they went off a jawing;
and I felt dreadful glad I'd worked it all off onto the niggers and yet hadn't
done the niggers no harm by it.
 

                                 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 abear 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
excited, and handsome, but looking kind of happy and eased-up, like a person
that's had a tooth pulled out. So I went to studying it out. I says to myself, I
reckon a body that ups and tells the truth when he is in a tight place, is
taking considerable many resks, though I ain't had no experience, and can't say
for certain; but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet here's a case where I'm
blessed 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 agoing 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
reddened 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 onto 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 mind 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 day-time, without anybody aboard to answer questions but
me; so I didn't want the plan to begin working till pretty late to-night. I
says:
    »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 something about these two, let
them send up to Bricksville and say they've got the men that played the Royal
Nonesuch, and ask for some witnesses - 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 breakfast - 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 neighbour 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 smoothes 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 knew, 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'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 crying there all by herself
in the night, and them devils laying there right under her own roof, shaming her
and robbing her; and when I folded it up and give it to her, I see the water
come into her eyes, too; and she shook me by the hand, hard, and says:
    »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 knew 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 think 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, there' ain't no sense in it. A body might stump his toe, and take
pison, and fall down the well, and break his neck, and bust his brains out, and
somebody come along and ask what killed him, and some numskull up and say, Why,
he stumped his toe. Would there' be any sense in that? No. And there' 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 onto 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
obliged to get along home to England as fast as they can? And do you reckon
they'd be mean enough to go off and leave you to go all that journey by
yourselves? 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,
hell 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 better tell some of the neighbours.«
    »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 wont 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 Proctors, but only about the Apthorps -
which'll be perfectly true, because she is going there to speak about their
buying the house; I know it, because she told me so, herself.«
    »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 piousest, up there longside of the auctioneer, and
chipping in a little Scripture, now and then, or a little goody-goody saying, of
some kind, and the duke he was around goo-gooing for sympathy all he knew 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 wanting 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 gentleman along, and a nice looking
younger one, with his right arm in a sling. And my souls, how the people yelled,
and laughed, and kept it up. But I didn't see no joke about it, and I judged it
would strain the duke and the king some to see any. I reckoned they'd turn pale.
But no, nary a pale did 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 newcomers like it give him the stomach-ache in his very
heart to think there could be such frauds and rascals in the world. Oh, he done
it admirable. Lots of the principal people gethered around the king, to let him
see they was on his side. That old gentleman that had just come looked all
puzzled to death. Pretty soon he begun to speak, and I see, straight off, he
pronounced 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't looking for; and I'll acknowledge,
candid and frank, I ain't very well fixed to meet it and answer it; for my
brother and me has had misfortunes, he's broke his arm, and our baggage got put
off at a town above here, last night in the night by a mistake. I am Peter
Wilks's brother Harvey, and this is his brother William, which can't hear nor
speak - 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 hain'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 sundown.«
    »How'd you come?«
    »I come down on the Susan Powell, from Cincinnati.«
    »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
suppose'n' 'em honest, like servants in England. The niggers stole it the very
next mornin' after I had went down stairs; and when I sold 'em, I hadn't missed
the money yit, so they got clean away with it. My servant here k'n tell you
'bout it gentlemen.«
    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 investigation, and there we had it,
up and down, hour in, hour out, and nobody never said a word about supper, nor
ever seemed to think about it - 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 anybody 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 knew. The king he give
me a left-handed look out of the corner of his eye, and so I knew 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 a while, 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 examined the old man's writing, and then them again; and
then says: »These old letters is from Harvey Wilks; and here's these two's
handwritings, and anybody 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 handwriting, 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 anyway, 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 and warbling right along, till he was actuly
beginning to believe what he was saying, himself - but pretty soon the new old
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 tatooed 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 tatooed 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
tatooed 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's
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 rattling
pow-wow. 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 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 wild-cats;
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 tatoo-marks.
If they didn't find them -
    I couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, I couldn't think about
nothing else. It got darker and darker, and it was a beautiful time to give the
crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the wrist - 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 graveyard and washed over it like
an overflow. And when they got to the grave, they found they had about a hundred
times as many shovels as they wanted, but nobody hadn't thought to fetch a
lantern. But they sailed into digging, anyway, by the flicker of the lightning,
and sent a man to the nearest house a half a mile off, to borrow one.
    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 shouldering, and shoving as there was, to scrouge in and
get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that way, it was awful. Hines he
hurt my wrist dreadful, pulling and tugging so, and I reckon he clean forgot I
was in the world, he was so excited and panting.
    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'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'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 drowned
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 breakfast! 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
knew 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 onto 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 happened, your majesty. The
man that had aholt of me was very good to me, and kept saying he had a boy about
as big as me that died last year, and he was sorry to see a boy in such a
dangerous fix; and when they was all took by surprise by finding the gold, and
made a rush for the coffin, he lets go of me and whispers, Heel it, now, or
they'll hang ye, sure! and I lit out. It didn't seem no good for 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 afraid you and the
duke wasn't'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 right 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 your - self!«
    »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
everything 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 may 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 begun 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 everything - and I a
trusting you all the time, like you was my own father. You ought to been ashamed
of yourself to stand by and hear it saddled onto 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 deffesit - 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 deffersit, 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 a 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 mesmerizering, 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's 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 staid where was 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 change, on top of it. So me and the duke
went up to the village, and hunted around there for the king, and by-and-by we
found him in the back room of a little low doggery, very tight, and a lot of
loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a cussing and threatening with all
his might, and so tight he couldn't walk, and couldn't do nothing to them. The
duke he began 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 screeching; 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.«
    »Wherebouts?« says I.
    »Down to Silas Phelps's place, two mile below here. He's a runaway nigger,
and they've got him. Was you looking for him?«
    »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; afraid to come out«
    »Well,« he says, »you needn't be afraid 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 reward 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 was it 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 to ever 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, it ain't
no disgrace. That was my fix exactly. The more I studied about this, the more my
conscience went to grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and ornery I
got to feeling. And at last, when it hit me all of a sudden that here was the
plain hand of Providence slapping me in the face and letting me know my
wickedness was being watched all the time from up there in heaven, whilst I was
stealing a poor old woman's nigger that hadn't ever done me no harm, and now was
showing me there's One that's always on the lookout, and ain't agoing 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 knew 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 knew it was a
lie - and He knew 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 knew 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,
sometimes storms, and we a floating along, talking, and singing, and laughing.
But somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but
only the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, stead of
calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come
back out of the fog; and when I come to him again in the swamp, up there where
the feud was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me,
and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at
last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had 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 decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knew
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; because 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 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 farmhouses, 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, before 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 a 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 doggery yesterday, I says to
myself, we can't get him home for hours, till he's soberer; so I went a loafing
around town to put in the time, and wait. A man up and offered me ten cents to
help him pull a skiff over the river and back to fetch a sheep, and so I went
along; but when we was dragging him to the boat, and the man left me aholt of
the rope and went behind him to shove him along, he was too strong for me, and
jerked loose and run, and we after him. We didn't have no dog, and so we had to
chase him all over the country till we tired him out. We never got him till
dark, then we fetched him over, and I started down for the raft. When I got
there and see it was gone, I says to myself, they've got into trouble and had to
leave; and they've took my nigger, which is the only nigger I've got in the
world, and now I'm in a strange country, and ain't got no property no more, nor
nothing, and no way to make my living; so I set down and cried. I slept in the
woods all night. But what 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 powderhorn. 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 won't, 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 knew I could tire him out at that.
I went straight out in the country as much as a mile, before I stopped; then I
doubled back through the woods towards Phelps's. I reckoned I better start in on
my plan straight off, without fooling around, because I wanted to stop Jim's
mouth till these fellows could get away. I didn't want no trouble with their
kind. I'd seen all I wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely shut of them.
 

                                 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 lonesome and like everybody's dead
and gone; and if a breeze fans along and quivers the leaves, it makes you feel
mournful, because you feel like it's spirits whispering - 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's was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations; and they all
look alike. A rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile, made out of logs sawed
off and up-ended, in steps, like barrels of a different length, to climb over
the fence with, and for the women to stand on when they are going to jump onto a
horse; some sickly grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and
smooth, like an old hat with the nap rubbed off; big double log house for the
white folks - 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 out-buildings 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
water-melon 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 knew
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 mat 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
pow-wow 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 sailing 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 him 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 onto 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 doing. 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!
Childern, 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's kept' 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 Babtist. Your uncle Silas knew a family in Bator Rouge
that knew 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. Childern,
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 world 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 distressed. I don't know what
in the world to make of it. I'm at my wit's end, and I don't mind acknowledging
't I'm right down scared. But there's no hope that he's come; for he couldn't
come and me miss him. Sally, it's terrible - just terrible - something's
happened 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-smiling 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 shaking; and
all the time, how the woman did dance around and laugh and cry; and then how
they both did fire off questions about Sid, and Mary, and the rest of the tribe.
    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 explained all about how we
blowed out a cylinder-head at the mouth of White River and it took us three days
to fix it. Which was all right, and worked first rate; because they didn't know
but what it would take three days to fix it. If I'd a called it a bolt-head it
would a done just as well.
    Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pretty
uncomfortable all up the other. Being Tom Sawyer was easy and comfortable; and
it stayed easy and comfortable till by-and-by I hear a steamboat coughing along
down the river - then I says to myself, spose Tom Sawyer come down on that boat?
- and spose 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 staid 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, now,
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 Watson'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 agoing to steal him, and I want you to 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 forget 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. Who ever 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 hunderd 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 school-house, and never
charged nothing for his preaching, and it was worth it, too. There was plenty
other farmer-preachers like that, and done the same way, down South.
    In about half an hour Tom's wagon drove up to the front stile, and Aunt
Sally she see it through the window because it was only about fifty yards, and
says:
    »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 circumstances it warn't no trouble to him to throw in an amount
of style that was suitable. He warn't a boy to meeky along up that yard like a
sheep; no, he come ca'm and important, like the ram. When he got afront 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 Southern 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 disappoint 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 there'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'll 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-numskull 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, somewhere's; 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,
coming down the river, me and Tom thought it would be a first-rate surprise for
him to come here to the house first, and for me to by-and-by tag along and drop
in and let on to be a stranger. But it was a mistake, Aunt Sally. This ain't no
healthy place for a stranger to come.«
    »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 performance! 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 betwixt 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 going to be any; and you
couldn't go if there was; because the runaway nigger told Burton and me all
about that scandalous show, and Burton said he would tell the people; so I
reckon they've drove the owdacious loafers out of town before this time.«
    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 goodnight 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 middle of it - it was as much as half-after
eight, then - here comes a raging rush of people, with torches, and an awful
whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blowing horns; and we jumped to
one side to let them go by; and as they went by, I see they had the king and the
duke astraddle of a rail - that is, I knew 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'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 watermelon. 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 come 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 knew 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 before. 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 breaking into a soap factory.«
    I never said nothing, because I warn't expecting nothing different; but I
knew 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 knew it wouldn't stay
the way it was. I knew he would be changing it around, every which way, as we
went along, and heaving in new bullinesses wherever he got a chance. And that is
what he done.
    Well, one thing was dead sure; and that was, that Tom Sawyer was in earnest
and was actuly going to help steal that nigger out of slavery. That was the
thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy that was respectable, and well
brung up; and had a character to lose; and folks at home that had characters;
and he was bright and not leather-headed; and knowing and not ignorant; and not
mean, but kind; and yet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or
feeling, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and his
family a shame, before everybody. I couldn't understand it, no way at all. It
was outrageous, and I knew 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 knew 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 the 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 breakfast and starting for
the fields; and Jim's nigger was piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and
things; and whilst the others was leaving, the key come from the house.
    This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool was all
tied up in little bunches with thread. That was to keep witches off. He said the
witches was pestering him awful, these nights, and making him see all kinds of
strange things, and hear all kinds of strange words and noises, and he didn't
believe he was ever witched so long, before, in his life. He got so worked up,
and got to running on so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he'd been
agoing 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 day-break? 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 anything, 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 knew 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 genlmen?«
    We could see pretty well, now. Tom he looked at the nigger, steady and kind
of wondering, and says:
    »Does who know us?«
    »Why, dish-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 knew 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, anyway? 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 old Mars Silas he'll scole me; 'kase he say dey
ain't no witches. I jis' wish to goodness 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 nothn' 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 nobody; 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, because 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 awkard as it can be. And so it
makes it so rotten difficult to get up a difficult plan. There ain't no watchman
to be drugged - now there ought to be a watchman. There ain't even a dog to give
a sleeping-mixture to. And there's Jim chained by one leg, with a ten-foot
chain, to the leg of his bed; why, all you got to do is to lift up the bedstead
and slip off the chain. And Uncle Silas he trusts everybody; sends the key to
the punkin-headed nigger, and don't send nobody to watch the nigger. Jim could a
got out of that window hole before this, only there wouldn't be no use trying to
travel with a ten-foot chain on his leg. Why, drat it, Huck, it's the stupidest
arrangement I ever see. You got to invent 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 honour 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 it? 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 bedstead 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 Chelleeny, nor Henri IV.,
nor none of them heroes? Whoever heard of getting a prisoner loose in such an
old-maidy way as that? No; the way all the best authorities does, is to saw the
bed-leg in two, and leave it just so, and swallow the sawdust, so it can't be
found, and put some dirt and grease around the sawed place so the very keenest
seneskal can't see no sign of 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 necessity 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. Spose 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 clothes-line.«
    He said that would do. And that give 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.«
    »Spose 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 something like that they can get
their hands on; and it takes them weeks and weeks, and months and months to file
it out, too, because they've got to do it by rubbing it on the wall. 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 authorities uses their own blood. Jim can do that; and when he
wants to send any little common ordinary mysterious message to let the world
know where he's captivated, he can write it on the bottom of a tin plate with a
fork and throw it out of the window. The Iron Mask always done that, and it's a
blame' good way, too.«
    »Jim ain't got no tin plates. They feed him in a pan.«
    »That ain't anything; we can get him some.«
    »Can't nobody read his plates.«
    »That ain't got nothing 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 that morning I borrowed a sheet and a white shirt off of the
clothes-line; and I found an old sack and put them in it, and we went down and
got the fox-fire, and put that in too. I called it borrowing, because that was
what pap always called it; but Tom said it warn't borrowing, it was stealing. He
said we was representing prisoners; and prisoners don't care how they get a
thing so they get it, and nobody don't blame them for it, either. It ain't no
crime in a prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get away with, Tom said; it's
his right; and so, as long as we was representing a prisoner, we had a perfect
right to steal anything on this place we had the least use for, to get ourselves
out of prison with. He said if we warn't prisoners it would be a very different
thing, and nobody but a mean ornery person would steal when he warn't a
prisoner. So we allowed we would steal everything there was that come handy. And
yet he made a mighty fuss, one day, after that, when I stole a watermelon out of
the nigger patch and eat it; and he made me go and give the niggers a dime,
without telling them what it was for. Tom said that what he meant was, we could
steal anything we 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 wood-pile, 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 agoing 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 harbour 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 weatherboarding 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 middle of the bottom log. Tom said he was right behind Jim's
bed now, and we'd dig in under it, and when we got through there couldn't nobody
in the cabin ever know there was any hole there, because Jim's counterpin hung
down most to the ground, and you'd have to raise it up and look under to see the
hole. So we dug and dug, with the case-knives, till most midnight; and then we
was dog-tired, and our hands was blistered, and yet you couldn't see we'd done
anything, hardly. At last I says:
    »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 knew he was thinking. Then he says:
    »It ain't no use, Huck, it ain't agoing 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 watermelon, or a Sunday-school book, I ain't no ways particular
how it's done so it's done. What I want is my nigger; or what I want is my
watermelon; or what I want is my Sunday-school book; and if a pick's the
handiest thing, that's the thing I'm agoing to dig that nigger or that
watermelon or that Sunday-school book out with; and I don't give a dead rat what
the authorities thinks about it nuther.«
    »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 pick-axe 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 up 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 said it
wasn't'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 a while, 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 a while, and then Tom asked a
lot of questions, and when Jim told him Uncle Silas come in every day or two to
pray with him, and Aunt Sally come in to see if he was comfortable and had
plenty to eat, and both of them was kind as they could be, Tom says:
    »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 knew 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 wood-pile and chopped up the brass
candlestick into handy sizes, and Tom put them and the pewter spoon in his
pocket. Then we went to the nigger cabins, and while I got Nat's notice off, Tom
shoved a piece of candlestick into the middle of a corn-pone that was in Jim's
pan, and we went along with Nat to see how it would work, and it just worked
noble; when Jim bit into it it most mashed all his teeth out; and there warn't
ever anything could a worked better. Tom said so himself. Jim he never let on
but what it was only just a piece of rock or something like that that's always
getting into bread, you know; but after that he never bit into nothing but what
he jabbed his fork into it in three or four places, first.
    And whilst we was a standing there in the dimmish light, here comes a couple
of the hounds bulging in, from under Jim's bed; and they kept on piling in till
there was eleven of them, and there warn't hardly room in there to get your
breath. By jings, we forgot to fasten that lean-to door. The nigger Nat he only
just hollered »witches!« once, and keeled over onto the floor amongst the dogs,
and begun to groan like he was dying. Tom jerked the door open and flung out a
slab of Jim's meat, and the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he was out
himself and back again and shut the door, and I knew 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 such a thing b'fo'.«
    »Well, then, I'll have to make it myself.«
    »Will you do it, honey? - will 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 talking' '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 children say their pa and ma was going to the runaway nigger's house
this morning, and then went to breakfast, and Tom dropped the pewter spoon in
Uncle Silas's coat pocket, and Aunt Sally wasn't'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
war-whoop, and Tom he turned kinder blue around the gills, and it all amounted
to a considerable state of things for about a quarter of a minute or as much as
that, and I would a sold out for half price if there was a bidder. But after
that we was all right again - 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'es-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 there'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 onto
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! - spose the rats took the sheet? Where's it gone, Lize?«
    »Clah to goodness I hain't no notion. Miss Sally. She was on de clo's-line
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 cannel-stick 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 somewhere. 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 breakfast,
and I reckon I put it in there, not noticing, meaning to put my Testament in,
and it must be so, because my Testament ain't in, but I'll go and see, and if
the Testament is where I had it, I'll know I didn't put it in, and that will
show that I laid the Testament down and took up the spoon, and -«
    »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 there' 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, there'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 said she didn't
care, and warn't agoing 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
washpans 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 in 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 washpan, afraid
the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas he had a noble brass warming-pan which he
thought considerable of, because it belonged to one of his ancesters with a long
wooden handle that come over from England with William the Conqueror in the
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
because they warn't, but on account of them being relicts, you know, and we
snaked her out, private, and took her down there, but she failed on the first
pies, because we didn't know how, but she come up smiling on the last one. We
took and lined her with dough, and set her in the coals, and loaded her up with
rag-rope, and put on a dough roof, and shut down the lid, and put hot embers on
top, and stood off five foot, with the long handle, cool and comfortable, and in
fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that was a satisfaction to look at. But the
person that et it would want to fetch a couple of kags of toothpicks along, for
if that rope-ladder wouldn't cramp him down to business, I don't know nothing
what I'm talking about, and lay him in enough stomach-ache to last him till next
time, too.
    Nat didn't look, when we put the witch-pie in Jim's pan; and we put the
three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the vittles; and so Jim got
everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself he busted into the pie
and hid the rope-ladder inside of his straw tick, and scratched some marks on a
tin plate and throwed it out of the window-hole.
 

                                Chapter XXXVIII

Making them pens was a distressid-tough job, and so was the saw; and Jim allowed
the inscription was going to be the toughest of all. That's the one which the
prisoner has to scrabble on the wall. But we had to have it; Tom said we'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, spose 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' arms; I hain't got nuffn but
dish-yer old 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 hain't got no coat of
arms, because he hain't«
    »I reckon I knew 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 atto. 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 explain a thing to you, he
wouldn't do it. You might pump at him a week, it wouldn't make no difference.
    He'd got all that coat of arms business fixed, so now he started in to
finish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan out a mournful
inscription - 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 out
        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
onto the wall, they was all so good; but at last he allowed he would let him
scrabble them all on. Jim said it would take him a year to scrabble such a lot
of truck onto the logs with a nail, and he didn't know how to make letters,
besides; but Tom said he would block them out for him, and then he wouldn't have
nothing to do but just follow the lines. Then pretty soon he says:
    »Come to think, the logs ain't agoing 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 well 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
drowned 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 knew 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 afeared 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 hurting 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 favour, 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 such glory. Snake take 'n bite Jim's chin
off, den whah is de glory? No, sah, I doan' want no such doing'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 on-reasonable, 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 bullheaded 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 knew 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 dad-blamed-est 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 ain' 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 likes 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 having'?
blessed 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 over, and see if there wasn't'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-looking' 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 inscriptions, and
journals, and things, which made it more trouble and worry and responsibility to
be a prisoner than anything he ever undertook, that Tom most lost all patience
with him; and said he was just loadened down with more gaudier chances than a
prisoner ever had in the world to make a name for himself, and yet he didn't
know enough to appreciate them, and they was just about wasted on him. So Jim he
was sorry, and said he wouldn't behave so no more, and then me and Tom shoved
for bed.
 

                                 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 staid 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 somewhere. So we judged we could get
some of them again. No, there warn't no real scarcity of snakes about the house
for a considerble 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
aholt 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 nothing to what she would do if we ever loaded up
the place again with them. I didn't mind the lickings, because they didn't
amount to nothing; but I minded the trouble we had, to lay in another lot. But
we got them laid in, and all the other things; and you never see a cabin as
blithesome as Jim's was when they'd all swarm out for music and go for him. Jim
didn't like the spiders, and the spiders didn't like Jim; and so they'd lay for
him and make it mighty warm for him. And he said that between the rats, and the
snakes, and the grindstone, there warn't no room in bed for him, skasely; and
when there was, a body couldn't sleep, it was so lively, and it was always
lively, he said, because 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 runaway nigger, but hadn't got no answer,
because there warn't no such plantation; so he allowed he would advertise Jim in
the St. Louis and New Orleans papers; and when he mentioned the St. Louis ones,
it give me the cold shivers, and I see we hadn't no time to lose. So Tom said,
now for the nonnamous letters.
    »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. Anyway 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 disguise, and Jim 'll take the nigger woman's gown off
of me and wear it, and we'll all evade together. When a prisoner of style
escapes, it's called an evasion. It's always called so when a king escapes,
f'rinstance. And the same with a king's son; it don't make no difference whether
he's a natural one or an unnatural one.«
    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 get 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
        cutthroats from over in the Ingean 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 a 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 whoopjam-boreehoo. 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 knew 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
spose 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 knew 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 knew by the colour 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 hundred! 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 padlock; 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 outside. So we crept to the door, and Tom stopped us there and put his eye to
the crack, but couldn't make out nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and said
he would listen for the steps to get further, and when he nudged us Jim must
glide out first, and him last. So he set his ear to the crack and listened, and
listened, and listened, and the steps a scraping around, out there, all the
time; and at last he nudged us, and we slid out, and stooped down, not
breathing, and not making the least noise, and slipped stealthy towards the
fence, in Indian file, and got to it, all right, and me and Jim over it; but
Tom's britches caught 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 onto us, we dodged into the bush and
let them go by, and then dropped in behind them. They'd had all the dogs shut
up, so they wouldn't scare off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let
them loose, and here they come, making pow-wow enough for a million; but they
was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till they caught 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 obliged to. Then we struck out, easy and comfortable,
for the island where my raft was; and we could hear them yelling and barking at
each other all up and down the bank, till we was so far away the sounds got dim
and died out. And when we stepped onto the raft, I says:
    »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 was, 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 was.«
    We was all as 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 considerble, 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 was him dat 'uz bein'
sot free, en one er de boys was 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 gwyne to say it? No, sah - I
doan' budge a step out'n dis place, 'dout a doctor; not if it's forty year!«
    I knew 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 agoing for a doctor. He raised
considerble row about it, but me and Jim stuck to it and wouldn't budge; so he
was for crawling out and setting the raft loose himself; but we wouldn't let
him. Then he give us a piece of his mind - but it didn't do no good.
    So when he see 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-looking old man, when I got him up.
I told him me and my brother was over on Spanish Island hunting, yesterday
afternoon, and camped on a piece of a raft we found, and about midnight he must
a kicked his gun in his dreams, for it went off and shot him in the leg, and we
wanted him to go over there and fix it and not say nothing about it, nor let
anybody know, because we wanted to come home this evening, and surprise the
folks.
    »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 see 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 afraid, 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 shore.
    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 hunting 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 out-run us, and we lost them; but we thought we heard them on
the water, so we got a canoe and took out after them, and crossed over but
couldn't find nothing of them; so we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of
tired and beat out; and tied up the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up
till about an hour ago, then we paddled over here to hear the news, and Sid's at
the post-office to see what he can hear, and I'm a branching out to get
something to eat for us, and then we're going home.«
    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 a
while 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 plumb 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 agoing 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 so 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 'ts in his right mind 's agoin' to scrabble all them crazy things
onto a grindstone, s'I? Here such 'n' such 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' such 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-saying' 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 grindstone in there, any-way?
'n' who dug that-air hole? 'n' who -«
    »My very words, Brer Penrod! I was a-saying' - pass that-air sasser o'
m'lasses, won't ye? - I was a-saying' to Sister Dunlap, just this minute, how did
they git that grindstone in there, s'I. Without help, mind you - 'thout help!
Thar's wher' 'tis. Don't tell me, s'I; there was help, s'I; 'n' there' was a
plenty help, too, s'I; there's been 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 everything that's been done. Look
at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they've been made; look at that
bed-leg sawed off with 'm, a week's work for six men; look at that nigger made
out'n straw on the bed; and look at -«
    »You may well say it, Brer Hightower! It's just as I was a-saying' 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 such as
't is, it's my opinion, s'I, 'n' if anybody 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 been 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 been 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 there' 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 Indian Territory
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 -
because, you know our dogs, and there' 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 been afraid to live in such 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 reasoning
faculties no more. It looks foolish enough, now, in the day-time; 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
occasion 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 drowned, and might be laying at this minute,
somewhere, 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 up town 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 somewhere 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, because the people that's always the
most anxious for to hang a nigger that hain't done just right, is always the
very ones that ain't the most anxious to pay for him when they've got their
satisfaction out of him.
    They cussed Jim considerble, though, and give him a cuff or two, side the
head, once in a while, but Jim never said nothing, and he never let on to know
me, and they took him to the same cabin, and put his own clothes on him, and
chained him again, and not to no bed-leg, this time, but to a big staple drove
into the bottom log, and chained his hands, too, and both legs, and said he
warn't to have nothing but bread and water to eat, after this, till his owner
come or he was sold at auction, because he didn't come in a certain length of
time, and filled up our hole, and said a couple of farmers with guns must stand
watch around about the cabin every night, and a bull-dog 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 obliged 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 enigh 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 somewhere, 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 till daylight this morning; and I never see a nigger
that was a better nuss or faith-fuller, and yet he was resking 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 knew 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 obliged 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
judgment of him, too; because I thought he had a good heart in him and was a
good man, the first time I see him. Then they all agreed that Jim had acted very
well, and was deserving to have some notice took of it, and reward. So every one
of them promised, right out and hearty, that they wouldn't cuss him no more.
    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 runaway 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 a 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 peacefuller 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 nonnamous letters
from the robbers, and get up and down the lightning-rod, and dig the hole into
the cabin, and make the rope-ladder and send it in cooked up in a pie, and send
in spoons and things to work with, in your apron pocket« -
    »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'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 somebody don't go, I'll go.
I've knew 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 give him a
rattling reputation, 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 knew he wouldn't
mind, because it would be nuts for him, being a mystery, and he'd make an
adventure out of it and be perfectly satisfied. And so it turned out, and he let
on to be Sid, and made things as soft as he could for me.
    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 creature'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 to 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 aholt 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 knew 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 spose 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 caught 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 reckened 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 been rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich again; en it's come true; en heah she
is! Dah, now! doan' talk to me - signs is signs, mine I tell you; en I knew
jis' 's well 'at I 'uz gwineter be rich again 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 was a man
in dah, kivered up, en I went in en unkivered him and didn' let you come in?
Well, den, you k'n git yo' money when you wants it; kase dat was 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 knew what a
trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't a tackled it and ain't agoing 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. Yours Truly, Huck Finn.
