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 Southwestern dialect; the ordinary “Pike
County” dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. The shadings have
not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and
with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these
several forms of speech.

I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would
suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding.

THE AUTHOR.

HUCKLEBERRY FINN

Scene: The Mississippi Valley Time: Forty to fifty years ago

CHAPTER I.

You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The
Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr.
Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched,
but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied
one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary.
Aunt Polly—Tom’s Aunt Polly, she is—and Mary, and the Widow Douglas is all told
about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I
said before.

Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the money that the
robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got six thousand dollars
apiece—all gold. It was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. Well,
Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a
dollar a day apiece all the year round—more than a body could tell what to do
with. The Widow Douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize
me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal
regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn’t stand
it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and
was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to
start a band of robbers, and I might join if I would go back to the widow and
be respectable. So I went back.

The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me
a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me in
them new clothes again, and I couldn’t do nothing but sweat and sweat, and feel
all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing commenced again. The widow rung a
bell for supper, and you had to come to time. When you got to the table you
couldn’t go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her
head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn’t really
anything the matter with them,—that is, nothing only everything was cooked by
itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and
the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better.

After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the
Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by-and-by she
let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn’t
care no more about him, because I don’t take no stock in dead people.

Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn’t.
She said it was a mean practice and wasn’t clean, and I must try to not do it
any more. That is just the way with some people. They get down on a thing when
they don’t know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which
was no kin to her, and no use to 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, “Don’t put your feet up there, Huckleberry;”
and “Don’t scrunch up like that, Huckleberry—set up straight;” and pretty soon
she would say, “Don’t gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry—why don’t you try
to behave?” Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I was
there. She got mad then, but I didn’t mean no harm. All I wanted was to go
somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn’t particular. She said it was
wicked to say what I said; said she wouldn’t say it for the whole world; she
was going to live so as to go to the good place. Well, I couldn’t see no
advantage in going where she was going, so I made up my mind I wouldn’t try for
it. But I never said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn’t do no
good.

Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place.
She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a
harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn’t think much of it. But I never said
so. I asked her if she reckoned Tom Sawyer would go there, and she said not by
a considerable sight. I was glad about that, because I wanted him and me to be
together.

Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome. By-and-by
they fetched the niggers in and had prayers, and then everybody was off to bed.
I went up to my room with a piece of candle, and put it on the table. Then I
set down in a chair by the window and tried to think of something cheerful, but
it warn’t no use. I felt so lonesome I most wished I was dead. The stars were
shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an
owl, away off, who-whooing about 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 horseshoe that you’ve found, instead of nailing it up
over the door, but I hadn’t ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off
bad luck when you’d killed a spider.

I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke; for the
house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn’t know. Well,
after a long time I heard the clock away off in the town go
boom—boom—boom—twelve licks; and all still again—stiller than ever. Pretty soon
I heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees—something was a
stirring. I set still and listened. Directly I could just barely hear a
“me-yow! me-yow!” down there. That was good! Says I, “me-yow!
me-yow!” as soft as I could, and then I put out the light and scrambled out
of the window on to the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in
among the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.

CHAPTER II.

We went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the end of the
widow’s garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn’t scrape our heads.
When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made a noise. We
scrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson’s big nigger, named Jim, was setting
in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light
behind him. He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening.
Then he says:

“Who dah?”

He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood right between us;
we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes that
there warn’t a sound, and we all there so close together. There was a place on
my ankle that got to itching, but I dasn’t scratch it; and then my ear begun to
itch; and next my back, right between my shoulders. Seemed like I’d die if I
couldn’t scratch. Well, I’ve noticed that thing plenty times since. If you are
with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain’t
sleepy—if you are anywheres where it won’t do for you to scratch, why you will
itch all over in upwards of a thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says:

“Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn’ hear sumf’n. Well, I know
what I’s gwyne to do: I’s gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it
agin.”

So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up against
a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine.
My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I dasn’t
scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching 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-center piece round his neck with a string,
and said it was a charm the devil give to him with his own hands, and told him
he could cure anybody with it and fetch witches whenever he wanted to just by
saying something to it; but he never told what it was he said to it. Niggers
would come from all around there and give Jim anything they had, just for a
sight of that five-center piece; but they wouldn’t touch it, because the devil
had had his hands on it. Jim was most ruined for a servant, because he got
stuck up on account of having seen the devil and been rode by witches.

Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hilltop we looked away down into
the village and could see three or four lights twinkling, where there was sick
folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling ever so fine; and down by the
village was the river, a whole mile broad, and awful still and grand. We went
down the hill and found 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 if he got it out of
his own head. He said, some of it, but the rest was out of pirate-books and
robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned had it.

Some thought it would be good to kill the families of boys that told the
secrets. Tom said it was a good idea, so he took a pencil and wrote it in. Then
Ben Rogers says:

“Here’s Huck Finn, he hain’t got no family; what you going to do ’bout him?”

“Well, hain’t he got a father?” says Tom Sawyer.

“Yes, he’s got a father, but you can’t never find him these days. He used to
lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard, but he hain’t been seen in these parts
for a year or more.”

They talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because they said every
boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or else it wouldn’t be fair and
square for the others. Well, nobody could think of anything to do—everybody was
stumped, and set still. I was most ready to cry; but all at once I thought of a
way, and so I offered them Miss Watson—they could kill her. Everybody said:

“Oh, she’ll do. That’s all right. Huck can come in.”

Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign with, and I
made my mark on the paper.

“Now,” says Ben Rogers, “what’s the line of 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
snuffbox 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 a-going to be any better off then than what he was before,
seeing I was so ignorant, and so kind of low-down and ornery.

Pap he hadn’t been seen for more than a year, and that was comfortable for me;
I didn’t want to see him no more. He used to always whale me when he was sober
and could get his hands on me; though I used to take to the woods most of the
time when he was around. Well, about this time he was found in the river
drownded, about twelve mile above town, so people said. They judged it was him,
anyway; said this drownded man was just his size, and was ragged, and had
uncommon long hair, which was all like pap; but they couldn’t make nothing out
of the face, because it had been in the water so long it warn’t much like a
face at all. They said he was floating on his back in the water. They took him
and buried him on the bank. But I warn’t comfortable long, because I happened
to think of something. I knowed mighty well that a drownded man don’t float on
his back, but on his face. So I knowed, then, that this warn’t pap, but a woman
dressed up in a man’s clothes. So I was uncomfortable again. I judged the old
man would turn up again by-and-by, though I wished he wouldn’t.

We played robber now and then about a month, and then I resigned. All the boys
did. We hadn’t robbed nobody, hadn’t killed any people, but only just
pretended. We used to hop out of the woods and go charging down on hog-drivers
and women in carts taking garden stuff to market, but we never hived any of
them. Tom Sawyer called the hogs “ingots,” and he called the turnips and stuff
“julery,” and we would go to the cave and powwow over what we had done, and how
many people we had killed and marked. But I couldn’t see no profit in it. One
time Tom sent a boy to run about town with a blazing stick, which he called a
slogan (which was the sign for the Gang to get together), and then he said he
had got secret news by his spies that next day a whole parcel of Spanish
merchants and rich A-rabs was going to camp in Cave Hollow with two hundred
elephants, and six hundred camels, and over a thousand “sumter” mules, all
loaded down with di’monds, and they didn’t have only a guard of four hundred
soldiers, and so we would lay in ambuscade, as he called it, and kill the lot
and scoop the things. He said we must slick up our swords and guns, and get
ready. He never could go after even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords
and guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath and broomsticks, and
you might scour at them till you rotted, and then they warn’t worth a mouthful
of ashes more than what they was before. I didn’t believe we could lick such a
crowd of Spaniards and A-rabs, but I wanted to see the camels and elephants, so
I was on hand next day, Saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got the word we
rushed out of the woods and down the hill. But there warn’t no Spaniards and
A-rabs, and there warn’t no camels nor no elephants. It warn’t anything but a
Sunday-school picnic, and only a primer-class at that. We busted it up, and
chased the children up the hollow; but we never got anything but some doughnuts
and jam, though Ben Rogers got a rag doll, and Jo Harper got a hymn-book and a
tract; and then the teacher charged in, and made us drop everything and cut.

I didn’t see no di’monds, and I told Tom Sawyer so. He said there was loads of
them there, anyway; and he said there was A-rabs there, too, and elephants and
things. I said, why couldn’t we see them, then? He said if I warn’t so
ignorant, but had read a book called Don Quixote, I would know without asking.
He said it was all done by enchantment. He said there was hundreds of soldiers
there, and elephants and treasure, and so on, but we had enemies which he
called magicians; and they had turned the whole thing into an infant
Sunday-school, just out of spite. I said, all right; then the thing for us to
do was to go for the magicians. Tom Sawyer said I was a numskull.

“Why,” said he, “a magician could call up a lot of genies, and they would hash
you up like nothing before you could say Jack Robinson. They are as tall as a
tree and as big around as a church.”

“Well,” I says, “s’pose we got some genies to help us—can’t we lick the
other crowd then?”

“How you going to get them?”

“I don’t know. How do they get them?”

“Why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the genies come
tearing in, with the thunder and lightning a-ripping around and the smoke
a-rolling, and everything they’re told to do they up and do it. They don’t
think nothing of pulling a shot-tower up by the roots, and belting a
Sunday-school 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 flat-heads for not keeping the
palace themselves ’stead of fooling them away like that. And what’s more—if I
was one of them I would see a man in Jericho before I would drop my business
and come to him for the 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 saphead.”

I thought all this over for two or three days, and then I reckoned I would see
if there was anything in it. I got an old tin lamp and an iron ring, and went
out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till I sweat like an Injun, calculating
to build a palace and sell it; but it warn’t no use, none of the genies come.
So then I judged that all that stuff was only just one of Tom Sawyer’s lies. I
reckoned he believed in the A-rabs and the elephants, but as for me I think
different. It had all the marks of a Sunday-school.

CHAPTER IV.

Well, three or four months run along, and it was well into the winter now. I
had been to school most all the time and could spell and read and write just a
little, and could say the multiplication table up to six times seven is
thirty-five, and I don’t reckon I could ever get any further than that if I was
to live forever. I don’t take no stock in mathematics, 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 breakfast. I reached for
some of it as quick as I could to throw over my left shoulder and keep off the
bad luck, but Miss Watson was in ahead of me, and crossed me off. She says,
“Take your hands away, Huckleberry; what a mess you are always making!” The
widow put in a good word for me, but that warn’t going to keep off the bad
luck, I knowed that well enough. I started out, after breakfast, feeling
worried and shaky, and wondering where it was going to fall on me, and what it
was going to be. There is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this
wasn’t one of them kind; so I never tried to do anything, but just poked along
low-spirited and on the watch-out.

I went down to the front garden and clumb over the stile where you go through
the high board fence. There was an inch of new snow on the ground, and I seen
somebody’s tracks. They had come up from the quarry and stood around the stile
a while, and then went on around the garden fence. It was funny they hadn’t
come in, after standing around so. I couldn’t make it out. It was very curious,
somehow. I was going to follow around, but I stooped down to look at the tracks
first. I didn’t notice anything at first, but next I did. There was a cross in
the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil.

I was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I looked over my shoulder
every now and then, but I didn’t see nobody. I was at Judge Thatcher’s as quick
as I could get there. He said:

“Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did you come for your interest?”

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

“Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in, last night—over a hundred and fifty dollars.
Quite a fortune for you. You had better let me invest it along with your six
thousand, because if you take it you’ll spend it.”

“No, sir,” I says, “I don’t want to spend it. I don’t want it at all—nor the
six thousand, nuther. I want you to take it; I want to give it to you—the six
thousand and all.”

He looked surprised. He couldn’t seem to make it out. He says:

“Why, what can you mean, my boy?”

I says, “Don’t you ask me no questions about it, please. You’ll take it—won’t
you?”

He says:

“Well, I’m puzzled. Is something the matter?”

“Please take it,” says I, “and don’t ask me 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 knowed everything. So I went to
him that night and told him pap was here again, for I found his tracks in the
snow. What I wanted to know was, what he was going to do, and was he going to
stay? Jim got out his hair-ball and said something over it, and then he held it
up and dropped it on the floor. It fell pretty solid, and only rolled about an
inch. Jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just the same.
Jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and listened. But it
warn’t no use; he said it wouldn’t talk. He said sometimes it wouldn’t talk
without money. I told him I had an old slick counterfeit quarter that warn’t no
good because the brass showed through the silver a little, and it wouldn’t pass
nohow, even if the brass didn’t show, because it was so slick it felt greasy,
and so that would tell on it every time. (I reckoned I wouldn’t say nothing
about the dollar I got from the judge.) I said it was pretty bad money, but
maybe the hair-ball would take it, because maybe it wouldn’t know the
difference. Jim smelt it and bit it and rubbed it, and said he would manage so
the hair-ball would think it was good. He said he would split open a raw Irish
potato and stick the quarter in between and keep it there all night, and next
morning you couldn’t see no brass, and it wouldn’t feel greasy no more, and so
anybody in town would take it in a minute, let alone a hair-ball. Well, I
knowed a potato would do that before, but I had forgot it.

Jim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got down and listened again. This
time he said the hair-ball was all right. He said it would tell my whole
fortune if I wanted it to. I says, go on. So the hair-ball talked to Jim, and
Jim told it to me. He says:

“Yo’ ole father doan’ know yit what he’s a-gwyne to do. Sometimes he spec he’ll
go ’way, en den agin he spec he’ll stay. De bes’ way is to res’ easy en let de
ole man take his own way. Dey’s two angels hoverin’ roun’ ’bout him. One uv ’em
is white en shiny, en t’other one is black. De white one gits him to go right a
little while, den de black one sail in en bust it all up. A body can’t tell yit
which one gwyne to fetch him at de las’. But you is all right. You gwyne to
have considable trouble in yo’ life, en considable joy. Sometimes you gwyne to
git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you’s gwyne to git
well agin. Dey’s two gals flyin’ ’bout you in yo’ life. One uv ’em’s light en
t’other one is dark. One is rich en t’other is po’. You’s gwyne to marry de po’
one fust en de rich one by en by. You wants to keep ’way fum de water as much
as you kin, en don’t run no resk, ’kase it’s down in de bills dat you’s gwyne
to git hung.”

When I lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat pap his own
self!

CHAPTER V.

I had shut the door to. Then I turned around and there he was. I used to be
scared of him all the time, he tanned me so much. I reckoned I was scared now,
too; but in a minute I see I was mistaken—that is, after the first jolt, as you
may say, when my breath sort of hitched, he being so unexpected; but right away
after I see I warn’t scared of him worth bothring about.

He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was long and tangled and greasy,
and hung down, and you could see his eyes shining through like he was behind
vines. It was all black, no gray; so was his long, mixed-up whiskers. There
warn’t no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; not like
another man’s white, but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body’s
flesh crawl—a tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. As for his clothes—just
rags, that was all. He had one ankle resting on t’other knee; the boot on that
foot was busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked them now and
then. His hat was laying on the floor—an old black slouch with the top caved
in, like a lid.

I stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with his chair tilted
back a little. I set the candle down. I noticed the window was up; so he had
clumb in by the shed. He kept a-looking me all over. By-and-by he says:

“Starchy clothes—very. You think you’re a good deal of a big-bug, don’t
you?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I ain’t,” I says.

“Don’t you give me none o’ your lip,” says he. “You’ve put on considerable many
frills since I been away. I’ll take you down a peg before I get done with you.
You’re educated, too, they say—can read and write. You think you’re better’n
your father, now, don’t you, because he can’t? I’ll take it out of you.
Who told you you might meddle with such hifalut’n foolishness, hey?—who told
you you could?”

“The widow. She told me.”

“The widow, hey?—and who told the widow she could put in her shovel about a
thing that ain’t none of her business?”

“Nobody never told her.”

“Well, I’ll learn her how to meddle. And looky here—you drop that school, you
hear? I’ll learn people to bring up a boy to put on airs over his own father
and let on to be better’n what he is. You lemme catch you fooling around
that school again, you hear? Your mother couldn’t read, and she couldn’t write,
nuther, before she died. None of the family couldn’t before they died.
I can’t; and here you’re a-swelling yourself up like this. I ain’t the
man to stand it—you hear? Say, lemme hear you read.”

I took up a book and begun something about 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 a-going to make a man of him. So he
took him to his own house, and dressed him up clean and nice, and had him to
breakfast and dinner and supper with the family, and was just old pie to him,
so to speak. And after supper he talked to him about temperance and such things
till the old man cried, and said he’d been a fool, and fooled away his life;
but now he was a-going to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn’t be
ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not look down on him. The
judge said he could hug him for them words; so he cried, and his wife
she cried again; pap said he’d been a man that had always been misunderstood
before, and the judge said he believed it. The old man said that what a man
wanted that was down was sympathy, and the judge said it was so; so they cried
again. And when it was bedtime the old man rose up and held out his hand, and
says:

“Look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take a-hold of it; shake it. There’s a
hand that was the hand of a hog; but it ain’t so no more; it’s the hand of a
man that’s started in on a new life, and’ll die before he’ll go back. You mark
them words—don’t forget I said them. It’s a clean hand now; shake it—don’t be
afeard.”

So they shook it, one after the other, all around, and cried. The judge’s wife
she kissed it. Then the old man he signed a pledge—made his mark. The judge
said it was the holiest time on record, or something like that. Then they
tucked the old man into a beautiful room, which was the spare room, and in the
night some time he got powerful thirsty and clumb out on to the porch-roof and
slid down a stanchion and traded his new coat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb
back again and had a good old time; and towards daylight he crawled out again,
drunk as a fiddler, and rolled off the porch and broke his left arm in two
places, and was most froze to death when somebody found him after sun-up. And
when they come to look at that spare room they had to take soundings before
they could navigate it.

The judge he felt kind of sore. He said he reckoned a body could reform the old
man with a shotgun, maybe, but he didn’t know no other way.

CHAPTER VI.

Well, pretty soon the old man was up and around again, and then he went for
Judge Thatcher in the courts to make him give up that money, and he went for
me, too, for not stopping school. He catched me a couple of times and thrashed
me, but I went to school just the same, and dodged him or outrun him most of
the time. I didn’t want to go to school much before, but I reckoned I’d go now
to spite pap. That law trial was a slow business—appeared like they warn’t ever
going to get started on it; so every now and then I’d borrow two or three
dollars off of the judge for him, to keep from getting a cowhiding. Every time
he got money he got drunk; and every time he got drunk he raised Cain around
town; and every time he raised Cain he got jailed. He was just suited—this kind
of thing was right in his line.

He got to hanging around the widow’s too much and so she told him at last that
if he didn’t quit using around there she would make trouble for him. Well,
wasn’t he mad? He said he would show who was Huck Finn’s boss. So he
watched out for me one day in the spring, and catched me, and took me up the
river about three mile in a skiff, and crossed over to the Illinois shore where
it was woody and there warn’t no houses but an old log hut in a place where the
timber was so thick you couldn’t find it if you didn’t know where it was.

He kept me with him all the time, and I never got a chance to run off. We lived
in that old cabin, and he always locked the door and put the key under his head
nights. He had a gun which he had stole, I reckon, and we fished and hunted,
and that was what we lived on. Every little while he locked me in and went down
to the store, three miles, to the ferry, and traded fish and game for whisky,
and fetched it home and got drunk and had a good time, and licked me. The widow
she found out where I was by-and-by, and she sent a man over to try to get hold
of me; but pap drove him off with the gun, and it warn’t long after that till I
was used to being where I was, and liked it—all but the cowhide part.

It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day, smoking and
fishing, and no books nor study. Two months or more run along, and my clothes
got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn’t see how I’d ever got to like it so
well at the widow’s, where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up,
and go to bed and get up regular, and be forever bothering over a book, and
have old Miss Watson pecking at you all the time. I didn’t want to go back no
more. I had stopped cussing, because the widow didn’t like it; but now I took
to it again because pap hadn’t no 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 drownded, and I wasn’t ever going to get out any more. I was scared. I
made up my mind I would fix up some way to leave there. I had tried to get out
of that cabin many a time, but I couldn’t find no way. There warn’t a window to
it big enough for a dog to get through. I couldn’t get up the chimbly; it was
too narrow. The door was thick, solid oak slabs. Pap was pretty careful not to
leave a knife or anything in the cabin when he was away; I reckon I had hunted
the place over as much as a hundred times; well, I was most all the time at it,
because it was about the only way to put in the time. But this time I found
something at last; I found an old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was
laid in between a rafter and the clapboards of the roof. I greased it up and
went to work. There was an old horse-blanket nailed against the logs at the far
end of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind from blowing through the
chinks and putting the candle out. I got under the table and raised the
blanket, and went to work to saw a section of the big bottom log out—big enough
to let me through. Well, it was a good long job, but I was getting towards the
end of it when I heard pap’s gun in the woods. I got rid of the signs of my
work, and dropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in.

Pap warn’t in a good humor—so he was his natural self. He said he was down
town, and everything was going wrong. His lawyer said he reckoned he would win
his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got started on the trial; but then
there was ways to put it off a long time, and Judge Thatcher knowed how to do
it. And he said people allowed there’d be another trial to get me away from him
and give me to the widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win this
time. This shook me up considerable, because I didn’t want to go back to the
widow’s any more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as they called it. Then
the old man got to cussing, and cussed 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 knowed of a place six or seven
mile off to stow me in, where they might hunt till they dropped and they
couldn’t find me. That made me pretty uneasy again, but only for a minute; I
reckoned I wouldn’t stay on hand till he got that chance.

The old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the things he had got. There was
a fifty-pound sack of corn meal, and a side of bacon, ammunition, and a
four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and two newspapers for wadding,
besides some tow. I toted up a load, and went back and set down on the bow of
the skiff to rest. I thought it all over, and I reckoned I would walk off with
the gun and some lines, and take to the woods when I run away. I guessed I
wouldn’t stay in one place, but just tramp right across the country, mostly
night times, and hunt and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away that the
old man nor the widow couldn’t ever find me any more. I judged I would saw out
and leave that night if pap got drunk enough, and I reckoned he would. I got so
full of it I didn’t notice how long I was staying till the old man hollered and
asked me whether I was asleep or drownded.

I got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark. While I was
cooking supper the old man took a swig or two and got sort of warmed up, and
went to ripping again. He had been drunk over in town, and laid in the gutter
all night, and he was a sight to look at. A body would a thought he was Adam—he
was just all mud. Whenever his liquor begun to work he most always went for the
govment, 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
up’ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go
round in clothes that ain’t fitten for a hog. They call that govment! A man
can’t get his rights in a govment like this. Sometimes I’ve a mighty notion to
just leave the country for good and all. Yes, and I told ’em so; I told
old Thatcher so to his face. Lots of ’em heard me, and can tell what I said.
Says I, for two cents I’d leave the blamed country and never come a-near it
agin. Them’s the very words. I says look at my hat—if you call it a hat—but the
lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it’s below my chin, and then it
ain’t rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint
o’ stove-pipe. Look at it, says I—such a hat for me to wear—one of the
wealthiest men in this town if I could git my rights.

“Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. Why, looky here. There was a
free nigger there from Ohio—a mulatter, most as white as a white man. He had
the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shiniest hat; and there ain’t a
man in that town that’s got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold
watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane—the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in
the State. And what do you think? They said he was a p’fessor in a college, and
could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. And that ain’t the
wust. They said he could vote when he was at home. Well, that let me
out. Thinks I, what is the country a-coming to? It was ’lection day, and I was
just about to go and vote myself if I warn’t too drunk to get there; but when
they told me there was a State in this country where they’d let that nigger
vote, I drawed out. I says I’ll never vote agin. Them’s the very words I said;
they all heard me; and the country may rot for all me—I’ll never vote agin as
long as I live. And to see the cool way of that nigger—why, he wouldn’t a give
me the road if I hadn’t shoved him out o’ the way. I says to the people, why
ain’t this nigger put up at auction and sold?—that’s what I want to know. And
what do you reckon they said? Why, they said he couldn’t be sold till he’d been
in the State six months, and he hadn’t been there that long yet. There,
now—that’s a specimen. They call that a govment that can’t sell a free nigger
till he’s been in the State six months. Here’s a govment that calls itself a
govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment, and yet’s got
to set stock-still for six whole months before it can take a hold of a
prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted free nigger, and—”

Pap was agoing on so he never noticed where his old limber legs was taking him
to, so he went head over heels over the tub of salt pork and barked both shins,
and the rest of his speech was all the hottest kind of language—mostly hove at
the nigger and the 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 t’other. He drank and drank, and tumbled down on his blankets
by-and-by; but luck didn’t run my way. He didn’t go sound asleep, but was
uneasy. He groaned and moaned and thrashed around this way and that for a long
time. At last I got so sleepy I couldn’t keep my eyes open all I could do, and
so before I knowed what I was about I was sound asleep, and the candle burning.

I don’t know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an awful
scream and I was up. There was pap looking wild, and skipping around every
which way and yelling about snakes. He said they was crawling up his legs; and
then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek—but
I couldn’t see no snakes. He started and run round and round the cabin,
hollering “Take him off! take him off! he’s biting me on the neck!” I never see
a man look so wild in the eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell
down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things every
which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with his hands, and screaming
and saying there was devils a-hold of him. He wore out by-and-by, and laid
still a while, moaning. Then he laid stiller, and didn’t make a sound. I could
hear the owls and the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed 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, 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 doin’ with this gun?”

I judged he didn’t know nothing about what he had been doing, so I says:

“Somebody tried to get in, so I was laying for him.”

“Why didn’t you roust me out?”

“Well, I tried to, but I couldn’t; I couldn’t budge you.”

“Well, all right. Don’t stand there palavering all day, but out with you and
see if there’s a fish on the lines for breakfast. I’ll be along in a minute.”

He unlocked the door, and I cleared out up the river-bank. I noticed some
pieces of limbs and such things floating down, and a sprinkling of bark; so I
knowed the river had begun to rise. I reckoned I would have great times now if
I was over at the town. The June rise used to be always luck for me; because as
soon as that rise begins here comes cordwood 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 t’other one out for what
the rise might fetch along. Well, all at once here comes a canoe; just a
beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long, riding high like a duck. I
shot head-first off of the bank like a frog, clothes and all on, and struck out
for the canoe. I just expected there’d be somebody laying down in it, because
people often done that to fool folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff out
most to it they’d raise up and laugh at him. But it warn’t so this time. It was
a drift-canoe sure enough, and I clumb in and paddled her ashore. Thinks I, the
old man will be glad when he sees this—she’s worth ten dollars. But when I got
to shore pap wasn’t in sight yet, and as I was running her into a little creek
like a gully, all hung over with vines and willows, I struck another idea: I
judged I’d hide her good, and then, ’stead of taking to the woods when I run
off, I’d go down the river about fifty mile and camp in one place for good, and
not have such a rough time tramping on foot.

It was pretty close to the shanty, and I thought I heard the old man coming all
the time; but I got her hid; and then I out and looked around a bunch of
willows, and there was the old man down the path a piece just drawing a bead on
a bird with his gun. So he hadn’t seen anything.

When he got along I was hard at it taking up a “trot” line. He abused me a
little for being so slow; but I told him I fell in the river, and that was what
made me so long. I knowed he would see I was wet, and then he would be asking
questions. We got five catfish off the lines and went home.

While we laid off after breakfast to sleep up, both of us being about wore out,
I got to thinking that if I could fix up some way to keep pap and the widow
from trying to follow me, it would be a certainer thing than 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 driftwood going by on the rise. By-and-by
along comes part of a log raft—nine logs fast together. We went out with the
skiff and towed it ashore. Then we had dinner. Anybody but pap would a waited
and seen the day through, so as to catch more stuff; but that warn’t pap’s
style. Nine logs was enough for one time; he must shove right over to town and
sell. So he locked me in and took the skiff, and started off towing the raft
about half-past three. I judged he wouldn’t come back that night. I waited till
I reckoned he had got a good start; then I out with my saw, and went to work on
that log again. Before he was t’other side of the river I was out of the hole;
him and his raft was just a speck on the water away off yonder.

I took the sack of corn meal and took it to where the canoe was hid, and shoved
the vines and branches apart and put it in; then I done the same with the side
of bacon; then the whisky-jug. I took all the coffee and sugar there was, and
all the ammunition; I took the wadding; I took the bucket and gourd; I took a
dipper and a tin cup, and my old saw and two blankets, and the skillet and the
coffee-pot. I took fish-lines and matches and other things—everything that was
worth a cent. I cleaned out the place. I wanted an axe, but there wasn’t any,
only the one out at the woodpile, and I knowed why I was going to leave that. I
fetched out the gun, and now I was done.

I had wore the ground a good deal crawling out of the hole and dragging out so
many things. So I fixed that as good as I could from the outside by scattering
dust on the place, which covered up the smoothness and the sawdust. Then I
fixed the piece of log back into its place, and put two rocks under it and one
against it to hold it there, for it was bent up at that place and didn’t quite
touch ground. If you stood four or five foot away and didn’t know it was sawed,
you wouldn’t never notice it; and besides, this was the back of the cabin, and
it warn’t likely anybody would go fooling around there.

It was all grass clear to the canoe, so I hadn’t left a track. I followed
around to see. I stood on the bank and looked out over the river. All safe. So
I took the gun and went up a piece into the woods, and was hunting around for
some birds when I see a wild pig; hogs soon went wild in them bottoms after
they had got away from the prairie farms. I shot this 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 knowed he would take an interest in this kind of business, and throw
in the fancy touches. Nobody could spread himself like Tom Sawyer in such a
thing as that.

Well, last I pulled out some of my hair, and blooded the axe good, and stuck it
on the back side, and slung the axe in the corner. Then I took up the pig and
held him to my breast with my jacket (so he couldn’t drip) till I got a good
piece below the house and then dumped him into the river. Now I thought of
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 knowed I was asleep. When I woke up I
didn’t know where I was for a minute. I set up and looked around, a little
scared. Then I remembered. The river looked miles and miles across. The moon
was so bright I could a counted the drift logs that went a-slipping along,
black and still, hundreds of yards out from shore. Everything was dead quiet,
and it looked late, and smelt late. You know what I mean—I don’t know
the words to put it in.

I took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch and start when I
heard a sound away over the water. I listened. Pretty soon I made it out. It
was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes from oars working in rowlocks
when it’s a still night. I peeped out through the willow branches, and there it
was—a skiff, away across the water. I couldn’t tell how many was in it. It kept
a-coming, and when it was abreast of me I see there warn’t but one man in it.
Think’s I, maybe it’s pap, though I warn’t expecting him. He dropped below me
with the current, and by-and-by he came a-swinging up shore in the easy water,
and he went by so close I could a reached out the gun and touched him. Well, it
was pap, sure enough—and sober, too, by the way he laid his oars.

I didn’t lose no time. The next minute I was a-spinning down stream soft but
quick in the shade of the bank. I made two mile and a half, and then struck out
a quarter of a mile or more towards the middle of the river, because pretty
soon I would be passing the ferry landing, and people might see me and hail me.
I got out amongst the driftwood, and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe
and let her float.

I laid there, and had a good rest and a smoke out of my pipe, looking away into
the sky; not a cloud in it. The sky looks ever so deep when you lay down on
your back in the moonshine; I never knowed it before. And how far a body can
hear on the water such nights! I heard people talking at the ferry 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. T’other one said this warn’t one
of the short ones, he reckoned—and then they laughed, and he said it over
again, and they laughed again; then they waked up another fellow and told him,
and laughed, but he didn’t laugh; he ripped out something brisk, and said let
him alone. The first fellow said he ’lowed to tell it to his old woman—she
would think it was pretty good; but he said that warn’t nothing to some things
he had said in his time. I heard one man say it was nearly three o’clock, and
he hoped daylight wouldn’t wait more than about a week longer. After that the
talk got further and further away, and I couldn’t make out the words any more;
but I could hear the mumble, and now and then a laugh, too, but it seemed a
long ways off.

I was away below the ferry now. I rose up, and there was Jackson’s Island,
about two mile and a half down stream, heavy timbered and standing up out of
the middle of the river, big and dark and solid, like a steamboat without any
lights. There warn’t any signs of the bar at the head—it was all under water
now.

It didn’t take me long to get there. I shot past the head at a ripping rate,
the current was so swift, and then I got into the dead water and landed on the
side towards the Illinois shore. I run the canoe into a deep dent in the bank
that I knowed about; I had to part the willow branches to get in; and when I
made fast nobody could a seen the canoe from the outside.

I went up and set down on a log at the head of the island, and looked out on
the big river and the black driftwood and away over to the town, three mile
away, where there was three or four lights twinkling. A monstrous big
lumber-raft was about a mile up stream, coming along down, with a lantern in
the middle of it. I watched it come creeping down, and when it was most abreast
of where I stood I heard a man say, “Stern oars, there! heave her head to
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 ferry-boat full of people floating along down. I knowed
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 drownded carcass and stop there. So, says I, I’ll
keep a lookout, and if any of them’s floating around after me I’ll give them a
show. I changed to the Illinois edge of the island to see what luck I could
have, and I warn’t disappointed. A big double loaf come along, and I most got
it with a long stick, but my foot slipped and she floated out further. Of
course I was where the current set in the closest to the shore—I knowed enough
for that. But by-and-by along comes another one, and this time I won. I took
out the plug and shook out the little dab of 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 knowed I was all right now. Nobody else would come a-hunting after me. I got
my traps out of the canoe and made me a nice camp in the thick woods. I made a
kind of a tent out of my blankets to put my things under so the rain couldn’t
get at them. I catched a catfish and haggled him open with my saw, and towards
sundown I started my camp fire and had supper. Then I set out a line to catch
some fish for breakfast.

When it was dark I set by my camp fire smoking, and feeling pretty well
satisfied; but by-and-by it got sort of lonesome, and so I went and set on the
bank and listened to the current swashing along, and counted the stars and
drift logs and rafts that come down, and then went to bed; there ain’t no
better way to put in time when you are lonesome; you can’t stay so, you soon
get over it.

And so for three days and nights. No difference—just the same thing. But the
next day I went 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 tiptoes as fast as ever I could.
Every now and then I stopped a second amongst the thick leaves and listened,
but my breath come so hard I couldn’t hear nothing else. I slunk along another
piece further, then listened again; and so on, and so on. If I see a stump, I
took it for a man; if I trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a
person had cut one of my breaths in two and I only got half, and the short
half, too.

When I got to camp I warn’t feeling very brash, there warn’t much sand in my
craw; but I says, this ain’t no time to be fooling around. So I got all my
traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of sight, and I put out the
fire and scattered the ashes around to look like an old last year’s camp, and
then clumb a tree.

I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I didn’t see nothing, I didn’t
hear nothing—I only thought I heard and seen as much as a thousand
things. Well, I couldn’t stay up there forever; so at last I got down, but I
kept in the thick woods and on the lookout all the time. All I could get to eat
was berries and what was left over from breakfast.

By the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So when it was good and dark I
slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled over to the Illinois bank—about
a quarter of a mile. I went out in the woods and cooked a supper, and I had
about made up my mind I would stay there all night when I hear a
plunkety-plunk, plunkety-plunk, and says to myself, horses coming; and
next I hear people’s voices. I got everything into the canoe as quick as I
could, and then went creeping through the woods to see what I could find out. I
hadn’t got far when I hear a man say:

“We better camp here if we can find a good place; the horses is about beat out.
Let’s look around.”

I didn’t wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. I tied up in the old
place, and reckoned I would sleep in the canoe.

I didn’t sleep much. I couldn’t, somehow, for thinking. And every time I waked
up I thought somebody had me by the neck. So the sleep didn’t do me no good.
By-and-by I says to myself, I can’t live this way; I’m a-going to find out who
it is that’s here on the island with me; I’ll find it out or bust. Well, I felt
better right off.

So I took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two, and then let
the canoe drop along down amongst the shadows. The moon was shining, and
outside of the shadows it made it most as light as day. I poked along well on
to an hour, everything still as rocks and sound asleep. Well, by this time I
was most down to the foot of the island. A little ripply, cool breeze begun to
blow, and that was as good as saying the night was about done. I give her a
turn with the paddle and brung her nose to shore; then I got my gun and slipped
out and into the edge of the woods. I sat down there on a log, and looked out
through the leaves. I see the moon go off watch, and the darkness begin to
blanket the river. But in a little while I see a pale streak over the treetops,
and knowed the day was coming. So I took my gun and slipped off towards where I
had run across that camp fire, stopping every minute or two to listen. But I
hadn’t no luck somehow; I couldn’t seem to find the place. But by-and-by, sure
enough, I catched a glimpse of fire away through the trees. I went for it,
cautious and slow. By-and-by I was close enough to have a look, and there laid
a man on the ground. It most give me the 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 alwuz liked dead
people, en done all I could for ’em. You go en git in de river agin, whah you
b’longs, en doan’ do nuffn to Ole Jim, ’at ’uz awluz yo’ fren’.”

Well, I warn’t long making him understand I warn’t dead. I was ever so glad to
see Jim. I warn’t 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 makin’ up de camp fire to cook strawbries en sich truck? But
you got a gun, hain’t you? Den we kin git sumfn better den strawbries.”

“Strawberries and such truck,” I says. “Is that what you live on?”

“I couldn’ git nuffn else,” he says.

“Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?”

“I come heah de night arter you’s killed.”

“What, all that time?”

“Yes—indeedy.”

“And ain’t you had nothing but that kind of 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 ben on de islan’?”

“Since the night I got killed.”

“No! W’y, what has you lived on? But you got a gun. Oh, yes, you got a gun.
Dat’s good. Now you kill sumfn en I’ll make up de fire.”

So we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a grassy
open place amongst the trees, I fetched meal and bacon and coffee, and
coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the nigger was set back
considerable, because he reckoned it was all done with witchcraft. I catched a
good big catfish, too, and Jim cleaned him with his knife, and fried him.

When breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking hot. Jim
laid it in with all his might, for he was most about starved. Then when we had
got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied. By-and-by Jim says:

“But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat ’uz killed in dat shanty ef it warn’t
you?”

Then I told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. He said Tom Sawyer
couldn’t get up no better plan than what I had. Then I says:

“How do you come to be here, Jim, and how’d you get here?”

He looked pretty uneasy, and didn’t say nothing for a minute. Then he says:

“Maybe I better not tell.”

“Why, Jim?”

“Well, dey’s reasons. But you wouldn’ tell on me ef I uz to tell you, would
you, Huck?”

“Blamed if I would, Jim.”

“Well, I b’lieve you, Huck. I—I run off.”

“Jim!”

“But mind, you said you wouldn’ tell—you know you said you wouldn’ tell, Huck.”

“Well, I did. I said I wouldn’t, and I’ll stick to it. Honest injun, I
will. People would call me a low-down Abolitionist and despise me for keeping
mum—but that don’t make no difference. I ain’t a-going to tell, and I ain’t
a-going back there, anyways. So, now, le’s know all about it.”

“Well, you see, it ’uz dis way. Ole missus—dat’s Miss Watson—she pecks on me
all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said she wouldn’ sell me
down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger trader roun’ de place
considable lately, en I begin to git oneasy. Well, one night I creeps to de do’
pooty late, en de do’ warn’t quite shet, en I hear old missus tell de widder
she gwyne to sell me down to Orleans, but she didn’ want to, but she could git
eight hund’d dollars for me, en it ’uz sich a big stack o’ money she couldn’
resis’. De widder she try to git her to say she wouldn’ do it, but I never
waited to hear de res’. I lit out mighty quick, I tell you.

“I tuck out en shin down de hill, en ’spec to steal a skift ’long de sho’
som’ers ’bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit, so I hid in de ole
tumble-down cooper-shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go ’way. Well, I
wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun’ all de time. ’Long ’bout six in de
mawnin’ skifts begin to go by, en ’bout eight er nine every skift dat went
’long wuz talkin’ ’bout how yo’ pap come over to de town en say you’s killed.
Dese las’ skifts wuz full o’ ladies en genlmen a-goin’ over for to see de
place. Sometimes dey’d pull up at de sho’ en take a res’ b’fo’ dey started
acrost, so by de talk I got to know all ’bout de killin’. I ’uz powerful sorry
you’s killed, Huck, but I ain’t no mo’ now.

“I laid dah under de shavin’s all day. I ’uz hungry, but I warn’t afeard;
bekase I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin’ to start to de camp-meet’n’
right arter breakfas’ en be gone all day, en dey knows I goes off wid de cattle
’bout daylight, so dey wouldn’ ’spec to see me roun’ de place, en so dey
wouldn’ miss me tell arter dark in de evenin’. De yuther servants wouldn’ miss
me, kase dey’d shin out en take holiday soon as de ole folks ’uz out’n de way.

“Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went ’bout two mile er
more to whah dey warn’t no houses. I’d made up my mine ’bout what I’s agwyne to
do. You see, ef I kep’ on tryin’ to git away afoot, de dogs ’ud track me; ef I
stole a skift to cross over, dey’d miss dat skift, you see, en dey’d know ’bout
whah I’d lan’ on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff
is what I’s arter; it doan’ make no track.

“I see a light a-comin’ roun’ de p’int bymeby, so I wade’ in en shove’ a log
ahead o’ me en swum more’n half way acrost de river, en got in ’mongst de
drift-wood, en kep’ my head down low, en kinder swum agin de current tell de
raff come along. Den I swum to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. It clouded up en
’uz pooty dark for a little while. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De
men ’uz all ’way yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz
a-risin’, en dey wuz a good current; so I reck’n’d ’at by fo’ in de mawnin’ I’d
be twenty-five mile down de river, en den I’d slip in jis b’fo’ daylight en
swim asho’, en take to de woods on de Illinois side.

“But I didn’ have no luck. When we ’uz mos’ down to de head er de islan’ a man
begin to come aft wid de lantern, I see it warn’t no use fer to wait, so I slid
overboard en struck out fer de islan’. Well, I had a notion I could lan’ mos’
anywhers, but I couldn’t—bank too bluff. I ’uz mos’ to de foot er de islan’
b’fo’ I found’ a good place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn’ fool wid
raffs no mo’, long as dey move de lantern roun’ so. I had my pipe en a plug er
dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn’t wet, so I ’uz all right.”

“And so you ain’t had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why didn’t you
get mud-turkles?”

“How you gwyne to git ’m? You can’t slip up on um en grab um; en how’s a body
gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it in de night? En I warn’t
gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime.”

“Well, that’s so. You’ve had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. Did
you hear ’em shooting the cannon?”

“Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah—watched um thoo de
bushes.”

Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. Jim
said it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it was a sign when young
chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same way when young birds
done it. I was going to catch some of them, but Jim wouldn’t let me. He said it
was death. He said his father laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a
bird, and his old granny said his father would die, and he did.

And Jim said you mustn’t count the things you are going to cook for dinner,
because that would bring bad luck. The same if you shook the table-cloth after
sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive and that man died, the bees must
be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken
down and quit work and die. Jim said bees wouldn’t sting idiots; but I didn’t
believe that, 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 knowed
all kinds of signs. He said he knowed most everything. I said it looked to me
like all the signs was about bad luck, and so I asked him if there warn’t any
good-luck signs. He says:

“Mighty few—an’ dey ain’t no use to a body. What you want to know when
good luck’s a-comin’ for? Want to keep it off?” And he said: “Ef you’s got
hairy arms en a hairy breas’, it’s a sign dat you’s agwyne to be rich. Well,
dey’s some use in a sign like dat, ’kase it’s so fur ahead. You see, maybe
you’s got to be po’ a long time fust, en so you might git discourage’ en kill
yo’sef ’f you didn’ know by de sign dat you gwyne to be rich bymeby.”

“Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?”

“What’s de use to ax dat question? Don’t you see I has?”

“Well, are you rich?”

“No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich agin. Wunst I had foteen
dollars, but I tuck to specalat’n’, en got busted out.”

“What did you speculate in, Jim?”

“Well, fust I tackled stock.”

“What kind of stock?”

“Why, live stock—cattle, you know. I put ten dollars in a cow. But I ain’ gwyne
to resk no mo’ money in stock. De cow up ’n’ died on my han’s.”

“So you lost the ten dollars.”

“No, I didn’t lose it all. I on’y los’ ’bout nine of it. I sole de hide en
taller for a dollar en ten cents.”

“You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you speculate any more?”

“Yes. You know that one-laigged nigger dat b’longs to old Misto Bradish? Well,
he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar would git fo’ dollars mo’
at de en’ er de year. Well, all de niggers went in, but dey didn’t have much. I
wuz de on’y one dat had much. So I stuck out for mo’ dan fo’ dollars, en I said
’f I didn’ git it I’d start a bank mysef. Well, o’ course dat nigger want’ to
keep me out er de business, bekase he says dey warn’t business ’nough for two
banks, so he say I could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five at de
en’ er de year.

“So I done it. Den I reck’n’d I’d inves’ de thirty-five dollars right off en
keep things a-movin’. Dey wuz a nigger name’ Bob, dat had ketched a wood-flat,
en his marster didn’ know it; en I bought it off’n him en told him to take de
thirty-five dollars when de en’ er de year come; but somebody stole de
wood-flat dat night, en nex day de one-laigged nigger say de bank’s busted. So
dey didn’ none uv us git no money.”

“What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?”

“Well, I ’uz gwyne to spen’ it, but I had a dream, en de dream tole me to give
it to a nigger name’ Balum—Balum’s Ass dey call him for short; he’s one er dem
chuckleheads, you know. But he’s lucky, dey say, en I see I warn’t lucky. De
dream say let Balum inves’ de ten cents en he’d make a raise for me. Well,
Balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat
whoever give to de po’ len’ to de Lord, en boun’ to git his money back a hund’d
times. So Balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po’, en laid low to see what
wuz gwyne to come of it.”

“Well, what did come of it, Jim?”

“Nuffn never come of it. I couldn’ manage to k’leck dat money no way; en Balum
he couldn’. I ain’ gwyne to len’ no mo’ money ’dout I see de security. Boun’ to
git yo’ money back a hund’d times, de preacher says! Ef I could git de ten
cents back, I’d call it squah, en be glad er de chanst.”

“Well, it’s all right anyway, Jim, long as you’re going to be rich again some
time or other.”

“Yes; en I’s rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I’s wuth eight
hund’d dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn’ want no mo’.”

CHAPTER IX.

I wanted to go and look at a place right about the middle of the island that
I’d found when I was exploring; so we started and soon got to it, because the
island was only three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide.

This place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot high. We
had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so
thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it, and by-and-by found a good big
cavern in the rock, most up to the top on the side towards Illinois. The cavern
was as big as two or three rooms bunched together, and Jim could stand up
straight in it. It was cool in there. Jim was for putting our traps in there
right away, but I said we didn’t want to be climbing up and down there all the
time.

Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps in the
cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the island, and they
would never find us without dogs. And, besides, he said them little birds had
said it was going to rain, and did I want the things to get wet?

So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern, and
lugged all the traps up there. Then we hunted up a place close by to hide the
canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took some fish off of the lines and set
them again, and begun to get ready for dinner.

The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on one side of
the door the floor stuck out a little bit, and was flat and a good place to
build a fire on. So we built it there and cooked dinner.

We spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in there. We put
all the other things handy at the back of the cavern. Pretty soon it darkened
up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds was right about it. Directly
it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and I never see the wind
blow so. It was one of these regular summer storms. It would get so dark that
it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along
by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby; and
here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the
pale 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 ben here ’f it hadn’t a ben for Jim. You’d a ben down dah
in de woods widout any dinner, en gittn’ mos’ drownded, too; dat you would,
honey. Chickens knows when it’s gwyne to rain, en so do de birds, chile.”

The river went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till at last it
was over the banks. The water was three or four foot deep on the island in the
low places and on the Illinois bottom. On that side it was a good many miles
wide, but on the Missouri side it was the same old distance across—a half a
mile—because the Missouri shore was just a wall of high bluffs.

Daytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe, It was mighty cool and
shady in the deep woods, even if the sun was blazing outside. We went winding
in and out amongst the trees, and sometimes the vines hung so thick we had to
back away and go some other way. Well, on every old broken-down tree you could
see rabbits and snakes and such things; and when the island had been overflowed
a day or two they got so tame, on account of being hungry, that you could
paddle right up and put your hand on them if you wanted to; but not the snakes
and turtles—they would slide off in the water. The ridge our cavern was in was
full of them. We could a had pets enough if we’d wanted them.

One night we catched a little section of a lumber raft—nice pine planks. It was
twelve foot wide and about fifteen or sixteen foot long, and the top stood
above water six or seven inches—a solid, level floor. We could see saw-logs go
by in the daylight 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 upstairs
window. But it was too dark to see yet, so we made the canoe fast and set in
her to wait for daylight.

The light begun to come before we got to the foot of the island. Then we looked
in at the window. We could make out a bed, and a table, and two old chairs, and
lots of things around about on the floor, and there was clothes hanging against
the wall. There was something laying on the floor in the far corner that looked
like a man. So Jim says:

“Hello, you!”

But it didn’t budge. So I hollered again, and then Jim says:

“De man ain’t asleep—he’s dead. You hold still—I’ll go en see.”

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

“It’s a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too. He’s ben shot in de back. I reck’n
he’s ben dead two er three days. Come in, Huck, but doan’ look at his face—it’s
too gashly.”

I didn’t look at him at all. Jim throwed some old rags over him, but he needn’t
done it; I didn’t want to see him. There was heaps of old greasy cards
scattered around over the floor, and old whisky bottles, and a couple of masks
made out of black cloth; and all over the walls was the ignorantest kind of
words and pictures made with charcoal. There was two old dirty calico dresses,
and a sun-bonnet, and some women’s underclothes hanging against the wall, and
some men’s clothing, too. We put the lot into the canoe—it might come good.
There was a boy’s old speckled straw hat on the floor; I took that, too. And
there was a bottle that had had milk in it, and it had a rag stopper for a baby
to suck. We would a took the bottle, but it was broke. There was a seedy old
chest, and an old hair trunk with the hinges broke. They stood open, but there
warn’t nothing left in them that was any account. The way things was scattered
about we reckoned the people left in a hurry, and warn’t fixed so as to carry
off most of their stuff.

We got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife without any handle, and a
bran-new Barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot of tallow candles,
and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup, and a ratty old bedquilt off
the bed, and a reticule with needles and pins and beeswax and buttons and
thread and all such truck in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a fishline
as thick as my little finger with some monstrous hooks on it, and a roll of
buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and a horseshoe, and some vials of medicine
that didn’t have no label on them; and just as we was leaving I found a
tolerable good 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 knowed who shot the man, and
what they done it for.

We rummaged the clothes we’d got, and found eight dollars in silver sewed up in
the lining of an old blanket overcoat. Jim said he reckoned the people in that
house stole the coat, because if they’d a knowed the money was there they
wouldn’t a left it. I said I reckoned they killed him, too; but Jim didn’t want
to talk about that. I says:

“Now you think it’s bad luck; but what did you say when I fetched in the
snake-skin that I found on the top of the ridge day before yesterday? You said
it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch a snake-skin with my hands.
Well, here’s your bad luck! We’ve raked in all this truck and eight dollars
besides. I wish we could have some bad luck like this every day, Jim.”

“Never you mind, honey, never you mind. Don’t you git too peart. It’s a-comin’.
Mind I tell you, it’s a-comin’.”

It did come, too. It was a Tuesday that we had that talk. Well, after dinner
Friday we was laying around in the grass at the upper end of the ridge, and got
out of tobacco. I went to the cavern to get some, and found a rattlesnake in
there. I killed him, and curled him up on the foot of Jim’s blanket, ever so
natural, thinking there’d be some fun when Jim found him there. Well, by night
I forgot all about the snake, and when Jim flung himself down on the blanket
while I struck a light the snake’s mate was there, and bit him.

He jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light showed was the varmint
curled up and ready for another spring. I laid him out in a second with a
stick, and Jim grabbed pap’s whisky-jug and begun to pour it down.

He was barefooted, and the snake bit him right on the heel. That all comes of
my being such a fool as to not remember that wherever you leave a dead snake
its mate always comes there and curls around it. Jim told me to chop off the
snake’s head and throw it away, and then skin the body and roast a piece of it.
I done it, and he eat it and said it would help cure him. He made me take off
the rattles and tie them around his wrist, too. He said that that would help.
Then I slid out quiet and throwed the snakes clear away amongst the bushes; for
I warn’t going to let Jim find out it was all my fault, not if I could help it.

Jim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and then he got out of his head and
pitched around and yelled; but every time he come to himself he went to sucking
at the jug again. His foot swelled up pretty big, and so did his leg; but
by-and-by the drunk begun to come, and so I judged he was all right; but I’d
druther been bit with a snake than pap’s whisky.

Jim was laid up for four days and nights. Then the swelling was all gone and he
was around again. I made up my mind I wouldn’t ever take a-holt of a snake-skin
again with my hands, now that I see what had come of it. Jim said he reckoned I
would believe him next time. And he said that handling a snake-skin was such
awful bad luck that maybe we hadn’t got to the end of it yet. He said he
druther see the new moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand times
than take up a snake-skin in his hand. Well, I was getting to feel that way
myself, though I’ve always reckoned that looking at the new moon over your left
shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things a body can do. Old
Hank Bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in less than two years he
got drunk and fell off of the shot-tower, and spread 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 catfish that was as big as a man, being six foot
two inches long, and weighed over two hundred pounds. We couldn’t handle him,
of course; he would a flung us into Illinois. We just set there and watched him
rip and tear around till he drownded. We found a brass button in his stomach
and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. We split the ball open with the hatchet,
and there was a spool in it. Jim said he’d had it there a long time, to coat it
over so and make a ball of it. It was as big a fish as was ever catched in the
Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he hadn’t ever seen a bigger one. He would a
been worth a good deal over at the village. They peddle out such a fish as that
by the pound in the market-house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat’s
as white as snow and makes a good fry.

Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to get a
stirring up some way. I said I reckoned I would slip over the river and find
out what was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he said I must go in the dark
and look sharp. Then he studied it over and said, couldn’t I put on some of
them old things and dress up like a girl? That was a good notion, too. So we
shortened up one of the calico gowns, and I turned up my trouser-legs to my
knees and got into it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair
fit. I put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to
look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of stove-pipe. Jim said
nobody would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. I practiced around all day
to get the hang of the things, and by-and-by I could do pretty well in them,
only Jim said I didn’t walk like a girl; and he said I must quit pulling up my
gown to get at my britches-pocket. I took notice, and done better.

I started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just after dark.

I started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing, and the
drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. I tied up and
started along the bank. There was a light burning in a little shanty that
hadn’t been lived in for a long time, and I wondered who had took up quarters
there. I slipped up and peeped in at the window. There was a woman about forty
year old in there knitting by a candle that was on a pine table. I didn’t know
her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn’t start a face in that town that I
didn’t know. Now this was lucky, because I was weakening; I was getting afraid
I had come; people might know my voice and find me out. But if this woman had
been in such a little town two days she could tell me all I wanted to know; so
I knocked at the door, and made up my mind I wouldn’t forget I was a girl.

CHAPTER XI.

“Come in,” says the woman, and I did. She says: “Take a cheer.”

I done it. She looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says:

“What might your name be?”

“Sarah Williams.”

“Where ’bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?’

“No’m. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I’ve walked all the way and I’m all
tired out.”

“Hungry, too, I reckon. I’ll find you something.”

“No’m, I ain’t hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles below here at a
farm; so I ain’t hungry no more. It’s what makes me so late. My mother’s down
sick, and out of money and everything, and I come to tell my uncle Abner Moore.
He lives at the upper end of the town, she says. I hain’t ever been here
before. Do you know him?”

“No; but I don’t know everybody yet. I haven’t lived here quite two weeks. It’s
a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. You better stay here all
night. Take off your bonnet.”

“No,” I says; “I’ll rest a while, I reckon, and go on. I ain’t afeared of the
dark.”

She said she wouldn’t let me go by myself, but her husband would be in
by-and-by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she’d send him along with me. Then
she got to talking about her husband, and about her 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 afeard I had made
a mistake coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but
by-and-by she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then I was pretty willing
to let her clatter right along. She told about me and Tom Sawyer finding the
six thousand dollars (only she got it ten) and all about pap and what a hard
lot he was, and what a hard lot I was, and at last she got down to where I was
murdered. I says:

“Who done it? We’ve heard considerable about these goings on down in
Hookerville, but we don’t know who ’twas that killed Huck Finn.”

“Well, I reckon there’s a right smart chance of people here that’d like
to know who killed him. Some think old Finn done it himself.”

“No—is that so?”

“Most everybody thought it at first. He’ll never know how nigh he come to
getting lynched. But before night they changed around and judged it was done by
a runaway nigger named Jim.”

“Why he—”

I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run on, and never noticed I had
put in at all:

“The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was killed. So there’s a reward
out for him—three 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 ben seen sence ten o’clock the night the murder was done. So then they
put it on him, you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back comes old
Finn, and went boo-hooing to Judge Thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger
all over Illinois with. The judge gave him some, and that evening he got drunk,
and was around till after midnight with a couple of mighty hard-looking
strangers, and then went off with them. Well, he hain’t come back sence, and
they ain’t looking for him back till this thing blows over a little, for people
thinks now that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would think robbers
done it, and then he’d get Huck’s money without having to bother a long time
with a lawsuit. People do say he warn’t any too good to do it. Oh, he’s sly, I
reckon. If he don’t come back for a year he’ll be all right. You can’t prove
anything on him, you know; everything will be quieted down then, and he’ll walk
in Huck’s money as easy as nothing.”

“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 around every
day for people to pick up? Some folks think the nigger ain’t far from here. I’m
one of them—but I hain’t talked it around. A few days ago I was talking with an
old couple that lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened to say
hardly anybody ever goes to that island over yonder that they call Jackson’s
Island. Don’t 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 banged away at a rat; but she missed him wide, and said
“Ouch!” it hurt her arm so. Then she told me to try for the next one. I wanted
to be getting away before the old man got back, but of course I didn’t let on.
I got the thing, and the first rat that showed his nose I let drive, and if
he’d a stayed where he was he’d a been a tolerable sick rat. She said that was
first-rate, and she reckoned I would hive the next one. She went and got the
lump of lead and fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn which she
wanted me to help her with. I held up my two hands and she put the hank over
them, and went on talking about her and her husband’s matters. But she broke
off to say:

“Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the lead in your lap, handy.”

So she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and I clapped my legs
together on it and she went on talking. But only about a minute. Then she took
off the hank and looked me straight in the face, and very pleasant, and says:

“Come, now, what’s your real name?”

“Wh—what, mum?”

“What’s your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?—or what is it?”

I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn’t know hardly what to do. But I says:

“Please to don’t poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. If I’m in the way here,
I’ll—”

“No, you won’t. Set down and stay where you are. I ain’t going to hurt you, and
I ain’t going to tell on you, nuther. You just tell me your secret, and trust
me. I’ll keep it; and, what’s more, I’ll help you. So’ll my old man if you want
him to. You see, you’re a runaway ’prentice, that’s all. It ain’t anything.
There ain’t no harm in it. You’ve been treated bad, and you made up your mind
to cut. Bless you, child, I wouldn’t tell on you. Tell me all about it now,
that’s a good boy.”

So I said it wouldn’t be no use to try to play it any longer, and I would just
make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she musn’t go back on her
promise. Then I told her my father and mother was dead, and the law had bound
me out to a mean old farmer in the country thirty mile back from the river, and
he treated me so bad I couldn’t stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a
couple of days, and so I took my chance and stole some of his daughter’s old
clothes and cleared out, and I had been three nights coming the thirty miles. I
traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag of bread and meat I
carried from home lasted me all the way, and I had a-plenty. I said I believed
my uncle Abner Moore would take care of me, and so that was why I struck out
for this town of Goshen.

“Goshen, child? This ain’t Goshen. This is St. Petersburg. Goshen’s ten mile
further up the river. Who told you this was Goshen?”

“Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning, just as I was going to turn into
the woods for my regular sleep. He told me when the roads forked I must take
the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to Goshen.”

“He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just 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 moss grow on?”

“North side.”

“If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats with their
heads pointed the same direction?”

“The whole fifteen, mum.”

“Well, I reckon you have lived in the country. I thought maybe you was
trying to hocus me again. What’s your real name, now?”

“George Peters, mum.”

“Well, try to remember it, George. Don’t forget and tell me it’s Elexander
before you go, and then get out by saying it’s George Elexander when I catch
you. And don’t go about women in that old calico. You do a girl tolerable poor,
but you might fool men, maybe. Bless you, child, when you set out to thread a
needle don’t hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the
needle still and poke the thread at it; that’s the way a woman most always
does, but a man always does t’other way. And when you throw at a rat or
anything, hitch yourself up a tiptoe and fetch your hand up over your head as
awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throw
stiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a pivot there for it to turn on,
like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with your arm out to one side, like
a boy. And, mind you, when a girl tries to catch anything in her lap she throws
her knees apart; she don’t clap them together, the way you did when you catched
the lump of lead. Why, I spotted you for a boy when you was threading the
needle; and I contrived the other things just to make certain. Now trot along
to your uncle, Sarah Mary Williams George Elexander Peters, and if you get into
trouble you send word to Mrs. Judith Loftus, which is me, and I’ll do what I
can to get you out of it. Keep the river road all the way, and next time you
tramp take shoes and socks with you. The river road’s a rocky one, and your
feet’ll be in a condition when you get to Goshen, I reckon.”

I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I doubled on my tracks and
slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below the house. I jumped in,
and was off in a hurry. I went up-stream far enough to make the head of the
island, and then started across. I took off the sun-bonnet, for I didn’t want
no blinders on then. When I was about the middle I heard the clock begin to
strike, so I stops and listens; the sound come faint over the water but
clear—eleven. When I struck the head of the island I never waited to blow,
though I was most winded, but I shoved right into the timber where my old camp
used to be, and started a good fire there on a high and dry spot.

Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place, a mile and a half below,
as hard as I could go. I landed, and slopped through the timber and up the
ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, sound asleep on the ground. I roused
him out and says:

“Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain’t a minute to lose. They’re after
us!”

Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he worked for
the next half an hour showed about how he was scared. By that time 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 the shore a little piece, and took a look; but if
there was a boat around I couldn’t see it, for stars and shadows ain’t good to
see by. Then we got out the raft and slipped along down in the shade, past the
foot of the island dead still—never saying a word.

CHAPTER XII.

It must a been close on to one o’clock when we got below the island at last,
and the raft did seem to go mighty slow. If a boat was to come along we was
going to take to the canoe and break for the Illinois shore; and it was well a
boat didn’t come, for we hadn’t ever thought to put the gun in the canoe, or a
fishing-line, or anything to eat. We was in ruther too much of a sweat to think
of so many things. It warn’t good judgment to put everything on the
raft.

If the men went to the island I just expect they found the camp fire I built,
and watched it all night for Jim to come. Anyways, they stayed away from us,
and if my building the fire never fooled them it warn’t no fault of mine. I
played it as low down on them as I could.

When the first streak of day began to show we tied up to a tow-head in a big
bend on the Illinois side, and hacked off cottonwood branches with the hatchet,
and covered up the raft with them so she looked like there had been a cave-in
in the bank there. A tow-head is a sandbar that has cottonwoods on it as thick
as harrow-teeth.

We had mountains on the Missouri shore and heavy timber on the Illinois side,
and the channel was down the Missouri shore at that place, so we warn’t afraid
of anybody running across us. We laid there all day, and watched the rafts and
steamboats spin down the Missouri shore, and up-bound steamboats fight the big
river in the middle. I told Jim all about the time I had jabbering with that
woman; and Jim said she was a smart one, and if she was to start after us
herself she wouldn’t set down and watch a camp fire—no, sir, she’d fetch
a dog. Well, then, I said, why couldn’t she tell her husband to fetch a dog?
Jim said he bet she did think of it by the time the men was ready to start, and
he believed they must a gone up-town to get a dog and so they lost all that
time, or else we wouldn’t be here on a 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 reach of steamboat waves. Right in the
middle of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep with
a frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on in
sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep it from being seen. We made an
extra steering-oar, too, because one of the others might get broke on a snag or
something. We fixed up a short forked stick to hang the old lantern on, because
we must always light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming
down-stream, to keep from getting run over; but we wouldn’t have to light it
for up-stream boats unless we see we was in what they call a “crossing”; for
the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a little under water;
so up-bound boats didn’t always run the channel, but hunted easy water.

This second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a current that was
making over four mile an hour. We catched fish and talked, and we took a swim
now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was kind of solemn, drifting down the
big, still river, 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 cornfields and borrowed a watermelon,
or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new corn, or things of that kind. Pap
always said it warn’t no harm to borrow things if you was meaning to pay them
back some time; but the widow said it warn’t anything but a soft name for
stealing, and no decent body would do it. Jim said he reckoned the widow was
partly right and pap was partly right; so the best way would be for us to pick
out two or three things from the list and say we wouldn’t borrow them any
more—then he reckoned it wouldn’t be no harm to borrow the others. So we talked
it over all one night, drifting along down the river, trying to make up our
minds whether to drop the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or the mushmelons, or
what. But towards daylight we got it all settled satisfactory, and concluded to
drop crabapples and p’simmons. We warn’t feeling just right before that, but it
was all comfortable now. I was glad the way it come out, too, because
crabapples ain’t ever good, and the p’simmons wouldn’t be ripe for two or three
months yet.

We shot a water-fowl, now and then, that got up too early in the morning or
didn’t go to bed early enough in the evening. Take it all round, we lived
pretty high.

The fifth night below St. Louis we had a big storm after midnight, with a power
of thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in a solid sheet. We stayed
in the wigwam and let the raft take care of itself. When the lightning glared
out we could see a big straight river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both
sides. By-and-by says I, “Hel-lo, Jim, looky 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 doin’ blame’ well, en we
better let blame’ well alone, as de good book says. Like as not dey’s a
watchman on dat wrack.”

“Watchman your grandmother,” I says; “there ain’t nothing to watch but the
texas and the pilot-house; and do you reckon anybody’s going to resk his life
for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this, when it’s likely to break
up and wash off down the river any minute?” Jim couldn’t say nothing to that,
so he didn’t try. “And besides,” I says, “we might borrow something worth
having out of the captain’s stateroom. Seegars, I bet you—and cost five
cents apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty
dollars a month, and they don’t care a cent what a thing costs, you
know, long as they want it. Stick a candle in your pocket; I can’t rest, Jim,
till we give her a rummaging. Do you reckon Tom Sawyer would ever go by this
thing? Not for pie, he wouldn’t. He’d call it an adventure—that’s what he’d
call it; and he’d land on that wreck if it was his last act. And wouldn’t he
throw style into it?—wouldn’t he spread himself, nor nothing? Why, you’d think
it was Christopher C’lumbus discovering Kingdom-Come. I wish Tom Sawyer
was here.”

Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we mustn’t talk any more than we
could help, and then talk mighty low. The lightning showed us the wreck again
just in time, and we fetched the stabboard derrick, and made fast there.

The deck was high out here. We went sneaking down the slope of it to labboard,
in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow with our feet, and
spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was so dark we couldn’t
see no sign of them. Pretty soon we struck the forward end of the skylight, and
clumb on to it; and the next step fetched us in front of the captain’s door,
which was open, and by Jimminy, away down through the texas-hall we see a
light! and all in the same second we seem to hear low voices in yonder!

Jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me to come along.
I says, all right, and was going to start for the raft; but just then I heard a
voice wail out and say:

“Oh, please don’t, boys; I swear I won’t ever tell!”

Another voice said, pretty loud:

“It’s a lie, Jim Turner. You’ve acted this way before. You always want more’n
your share of the truck, and you’ve always got it, too, because you’ve swore ’t
if you didn’t you’d tell. But this time you’ve said it jest one time too many.
You’re the meanest, treacherousest hound in this country.”

By this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was just a-biling with curiosity; and
I says to myself, Tom Sawyer wouldn’t back out now, and so I won’t either; I’m
a-going to see what’s going on here. So I dropped on my hands and knees in the
little passage, and crept aft in the dark till there warn’t but one stateroom
betwixt me and the cross-hall of the texas. Then in there I see a man stretched
on the floor and tied hand and foot, and two men standing over him, and one of
them had a dim lantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol. This one
kept pointing the pistol at the man’s head on the floor, and saying:

“I’d like to! And I orter, too—a mean skunk!”

The man on the floor would shrivel up and say, “Oh, please don’t, Bill; I
hain’t ever goin’ to tell.”

And every time he said that the man with the lantern would laugh and say:

“’Deed you ain’t! You never said no truer thing ’n that, you bet you.”
And once he said: “Hear him beg! and yit if we hadn’t got the best of him and
tied him he’d a killed us both. And what for? Jist for noth’n. Jist
because we stood on our rights—that’s what for. But I lay you ain’t
a-goin’ to threaten nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put up that pistol,
Bill.”

Bill says:

“I don’t want to, Jake Packard. I’m for killin’ him—and didn’t he kill old
Hatfield jist the same way—and don’t he deserve it?”

“But I don’t want him killed, and I’ve got my reasons for it.”

“Bless yo’ heart for them words, Jake Packard! I’ll never forgit you long’s I
live!” says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering.

Packard didn’t take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a nail and
started towards where I was there in the dark, and motioned Bill to come. I
crawfished as fast as I could about two yards, but the boat slanted so that I
couldn’t make very good time; so to keep from getting run over and catched I
crawled into a stateroom on the upper side. The man came a-pawing along in the
dark, and when Packard got to my stateroom, he says:

“Here—come in here.”

And in he come, and Bill after him. But before they got in I was up in the
upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come. Then they stood there, with their
hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. I couldn’t see them, but I could
tell where they was by the whisky they’d been having. I was glad I didn’t drink
whisky; but it wouldn’t made much difference anyway, because most of the time
they couldn’t a treed me because I didn’t breathe. I was too scared. And,
besides, a body couldn’t breathe and hear such talk. They talked low and
earnest. Bill wanted to kill Turner. He says:

“He’s said he’ll tell, and he will. If we was to give both our shares to him
now it wouldn’t make no difference after the row and the way we’ve
served him. Shore’s you’re born, he’ll turn State’s evidence; now you hear
me. I’m for putting him out of his troubles.”

“So’m I,” says Packard, very quiet.

“Blame it, I’d sorter begun to think you wasn’t. Well, then, that’s all right.
Le’s go and do it.”

“Hold on a minute; I hain’t had my say yit. You listen to me. Shooting’s good,
but there’s quieter ways if the thing’s got to be done. But what
I say is this: it ain’t good sense to go court’n around after a halter
if you can git at what you’re up to in some way that’s jist as good and at the
same time don’t bring you into no resks. Ain’t that so?”

“You bet it is. But how you goin’ to manage it this time?”

“Well, my idea is this: we’ll rustle around and gather up whatever pickins
we’ve overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck.
Then we’ll wait. Now I say it ain’t a-goin’ to be more’n two hours befo’ this
wrack breaks up and washes off down the river. See? He’ll be drownded, and
won’t have nobody to blame for it but his own self. I reckon that’s a
considerble sight better ’n killin’ of him. I’m unfavorable to killin’ a man as
long as you can git aroun’ it; it ain’t good sense, it ain’t good morals. Ain’t
I right?”

“Yes, I reck’n you are. But s’pose she don’t break up and wash off?”

“Well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see, can’t we?”

“All right, then; come along.”

So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled forward. It
was dark as pitch there; but I said, in a kind of a coarse whisper, “Jim!” and
he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a moan, and I says:

“Quick, Jim, it ain’t no time for fooling around and moaning; there’s a gang of
murderers in yonder, and if we don’t hunt up their boat and set her drifting
down the river so these fellows can’t get away from the wreck there’s one of
’em going to be in a bad fix. But if we find their boat we can put all
of ’em in a bad fix—for the Sheriff ’ll get ’em. Quick—hurry! I’ll hunt the
labboard side, you hunt the stabboard. You start at the raft, and—”

“Oh, my lordy, lordy! Raf’? Dey ain’ no raf’ no mo’; she done broke
loose en gone I—en here we is!”

CHAPTER XIII.

Well, I catched my breath and most fainted. Shut up on a wreck with such a gang
as that! But it warn’t no time to be sentimentering. We’d got to find
that boat now—had to have it for ourselves. So we went a-quaking and shaking
down the stabboard side, and slow work it was, too—seemed a week 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 on to the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill says:

“Hold on—’d you go through him?”

“No. Didn’t you?”

“No. So he’s got his share o’ the cash yet.”

“Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money.”

“Say, won’t he suspicion what we’re up to?”

“Maybe he won’t. But we got to have it anyway. Come along.”

So they got out and went in.

The door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a half second I
was in the boat, and Jim come tumbling after me. I out with my knife and cut
the rope, and away we went!

We didn’t touch an oar, and we didn’t speak nor whisper, nor hardly even
breathe. We went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip of the
paddle-box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more we was a hundred
yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her up, every last sign of her,
and we was safe, and knowed it.

When we was three or four hundred yards down-stream we see the lantern show
like a little spark at the texas door for a second, and we knowed by that that
the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning to understand that they
was in just as much trouble now as Jim Turner was.

Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. Now was the first
time that I begun to worry about the men—I reckon I hadn’t had time to before.
I begun to think how dreadful it was, even for 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
stayed, and the lightning kept whimpering, and by-and-by a flash showed us a
black thing ahead, floating, and we made for it.

It was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again. We seen a
light now away down to the right, on shore. So I said I would go for it. The
skiff was half full of plunder which that gang had stole there on the wreck. We
hustled it on to the raft in a pile, and I told Jim to float along down, and
show a light when he judged he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning
till I come; then I manned my oars and shoved for the light. As I got down
towards it, three or four more showed—up on a hillside. It was a village. I
closed in above the shore light, and laid on my oars and floated. As I went by,
I see it was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of a double-hull 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 gave his shoulder two or three little shoves, and begun to
cry.

He stirred up, in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it was only me, he
took a good gap and stretch, and then he says:

“Hello, what’s up? Don’t cry, bub. What’s the trouble?”

I says:

“Pap, and mam, and sis, and—”

Then I broke down. He says:

“Oh, dang it now, don’t take on so; we all has to have our troubles, and
this’n ’ll come out all right. What’s the matter with ’em?”

“They’re—they’re—are you the watchman of the boat?”

“Yes,” he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. “I’m the captain and the
owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman and head deck-hand; and 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 doin’ there, for gracious sakes?”

“Well, they didn’t go there a-purpose.”

“I bet they didn’t! Why, great goodness, there ain’t no chance for ’em if they
don’t git off mighty quick! Why, how in the nation did they ever git into such
a scrape?”

“Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting up there to the town—”

“Yes, Booth’s Landing—go on.”

“She was a-visiting there at Booth’s Landing, and just in the edge of the
evening she started over with her nigger woman in the horse-ferry to stay all
night at her friend’s house, Miss What-you-may-call-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
ferryman and the nigger woman and the horses was all lost, but Miss Hooker she
made a grab and got aboard the wreck. Well, about an hour after dark we come
along down in our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn’t notice the wreck
till we was right on it; and so we saddle-baggsed; but all of us was
saved but Bill Whipple—and oh, he was the best cretur!—I most wish’t it
had been me, I do.”

“My George! It’s the beatenest thing I ever struck. And then what did
you all do?”

“Well, we hollered and took on, but it’s so wide there we couldn’t make nobody
hear. So pap said somebody got to get ashore and get help somehow. I was the
only one that could swim, so I made a dash for it, and Miss Hooker she said if
I didn’t strike help sooner, come here and hunt up her uncle, and he’d fix the
thing. I made the land about a mile below, and been fooling along ever since,
trying to get people to do something, but they said, ‘What, in such a night and
such a current? There ain’t no sense in it; go for the steam ferry.’ Now if
you’ll go and—”

“By Jackson, I’d like to, and, blame it, I don’t know but I will; but
who in the dingnation’s a-going’ to pay for it? Do you reckon your pap—”

“Why that’s all right. Miss Hooker she tole me, particular, that
her uncle Hornback—”

“Great guns! is he her uncle? Looky here, you break for that light over
yonder-way, and turn out west when you git there, and about a quarter of a mile
out you’ll come to the tavern; tell ’em to dart you out to Jim Hornback’s, and
he’ll foot the bill. And don’t you fool around any, because he’ll want to know
the news. Tell him I’ll have his niece all safe before he can get to town. Hump
yourself, now; I’m a-going up around the corner here to roust out my engineer.”

I struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the corner I went back and got
into my skiff and bailed her out, and then pulled up shore in the easy water
about six hundred yards, and tucked myself in among some woodboats; for I
couldn’t rest easy till I could see the 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 knowed about
it. I judged she would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions, because
rapscallions and dead beats is the kind the widow and good people takes the
most interest in.

Well, before long, here comes the wreck, dim and dusky, sliding along down! A
kind of cold shiver went through me, and then I struck out for her. She was
very deep, and I see in a minute there warn’t much chance for anybody being
alive in her. I pulled all around her and hollered a little, but there wasn’t
any answer; all dead still. I felt a little bit heavy-hearted about the gang,
but not much, for I reckoned if they could stand it, I could.

Then here comes the 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 the
shore, and I laid into my work and went a-booming down the river.

It did seem a powerful long time before Jim’s light showed up; and when it did
show, it looked like it was a thousand mile off. By the time I got there the sky
was beginning to get a little gray in the east; so we struck for an island, and
hid the raft, and sunk the skiff, and turned in and slept like dead people.

CHAPTER XIV.

By-and-by, when we got up, we turned over the truck the gang had stole off of
the wreck, and found boots, and blankets, and clothes, and all sorts of other
things, and a lot of books, and a spyglass, and three boxes of seegars. We
hadn’t ever been this rich before in neither of our lives. The seegars was
prime. We laid off all the afternoon in the woods talking, and me reading the
books, and having a general good time. I told Jim all about what happened
inside the wreck and at the 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 drownded; and if he did get
saved, whoever saved him would send him back home so as to get the reward, and
then Miss Watson would sell him South, sure. Well, he was right; he was most
always right; he had an uncommon level head, for a nigger.

I read considerable to Jim about kings and dukes and earls and such, and how
gaudy they dressed, and how much style they put on, and called each other your
majesty, and your grace, and your lordship, and so on, ’stead of mister; and
Jim’s eyes bugged out, and he was interested. He says:

“I didn’ know dey was so many un um. I hain’t hearn ’bout none un um, skasely,
but ole King 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 keeps his wives. Don’t you know about the harem? Solomon
had one; he had about a million wives.”

“Why, yes, dat’s so; I—I’d done forgot it. A harem’s a bo’d’n-house, I reck’n.
Mos’ likely dey has rackety times in de nussery. En I reck’n de wives quarrels
considable; en dat ’crease de racket. Yit dey say Sollermun de wises’ man dat
ever live’. I doan’ take no stock in dat. Bekase why: would a wise man want to
live in de mids’ er sich a blim-blammin’ all de time? No—’deed he wouldn’t. A
wise man ’ud take en buil’ a biler-factry; en den he could shet down de
biler-factry when he want to res’.”

“Well, but he was the wisest man, anyway; 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 neighbors
en fine out which un you de bill do b’long to, en han’ it over to de
right one, all safe en soun’, de way dat anybody dat had any gumption would?
No; I take en whack de bill in two, en give half un it to you, en de
yuther half to de yuther woman. Dat’s de way Sollermun was gwyne to do wid de
chile. Now I want to ast you: what’s de use er dat half a bill?—can’t buy
noth’n wid it. En what use is a half a chile? I wouldn’ give a dern for a
million un um.”

“But hang it, Jim, you’ve clean missed the point—blame it, you’ve missed it a
thousand mile.”

“Who? Me? Go ’long. Doan’ talk to me ’bout yo’ pints. I reck’n I knows
sense when I sees it; en dey ain’ no sense in sich doin’s as dat. De ’spute
warn’t ’bout a half a chile, de ’spute was ’bout a whole chile; en de man dat
think he kin settle a ’spute ’bout a whole chile wid a half a chile doan’ know
enough to come in out’n de rain. Doan’ talk to me ’bout Sollermun, Huck, I
knows him by de back.”

“But I tell you you don’t get the point.”

“Blame de point! I reck’n I knows what I knows. En mine you, de real
pint is down furder—it’s down deeper. It lays in de way Sollermun was raised.
You take a man dat’s got on’y one or two chillen; is dat man gwyne to be
waseful o’ chillen? No, he ain’t; he can’t ’ford it. He know how to
value ’em. But you take a man dat’s got ’bout five million chillen runnin’
roun’ de house, en it’s diffunt. He as soon chop a chile in two as a
cat. Dey’s plenty mo’. A chile er two, mo’ er less, warn’t no consekens to
Sollermun, dad fatch him!”

I never see such a nigger. If he got a notion in his head once, there warn’t no
getting it out again. He was the most down on Solomon of any nigger I ever see.
So I went to talking about other kings, and let Solomon slide. I told about
Louis Sixteenth that got his head cut off in France long time ago; and about
his little boy the dolphin, that would a been a king, but they took and shut
him up in jail, and some say he died there.

“Po’ little chap.”

“But some says he got out and got away, and come to America.”

“Dat’s good! But he’ll be pooty lonesome—dey ain’ no kings here, is dey, Huck?”

“No.”

“Den he cain’t git no situation. What he gwyne to do?”

“Well, I don’t know. Some of them gets on the police, and some of them learns
people how to talk French.”

“Why, Huck, doan’ de French people talk de same way we does?”

“No, Jim; you couldn’t understand a word they said—not a single word.”

“Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat come?”

“I don’t know; but it’s so. I got some of their jabber out of a book.
S’pose a man was to come to you and say Polly-voo-franzy—what would you
think?”

“I wouldn’ think nuff’n; I’d take en bust him over de head—dat is, if he warn’t
white. I wouldn’t ’low no nigger to call me dat.”

“Shucks, it ain’t calling you anything. It’s only saying, do you know how to
talk French?”

“Well, den, why couldn’t he say it?”

“Why, he is a-saying it. That’s a Frenchman’s way of saying it.”

“Well, it’s a blame ridicklous way, en I doan’ want to hear no mo’ ’bout it.
Dey ain’ no sense in it.”

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

“No, a cat don’t.”

“Well, does a cow?”

“No, a cow don’t, nuther.”

“Does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a cat?”

“No, dey don’t.”

“It’s natural and right for ’em to talk different from each other, ain’t it?”

“’Course.”

“And ain’t it natural and right for a cat and a cow to talk different from
us?”

“Why, mos’ sholy it is.”

“Well, then, why ain’t it natural and right for a Frenchman to talk
different from us? You answer me that.”

“Is a cat a man, Huck?”

“No.”

“Well, den, dey ain’t no sense in a cat talkin’ like a man. Is a cow a man?—er
is a cow a cat?”

“No, she ain’t either of them.”

“Well, den, she ain’t got no business to talk like either one er the yuther of
’em. Is a Frenchman a man?”

“Yes.”

“Well, den! Dad blame it, why doan’ he talk like a man? You
answer me dat!”

I see it warn’t no use wasting words—you can’t learn a nigger to argue. So I
quit.

CHAPTER XV.

We judged that three nights more would fetch us to Cairo, at the bottom of
Illinois, where the Ohio River comes in, and that was what we was after. We
would sell the raft and get on a steamboat and go way up the Ohio amongst the
free States, and then be out of trouble.

Well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for a tow-head to tie
to, for it wouldn’t do to try to run in a fog; but when I paddled ahead in the
canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn’t anything but little saplings to
tie to. I passed the line around one of them right on the edge of the cut bank,
but there was a stiff current, and the raft come booming down so lively she
tore it out by the roots and away she went. I see the fog closing down, and it
made me so sick and scared I couldn’t budge for most a half a minute it seemed
to me—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 somewheres I hears a small whoop, and up comes my
spirits. I went tearing after it, listening sharp to hear it again. The next
time it come, I see I warn’t heading for it, but heading away to the right of
it. And the next time I was heading away to the left of it—and not gaining on
it much either, for I was flying around, this way and that and t’other, but it
was going straight ahead all the time.

I did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it all the time,
but he never did, and it was the still places between the whoops that was
making the trouble for me. Well, I fought along, and directly I hears the whoop
behind me. I was tangled good now. That was somebody else’s whoop, or
else I was turned around.

I throwed the paddle down. I heard the whoop again; it was behind me yet, but
in a different place; it kept coming, and kept changing its place, and I kept
answering, till by-and-by it was in front of me again, and I knowed the current
had swung the canoe’s head down-stream, and I was all right if that was Jim and
not some other raftsman hollering. I couldn’t tell nothing about voices in a
fog, for nothing don’t look natural nor sound natural in a fog.

The whooping went on, and in about a minute I come a-booming down on a cut bank
with smoky ghosts of big trees on it, and the current throwed me off to the
left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags that fairly roared, the currrent was
tearing by them so swift.

In another second or two it was solid white and still again. I set perfectly
still then, listening to my heart thump, and I reckon I didn’t draw a breath
while it thumped a hundred.

I just give up then. I knowed what the matter was. That cut bank was an island,
and Jim had gone down t’other side of it. It warn’t no 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 miles long and more than half a mile wide.

I kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, I reckon. I was
floating along, of course, four or five miles an hour; but you don’t ever think
of that. No, you feel like you are laying dead still on the water; and
if a little glimpse of a snag slips by you don’t think to yourself how fast
you’re going, but you catch your breath and think, my! how that snag’s
tearing along. If you think it ain’t dismal and 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 knowed was there because I’d hear the wash of
the current against the old dead brush and trash that hung over the banks.
Well, I warn’t long loosing the whoops down amongst the 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 knowed a sound dodge around so, and swap places so
quick and so much.

I had to claw away from the bank pretty lively four or five times, to keep from
knocking the islands out of the river; and so I judged the raft must be butting
into the bank every now and then, or else it would get further ahead and clear
out of hearing—it was floating a little faster than what I was.

Well, I seemed to be in the open river again by-and-by, but I couldn’t hear no
sign of a whoop nowheres. I reckoned Jim had fetched up on a snag, maybe, and
it was all up with him. I was good and tired, so I laid down in the canoe and
said I wouldn’t bother no more. I didn’t want to go to sleep, of course; but I
was so sleepy I couldn’t help it; so I thought I would take jest one little
cat-nap.

But I reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when I waked up the stars was
shining bright, the fog was all gone, and I was spinning down a big bend stern
first. First I didn’t know where I was; I thought I was dreaming; and when
things began to come back to me they seemed to come up dim out of last week.

It was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest and the thickest kind of
timber on both banks; just a solid wall, as well as I could see by the stars. I
looked away down-stream, and seen a black speck on the water. I took after it;
but when I got to it it warn’t nothing but a couple of sawlogs made fast
together. Then I see another speck, and chased that; then another, and this
time I was right. It was the raft.

When I got to it Jim was setting there with his head down between his knees,
asleep, with his right arm hanging over the steering-oar. The other oar was
smashed off, and the raft was littered up with leaves and branches and dirt. So
she’d had a rough time.

I made fast and laid down under Jim’s nose on the raft, and began to gap, and
stretch my fists out against Jim, and says:

“Hello, Jim, have I been asleep? Why didn’t you stir me up?”

“Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you ain’ dead—you ain’ drownded—you’s
back agin? It’s too good for true, honey, it’s too good for true. Lemme look at
you chile, lemme feel o’ you. No, you ain’ dead! you’s back agin, ’live en
soun’, jis de same ole Huck—de same ole Huck, thanks to goodness!”

“What’s the matter with you, Jim? You been a-drinking?”

“Drinkin’? Has I ben a-drinkin’? Has I had a chance to be a-drinkin’?”

“Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?”

“How does I talk wild?”

“How? Why, hain’t you been talking about my coming back, and all that
stuff, as if I’d been gone away?”

“Huck—Huck Finn, you look me in de eye; look me in de eye. Hain’t you
ben gone away?”

“Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you mean? I hain’t been gone
anywheres. Where would I go to?”

“Well, looky here, boss, dey’s sumf’n wrong, dey is. Is I me, or who
is I? Is I heah, or whah is I? Now dat’s what I wants to know.”

“Well, I think you’re here, plain enough, but I think you’re a tangle-headed
old fool, Jim.”

“I is, is I? Well, you answer me dis: Didn’t you tote out de line in de canoe
fer to make fas’ to de tow-head?”

“No, I didn’t. What tow-head? I hain’t see no tow-head.”

“You hain’t seen no 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
t’other one was jis’ as good as los’, ’kase he didn’ know whah he wuz? En
didn’t I bust up agin a lot er dem islands en have a turrible time en mos’ git
drownded? Now ain’ dat so, boss—ain’t it so? You answer me dat.”

“Well, this is too many for me, Jim. I hain’t seen no fog, nor no islands, nor
no troubles, nor nothing. I been setting here talking with you all night till
you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and I reckon I done the same. You
couldn’t a got drunk in that time, so of course you’ve been dreaming.”

“Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?”

“Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn’t any of it happen.”

“But, Huck, it’s all jis’ as plain to me as—”

“It don’t make no difference how plain it is; there ain’t nothing in it. I
know, because I’ve been here all the time.”

Jim didn’t say nothing for about five minutes, but set there studying over it.
Then he says:

“Well, den, I reck’n I did dream it, Huck; but dog my cats ef it ain’t de
powerfullest dream I ever see. En I hain’t ever had no dream b’fo’ dat’s tired
me like dis one.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right, because a dream does tire a body like everything
sometimes. But this one was a staving dream; tell me all about it, Jim.”

So Jim went to work and told me the whole thing right through, just as it
happened, only he painted it up considerable. Then he said he must start in and
“’terpret” it, because it was sent for a warning. He said the first 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 on to the raft, but it was
clearing up again now.

“Oh, well, that’s all interpreted well enough as far as it goes, Jim,” I says;
“but what does these things stand for?”

It was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the smashed oar. You could see
them first-rate now.

Jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the trash again. He
had got the dream fixed so strong in his head that he couldn’t seem to shake it
loose and get the facts back into its place again right away. But when he did
get the thing straightened around he looked at me steady without ever smiling,
and says:

“What do dey stan’ for? I’se gwyne to tell you. When I got all wore out wid
work, en wid de callin’ for you, en went to sleep, my heart wuz mos’ broke
bekase you wuz los’, en I didn’ k’yer no’ mo’ what become er me en de raf’. En
when I wake up en fine you back agin, all safe en soun’, de tears come, en I
could a got down on my knees en kiss yo’ foot, I’s so thankful. En all you wuz
thinkin’ ’bout wuz how you could make a fool uv ole Jim wid a lie. Dat truck
dah is trash; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey
fren’s en makes ’em ashamed.”

Then he got up slow and walked to the wigwam, and went in there without saying
anything but that. But that was enough. It made me feel so mean I could almost
kissed his foot to get him to take it back.

It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go and humble myself to
a nigger; but I done it, and I warn’t ever sorry for it afterwards, neither. I
didn’t do him no more mean tricks, and I wouldn’t done that one if I’d a knowed
it would make him feel that way.

CHAPTER XVI.

We slept most all day, and started out at night, a little ways behind a
monstrous long raft that was as long going by as a procession. She had four
long sweeps at each end, so we judged she carried as many as thirty men,
likely. She had five big wigwams aboard, wide apart, and an open camp fire in
the 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 a slave country
again and no more show for freedom. Every little while he jumps up and says:

“Dah she is?”

But it warn’t. It was Jack-o’-lanterns, or lightning bugs; so he set down
again, and went to watching, same as before. Jim said it made him all over
trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom. Well, I can tell you it made me
all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear him, because I begun to get it
through my head that he was most free—and who was to blame for it? Why,
me. I couldn’t get that out of my conscience, no how nor no way. It got
to troubling me so I couldn’t rest; I couldn’t stay still in one place. It
hadn’t ever come home to me before, what this thing was that I was doing. But
now it did; and it stayed with me, and scorched me more and more. I tried to
make out to myself that I warn’t to blame, because I didn’t run
Jim off from his rightful owner; but it warn’t no use, conscience up and says,
every time, “But you knowed he was running for his 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 knowed how.
That’s what she done.”

I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished I was dead. I fidgeted
up and down the raft, abusing myself to myself, and Jim was fidgeting up and
down past me. We neither of us could keep still. Every time he danced around
and says, “Dah’s Cairo!” it went through me like a shot, and I thought if it
was Cairo I reckoned I would die of miserableness.

Jim talked out loud all the time while I was talking to myself. He was saying
how the first thing he would do when he got to a free State he would go to
saving up money and never spend a single cent, and when he got enough he would
buy his wife, which was owned on a farm close to where Miss Watson lived; and
then they would both work to buy the two 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 ole
Cairo at las’, I jis knows it!”

I says:

“I’ll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It mightn’t be, you know.”

He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the bottom for me to
set on, and give me the paddle; and as I shoved off, he says:

“Pooty soon I’ll be a-shout’n’ for joy, en I’ll say, it’s all on accounts o’
Huck; I’s a free man, en I couldn’t ever ben free ef it hadn’ ben for Huck;
Huck done it. Jim won’t ever forgit you, Huck; you’s de bes’ fren’ Jim’s ever
had; en you’s de only fren’ ole Jim’s got now.”

I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this, it
seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. I went along slow then, and I
warn’t right down certain whether I was glad I started or whether I warn’t.
When I was fifty yards off, Jim says:

“Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on’y white genlman dat ever kep’ his
promise to ole Jim.”

Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I got to do it—I can’t get
out of it. Right then along comes a skiff with two men in it with guns,
and they stopped and I stopped. One of them says:

“What’s that yonder?”

“A piece of a raft,” I says.

“Do you belong on it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any men on it?”

“Only one, sir.”

“Well, there’s five niggers run off to-night up 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 obleeged to you, I can tell you. Everybody goes away
when I want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and I can’t do it by myself.”

“Well, that’s infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy, what’s the matter with your
father?”

“It’s the—a—the—well, it ain’t anything much.”

They stopped pulling. It warn’t but a mighty little ways to the raft now. One
says:

“Boy, that’s a lie. What is the matter with your pap? Answer up square
now, and it’ll be the better for you.”

“I will, sir, I will, honest—but don’t leave us, please. It’s
the—the—gentlemen, if you’ll only pull ahead, and let me heave you the
headline, you won’t have to come a-near the raft—please do.”

“Set her back, John, set her back!” says one. They backed water. “Keep away,
boy—keep to looard. Confound it, I just expect the wind has blowed it to us.
Your pap’s got the small-pox, and you know it precious well. Why didn’t you
come out and say so? Do you want to spread it all over?”

“Well,” says I, a-blubbering, “I’ve told everybody before, and they just went
away and left us.”

“Poor devil, there’s something in that. We are right down sorry for you, but
we—well, hang it, we don’t want the small-pox, you see. Look here, I’ll tell
you what to do. Don’t you try to land by 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 knowed
very well I had done wrong, and I see it warn’t no use for me to try to learn
to do right; a body that don’t get started right when he’s little ain’t
got no show—when the pinch comes there ain’t nothing to back him up and keep
him to his work, and so he gets beat. Then I thought a minute, and says to
myself, hold on; s’pose you’d a done right and give Jim up, would you felt
better than what you do now? No, says I, I’d feel bad—I’d feel just the same
way I do now. Well, then, says I, what’s the use you learning to do right when
it’s troublesome to do right and ain’t no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is
just the same? I was stuck. I couldn’t answer that. So I reckoned I wouldn’t
bother no more about it, but after this always do whichever come handiest at
the time.

I went into the wigwam; Jim warn’t there. I looked all around; he warn’t
anywhere. I says:

“Jim!”

“Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o’ sight yit? Don’t talk loud.”

He was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out. I told him
they were out of sight, so he come aboard. He says:

“I was a-listenin’ to all de talk, en I slips into de river en was gwyne to
shove for sho’ if dey come aboard. Den I was gwyne to swim to de raf’ agin when
dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool ’em, Huck! Dat wuz de smartes’
dodge! I tell you, chile, I ’speck it save’ ole Jim—ole Jim ain’t going to
forgit you for dat, honey.”

Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty good raise—twenty dollars
apiece. Jim said we could take deck passage on a steamboat now, and the money
would last us as far as we wanted to go in the free States. He said twenty mile
more warn’t far for the raft to go, but he wished we was already there.

Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty particular about hiding the
raft good. Then he worked all day fixing things in bundles, and getting all
ready to quit rafting.

That night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away down in a
left-hand bend.

I went off in the canoe to ask about it. Pretty soon I found a man out in the
river with a skiff, setting a trot-line. I ranged up and says:

“Mister, is that town Cairo?”

“Cairo? no. You must be a blame’ fool.”

“What town is it, mister?”

“If you want to know, go and find out. If you stay here botherin’ around me for
about a half a minute longer you’ll get something you won’t want.”

I paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed, but I said never mind, Cairo
would be the next place, I reckoned.

We passed another town before daylight, and I was going out again; but it was
high ground, so I didn’t go. No high ground about Cairo, Jim said. I had forgot
it. We laid up for the day on a 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’ le’s talk about it, Huck. Po’ niggers can’t have no luck. I awluz
’spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn’t done wid its work.”

“I wish I’d never seen that snake-skin, Jim—I do wish I’d never laid eyes on
it.”

“It ain’t yo’ fault, Huck; you didn’ know. Don’t you blame yo’self ’bout it.”

When it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio water inshore, sure enough, and
outside was the old regular Muddy! So it was all up with Cairo.

We talked it all over. It wouldn’t do to take to the shore; we couldn’t take
the raft up the stream, of course. There warn’t no way but to wait for dark,
and start back in the canoe and take the chances. So we slept all day amongst
the cottonwood thicket, so as to be fresh for the work, and when we went back
to the raft about dark the canoe was gone!

We didn’t say a word for a good while. There warn’t anything to say. We both
knowed well enough it was some more work of the rattlesnake-skin; so what was
the use to talk about it? It would only look like we was finding fault, and
that would be bound to fetch more bad luck—and keep on fetching it, too, till
we knowed enough to keep still.

By-and-by we talked about what we better do, and found there warn’t no way but
just to go along down with the raft till we got a chance to buy a canoe to go
back in. We warn’t going to borrow it when there warn’t anybody around, the way
pap would do, for that might set people after us.

So we shoved out after dark on the raft.

Anybody that don’t believe yet that it’s foolishness to handle a snake-skin,
after all that that snake-skin done for us, will believe it now if they read on
and see what more it done for us.

The place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore. But we didn’t see
no rafts laying up; so we went along during three hours and more. Well, the
night got gray and ruther thick, which is the next meanest thing to fog. You
can’t tell the shape of the river, and you can’t see no distance. It got to be
very late and still, and then along comes a steamboat up the river. We lit the
lantern, and judged she would see it. Up-stream boats didn’t generly come close
to us; they go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the reefs;
but nights like this they bull right up the channel against the whole river.

We could hear her pounding along, but we didn’t see her good till she was
close. She aimed right for us. Often they do that and try to see how close they
can come without touching; sometimes the wheel bites off a sweep, and then the
pilot sticks his head out and laughs, and thinks he’s mighty smart. Well, here
she comes, and we said she was going to try and shave us; but she didn’t seem
to be sheering off a bit. She was a big one, and she was coming in a hurry,
too, looking like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it; but all of a
sudden she bulged out, big and scary, with a long row of wide-open furnace
doors shining like red-hot teeth, and her monstrous bows and guards hanging
right over us. There was a yell at us, and a jingling of bells to stop the
engines, a powwow of cussing, and whistling of steam—and as Jim went overboard
on one side and I on the other, she come smashing straight through the raft.

I dived—and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot wheel had got to
go over me, and I wanted it to have plenty of room. I could always stay under
water a minute; this time I reckon I stayed under a minute and a half. Then I
bounced for the top in a hurry, for I was nearly busting. I popped out to my
armpits and blowed the water out of my nose, and puffed a bit. Of course there
was a booming current; and of course that boat started her engines again ten
seconds after she stopped them, for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now
she was churning along up the river, out of sight in the thick weather, though
I could hear her.

I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn’t get any answer; so I
grabbed a plank that touched me while I was “treading water,” and struck out
for shore, shoving it ahead of me. But I made out to see that the drift of the
current was towards the left-hand shore, which meant that I was in a crossing;
so I changed off and went that way.

It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so I was a good long
time in getting over. I made a safe landing, and clumb up the bank. I couldn’t
see but a little ways, but I went poking along over rough ground for a quarter
of a mile or more, and then I run across a big old-fashioned double log-house
before I noticed it. I was going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs
jumped out and went to howling and barking at me, and I knowed better than to
move another peg.

CHAPTER XVII.

In about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without putting his head out,
and says:

“Be done, boys! Who’s there?”

I says:

“It’s me.”

“Who’s me?”

“George Jackson, sir.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t want nothing, sir. I only want to go along by, but the dogs won’t let
me.”

“What are you prowling around here this time of night for—hey?”

“I warn’t prowling around, sir, I fell overboard off of the steamboat.”

“Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, 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 parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and got together in a
corner that was out of the range of the front windows—there warn’t none on the
side. They held the candle, and took a good look at me, and all said, “Why,
he ain’t a Shepherdson—no, there ain’t any Shepherdson about him.” Then
the old man said he hoped I wouldn’t mind being searched for arms, because he
didn’t mean no harm by it—it was only to make sure. So he didn’t pry into my
pockets, but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was all right. He
told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all about myself; but the old
lady says:

“Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing’s as wet as he can be; and don’t you
reckon it may be he’s hungry?”

“True for you, Rachel—I forgot.”

So the old lady says:

“Betsy” (this was a nigger woman), “you fly around and get him something to eat
as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girls go and wake up Buck and
tell him—oh, here he is himself. Buck, take this little stranger and get the
wet clothes off from him and dress him up in some of yours that’s dry.”

Buck looked about as old as me—thirteen or fourteen or along there, though he
was a little bigger than me. He hadn’t on anything but a shirt, and he was very
frowzy-headed. He came in gaping and digging one fist into his eyes, and he was
dragging a gun along with the other one. He says:

“Ain’t they no Shepherdsons around?”

They said, no, ’twas a false alarm.

“Well,” he says, “if they’d a ben some, I reckon I’d a got one.”

They all laughed, and Bob says:

“Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you’ve been so slow in coming.”

“Well, nobody come after me, and it ain’t right I’m always kept down; I don’t
get no show.”

“Never mind, Buck, my boy,” says the old man, “you’ll have show enough, all in
good time, don’t you fret about that. Go ’long with you now, and do as your
mother told you.”

When we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a roundabout and
pants of his, and I put them on. While I was at it he asked me what my name
was, but before I could tell him he started to tell me about a bluejay and a
young rabbit he had catched in the woods day before yesterday, and he asked me
where Moses was when the candle went out. I said I didn’t know; I hadn’t heard
about it before, no way.

“Well, guess,” he says.

“How’m I going to guess,” says I, “when I never heard tell of it before?”

“But you can guess, can’t you? It’s just as easy.”

“Which candle?” I says.

“Why, any candle,” he says.

“I don’t know where he was,” says I; “where was he?”

“Why, he was in the dark! That’s where he was!”

“Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?”

“Why, blame it, it’s a riddle, don’t you see? Say, how long are you going to
stay here? You got to stay always. We can just have booming times—they don’t
have no school now. Do you own a dog? I’ve got a dog—and he’ll go in the river
and bring out chips that you throw in. Do you like to comb up Sundays, and all
that kind of foolishness? You bet I don’t, but ma she makes me. Confound these
ole britches! I reckon I’d better put ’em on, but I’d ruther not, it’s so warm.
Are you all ready? All right. Come along, old hoss.”

Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk—that is what they had for
me down there, and there ain’t nothing better that ever I’ve come across yet.
Buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob pipes, except the nigger woman,
which was gone, and the two young women. They all smoked and talked, and I eat
and talked. The young women had quilts around them, and their hair down their
backs. They all asked me questions, and I told them how pap and me and all the
family was living on a little farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw, and my
sister Mary Ann run off and got married and never was heard of no more, and
Bill went to hunt them and he warn’t heard of no more, and Tom and Mort died,
and then there warn’t nobody but just me and pap left, and he was just trimmed
down to nothing, on account of his troubles; so when he died I took what there
was left, because the farm didn’t belong to us, and started up the river, deck
passage, and fell overboard; and that was how I come to be here. So they said I
could have a home there as long as I wanted it. Then it was most daylight and
everybody went to bed, and I went to bed with Buck, and when I waked up in the
morning, drat it all, I had forgot what my name was. So I laid there about an
hour trying to think, and when Buck waked up I says:

“Can you spell, Buck?”

“Yes,” he says.

“I bet you can’t spell my name,” says I.

“I bet you what you dare I can,” says he.

“All right,” says I, “go ahead.”

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

“Well,” says I, “you done it, but I didn’t think you could. It ain’t no slouch
of a name to spell—right off without studying.”

I set it down, private, because somebody might want me to spell it next,
and so I wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like I was used to it.

It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. I hadn’t seen no
house out in the country before that was so nice and had so much style. It
didn’t have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden one with a buckskin
string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses in town. There warn’t no
bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds
in them. There was a big fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the
bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with
another brick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that they
call Spanish-brown, same as they do in town. They had big brass dog-irons that
could hold up a saw-log. There was a clock on the middle of the mantelpiece,
with a picture of a town painted on the bottom half of the glass front, and a
round place in the middle of it for the sun, and you could see the pendulum
swinging behind it. It was beautiful to hear that clock tick; and sometimes
when one of these peddlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in
good shape, she would start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she got
tuckered out. They wouldn’t took any money for her.

Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock, made out of
something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. By one of the parrots was a cat
made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the other; and when you pressed down on
them they squeaked, but didn’t open their mouths nor look different nor
interested. They squeaked through underneath. There was a couple of big
wild-turkey-wing fans spread out behind those things. On the table in the
middle of the room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that had apples and
oranges and peaches and grapes piled up in it, which was much redder and
yellower and prettier than real ones is, but they warn’t real because you could
see where pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, or whatever it
was, underneath.

This table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red and blue
spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around. It come all the
way from Philadelphia, they said. There was some books, too, piled up perfectly
exact, on each corner of the table. One was a big family Bible full of
pictures. One was Pilgrim’s Progress, about a man that left his family, it
didn’t say why. I read considerable in it now and then. The statements was
interesting, but tough. Another was Friendship’s Offering, full of beautiful
stuff and poetry; but I didn’t read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay’s
Speeches, and another was Dr. Gunn’s Family Medicine, which told you all about
what to do if a body was sick or dead. There was a hymn book, and a lot of
other books. And there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound,
too—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 armpits, with bulges like a
cabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet
with a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and
very wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on a
tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping willow, and her other hand
hanging down her side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule, and
underneath the picture it said “Shall I Never See Thee More Alas.” Another one
was a young lady with her hair all combed up straight to the top of her head,
and knotted there in front of a comb like a chair-back, and she was crying into
a handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other hand with
its heels up, and underneath the picture it said “I Shall Never Hear Thy Sweet
Chirrup More Alas.” There was one where a young lady was at a window looking up
at the moon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she had an open letter in
one hand with black sealing wax showing on one edge of it, and she was mashing
a locket with a chain to it against her mouth, and underneath the picture it
said “And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone Alas.” These was all nice pictures, I
reckon, but I didn’t somehow seem to take to them, because if ever I was down a
little they always give me the fan-tods. Everybody was sorry she died, because
she had laid out a lot more of these pictures to do, and a body could see by
what she had done what they had lost. But I reckoned that with her disposition
she was having a better time in the graveyard. She was at work on what they
said was her greatest picture when she took sick, and every day and every night
it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it done, but she never got
the chance. It was a picture of a young woman in a long white gown, standing on
the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off, with her hair all down her back,
and looking up to the moon, with the tears running down her face, and she had
two arms folded across her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and two
more reaching up towards the moon—and the idea was to see which pair would look
best, and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was saying, she died
before she got her mind made up, and now they kept this picture over the head
of the bed in her room, and every time her birthday come they hung flowers on
it. Other times it was hid with a little curtain. The young woman in the
picture had a kind of a nice sweet face, but there was so many arms it made her
look too spidery, seemed to me.

This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to paste
obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it out of the
Presbyterian Observer, and write poetry after them out of her own head.
It was very good poetry. This is what she wrote about a boy by the name of
Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a well and was drownded:

ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC’D

And did young Stephen sicken,
And did young Stephen die?
And did the sad hearts thicken,
And did the mourners cry?

No; such was not the fate of
Young Stephen Dowling Bots;
Though sad hearts round him thickened,
’Twas not from sickness’ shots.

No whooping-cough did rack his frame,
Nor measles drear with spots;
Not these impaired the sacred name
Of Stephen Dowling Bots.

Despised love struck not with woe
That head of curly knots,
Nor stomach troubles laid him low,
Young Stephen Dowling Bots.

O no. Then list with tearful eye,
Whilst I his fate do tell.
His soul did from this cold world fly
By falling down a well.

They got him out and emptied him;
Alas it was too late;
His spirit was gone for to sport aloft
In the realms of the good and great.

If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she was fourteen,
there ain’t no telling what she could a done by-and-by. Buck said she could
rattle off poetry like nothing. She didn’t ever have to stop to think. He said
she would slap down a line, and if she couldn’t find anything to rhyme with it
would just scratch it out and slap down another one, and go ahead. She warn’t
particular; she could write about anything you choose to give her to write
about just so it was sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child
died, she would be on hand with her “tribute” before he was cold. She called
them tributes. The neighbors said it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then
the undertaker—the undertaker never got in ahead of Emmeline but once, and then
she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person’s name, which was Whistler. She
warn’t ever the same after that; she never complained, but she kinder pined
away and did not live long. Poor thing, many’s the time I made myself go up to
the little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and
read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and I had soured on her a
little. I liked all that family, dead ones and all, and warn’t going to let
anything come between us. Poor Emmeline made poetry about all the dead people
when she was alive, and it didn’t seem right that there warn’t nobody to make
some about her now she was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself,
but I couldn’t seem to make it go somehow. They kept Emmeline’s room trim and
nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked to have them when
she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. The old lady took care of the room
herself, though there was plenty of niggers, and she sewed there a good deal
and read her Bible there mostly.

Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains on the
windows: white, with pictures painted on them of castles with vines all down
the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. There was a little old piano, too,
that had tin pans in it, I reckon, and nothing was ever so lovely as to hear
the young ladies sing “The Last Link is Broken” and play “The Battle of Prague”
on it. The walls of all the rooms was plastered, and most had carpets on the
floors, and the whole house was whitewashed on the outside.

It was a double house, and the big open place 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 mudcat himself. Col. Grangerford
was very tall and very slim, and had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of
red in it anywheres; he was clean shaved every morning all over his thin face,
and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of nostrils, and a
high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep back
that they seemed like they was looking out of caverns at you, as you may say.
His forehead was high, and his hair was black and straight and hung to his
shoulders. His hands was long and thin, and every day of his life he put on a
clean shirt and a full suit from head to foot made out of linen so white it
hurt your eyes to look at it; and on Sundays he wore a blue tail-coat with
brass buttons on it. He carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it. There
warn’t no frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn’t ever loud. He was
as kind as he could be—you could feel that, you know, and so you had
confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see; but when he
straightened 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 cloudbank it was awful dark for half a
minute, and that was enough; there wouldn’t nothing go wrong again for a week.

When him and the old lady come down in the morning all the family got up out of
their chairs and give them good-day, and didn’t set down again till they had
set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard where the decanter was, and
mixed a glass of bitters and handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and
waited till Tom’s and Bob’s was mixed, and then they bowed and said, “Our duty
to you, sir, and madam;” and 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 daytimes, and balls at the house
nights. These people was mostly kinfolks of the family. The men brought their
guns with them. It was a handsome lot of quality, I tell you.

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 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 color come
back when she found the man warn’t hurt.

Soon as I could get Buck down by the corn-cribs under the trees by ourselves, I
says:

“Did you want to kill him, Buck?”

“Well, I bet I did.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Him? He never done nothing to me.”

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

“Why, nothing—only it’s on account of the feud.”

“What’s a feud?”

“Why, where was you raised? Don’t you know what a feud is?”

“Never heard of it before—tell me about it.”

“Well,” says Buck, “a feud is this way. A man has a quarrel with another man,
and kills him; then that other man’s brother kills him; then the other
brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then the cousins chip
in—and by-and-by everybody’s killed off, and there ain’t no more feud. But it’s
kind of slow, and takes a long time.”

“Has this one been going on long, Buck?”

“Well, I should reckon! It started thirty year ago, or som’ers along
there. There was trouble ’bout something, and then a lawsuit to settle it; and
the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot the man that won the
suit—which he would naturally do, of course. Anybody would.”

“What was the trouble about, Buck?—land?”

“I reckon maybe—I don’t know.”

“Well, who done the shooting? Was it a 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 people; but they don’t
know now what the row was about in the first place.”

“Has there been many killed, Buck?”

“Yes; right smart chance of funerals. But they don’t always kill. Pa’s got a
few buckshot in him; but he don’t mind it ’cuz he don’t weigh much, 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 out-run him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or
more, the old man a-gaining all the time; so at last Bud seen it warn’t any
use, so he stopped and faced around so as to have the bullet holes in front,
you know, and the old man he rode up and shot him down. But he didn’t git much
chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid him out.”

“I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck.”

“I reckon he warn’t a coward. Not by a blame’ sight. There ain’t a
coward amongst them Shepherdsons—not a one. And there ain’t no cowards amongst
the Grangerfords either. Why, that old man kep’ up his end in a fight one day
for half an hour against three Grangerfords, and come out winner. They was all
a-horseback; he lit off of his horse and got behind a little woodpile, and kep’
his horse before him to stop the bullets; but the Grangerfords stayed on their
horses and capered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and he
peppered away at them. Him and his horse both went home pretty leaky and
crippled, but the Grangerfords had to be 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 tiresomeness;
but everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going
home, and had such a powerful lot to say about faith and good works and free
grace and preforeordestination, and I don’t know what all, that it did seem to
me to be one of the roughest Sundays I had run across yet.

About an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in their chairs
and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull. Buck and a dog was
stretched out on the grass in the sun sound asleep. I went up to our room, and
judged I would take a nap myself. I found that sweet Miss Sophia standing in
her door, which was next to ours, and she took me in her room and shut the door
very soft, and asked me if I liked her, and I said I did; and she asked me if I
would do something for her and not tell anybody, and I said I would. Then she
said she’d forgot her Testament, and left it in the seat at church between two
other books, and would I slip out quiet and go there and fetch it to her, and
not say nothing to nobody. I said I would. So I slid out and slipped off up the
road, and there warn’t anybody at the church, except maybe a hog or two, for
there warn’t any lock on the door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor in
summer-time because it’s cool. If you notice, most folks don’t go to church
only when they’ve got to; but a hog is different.

Says I to myself, something’s up; it ain’t natural for a girl to be in such a
sweat about a Testament. So I give it a shake, and out drops a little piece of
paper with “Half-past two” wrote on it with a pencil. I ransacked it,
but couldn’t find anything else. I couldn’t make anything out of that, so I put
the paper in the book again, and when I got home and upstairs there was Miss
Sophia in her door waiting for me. She pulled me in and shut the door; then she
looked in the Testament till she found the paper, and as soon as she read it
she looked glad; and before a body could think she grabbed me and give me a
squeeze, and said I was the best boy in the world, and not to tell anybody. She
was mighty red in the face for a minute, and her eyes lighted up, and it made
her powerful pretty. I was a good deal astonished, but when I got my breath I
asked her what the paper was about, and she asked me if I had read it, and I
said no, and she asked me if I could read writing, and I told her “no, only
coarse-hand,” and then she said the paper warn’t anything but a book-mark to
keep her place, and I might go and play now.

I went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty soon I
noticed that my nigger was following along behind. When we was out of sight of
the house he looked back and around a second, and then comes a-running, and
says:

“Mars Jawge, if you’ll come down into de swamp I’ll show you a whole stack o’
water-moccasins.”

Thinks I, that’s mighty curious; he said that 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 jist a few steps, Mars Jawge; dah’s whah dey is. I’s
seed ’m befo’; I don’t k’yer to see ’em no mo’.”

Then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees hid him. I
poked into the place a-ways and come to a little open patch as big as a bedroom
all hung around with vines, and found a man laying there asleep—and, by jings,
it was my old Jim!

I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise to him to
see me again, but it warn’t. He nearly cried he was so glad, but he warn’t
surprised. Said he swum along behind me that night, and heard me yell every
time, but dasn’t answer, because he didn’t want nobody to pick him up
and take him into slavery again. Says he:

“I got hurt a little, en couldn’t swim fas’, so I wuz a considable ways behine
you towards de las’; when you landed I reck’ned I could ketch up wid you on de
lan’ ’dout havin’ to shout at you, but when I see dat house I begin to go slow.
I ’uz off too fur to hear what dey say to you—I wuz ’fraid o’ de dogs; but when
it ’uz all quiet agin, I knowed you’s in de house, so I struck out for de woods
to wait for day. Early in de mawnin’ some er de niggers come along, gwyne to de
fields, en dey tuk me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can’t track me on
accounts o’ de water, en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me
how you’s a-gitt’n along.”

“Why didn’t you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim?”

“Well, ’twarn’t no use to ’sturb you, Huck, tell we could do sumfn—but we’s all
right now. I ben a-buyin’ pots en pans en vittles, as I got a chanst, en
a-patchin’ up de raf’ nights when—”

“What raft, Jim?”

“Our ole raf’.”

“You mean to say our old raft warn’t smashed all to flinders?”

“No, she warn’t. She was tore up a good deal—one en’ of her was; but dey warn’t
no great harm done, on’y our traps was mos’ all los’. Ef we hadn’ dive’ so deep
en swum so fur under water, en de night hadn’ ben so dark, en we warn’t so
sk’yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads, as de sayin’ is, we’d a seed de raf’. But
it’s jis’ as well we didn’t, ’kase now she’s all fixed up agin mos’ as good as
new, en we’s got a new lot o’ stuff, in de place o’ what ’uz los’.”

“Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim—did you catch her?”

“How I gwyne to ketch her en I out in de woods? No; some er de niggers foun’
her ketched on a snag along heah in de ben’, en dey hid her in a crick ’mongst
de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin’ ’bout which un ’um she b’long to de mos’
dat I come to heah ’bout it pooty soon, so I ups en settles de trouble by
tellin’ ’um she don’t b’long to none uv um, but to you en me; en I ast ’m if
dey gwyne to grab a young white genlman’s propaty, en git a hid’n for it? Den I
gin ’m ten cents apiece, en dey ’uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo’
raf’s ’ud come along en make ’m rich agin. Dey’s mighty good to me, dese
niggers is, en whatever I wants ’m to do fur me, I doan’ have to ast ’m twice,
honey. Dat Jack’s a good nigger, en pooty smart.”

“Yes, he is. He ain’t ever told me you was here; told me to come, and he’d show
me a lot of water-moccasins. If anything happens he ain’t mixed up in
it. He can say he never seen us together, and it’ll be the truth.”

I don’t want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I’ll cut it pretty
short. I waked up about dawn, and was a-going to turn over and go to sleep
again, when I noticed how still it was—didn’t seem to be anybody stirring. That
warn’t usual. Next I noticed that Buck was up and gone. Well, I gets up,
a-wondering, and goes down stairs—nobody around; everything as still as a
mouse. Just the same outside. Thinks I, what does it mean? Down by the
wood-pile I comes across my Jack, and says:

“What’s it all about?”

Says he:

“Don’t you know, Mars Jawge?”

“No,” says I, “I don’t.”

“Well, den, Miss Sophia’s run off! ’deed she has. She run off in de night some
time—nobody don’t know jis’ when; run off to get married to dat young Harney
Shepherdson, you know—leastways, so dey ’spec. De fambly foun’ it out ’bout
half an hour ago—maybe a little mo’—en’ I tell you dey warn’t no time
los’. Sich another hurryin’ up guns en hosses you never see! De women
folks has gone for to stir up de relations, en ole Mars Saul en de boys tuck
dey guns en rode up de river road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him
’fo’ he kin git acrost de river wid Miss Sophia. I reck’n dey’s gwyne to be
mighty rough times.”

“Buck went off ’thout waking me up.”

“Well, I reck’n he did! Dey warn’t gwyne to mix you up in it. Mars Buck
he loaded up his gun en ’lowed he’s gwyne to fetch home a Shepherdson or bust.
Well, dey’ll be plenty un ’m dah, I reck’n, en you bet you he’ll fetch one ef
he gits a chanst.”

I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By-and-by I begin to hear guns
a good ways off. When I come in sight of the log store and the woodpile where
the steamboats lands, I worked along under the trees and brush till I got to a
good place, and then I clumb up into the forks of a cottonwood that was out of
reach, and watched. There was a wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front
of the tree, and first I was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was
luckier I didn’t.

There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the open place
before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to get at a couple of
young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside of the steamboat landing;
but they couldn’t come it. Every time one of them showed himself on the river
side of the woodpile he got shot at. The two boys was squatting back to back
behind the pile, so they could watch both ways.

By-and-by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They started riding
towards the store; then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady bead over the
wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle. All the men jumped off of
their horses and grabbed the hurt one and started to carry him to the store;
and that minute the two boys started on the run. They got half way to the tree
I was in before the men noticed. Then the men see them, and jumped on their
horses and took out after them. They gained on the boys, but it didn’t do no
good, the boys had too good a start; they got to the woodpile that was in front
of my tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they had the bulge on the men
again. One of the boys was Buck, and the other was a slim young chap about
nineteen years old.

The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. As soon as they was out of
sight I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn’t know what to make of my voice
coming out of the tree at first. He was awful surprised. He told me to watch
out sharp and let him know when the men come in sight again; said they was up
to some devilment or other—wouldn’t be gone long. I wished I was out of that
tree, but I dasn’t come down. Buck begun to cry and rip, and ’lowed that him
and his cousin Joe (that was the other young chap) would make up for this day
yet. He said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or three of
the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons laid for them in ambush. Buck said his father
and brothers ought to waited for their relations—the Shepherdsons was too
strong for them. I asked him what was 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 a-going to tell
all that happened—it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I
wished I hadn’t ever come ashore that night to see such things. I ain’t ever
going to get shut of them—lots of times I dream about them.

I stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down. Sometimes
I heard guns away off in the woods; and twice I seen little gangs of men gallop
past the log store with guns; so I reckoned the trouble was still a-going on. I
was mighty downhearted; so I made up my mind I wouldn’t ever go anear that
house again, because I reckoned I was to blame, somehow. I judged that that
piece of paper meant that Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at
half-past two and run off; and I judged I ought to told her father about that
paper and the curious way she acted, and then maybe he would a locked her up,
and this awful mess wouldn’t ever happened.

When I got down out of the tree, I crept along down the river bank a piece, and
found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water, and tugged at them till I
got them ashore; then I covered up their faces, and got away as quick as I
could. I cried a little when I was covering up Buck’s face, for he was mighty
good to me.

It was just dark now. I never went near the house, but struck through the woods
and made for the swamp. Jim warn’t on his island, so I tramped off in a hurry
for the crick, and crowded through the willows, red-hot to jump aboard and get
out of that awful country. The raft was gone! My souls, but I was scared! I
couldn’t get my breath for most a minute. Then I raised a yell. A voice not
twenty-five foot from me says:

“Good lan’! is dat you, honey? Doan’ make no noise.”

It was Jim’s voice—nothing ever sounded so good before. I run along the bank a
piece and got aboard, and Jim he grabbed me and hugged me, he was so glad to
see me. He says:

“Laws bless you, chile, I ’uz right down sho’ you’s dead agin. Jack’s been
heah; he say he reck’n you’s ben shot, kase you didn’ come home no mo’; so I’s
jes’ dis minute a startin’ de raf’ down towards de mouf er de crick, so’s to be
all ready for to shove out en leave soon as Jack comes agin en tells me for
certain you is dead. Lawsy, I’s mighty glad to git you back agin,
honey.”

I says:

“All right—that’s mighty good; they won’t find me, and they’ll think I’ve been
killed, and floated down the river—there’s something up there that’ll help
them think so—so don’t you lose no time, Jim, but just shove off for the big
water as fast as ever you can.”

I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out in the middle
of the Mississippi. Then we hung up our signal lantern, and judged that we was
free and safe once more. I hadn’t had a bite to eat since yesterday, so Jim he
got out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage and greens—there
ain’t nothing in the world so good when it’s cooked right—and whilst I eat my
supper we talked, and had a good time. I was powerful glad to get away from the
feuds, and so was Jim to get away from the swamp. We said there warn’t no home
like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a
raft don’t. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.

CHAPTER XIX.

Two or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they swum by, they
slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. Here is the way we put in the time.
It was a monstrous big river down there—sometimes a mile and a half wide; we
run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon as night was most gone we
stopped navigating and tied up—nearly always in the dead water under a tow-head;
and then cut young cottonwoods and willows, and hid the raft with them. Then we
set out the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen
up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about
knee deep, and watched the daylight come. Not a sound anywheres—perfectly
still—just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs
a-cluttering, maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a
kind of dull line—that was the woods on t’other side; you couldn’t make nothing
else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness spreading around;
then the river softened up away off, and warn’t black any more, but gray; you
could see little dark spots drifting along ever so far away—trading scows, and
such things; and long black streaks—rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep
screaking; or jumbled up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and
by-and-by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the
streak that there’s a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and
makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water,
and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log-cabin in the
edge of the woods, away on the bank on t’other side of the river, being a
woodyard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it
anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over
there, so cool and fresh and sweet to smell on account of the woods and the
flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they’ve left dead fish laying
around, gars and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you’ve got the
full day, and 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 a stern-wheel or
side-wheel; then for about an hour there wouldn’t be nothing to hear nor
nothing to see—just solid lonesomeness. Next you’d see a raft sliding by, away
off yonder, and maybe a galoot on it chopping, because they’re most always
doing it on a raft; you’d see the axe flash and come down—you don’t hear
nothing; you see that axe go up again, and by the time it’s above the man’s
head then you hear the k’chunk!—it had took all that time to come over
the water. So we would put in the day, lazying around, listening to the
stillness. Once there was a thick fog, and the rafts and things that went by
was beating tin pans so the steamboats wouldn’t run over them. A scow or a raft
went by so close we could hear them talking and cussing and laughing—heard them
plain; but we couldn’t see no sign of them; it made you feel crawly; it was
like spirits carrying on that way in the air. Jim said he believed it was
spirits; but I says:

“No; spirits wouldn’t say, ‘Dern the dern fog.’”

Soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about the middle we
let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wanted her to; then we
lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, and talked about all kinds of
things—we was always naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes would let
us—the new clothes Buck’s folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and
besides I didn’t go much on clothes, nohow.

Sometimes we’d have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time.
Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and maybe a spark—which
was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on the water you could see a
spark or two—on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle
or a song coming over from one of them crafts. It’s lovely to live on a raft.
We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our
backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just
happened. Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged
it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could a
laid them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn’t say nothing
against it, because I’ve seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be
done. We used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim
allowed they’d got spoiled and was hove out of the nest.

Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark,
and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her
chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look awful pretty; then
she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her powwow shut off
and leave the river still again; and by-and-by her waves would get to us, a
long time after she was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you
wouldn’t hear nothing for you couldn’t tell how long, except maybe frogs or
something.

After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two or three hours
the shores was black—no more sparks in the cabin windows. These sparks was our
clock—the first one that showed again meant morning was coming, so we hunted a
place to hide and tie up right away.

One morning about daybreak I found a canoe and crossed over a chute to the main
shore—it was only two hundred yards—and paddled about a mile up a crick amongst
the cypress woods, to see if I couldn’t get some berries. Just as I was passing
a place where a kind of a cowpath crossed the crick, here comes a couple of men
tearing up the path as tight as they could foot it. I thought I was a goner,
for whenever anybody was after anybody I judged it was me—or maybe Jim.
I was about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they was pretty close to me
then, and sung out and begged me to save their lives—said they hadn’t been
doing nothing, and was being chased for it—said there was men and dogs
a-coming. They wanted to jump right in, but I says:

“Don’t you do it. I don’t hear the dogs and horses yet; you’ve got time to
crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little ways; then you take to
the water and wade down to me and get in—that’ll throw the dogs off the scent.”

They done it, and soon as they was aboard I lit out for our 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 cottonwoods and was safe.

One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald head and very
gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch hat on, and a greasy blue
woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed into his boot-tops,
and home-knit galluses—no, he only had one. He had an old long-tailed blue
jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung over his arm, and both of them had
big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags.

The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. After breakfast
we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come out was that these
chaps didn’t know one another.

“What got you into trouble?” says the baldhead to t’other chap.

“Well, I’d been selling an article to take the tartar off the teeth—and it does
take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with it—but I stayed about one
night longer than I ought to, and was just in the act of sliding out when I ran
across you on the trail this side of town, and you told me they were coming,
and begged me to help you to get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble
myself, and would scatter out with you. That’s the whole yarn—what’s
yourn?

“Well, I’d ben a-runnin’ a little temperance revival thar, ’bout a week, and
was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for I was makin’ it mighty warm
for the rummies, I tell you, and takin’ as much as five or six dollars a
night—ten cents a head, children and niggers free—and business a-growin’ all
the time, when somehow or another a little report got around last night that I
had a way of puttin’ in my time with a private jug on the sly. A nigger rousted
me out this mornin’, and told me the people was getherin’ on the quiet with
their dogs and horses, and they’d be along pretty soon and give me ’bout half
an hour’s start, and then run me down if they could; and if they got me they’d
tar and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. I didn’t wait for no
breakfast—I warn’t hungry.”

“Old man,” said the young one, “I reckon we might double-team it together; what
do you think?”

“I ain’t undisposed. What’s your line—mainly?”

“Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-actor—tragedy,
you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when there’s a chance; teach
singing-geography school for a change; sling a lecture sometimes—oh, I do lots
of things—most anything that comes handy, so it ain’t work. What’s your lay?”

“I’ve done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin’ on o’ hands is
my best holt—for cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and I k’n tell a
fortune pretty good when I’ve got somebody along to find out the facts for me.
Preachin’s my line, too, and workin’ camp-meetin’s, and missionaryin’ around.”

Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh and
says:

“Alas!”

“What ’re you alassin’ about?” says the 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 it’s always done, and take everything from me—loved
ones, property, everything; but it can’t take that. Some day I’ll lie down in
it and 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 Bridgewater, fled to this
country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of freedom;
married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same
time. The second son of the late duke seized the titles and estates—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 ben snaked down wrongfully
out’n a high place.”

“Alas!”

“No, you ain’t the only person that’s had a secret of his birth.” And, by
jings, he begins to cry.

“Hold! What do you mean?”

“Bilgewater, kin I trust you?” says the old man, still sort of sobbing.

“To the bitter death!” He took the old man by the hand and squeezed it, and
says, “That secret of your being: speak!”

“Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!”

You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then the duke says:

“You are what?”

“Yes, my friend, it is too true—your eyes is lookin’ 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 stayed huffy a good
while, till by-and-by the king says:

“Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this h-yer raft,
Bilgewater, and so what’s the use o’ your bein’ sour? It’ll only make things
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 le’s all
be friends.”

The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It took away all
the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it, because it would a been
a miserable business to have any unfriendliness on the raft; for what you want,
above all things, on a raft, is for everybody to be satisfied, and feel right
and kind towards the others.

It didn’t take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn’t no kings nor
dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. But I never said nothing,
never let on; kept it to myself; it’s the best way; then you don’t have no
quarrels, and don’t get into no trouble. If they wanted us to call them kings
and dukes, I hadn’t no objections, ’long as it would keep peace in the family;
and it warn’t no use to tell Jim, so I didn’t tell him. If I never learnt
nothing else out of pap, I learnt that the best way to get along with his kind
of people is to let them have their own way.

CHAPTER XX.

They asked us considerable many questions; wanted to know what we covered up
the raft that way for, and laid by in the daytime instead of running—was Jim a
runaway nigger? Says I:

“Goodness sakes, would a runaway nigger run south?”

No, they allowed he wouldn’t. I had to account for things some way, so I says:

“My folks was living in Pike County, in Missouri, where I was born, and they
all died off but me and pa and my brother Ike. Pa, he ’lowed he’d break up and
go down and live with Uncle Ben, who’s got a little one-horse place on the
river, forty-four mile below Orleans. Pa was pretty poor, and had some debts;
so when he’d squared up there warn’t nothing left but sixteen dollars and our
nigger, Jim. That warn’t enough to take us fourteen hundred mile, deck passage
nor no other way. Well, when the river rose pa had a streak of luck one day; he
ketched this piece of a raft; so we reckoned we’d go down to Orleans on it.
Pa’s luck didn’t hold out; a steamboat run over the forrard corner of the raft
one night, and we all went overboard and dove under the wheel; Jim and me come
up all right, but pa was drunk, and Ike was only four years old, so they never
come up no more. Well, for the next day or two we had considerable trouble,
because people was always coming out in skiffs and trying to take Jim away from
me, saying they believed he was a runaway nigger. We don’t run daytimes no more
now; nights they don’t bother us.”

The duke says:

“Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the daytime if we want to.
I’ll think the thing over—I’ll invent a plan that’ll fix it. We’ll let it alone
for to-day, because of course we don’t want to go by that town yonder in
daylight—it mightn’t be healthy.”

Towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the heat lightning was
squirting around low down in the sky, and the leaves was beginning to shiver—it
was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy to see that. So the duke and the king
went to overhauling our wigwam, to see what the beds was like. My bed was a
straw 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-whack!—bum! bum!
bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum—and the thunder would go rumbling and grumbling
away, and quit—and then rip comes 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 Shakespearian tragedian, Garrick the Younger, of
Drury Lane, London.” In other bills he had a lot of other names and done other
wonderful things, like finding water and gold with a “divining-rod,”
“dissipating witch spells,” and so on. By-and-by he says:

“But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you ever trod the boards,
Royalty?”

“No,” says the king.

“You shall, then, before you’re three days older, Fallen Grandeur,” says the
duke. “The first good town we come to we’ll hire a hall and do the sword fight
in Richard III. and the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet. How does that strike
you?”

“I’m in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, Bilgewater; but, you see, I
don’t know nothing about play-actin’, and hain’t ever seen much of it. I was
too small when pap used to have ’em at the palace. Do you reckon you can learn
me?”

“Easy!”

“All right. I’m jist a-freezn’ for something fresh, anyway. Le’s commence right
away.”

So the duke he told him all about who Romeo was and who Juliet was, and said he
was used to being Romeo, so the king could be Juliet.

“But if Juliet’s such a young gal, duke, my peeled head and my white whiskers
is goin’ to look oncommon odd on her, maybe.”

“No, don’t you worry; these country jakes won’t ever think of that. Besides,
you know, you’ll be in costume, and that makes all the difference in the world;
Juliet’s in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight before she goes to bed, and she’s
got on her night-gown and her ruffled nightcap. Here are the costumes for the
parts.”

He got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which he said was meedyevil armor
for Richard III. and t’other chap, and a long white cotton nightshirt and a
ruffled nightcap to match. The king was satisfied; so the duke got out his book
and read the parts over in the most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around
and acting at the same time, to show how it had got to be done; then he give
the book to the king and told him to get his part by heart.

There was a little one-horse town about three mile down the bend, and after
dinner the duke said he had ciphered out his idea about how to run in daylight
without it being dangersome for Jim; so he allowed he would go down to the town
and fix that thing. The king allowed he would go, too, and see if he couldn’t
strike something. We was out of coffee, so Jim said I better go along with them
in the canoe and get some.

When we got there there warn’t nobody stirring; streets empty, and perfectly
dead and still, like 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 watermelons and green corn and such-like truck.

The preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only they was bigger
and held crowds of people. The benches was made out of outside slabs of logs,
with holes bored in the round side to drive sticks into for legs. They didn’t
have no backs. The preachers had high platforms to stand on at one end of the
sheds. The women had on sun-bonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some
gingham ones, and a few of the young ones had on calico. Some of the young men
was barefooted, and some of the children didn’t have on any clothes but just a
tow-linen shirt. Some of the old women was knitting, and some of the young
folks was courting on the sly.

The first shed we come to the preacher was lining out a hymn. He lined out two
lines, everybody sung it, and it was kind of grand to hear it, there was so
many of them and they done it in such a rousing way; then he lined out two more
for them to sing—and so on. The people woke up more and more, and sung louder
and louder; and towards the end some begun to groan, and some begun to shout.
Then the preacher begun to preach, and begun in earnest, too; and went weaving
first to one side of the platform and then the other, and then a-leaning down
over the front of it, with his arms and his body going all the time, and
shouting his words out with all his might; and every now and then he would hold
up his Bible and spread it open, and kind of pass it around this way and that,
shouting, “It’s the brazen serpent in the wilderness! Look upon it and live!”
And people would shout out, “Glory!—A-a-men!” And so he went on, and the
people groaning and crying and saying amen:

“Oh, come to the mourners’ bench! come, black with sin! (amen!) come,
sick and sore! (amen!) come, lame and halt and blind! (amen!)
come, pore and needy, sunk in shame! (a-a-men!) come, all that’s worn
and soiled and suffering!—come with a broken spirit! come with a contrite
heart! come in your rags and sin and dirt! the waters that cleanse is free, the
door of heaven stands open—oh, enter in and be at rest!” (a-a-men! glory,
glory hallelujah!)

And so on. You couldn’t make out what the preacher said any more, on account of
the shouting and crying. Folks got up everywheres in the crowd, and worked
their way just by main strength to the mourners’ bench, with the tears running
down their faces; and when all the mourners had got up there to the front
benches in a crowd, they sung and shouted and flung themselves down on the
straw, just crazy and wild.

Well, the first I knowed the king got a-going, and you could hear him over
everybody; and next he went a-charging up on to the platform, and the preacher
he begged him to speak to the people, and he done it. He told them he was a
pirate—been a pirate for thirty years out in the Indian Ocean—and his crew was
thinned out considerable last spring in a fight, and he was home now to take
out some fresh men, and thanks to goodness he’d been robbed last night and put
ashore off of a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad of it; it was the
blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he was a changed man now,
and happy for the first time in his life; and, poor as he was, he was going to
start right off and work his way back to the Indian Ocean, and put in the rest
of his life trying to turn the pirates into the true path; for he could do it
better than anybody else, being acquainted with all pirate crews in that ocean;
and though it would take him a long time to get there without money, he would
get there anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he would say to him,
“Don’t you thank me, don’t you give me no credit; it all belongs to them dear
people in Pokeville camp-meeting, natural brothers and benefactors of the race,
and that dear preacher there, the truest friend a pirate ever had!”

And then he busted into tears, and so did everybody. Then somebody sings out,
“Take up a collection for him, take up a collection!” Well, a half a dozen made
a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, “Let him pass the hat around!”
Then everybody said it, the preacher too.

So the king went all through the crowd with his hat swabbing his eyes, and
blessing the people and praising them and thanking them for being so good to
the poor pirates away off there; and every little while the prettiest kind of
girls, with the tears running down their cheeks, would up and ask him would he
let them kiss him for to remember him by; and he always done it; and some of
them he hugged and kissed as many as five or six times—and he was invited to
stay a week; and everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and said they’d
think it was an honor; but he said as this was the last day of the camp-meeting
he couldn’t do no good, and besides he was in a sweat to get to the Indian
Ocean right off and go to work on the pirates.

When we got back to the raft and he come to count up he found he had collected
eighty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents. And then he had fetched away a
three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he found under a wagon when he was
starting home through the woods. The king said, take it all around, it laid
over any day he’d ever put in in the missionarying line. He said it warn’t no
use talking, heathens don’t amount to shucks alongside of pirates to work a
camp-meeting with.

The duke was thinking he’d been doing pretty well till the king come to
show up, but after that he didn’t think so so much. He had set up and printed
off two little jobs for farmers in that printing-office—horse bills—and took
the money, four dollars. And he had got in ten dollars’ worth of advertisements
for the paper, which he said he would put in for four dollars if they would pay
in advance—so they done it. The price of the paper was two dollars a year, but
he took in three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on condition of them
paying him in advance; they were going to pay in cordwood and onions as usual,
but he said he had just bought the concern and knocked down the price as low as
he could afford it, and was going to run it for cash. He set up a little piece
of poetry, which he made, himself, out of his own head—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 daytime if we want to.
Whenever we see anybody coming we can tie Jim hand and foot with a rope, and
lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and say we captured him up the
river, and were too poor to travel on a steamboat, so we got this little raft
on credit from our friends and are going down to get the reward. Handcuffs and
chains would look still better on Jim, but it wouldn’t go well with the story
of us being so poor. Too much like jewelry. Ropes are the correct thing—we must
preserve the unities, as we say on the boards.”

We all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn’t be no trouble about
running daytimes. We judged we could make miles enough that night to get out of
the reach of the powwow we reckoned the duke’s work in the printing office was
going to make in that little town; then we could boom right along if we wanted
to.

We laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten o’clock; then
we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn’t hoist our lantern till
we was clear out of sight of it.

When Jim called me to take the watch at four in the morning, he says:

“Huck, does you reck’n we gwyne to run acrost any mo’ kings on dis trip?”

“No,” I says, “I reckon not.”

“Well,” says he, “dat’s all right, den. I doan’ mine one er two kings, but
dat’s enough. Dis one’s powerful drunk, en de duke ain’ much better.”

I found Jim had been trying to get him to talk French, so he could hear what it
was like; but he said he had been in this country so long, and had so much
trouble, he’d forgot it.

CHAPTER XXI.

It was after sun-up now, but we went right on and didn’t tie up. The king and
the duke turned out by-and-by looking pretty rusty; but after they’d jumped
overboard and took a swim it chippered them up a good deal. After breakfast the
king he took a seat on the corner of the raft, and pulled off his boots and
rolled up his britches, and let his legs dangle in the water, so as to be
comfortable, and lit his pipe, and went to getting his Romeo and Juliet by
heart. When he had got it pretty good, him and the duke begun to practice it
together. The duke had to learn him over and over again how to say every
speech; and he made him sigh, and put his hand on his heart, and after a while
he said he done it pretty well; “only,” he says, “you mustn’t bellow out
Romeo! that way, like a bull—you must say it soft and sick and
languishy, so—R-o-o-meo! that is the idea; for Juliet’s a dear sweet mere child
of a girl, you know, and she doesn’t bray like a jackass.”

Well, next they got out a couple of long swords that the duke made out of oak
laths, and begun to practice the sword fight—the duke called himself Richard
III.; and the way they laid on and pranced around the raft was grand to see.
But by-and-by the king tripped and fell overboard, and after that they took a
rest, and had a talk about all kinds of adventures they’d had in other times
along the river.

After dinner the duke says:

“Well, Capet, we’ll want to make this a first-class show, you know, so I guess
we’ll add a little more to it. We want a little something to answer encores
with, anyway.”

“What’s onkores, Bilgewater?”

The duke told him, and then says:

“I’ll answer by doing the Highland fling or the sailor’s hornpipe; and
you—well, let me see—oh, I’ve got it—you can do Hamlet’s soliloquy.”

“Hamlet’s which?”

“Hamlet’s soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated thing in Shakespeare. Ah,
it’s sublime, sublime! 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 traveler returns,
Breathes forth contagion on the world,
And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i’ the adage,
Is sicklied o’er with care.
And all the clouds that lowered o’er our housetops,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
But soft you, the fair Ophelia:
Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws.
But get thee to a nunnery—go!

Well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so he could
do it first rate. It seemed like he was just born for it; and when he had his
hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the way he would rip and tear
and rair up behind when he was getting it off.

The first chance we got, the duke he had some show bills printed; and after
that, for two or three days as we floated along, the raft was a most uncommon
lively place, for there warn’t nothing but sword-fighting and rehearsing—as the
duke called it—going on all the time. One morning, when we was pretty well down
the State of Arkansaw, we come in sight of a little one-horse town in a big
bend; so we tied up about three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth of a
crick which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of us but
Jim took the canoe and went down there to see if there was any chance in that
place for our show.

We struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a circus there that afternoon,
and the country people was already beginning to come in, in all kinds of old
shackly wagons, and on horses. The circus would leave before night, so our show
would have a pretty good chance. The duke he hired the 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,
Whitechapel, Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the
Royal Continental Theatres, in their sublime
Shaksperean Spectacle entitled
The Balcony Scene
in
Romeo and Juliet!!!

Romeo……………………………….. Mr. Garrick.
Juliet………………………………. Mr. Kean.

Assisted by the whole strength of the company!
New costumes, new 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 whitewashed, 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 drygoods boxes under the awnings, and loafers roosting on them all day
long, whittling them with their Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping
and yawning and stretching—a mighty ornery lot. They generly had on yellow
straw hats most as wide as an umbrella, but didn’t wear no coats nor
waistcoats, they called one another Bill, and Buck, and Hank, and Joe, and
Andy, and talked lazy and drawly, and used considerable many cuss words. There
was as many as one loafer leaning up against every awning-post, and he most
always had his hands in his britches-pockets, except when he fetched them out
to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch. What a body was hearing amongst them all
the time was:

“Gimme a chaw ’v tobacker, Hank.”

“Cain’t; I hain’t got but one chaw left. Ask Bill.”

Maybe Bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain’t got none. Some
of them kinds of loafers never has a cent in the world, nor a chaw of tobacco
of their own. They get all their chawing by borrowing; they say to a fellow, “I
wisht you’d len’ me a chaw, Jack, I jist this minute give Ben Thompson the last
chaw I had”—which is a lie pretty much everytime; it don’t fool nobody but a
stranger; but Jack ain’t no stranger, so he says:

“You give him a chaw, did you? So did your sister’s cat’s grandmother.
You pay me back the chaws you’ve awready borry’d off’n me, Lafe Buckner, then
I’ll loan you one or two ton of it, and won’t charge you no back intrust,
nuther.”

“Well, I did pay you back some of it wunst.”

“Yes, you did—’bout six chaws. You borry’d store tobacker and paid back
nigger-head.”

Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the natural
leaf twisted. When they borrow a chaw they don’t generly cut it off with a
knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw with their teeth and
tug at the plug with their hands till they get it in two; then sometimes the
one that owns the tobacco looks mournful at it when it’s handed back, and says,
sarcastic:

“Here, gimme the chaw, and you take the plug.”

All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn’t nothing else but
mud—mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some places, and two or
three inches deep in all the places. The hogs loafed and grunted around
everywheres. You’d see a muddy sow and a litter of pigs come lazying along the
street and whollop herself right down in the way, where folks had to walk
around her, and she’d stretch out and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst
the pigs was milking her, and look as happy as if she was on salary. And pretty
soon you’d hear a loafer sing out, “Hi! so boy! sick him, Tige!” and
away the sow would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog or two swinging to
each ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and then you would see all the
loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh at the fun and look
grateful for the noise. Then they’d settle back again till there was a dog
fight. There couldn’t anything wake them up all over, and make them happy all
over, like a dog fight—unless it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and
setting fire to him, or tying a tin pan to his tail and see him run himself to
death.

On the river front some of the houses was sticking out over the bank, and they
was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in. The people had moved out of
them. The bank was caved away under one corner of some others, and that corner
was hanging over. People lived in them yet, but it was dangersome, 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 whisky 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 ben a-gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty year he’d have considerable
ruputation now.”

Another one says, “I wisht old Boggs ’d threaten me, ’cuz then I’d know I
warn’t gwyne to die for a thousan’ year.”

Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling like an Injun,
and singing out:

“Cler the track, thar. I’m on the waw-path, and the price uv coffins is a-gwyne
to raise.”

He was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over fifty year old, and
had a very red face. Everybody yelled at him and laughed at him and sassed him,
and he sassed back, and said he’d attend to them and lay them out in their
regular turns, but he couldn’t wait now because he’d come to town to kill old
Colonel Sherburn, and his motto was, “Meat first, and spoon vittles to top off
on.”

He see me, and rode up and says:

“Whar’d you come f’m, boy? You prepared to die?”

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

“He don’t mean nothing; he’s always a-carryin’ on like that when he’s drunk.
He’s the best 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, bare-headed, with a friend on both
sides of him a-holt of his arms and hurrying him along. He was quiet, and
looked uneasy; and he warn’t hanging back any, but was doing some of the
hurrying himself. Somebody sings out:

“Boggs!”

I looked over there to see who said it, and it was that Colonel Sherburn. He
was standing perfectly still in the street, and had a pistol raised in his
right hand—not aiming it, but holding it out with the barrel tilted up towards
the sky. The same second I see a young girl coming on the run, and two men with
her. Boggs and the men turned round to see who called him, and when they see
the pistol the men jumped to one side, and the pistol-barrel come down slow and
steady to a level—both barrels cocked. Boggs throws up both of his hands and
says, “O Lord, don’t shoot!” Bang! goes the first shot, and he staggers back,
clawing at the air—bang! goes the second one, and he tumbles backwards 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; ’tain’t right and ’tain’t fair
for you to stay thar all the time, and never give nobody a chance; other folks
has their rights as well as you.”

There was considerable jawing back, so I slid out, thinking maybe there was
going to be trouble. The streets was full, and everybody was excited. Everybody
that seen the shooting was telling how it happened, and there was a big crowd
packed around each one of these fellows, stretching their necks and listening.
One long, lanky man, with long hair and a big white fur stovepipe hat on the
back of his head, and a crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the
ground where Boggs stood and where Sherburn stood, and the people following him
around from one place to t’other and watching everything he done, and bobbing
their heads to show they understood, and stooping a little and resting their
hands on their thighs to watch him mark the places on the ground with his cane;
and then he stood up straight and stiff where Sherburn had stood, frowning and
having his hat-brim down over his eyes, and sung out, “Boggs!” and then fetched
his cane down slow to a level, and says “Bang!” staggered backwards, says
“Bang!” again, and fell down flat on his back. The people that had seen the
thing said he done it perfect; said it was just exactly the way it all
happened. Then as much as a dozen people got out their bottles and treated him.

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 towards Sherburn’s house, a-whooping and raging like Injuns,
and everything had to clear the way or get run over and tromped to mush, and it
was awful to see. Children was heeling it ahead of the mob, screaming and
trying to get out of the way; and every window along the road was full of
women’s heads, and there was nigger boys in every tree, and bucks and wenches
looking over every fence; and as soon as the mob would get nearly to them they
would break and skaddle back out of reach. Lots of the women and girls was
crying and taking on, scared most to death.

They swarmed up in front of Sherburn’s palings as thick as they could jam
together, and you couldn’t hear yourself think for the noise. It was a little
twenty-foot yard. Some sung out “Tear down the fence! tear down the fence!”
Then there was a racket of ripping and tearing and smashing, and down she goes,
and the front wall of the crowd begins to roll in like a wave.

Just then Sherburn steps out on to the roof of his little front porch, with a
double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand, perfectly ca’m and
deliberate, not saying a word. The racket stopped, and the wave sucked back.

Sherburn never said a word—just stood there, 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 out-gaze him, but they
couldn’t; they dropped their eyes and looked sneaky. Then pretty soon Sherburn
sort of laughed; not the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like
when you are eating bread that’s got sand in it.

Then he says, slow and scornful:

“The idea of you lynching anybody! It’s amusing. The idea of you
thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a man! Because you’re brave
enough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women that come along here,
did that make you think you had grit enough to lay your hands on a man?
Why, a man’s safe in the hands of ten thousand of your kind—as long as
it’s daytime and you’re not behind him.

“Do I know you? I know you clear through. I was born and raised in the South,
and I’ve lived in the North; so I know the average all around. The average
man’s a coward. In the North he lets anybody walk over him that wants to, and
goes home and prays for a humble spirit to bear it. In the South one man all by
himself, has stopped a stage full of men in the daytime, and robbed the lot.
Your newspapers call you a brave people so much that you think you are
braver than any other people—whereas you’re just as brave, and no
braver. Why don’t your juries hang murderers? Because they’re afraid the man’s
friends will shoot them in the back, in the dark—and it’s just what they
would do.

“So they always acquit; and then a man goes in the night, with a hundred
masked cowards at his back and lynches the rascal. Your mistake is, that you
didn’t bring a man with you; that’s one mistake, and the other is that you
didn’t come in the dark and fetch your masks. You brought part of a
man—Buck Harkness, there—and if you hadn’t had him to start you, you’d a taken
it out in blowing.

“You didn’t want to come. The average man don’t like trouble and danger.
You don’t like trouble and danger. But if only half a man—like
Buck Harkness, there—shouts ‘Lynch him! lynch him!’ you’re afraid to back
down—afraid you’ll be found out to be what you are—cowards—and so you
raise a yell, and hang yourselves on to that half-a-man’s coat-tail, and come
raging up here, swearing what big things you’re going to do. The pitifulest
thing out is a mob; that’s what an army is—a mob; they don’t fight with courage
that’s born in them, but with 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 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 out
in the air and then the other, the horses leaning more and more, and the
ring-master going round and round the center-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 on to his bridle trying to
hold him, and the drunk man hanging on to his neck, and his heels flying in the
air every jump, and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting and laughing
till tears rolled down. And at last, sure enough, all the circus men could do,
the horse broke loose, and away he went like the very nation, round and round
the ring, with that sot laying down on him and hanging to his neck, with first
one leg hanging most to the ground on one side, and then t’other one on t’other
side, and the people just crazy. It warn’t funny to me, though; I was all of a
tremble to see his danger. But pretty soon he struggled up astraddle and
grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that; and the next minute he sprung
up and dropped the bridle and stood! and the horse a-going like a house afire
too. He just stood up there, a-sailing around as easy and comfortable as if he
warn’t ever drunk in his life—and then he begun to pull off his clothes and
sling them. He shed them so thick they kind of clogged up the air, and
altogether he shed seventeen suits. And, then, there he was, slim and handsome,
and dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you ever saw, and he lit into that horse
with his whip and made him fairly hum—and finally skipped off, and made his bow
and danced off to the dressing-room, and everybody just a-howling with pleasure
and astonishment.

Then the 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 maybe
something ruther worse than low comedy, he reckoned. He said he could size
their style. So next morning he got some big sheets of wrapping paper and some
black paint, and drawed off some handbills, and stuck them up all over the
village. The bills said:

AT THE COURT HOUSE!
FOR 3 NIGHTS ONLY!
The World-Renowned Tragedians
DAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER!
AND
EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER!
Of the London and Continental
Theatres,
In their Thrilling Tragedy of
THE KING’S 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 dont know Arkansaw!”

CHAPTER XXIII.

Well, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a stage and a curtain
and a row of candles for footlights; and that night the house was jam full of
men in no time. When the place couldn’t hold no more, the duke he quit tending
door and went around the back way and come on to the stage and stood up before
the curtain and made a little speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it
was the most thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging about
the tragedy, and about Edmund Kean the Elder, which was to play the main
principal part in it; and at last when he’d got everybody’s expectations up
high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next minute the king come
a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was painted all over,
ring-streaked-and-striped, all sorts of colors, as splendid as a rainbow.
And—but never mind the rest of his outfit; it was just wild, but it was awful
funny. The people most killed themselves laughing; and when the king got done
capering and capered off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed
and haw-hawed till he come back and done it over again, and after that they
made him do it another time. Well, it would make a cow laugh to see the shines
that old idiot cut.

Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people, and says the
great tragedy will be performed only two nights more, on accounts of pressing
London engagements, where the seats is all sold already for it in Drury Lane;
and then he makes them another bow, and says if he has succeeded in pleasing
them and instructing them, he will be deeply obleeged if they will mention it
to their friends and get them to come and see it.

Twenty people sings out:

“What, is it over? Is that all?”

The duke says yes. Then there was a fine time. Everybody sings out, “Sold!” and
rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and them tragedians. But a big,
fine looking man jumps up on a bench and shouts:

“Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen.” They stopped to listen. “We are sold—mighty
badly sold. But we don’t want to be the laughing stock of this whole town, I
reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as long as we live. No.
What we want is to go out of here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell the
rest of the town! Then we’ll all be in the same boat. Ain’t that
sensible?” (“You bet it is!—the jedge is right!” everybody sings out.) “All
right, then—not a word about any sell. Go along home, and 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 the village. Then we
lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke fairly laughed their bones
loose over the way they’d served them people. The duke says:

“Greenhorns, flatheads! I knew the first house would keep mum and let
the rest of the town get roped in; and I knew they’d lay for us the third
night, and consider it was their turn now. Well, it is their
turn, and I’d give something to know how much they’d take for it. I
would just like to know how they’re putting in their opportunity. They
can turn it into a picnic if they want to—they brought plenty provisions.”

Them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in that three
nights. I never see money hauled in by the wagon-load like that before.
By-and-by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says:

“Don’t it s’prise you de way dem kings carries on, Huck?”

“No,” I says, “it don’t.”

“Why don’t it, Huck?”

“Well, it don’t, because it’s in the breed. I reckon they’re all alike.”

“But, Huck, dese kings o’ ourn is reglar rapscallions; dat’s jist what dey is;
dey’s reglar rapscallions.”

“Well, that’s what I’m a-saying; all kings is mostly rapscallions, as fur as I
can make out.”

“Is dat so?”

“You read about them once—you’ll see. Look at Henry the Eight; this’n ’s a
Sunday-school 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—drownded him in a butt of mamsey, like a cat. S’pose people left money
laying around where he was—what did he do? He collared it. S’pose he contracted
to do a thing, and you paid him, and didn’t set down there and see that he done
it—what did he do? He always done the other thing. S’pose he opened his
mouth—what then? If he didn’t shut it up powerful quick he’d lose a lie every
time. That’s the kind of a bug Henry was; and if we’d a had him along ’stead of
our kings he’d a fooled that town a heap worse than ourn done. I don’t say that
ourn is lambs, because they ain’t, when you come right down to the cold facts;
but they ain’t nothing to that old ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is
kings, and you got to make allowances. Take them all around, they’re a mighty
ornery lot. It’s the way they’re raised.”

“But dis one do smell so like de nation, Huck.”

“Well, they all do, Jim. We can’t help the way a king smells; history
don’t tell no way.”

“Now de duke, he’s a tolerble likely man in some ways.”

“Yes, a duke’s different. But not very different. This one’s a middling hard
lot for a duke. When he’s drunk, there ain’t no near-sighted man could tell him
from a king.”

“Well, anyways, I doan’ hanker for no mo’ un um, Huck. Dese is all I kin
stan’.”

“It’s the way I feel, too, Jim. But we’ve got them on our hands, and we got to
remember what they are, and make allowances. Sometimes I wish we could hear of
a country that’s out of kings.”

What was the use to tell Jim these warn’t real kings and dukes? It wouldn’t a
done no good; and, 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 daybreak, he was sitting there with his head down
betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself. I didn’t take notice nor
let on. I knowed what it was about. He was thinking about his wife and his
children, away up yonder, and he was low and homesick; because he hadn’t ever
been away from home before in his life; and I do believe he cared just as much
for his people as white folks does for their’n. It don’t seem natural, but I
reckon it’s so. He was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he
judged I was asleep, and saying, “Po’ little ’Lizabeth! po’ little Johnny! it’s
mighty hard; I spec’ I ain’t ever gwyne to see you no mo’, no mo’!” He was a
mighty good nigger, Jim was.

But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young ones;
and by-and-by he says:

“What makes me feel so bad dis time ’uz bekase I hear sumpn over yonder on de
bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er de time I treat my
little ’Lizabeth so ornery. She warn’t on’y ’bout fo’ year ole, en she tuck de
sk’yarlet fever, en had a powful rough spell; but she got well, en one day she
was a-stannin’ aroun’, en I says to her, I says:

“‘Shet de do’.’

“She never done it; jis’ stood dah, kiner smilin’ up at me. It make me mad; en
I says agin, mighty loud, I says:

“‘Doan’ you hear me?—shet de do’!’

“She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin’ up. I was a-bilin’! I says:

“‘I lay I make you mine!’

“En wid dat I fetch’ her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawlin’. Den I
went into de yuther room, en ’uz gone ’bout ten minutes; en when I come back
dah was dat do’ a-stannin’ open yit, en dat chile stannin’ mos’ right in
it, a-lookin’ down and mournin’, en de tears runnin’ down. My, but I wuz
mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis’ den—it was a do’ dat open
innerds—jis’ den, ’long come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile,
ker-blam!—en my lan’, de chile never move’! My breff mos’ hop outer me;
en I feel so—so—I doan’ know how I feel. I crope out, all a-tremblin’,
en crope aroun’ en open de do’ easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de
chile, sof’ en still, en all uv a sudden I says pow! jis’ as loud as I
could yell. She never budge! Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin’ en grab her
up in my arms, en say, ‘Oh, de po’ little thing! De Lord God Amighty fogive po’
ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long’s he live!’ Oh, she was
plumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb—en I’d ben a-treat’n her so!”

CHAPTER XXIV.

Next day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow 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 to him all by himself and not tied it wouldn’t look much
like he was a runaway nigger, you know. So the duke said it was kind of
hard to have to lay roped all day, and he’d cipher out some way to get around
it.

He was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it. He dressed Jim up
in King Lear’s outfit—it was a long curtain-calico gown, and a white horse-hair
wig and whiskers; and then he took his theater paint and painted Jim’s face and
hands and ears and neck all over a dead, dull, solid blue, like a man that’s
been drownded nine days. Blamed if he warn’t the horriblest looking outrage I
ever see. Then the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so:

Sick Arab—but harmless when not out of his head.

And he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four or five foot
in front of the wigwam. Jim was satisfied. He said it was a sight better than
lying tied a couple of years every day, and trembling all over every time there
was a sound. The duke told him to make himself free and easy, and if anybody
ever come meddling around, he must hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a
little, and fetch a howl or two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would
light out and leave him alone. Which was sound enough 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
knowed how clothes could change a body before. Why, before, he looked like the
orneriest old rip that ever was; but now, when he’d take off his new white
beaver and make a bow and do a smile, he looked that grand and good and pious
that you’d say he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old Leviticus
himself. Jim cleaned up the canoe, and I got my paddle ready. There was a big
steamboat laying at the shore away up under the point, about three mile above
the town—been there a couple of hours, taking on freight. Says the king:

“Seein’ how I’m dressed, I reckon maybe I better arrive down from St. Louis or
Cincinnati, or some other big place. Go for the steamboat, Huckleberry; we’ll
come down to the village on her.”

I didn’t have to be ordered twice to go and take a steamboat ride. I fetched
the shore a half a mile above the village, and then went scooting along the
bluff bank in the easy water. Pretty soon we come to a nice innocent-looking
young country jake setting on a log swabbing the sweat off of his face, for it
was powerful warm weather; and he had a couple of big carpet-bags by him.

“Run her nose in shore,” says the king. I done it. “Wher’ you bound for, young
man?”

“For the steamboat; going to Orleans.”

“Git aboard,” says the king. “Hold on a minute, my servant ’ll he’p you with
them bags. Jump out and he’p the gentleman, Adolphus”—meaning me, I see.

I done so, and then we all three started on again. The young chap was mighty
thankful; said it was tough work toting his baggage such weather. He asked the
king where he was going, and the king told him he’d come down the river and
landed at the other village this morning, and now he was going up a few mile to
see an old friend on a farm up there. The young fellow says:

“When I first see you I says to myself, ‘It’s Mr. Wilks, sure, and he come
mighty near getting here in time.’ But then I says again, ‘No, I reckon it
ain’t him, or else he wouldn’t be paddling up the river.’ You ain’t him,
are you?”

“No, my name’s Blodgett—Elexander Blodgett—Reverend Elexander Blodgett,
I s’pose I must say, as I’m one o’ the Lord’s poor servants. But still I’m jist
as able to be sorry for Mr. Wilks for not arriving in time, all the same, if
he’s missed anything by it—which I hope he hasn’t.”

“Well, he don’t miss any property by it, because he’ll get that all right; but
he’s missed seeing his brother Peter die—which he mayn’t mind, nobody can tell
as to that—but his brother would a give anything in this world to see
him before he died; never talked about nothing else all these three
weeks; hadn’t seen him since they was boys together—and hadn’t ever seen his
brother William at all—that’s the deef and dumb one—William ain’t more than
thirty or thirty-five. Peter and George were the only ones that come out here;
George was the married brother; him and his wife both died last year. Harvey
and William’s the only ones that’s left now; and, as I was saying, they haven’t
got here in time.”

“Did anybody send ’em word?”

“Oh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was first took; because Peter said
then that he sorter felt like he warn’t going to get well this time. You see,
he was pretty old, and George’s g’yirls was too young to be much company for
him, except Mary Jane, the red-headed one; and so he was kinder lonesome after
George and his wife died, and didn’t seem to care much to live. He most
desperately wanted to see Harvey—and William, too, for that matter—because he
was one of them kind that can’t bear to make a will. He left a letter behind
for Harvey, and said he’d told in it where his money was hid, and how he wanted
the rest of the property divided up so George’s g’yirls would be all right—for
George didn’t leave nothing. And that letter was all they could get him to put
a pen to.”

“Why do you reckon Harvey don’t come? Wher’ does he live?”

“Oh, he lives in England—Sheffield—preaches there—hasn’t ever been in this
country. He hasn’t had any too much time—and besides he mightn’t a got the
letter at all, you know.”

“Too bad, too bad he couldn’t a lived to see his brothers, poor soul. You going
to Orleans, you say?”

“Yes, but that ain’t only a part of it. I’m going in a ship, next Wednesday,
for Ryo Janeero, where my uncle lives.”

“It’s a pretty long journey. But it’ll be lovely; wisht I was a-going. Is Mary
Jane the oldest? How old is the others?”

“Mary Jane’s nineteen, Susan’s fifteen, and Joanna’s about fourteen—that’s the
one that gives herself to good works and has a hare-lip.”

“Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so.”

“Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had friends, and they ain’t going to
let them come to no harm. There’s Hobson, the Babtis’ preacher; and Deacon Lot
Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and
Dr. 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 went on asking questions till he just fairly emptied that
young fellow. Blamed if he didn’t inquire about everybody and everything in
that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and about Peter’s business—which
was a tanner; and about George’s—which was a carpenter; and about
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 afeard she mightn’t stop there.
When they’re deep they won’t stop for a hail. A Cincinnati boat will, but this
is a St. Louis one.”

“Was Peter Wilks well off?”

“Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses and land, and it’s reckoned he left
three or four thousand in cash hid up som’ers.”

“When did you say he died?”

“I didn’t say, but it was last night.”

“Funeral to-morrow, likely?”

“Yes, ’bout the middle of the day.”

“Well, it’s all terrible sad; but we’ve all got to go, one time or another. So
what we want to do is to be prepared; then we’re all right.”

“Yes, sir, it’s the best way. Ma used to always say that.”

When we struck the boat she was about done 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 a-going to try to; but he really done it pretty good. Then he
says:

“How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?”

The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a deef and dumb
person on the histronic boards. So then they waited for a steamboat.

About the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats come along, but they
didn’t come from high enough up the river; but at last there was a big one, and
they hailed her. She sent out her yawl, and we went aboard, and she was from
Cincinnati; and when they found we only wanted to go four or five mile they was
booming mad, and gave us a cussing, and said they wouldn’t land us. But the
king was ca’m. He says:

“If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece to be took on and put
off in a yawl, a 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 an to smash, and fell up against
the man, and put his chin on his shoulder, and cried down his back, and says:

“Alas, alas, our poor brother—gone, and we never got to see him; oh, it’s too,
too hard!”

Then he turns around, blubbering, and makes a lot of idiotic signs to the duke
on his hands, and blamed if he didn’t drop a carpet-bag and bust out
a-crying. If they warn’t the beatenest lot, them two frauds, that ever I
struck.

Well, the men gathered around and sympathized with them, and said all sorts of
kind things to them, and carried their carpet-bags up the hill for them, and
let them lean on them and cry, and told the king all about his brother’s last
moments, and the king he told it all over again on his hands to the duke, and
both of them took on about that dead tanner like they’d lost the twelve
disciples. Well, if ever I struck anything like it, I’m a nigger. It was enough
to make a body ashamed of the human race.

CHAPTER XXV.

The news was all over town in two minutes, and you could see the people tearing
down on the run from every which way, some of them putting on their coats as
they come. Pretty soon we was in the middle of a crowd, and the noise of the
tramping was like a soldier march. The windows and dooryards was full; and
every minute somebody would say, over a fence:

“Is it them?”

And somebody trotting along with the gang would answer back and say:

“You bet it is.”

When we got to the house the street in front of it was packed, and the three
girls was standing in the door. Mary Jane was red-headed, but that don’t
make no difference, she was most awful beautiful, and her face and her eyes was
all lit up like glory, she was so glad her uncles was come. The king he spread
his arms, and 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 themselves. Well, when it come to that it worked the crowd like you
never see anything like it, and everybody broke down and went to sobbing right
out loud—the poor girls, too; and every woman, nearly, went up to the girls,
without saying a word, and kissed them, solemn, on the forehead, and then put
their hand on their head, and looked up towards the sky, with the tears running
down, and then busted out and went off sobbing and swabbing, and give the next
woman a show. I never see anything so disgusting.

Well, by-and-by the king he gets up and comes forward a little, and works
himself up and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears and flapdoodle about
its being a sore trial for him and his poor brother to lose the diseased, and
to miss seeing diseased alive after the long journey of four thousand mile, but
it’s a trial that’s sweetened and sanctified to us by this dear sympathy and
these holy tears, and so he thanks them out of his heart and out of his
brother’s heart, because out of their mouths they can’t, words being too weak
and cold, and all that kind of rot and slush, till it was just sickening; and
then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody Amen, and turns himself loose and goes
to crying fit to bust.

And the minute the words were out of his mouth somebody over in the crowd
struck up the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with all their might, and it
just warmed you up and made you feel as good as church letting out. Music
is a good thing; and after all that soul-butter and hogwash I never see
it freshen up things so, and sound so honest and bully.

Then the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him and his nieces
would be glad if a few of the main principal friends of the family would take
supper here with them this evening, and help set up with the ashes of the
diseased; and says if his poor brother laying yonder could speak he knows who
he would name, for they was names that was very dear to him, and mentioned
often in his letters; and so he will name the same, to wit, as follows,
vizz.:—Rev. Mr. Hobson, and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Mr. Ben Rucker, and Abner
Shackleford, and Levi Bell, and Dr. 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 business. But the rest was on hand, and so they all come and shook hands
with the king and thanked him and talked to him; and then they shook hands with
the duke and didn’t say nothing, but just kept a-smiling and bobbing their
heads like a passel of sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs with his
hands and said “Goo-goo—goo-goo-goo” all the time, like a baby that can’t talk.

So the king he blattered along, and managed to inquire about pretty much
everybody and dog in town, by his name, and mentioned all sorts of little
things that happened one time or another in the town, or to George’s family, or
to Peter. And he always let on that Peter wrote him the things; but that was a
lie: he got every blessed one of them out of that young flathead that we canoed
up to the steamboat.

Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father left behind, and the king he
read it out loud and cried over it. It give the dwelling-house and three
thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the tanyard (which was doing
a good business), along with some other houses and land (worth about seven
thousand), and three thousand dollars in gold to Harvey and William, and told
where the six thousand cash was hid down cellar. So these two frauds said
they’d go and fetch it up, and have everything square and above-board; and told
me to come with a candle. We shut the cellar door behind us, and when they
found the bag they spilt it out on the floor, and it was a lovely sight, all
them yaller-boys. My, the way the king’s eyes did shine! He slaps the duke on
the shoulder and says:

“Oh, this ain’t bully nor noth’n! Oh, no, I reckon not! Why,
Bilji, it beats the Nonesuch, don’t it?”

The duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted them through
their fingers and let them jingle down on the floor; and the king says:

“It ain’t no use talkin’; bein’ brothers to a rich dead man and representatives
of furrin heirs that’s got left is the line for you and me, Bilge. Thish yer
comes of trust’n to Providence. It’s the best way, in the long run. I’ve tried
’em all, and ther’ ain’t no better way.”

Most everybody would a been satisfied with the pile, and took it on trust; but
no, they must count it. So they counts it, and it comes out four hundred and
fifteen dollars short. Says the king:

“Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four hundred and fifteen dollars?”

They worried over that awhile, and ransacked all around for it. Then the duke
says:

“Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake—I reckon that’s
the way of it. The best way’s to let it go, and keep still about it. We can
spare it.”

“Oh, shucks, yes, we can spare it. I don’t k’yer noth’n ’bout that—it’s
the count I’m thinkin’ about. We want to be awful square and open and
above-board here, you know. We want to lug this h-yer money up stairs and count
it before everybody—then ther’ ain’t noth’n suspicious. But when the dead man
says ther’s six thous’n dollars, you know, we don’t want to—”

“Hold on,” says the duke. “Le’s make up the deffisit,” and he begun to haul out
yaller-boys out of his pocket.

“It’s a most amaz’n’ good idea, duke—you have got a rattlin’ clever head
on you,” says the king. “Blest if the old Nonesuch ain’t a heppin’ us out
agin,” and he begun to haul out yaller-jackets and stack them up.

It most busted them, but they made up the six thousand clean and clear.

“Say,” says the duke, “I got another idea. Le’s go up stairs and count this
money, and then take and give it to the girls.”

“Good land, duke, lemme hug you! It’s the most dazzling idea ’at ever a man
struck. You have cert’nly got the most astonishin’ head I ever see. Oh, this is
the boss dodge, ther’ ain’t no mistake ’bout it. Let ’em fetch along their
suspicions now if they want to—this’ll lay ’em out.”

When we got up-stairs everybody gethered around the table, and the king he
counted it and stacked it up, three hundred dollars in a pile—twenty elegant
little piles. Everybody looked hungry at it, and licked their chops. Then they
raked it into the bag again, and I see the king begin to swell himself up for
another speech. He says:

“Friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has done generous by them that’s
left behind in the vale of sorrers. He has done generous by these yer poor
little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and that’s left fatherless and
motherless. Yes, and we that knowed him knows that he would a done more
generous by ’em if he hadn’t ben afeard o’ woundin’ his dear William and me.
Now, wouldn’t he? Ther’ ain’t no question ’bout it in my mind.
Well, then, what kind o’ brothers would it be that ’d stand in his way at sech
a time? And what kind o’ uncles would it be that ’d rob—yes, rob—sech
poor sweet lambs as these ’at he loved so at sech a time? If I know William—and
I think I do—he—well, I’ll jest ask him.” He turns around and begins to
make a lot of signs to the duke with his hands, and the duke he looks at him
stupid and leather-headed a while; then all of a sudden he seems to catch his
meaning, and jumps for the king, goo-gooing with all his might for joy, and
hugs him about fifteen times before he lets up. Then the king says, “I knowed
it; I reckon that’ll convince anybody the way he feels about it.
Here, Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner, take the money—take it all. It’s the
gift of him that lays yonder, cold but joyful.”

Mary Jane she went for him, Susan and the hare-lip went for the duke, and then
such another hugging and kissing I never see yet. And everybody crowded up with
the tears in their eyes, and most shook the hands off of them frauds, saying
all the time:

“You dear good souls!—how lovely!—how could you!”

Well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking about the diseased again, and
how good he was, and what a loss he was, and all that; and before long a big
iron-jawed man worked himself in there from outside, and stood a-listening and
looking, and not saying 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’ partickler friends o’ the diseased. That’s why they’re invited
here this evenin’; but tomorrow 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 worst imitation I ever heard. You
Peter Wilks’s brother! You’re a fraud, that’s what you are!”

Well, how they all took on! They crowded around the doctor and tried to quiet
him down, and tried to explain to him and tell him how Harvey ’d showed in
forty ways that he was Harvey, and knowed everybody by name, and the
names of the very dogs, and begged and begged him not to hurt Harvey’s
feelings and the poor girl’s feelings, and all that. But it warn’t no use; he
stormed right along, and said any man that pretended to be an Englishman and
couldn’t imitate the lingo no better than what he did was a fraud and a liar.
The poor girls was hanging to the king and 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 picked up somewheres, and you take them for proofs, and
are helped to fool yourselves by these foolish friends here, who ought to know
better. Mary Jane Wilks, you know me for your friend, and for your unselfish
friend, too. Now listen to me; turn this pitiful rascal out—I beg you to
do it. Will you?”

Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was handsome! She says:

“Here is my answer.” She hove up the bag of money and put it in the
king’s hands, and says, “Take this six thousand dollars, and invest for me and
my sisters any way you want to, and don’t give us no receipt for it.”

Then she put her arm around the king on one side, and Susan and the hare-lip
done the same on the other. Everybody clapped their hands and stomped on the
floor like a perfect storm, whilst the king held up his head and smiled proud.
The doctor says:

“All right; I wash my hands of the matter. But I warn you all that a
time ’s coming when you’re going to feel sick whenever you think of this day.”
And away he went.

“All right, doctor,” says the king, kinder mocking him; “we’ll try and get ’em
to send for you;” which made them all laugh, and they said it was a prime good
hit.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Well, when they was all gone the king he asks Mary Jane how they was off for
spare rooms, and she said she had one spare room, which would do for Uncle
William, and she’d give her own room to Uncle Harvey, which was a little
bigger, and she would turn into the room with her sisters and sleep on a cot;
and up garret was a little cubby, with a pallet in it. The king said the cubby
would do for his valley—meaning me.

So Mary Jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which was plain but
nice. She said she’d have her frocks and a lot of other traps took out of her
room if they was in Uncle Harvey’s way, but he said they warn’t. The frocks was
hung along the wall, and before them was a curtain made out of calico that hung
down to the floor. There was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box
in another, and all sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks around, like
girls brisken up a room with. The king said it was all the more homely and more
pleasanter for these fixings, and so don’t disturb them. The duke’s room was
pretty small, but plenty good enough, and so was my cubby.

That night they had a big supper, and all them men and women was there, and I
stood behind the king and the duke’s chairs and waited on them, and the niggers
waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set at the head of the table, with Susan
alongside of her, and said how bad the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves
was, and how ornery and tough the fried chickens was—and all that kind of rot,
the way women always do for to force out compliments; and the people all knowed
everything was tiptop, and said so—said “How do you get biscuits to
brown so nice?” and “Where, for the land’s sake, did you get these
amaz’n pickles?” and all that kind of humbug talky-talk, just the way people
always does at a supper, you know.

And when it was all done me and the hare-lip had supper in the kitchen off of
the leavings, whilst the others was helping the niggers clean up the things.
The hare-lip she got to pumping me about England, and blest if I didn’t think
the ice was getting mighty thin sometimes. She says:

“Did you ever see the king?”

“Who? William Fourth? Well, I bet I have—he goes to our church.” I knowed he
was dead years ago, but I never let on. So when I says he goes to our church,
she says:

“What—regular?”

“Yes—regular. His pew’s right over opposite ourn—on t’other side the pulpit.”

“I thought he lived in London?”

“Well, he does. Where would he live?”

“But I thought you lived in Sheffield?”

I see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get choked with a chicken bone, so
as to get time to think how to get down again. Then I says:

“I mean he goes to our church regular when he’s in Sheffield. That’s only in
the summer time, when he comes there to take the sea baths.”

“Why, how you talk—Sheffield ain’t on the sea.”

“Well, who said it was?”

“Why, you did.”

“I didn’t nuther.”

“You did!”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I never said nothing of the kind.”

“Well, what did you say, then?”

“Said he come to take the sea baths—that’s what I said.”

“Well, then, how’s he going to take the sea baths if it ain’t on the sea?”

“Looky here,” I says; “did you ever see any Congress-water?”

“Yes.”

“Well, did you have to go to Congress to get it?”

“Why, no.”

“Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to the sea to get a sea bath.”

“How does he get it, then?”

“Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-water—in barrels. There in the
palace at Sheffield they’ve got furnaces, and he wants his water hot. They
can’t bile that amount of water away off there at the sea. They haven’t got no
conveniences for it.”

“Oh, I see, now. You might a said that in the first place and saved time.”

When she said that I see I was out of the woods again, and so I was comfortable
and glad. Next, she says:

“Do you go to church, too?”

“Yes—regular.”

“Where do you set?”

“Why, in our pew.”

“Whose pew?”

“Why, ourn—your Uncle Harvey’s.”

“His’n? What does he want with a pew?”

“Wants it to set in. What did you reckon he wanted with it?”

“Why, I thought he’d be in the pulpit.”

Rot him, I forgot he was a preacher. I see I was up a stump again, so I played
another chicken bone and got another think. Then I says:

“Blame it, do you suppose there ain’t but one preacher to a church?”

“Why, what do they want with more?”

“What!—to preach before a king? I never did see such a girl as you. They don’t
have no less than seventeen.”

“Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn’t set out such a string as that, not if I
never got to glory. It must take ’em a week.”

“Shucks, they don’t all of ’em preach the same day—only one of
’em.”

“Well, then, what does the rest of ’em do?”

“Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate—and one thing or another. But
mainly they don’t do nothing.”

“Well, then, what are they for?”

“Why, they’re for style. Don’t you know 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 theater, nor nigger shows, nor
nowheres.”

“Nor church?”

“Nor church.”

“But you always went to church.”

Well, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old man’s servant. But next
minute I whirled in on a kind of an explanation how a valley was different from
a common servant and had to go to church whether he wanted to or not,
and set with the family, on account of its being the law. But I didn’t do it
pretty good, and when I got done I see she warn’t satisfied. She says:

“Honest injun, now, hain’t you been telling me a lot of lies?”

“Honest injun,” says I.

“None of it at all?”

“None of it at all. Not a lie in it,” says I.

“Lay your hand on this book and say it.”

I see it warn’t nothing but a dictionary, so I laid my hand on it and said it.
So then she looked a little better satisfied, and says:

“Well, then, I’ll believe some of it; but I hope to gracious if I’ll believe
the rest.”

“What is it you won’t believe, Joe?” says Mary Jane, stepping in with Susan
behind her. “It ain’t right nor kind for you to talk so to him, and him a
stranger and so far from his people. How would you like to be treated so?”

“That’s always your way, Maim—always sailing in to help somebody before they’re
hurt. I hain’t done nothing to him. He’s told some stretchers, I reckon, and I
said I wouldn’t swallow it all; and that’s every bit and grain I did
say. I reckon he can stand a little thing like that, can’t he?”

“I don’t care whether ’twas little or whether ’twas big; he’s here in our house
and a stranger, and it wasn’t good of you to say it. If you was in his place it
would make you feel ashamed; and so you oughtn’t to say a thing to another
person that will make them feel ashamed.”

“Why, Mam, 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 reptile rob
her of her money!

Then Susan she waltzed in; and if you’ll believe me, she did give
Hare-lip hark from the tomb!

Says I to myself, and this is another one that I’m letting him rob her
of her money!

Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and lovely
again—which was her way; but when she got done there warn’t hardly anything
left o’ poor Hare-lip. So she hollered.

“All right, then,” says the other girls; “you just ask his pardon.”

She done it, too; and she done it beautiful. She done it so beautiful it was
good to hear; and I wished I could tell her a thousand lies, so she could do it
again.

I says to myself, this is another one that I’m letting him rob her of
her money. And when she got through they all jest laid theirselves out to make
me feel at home and know I was amongst friends. I felt so ornery and low down
and mean that I says to myself, my mind’s made up; I’ll hive that money for
them or bust.

So then I lit out—for bed, I said, meaning some time or another. When I got by
myself I went to thinking the thing over. I says to myself, shall I go to that
doctor, private, and blow on these frauds? No—that won’t do. He might tell who
told him; then the king and the duke would make it warm for me. Shall I go,
private, and tell Mary Jane? No—I dasn’t do it. Her face would give them a
hint, sure; they’ve got the money, and they’d slide right out and get away with
it. If she was to fetch in help I’d get mixed up in the business before it was
done with, I judge. No; there ain’t no good way but one. I got to steal that
money, somehow; and I got to steal it some way that they won’t suspicion that I
done it. They’ve got a good thing here, and they ain’t a-going to leave till
they’ve played this family and this town for all they’re worth, so I’ll find a
chance time enough. I’ll steal it and hide it; and by-and-by, when I’m away
down the river, I’ll write a letter and tell Mary Jane where it’s hid. But I
better hive it tonight 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. Upstairs the hall was dark, but I
found the duke’s room, and started to paw around it with my hands; but I
recollected it wouldn’t be much like the king to let anybody else take care of
that money but his own self; so then I went to his room and begun to paw around
there. But I see I couldn’t do nothing without a candle, and I dasn’t light
one, of course. So I judged I’d got to do the other thing—lay for them and
eavesdrop. About that time I hears their footsteps coming, and was going to
skip under the bed; I reached for it, but it wasn’t where I thought it would
be; but I touched the curtain that hid Mary Jane’s frocks, so I jumped in
behind that and snuggled in amongst the gowns, and stood there perfectly still.

They come in and shut the door; and the first thing the duke done was to get
down and look under the bed. Then I was glad I hadn’t found the bed when I
wanted it. And yet, you know, it’s kind of natural to hide under the bed when
you are up to anything private. They sets down then, and the king says:

“Well, what is it? And cut it middlin’ short, 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 of
fools and leave eight or nine thous’n’ dollars’ worth o’ property layin’ around
jest sufferin’ to be scooped in?—and all good, salable stuff, too.”

The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and he didn’t want to go
no deeper—didn’t want to rob a lot of orphans of everything they had.

“Why, how you talk!” says the king. “We sha’n’t rob ’em of nothing at all but
jest this money. The people that buys the property is the suff’rers;
because as soon ’s it’s found out ’at we didn’t own it—which won’t be long
after we’ve slid—the sale won’t be valid, and it’ll all go back to the estate.
These yer orphans ’ll git their house back agin, and that’s enough for
them; they’re young and spry, and k’n easy earn a livin’. They
ain’t a-goin to suffer. Why, jest think—there’s thous’n’s and thous’n’s that
ain’t nigh so well off. Bless you, they ain’t got noth’n’ to complain
of.”

Well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and said all right,
but said he believed it was blamed foolishness to stay, and that doctor hanging
over them. But the king says:

“Cuss the doctor! What do we k’yer for him? Hain’t we got all the fools
in town on our side? And ain’t that a big enough majority in any town?”

So they got ready to go down stairs again. The duke says:

“I don’t think we put that money in a good place.”

That cheered me up. I’d begun to think I warn’t going to get a hint of no kind
to help me. The king says:

“Why?”

“Because Mary Jane ’ll be in mourning from this out; and first you know the
nigger that does up the rooms will get an order to box these duds up and put
’em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run across money and not borrow some
of it?”

“Your head’s level agin, duke,” says the king; and he comes a-fumbling under
the curtain two or three foot from where I was. I stuck tight to the wall and
kept mighty still, though quivery; and I wondered what them fellows would say
to me if they catched me; and I tried to think what I’d better do if they did
catch me. But the king he got the bag before I could think more than about a
half a thought, and he never suspicioned I was around. They took and shoved the
bag through a rip in the straw tick that was under the feather-bed, and crammed
it in a foot or two amongst the straw and said it was all right now, because a
nigger only makes up the feather-bed, and don’t turn over the straw tick only
about twice a year, and so it warn’t in no danger of getting stole now.

But I knowed better. I had it out of there before they was half-way down
stairs. I groped along up to my cubby, and hid it there till I could get a
chance to do better. I judged I better hide it outside of the house somewheres,
because if they missed it they would give the house a good ransacking: I knowed
that very well. Then I turned in, with my clothes all on; but I couldn’t a gone
to sleep if I’d a wanted to, I was in such a sweat to get through with the
business. By-and-by I heard the king and the duke come up; so I rolled off my
pallet and laid with my chin at the top of my ladder, and waited to see if
anything was going to happen. But nothing did.

So I held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones hadn’t begun
yet; and then I slipped down the ladder.

CHAPTER XXVII.

I crept to their doors and listened; they was 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 parlor, where the
corpse was laying, and there was a candle in both rooms. I passed along, and
the parlor door was open; but I see there warn’t nobody in there but the
remainders of Peter; so I shoved on by; but the front door was locked, and the
key wasn’t there. Just then I heard somebody coming down the stairs, back
behind me. I run in the parlor and took a swift look around, and the only place
I see to hide the bag was in the coffin. The lid was shoved along about a foot,
showing the dead man’s face down in there, with a wet cloth over it, and his
shroud on. I tucked the money-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his
hands was crossed, which made me creep, they was so cold, and then I run back
across the room and in behind the door.

The person coming was Mary Jane. She went to the coffin, very soft, and kneeled
down and looked in; then she put up her handkerchief, and I see she begun to
cry, though I couldn’t hear her, and her back was to me. I slid out, and as I
passed the dining-room I thought I’d make sure them watchers hadn’t seen me; so
I looked through the crack, and everything was all right. They hadn’t stirred.

I slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts of the thing playing out
that way after I had took so much trouble and run so much resk about it. Says
I, if it could stay where it is, all right; because when we get down the river
a hundred mile or two I could write back to Mary Jane, and she could dig him up
again and get it; but that ain’t the thing that’s going to happen; the thing
that’s going to happen is, the money ’ll be found when they come to screw on
the lid. Then the king ’ll get it again, and it ’ll be a long day before he
gives anybody another chance to smouch it from him. Of course I wanted
to slide down and get it out of there, but I dasn’t try it. Every minute it was
getting earlier now, and pretty soon some of them watchers would begin to stir,
and I might get catched—catched with six thousand dollars in my hands that
nobody hadn’t hired me to take care of. I don’t wish to be mixed up in no such
business as that, I says to myself.

When I got down stairs in the morning the parlor was shut up, and the watchers
was gone. There warn’t nobody around but the family and the widow Bartley and
our tribe. I watched their faces to see if anything had been happening, but I
couldn’t tell.

Towards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man, and they set
the coffin in the middle of the room on a couple of chairs, and then set all
our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from the neighbors till the hall and the
parlor and the dining-room was full. I see the coffin lid was the way it was
before, but I dasn’t go to look in under it, with folks around.

Then the people begun to flock in, and the beats and the girls took seats in
the front row at the head of the coffin, and for a half an hour the people
filed around slow, in single rank, and looked down at the dead man’s face a
minute, and some dropped in a tear, and it was all very still and solemn, only
the girls and the beats holding handkerchiefs to their eyes and 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 ship-shape and comfortable, and making no more sound than
a cat. He never spoke; he moved people around, he squeezed in late ones, he
opened up passageways, and done it with nods, and signs with his hands. Then he
took his place over against the wall. He was the softest, glidingest,
stealthiest man I ever see; and there warn’t no more smile to him than there is
to a ham.

They had borrowed a melodeum—a sick one; and when everything was ready a young
woman set down and worked it, and it was pretty skreeky and colicky, and
everybody joined in and sung, and Peter was the only one that had a good thing,
according to my notion. Then the Reverend Hobson opened up, slow and solemn,
and begun to talk; and straight off the most outrageous row busted out in the
cellar a body ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made a most powerful
racket, and he kept it up right along; the parson he had to stand there, over
the coffin, and wait—you couldn’t hear yourself think. It was right down
awkward, and nobody didn’t seem to know what to do. But pretty soon they see
that long-legged undertaker make a sign to the preacher as much as to say,
“Don’t you worry—just depend on me.” Then he stooped down and begun to glide
along the wall, just his shoulders showing over the people’s heads. So he
glided along, and the powwow and racket 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, s’pose somebody has hogged that bag on the sly?—now how do
I know whether to write to Mary Jane or not? S’pose she dug him up and
didn’t find nothing, what would she think of me? Blame it, I says, I might get
hunted up and jailed; I’d better lay low and keep dark, and not write at all;
the thing’s awful mixed now; trying to better it, I’ve worsened it a hundred
times, and I wish to goodness I’d just let it alone, dad fetch the whole
business!

They buried him, and we come back home, and I went to watching faces again—I
couldn’t help it, and I couldn’t rest easy. But nothing come of it; the faces
didn’t tell me nothing.

The king he visited around in the evening, and sweetened everybody up, and made
himself ever so friendly; and he give out the idea that his 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 noon-time, the girls’ joy got
the first jolt. A couple of nigger traders come along, and the king sold them
the niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as they called it, and away they
went, the two sons up the river to Memphis, and their mother down the river to
Orleans. I thought them poor girls and them niggers would break their hearts
for grief; they cried around each other, and took on so it most made me down
sick to see it. The girls said they hadn’t ever dreamed of seeing the family
separated or sold away from the town. I can’t ever get it out of my memory, the
sight of them poor miserable girls and niggers hanging around each other’s
necks and crying; and I reckon I couldn’t a stood it all, but would a had to
bust out and tell on our gang if I hadn’t knowed the sale warn’t no account and
the niggers would be back home in a week or two.

The thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a good many come out flatfooted
and said it was 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 a-near
your room since Miss Mary Jane took you and the duke and showed it to you.”

The duke says:

“Have you seen anybody else go in there?”

“No, your grace, not as I remember, I believe.”

“Stop and think.”

I studied awhile and see my chance; then I says:

“Well, I see the niggers go in there several times.”

Both of them gave a little jump, and looked like they hadn’t ever expected it,
and then like they had. Then the duke says:

“What, all of them?”

“No—leastways, not all at once—that is, I don’t think I ever see them all come
out at once but just one time.”

“Hello! When was that?”

“It was the day we had the funeral. In the 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
tiptoed away; so I seen, easy enough, that they’d shoved in there to do up your
majesty’s room, or something, s’posing you was up; and found you warn’t
up, and so they was hoping to slide out of the way of trouble without waking
you up, if they hadn’t already waked you up.”

“Great guns, this is a go!” says the king; and both of them looked
pretty sick and tolerable silly. They stood there a-thinking and scratching
their heads a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind of a little raspy
chuckle, and says:

“It does beat all how neat the niggers played their hand. They let on to be
sorry they was going out of this region! And I believed they was
sorry, and so did you, and so did everybody. Don’t ever tell me any more
that a nigger ain’t got any histrionic talent. Why, the way they played that
thing it would fool anybody. In my opinion, there’s a fortune in ’em. If
I had capital and a theater, I wouldn’t want a better lay-out than that—and
here we’ve gone and sold ’em for a song. Yes, and ain’t privileged to sing the
song yet. Say, where is that song—that draft?”

“In the bank for to be collected. Where would it be?”

“Well, that’s all right then, thank goodness.”

Says I, kind of timid-like:

“Is something gone wrong?”

The king whirls on me and rips out:

“None o’ your business! You keep your head shet, and mind y’r own affairs—if
you got any. Long as you’re in this town don’t you forgit that—you
hear?” Then he says to the duke, “We got to jest swaller it and say noth’n’:
mum’s the word for us.”

As they was starting down the ladder the duke he chuckles again, and says:

“Quick sales and small profits! It’s a good business—yes.”

The king snarls around on him and says:

“I was trying to do for the best in sellin’ ’em out so quick. If the profits
has turned out to be none, lackin’ considable, and none to carry, is it my
fault any more’n it’s yourn?”

“Well, they’d be in this house yet and we wouldn’t if I could a
got my advice listened to.”

The king sassed back as much as was safe for him, and then swapped around and
lit into me again. He give me down the banks for not coming and
telling him I see the niggers come out of his room acting that way—said
any fool would a knowed something was up. And then waltzed in and cussed
himself awhile, and said it all come of him not laying late and taking
his natural rest that morning, and he’d be blamed if he’d ever do it again. So
they went off a-jawing; and I felt dreadful glad I’d worked it all off on to
the niggers, and yet hadn’t done the niggers no harm by it.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

By-and-by it was getting-up time. So I come down the ladder and started for
down-stairs; but as I come to the girls’ room the door was open, and I see Mary
Jane setting by her old hair trunk, which was open and she’d been packing
things in it—getting ready to go to England. But she had stopped now with a
folded gown in her lap, and had her face in her hands, crying. I felt awful bad
to see it; of course anybody would. I went in there and says:

“Miss Mary Jane, you can’t a-bear to see people in trouble, and I
can’t—most always. Tell me about it.”

So she done it. And it was the niggers—I just expected it. She said the
beautiful trip to England was most about spoiled for her; she didn’t know
how she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the mother and the
children warn’t ever going to see each other no more—and then busted out
bitterer than ever, and flung up her hands, and says:

“Oh, dear, dear, to think they ain’t ever going to see each other any
more!”

“But they will—and inside of two weeks—and I know it!” says I.

Laws, it was out before I could think! And before I could budge she throws her
arms around my neck and told me to say it again, say it again,
say it again!

I see I had spoke too sudden and said too much, and was in a close place. I
asked her to let me think a minute; and she set there, very impatient and
excited and handsome, but looking kind of happy and eased-up, like a person
that’s had a tooth pulled out. So I went to studying it out. I says to myself,
I reckon a body that ups and tells the truth when he is in a tight place is
taking considerable many resks, though I ain’t had no experience, and can’t say
for certain; but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet here’s a case where I’m
blest if it don’t look to me like the truth is better and actuly safer
than a lie. I must lay it by in my mind, and think it over some time or other,
it’s so kind of strange and unregular. I never see nothing like it. Well, I
says to myself at last, I’m a-going to chance it; I’ll up and tell the truth
this time, though it does seem most like setting down on a kag of powder and
touching it off just to see where you’ll go to. Then I says:

“Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a little ways where you could
go and stay three or four days?”

“Yes; Mr. Lothrop’s. Why?”

“Never mind why yet. If I’ll tell you how I know the niggers will see each
other again inside of two weeks—here in this house—and prove how I know
it—will you go to Mr. Lothrop’s and stay four days?”

“Four days!” she says; “I’ll stay a year!”

“All right,” I says, “I don’t want nothing more out of you than just
your word—I druther have it than another man’s kiss-the-Bible.” She smiled and
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 on to the
king’s breast at the front door and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen
times—and then up she jumps, with her face afire like sunset, and says:

“The brute! Come, don’t waste a minute—not a second—we’ll have them
tarred and feathered, and flung in the river!”

Says I:

“Cert’nly. But do you mean before you go to Mr. Lothrop’s, or—”

“Oh,” she says, “what am I thinking about!” she says, and set right down
again. “Don’t mind what I said—please don’t—you won’t, now, will
you?” Laying her silky hand on mine in that kind of a way that I said I would
die first. “I never thought, I was so stirred up,” she says; “now go on, and I
won’t do so any more. You tell me what to do, and whatever you say I’ll do it.”

“Well,” I says, “it’s a rough gang, them two frauds, and I’m fixed so I got to
travel with them a while longer, whether I want to or not—I druther not tell
you why; and if you was to blow on them this town would get me out of their
claws, and I’d be all right; but there’d be another person that you don’t know
about who’d be in big trouble. Well, we got to save him, hain’t we? Of
course. Well, then, we won’t blow on them.”

Saying them words put a good idea in my head. I see how maybe I could get me
and Jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed here, and then leave. But I didn’t
want to run the raft in the daytime without 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 neighbor was to ask how is your
uncles this morning your face would tell something. No, you go right along,
Miss Mary Jane, and I’ll fix it with all of them. I’ll tell Miss Susan to give
your love to your uncles and say you’ve went away for a few hours for to get a
little rest and change, or to see a friend, and you’ll be back to-night or
early in the morning.”

“Gone to see a friend is all right, but I won’t have my love given to them.”

“Well, then, it sha’n’t be.” It was well enough to tell her so—no harm
in it. It was only a little thing to do, and no trouble; and it’s the little
things that smooths people’s roads the most, down here below; it would make
Mary Jane comfortable, and it wouldn’t cost nothing. Then I says: “There’s one
more thing—that bag of money.”

“Well, they’ve got that; and it makes me feel pretty silly to think how
they got it.”

“No, you’re out, there. They hain’t got it.”

“Why, who’s got it?”

“I wish I knowed, but I don’t. I had it, because I stole it from them;
and I stole it to give to you; and I know where I hid it, but I’m afraid it
ain’t there no more. I’m awful sorry, Miss Mary Jane, I’m just as sorry as I
can be; but I done the best I could; I did honest. I come nigh getting caught,
and I had to shove it into the first place I come to, and run—and it warn’t a
good place.”

“Oh, stop blaming yourself—it’s too bad to do it, and I won’t allow it—you
couldn’t help it; it wasn’t your fault. Where did you hide it?”

I didn’t want to set her to thinking about her troubles again; and I couldn’t
seem to get my mouth to tell her what would make her see that corpse laying in
the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach. So for a minute I didn’t say
nothing; then I says:

“I’d ruther not tell you where I put it, Miss Mary Jane, if you don’t
mind letting me off; but I’ll write it for you on a piece of paper, and you can
read it along the road to Mr. Lothrop’s, if you want to. Do you reckon that’ll
do?”

“Oh, yes.”

So I wrote: “I put it in the coffin. It was in there when you was crying there,
away in the night. I was behind the door, and I was mighty sorry for you, Miss
Mary Jane.”

It made my eyes water a little to remember her 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 knowed me she’d take a job that was more nearer
her size. But I bet she done it, just the same—she was just that kind. She had
the grit to pray for Judus if she took the notion—there warn’t no back-down to
her, I judge. You may say what you want to, but in my opinion she had more sand
in her than any girl I ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand. It
sounds like flattery, but it ain’t no flattery. And when it comes to beauty—and
goodness, too—she lays over them all. I hain’t ever seen her since that time
that I see her go out of that door; no, I hain’t ever seen her since, but I
reckon I’ve thought of her a many and a many a million times, and of her saying
she would pray for me; and if ever I’d a thought it would do any good for me to
pray for her, blamed if I wouldn’t a done it or bust.

Well, Mary Jane she lit out the back way, I reckon; because nobody see her go.
When I struck Susan and the hare-lip, I says:

“What’s the name of them people over on t’other side of the river that you all
goes to see sometimes?”

They says:

“There’s several; but it’s the Proctors, mainly.”

“That’s the name,” I says; “I most forgot it. Well, Miss Mary Jane she told me
to tell you she’s gone over there in a dreadful hurry—one of them’s sick.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know; leastways, I kinder forget; but I thinks it’s—”

“Sakes alive, I hope it ain’t Hanner?”

“I’m sorry to say it,” I says, “but Hanner’s the very one.”

“My goodness, and she so well only last week! Is she took bad?”

“It ain’t no name for it. They set up with her all night, Miss Mary Jane said,
and they don’t think she’ll last many hours.”

“Only think of that, now! What’s the matter with her?”

I couldn’t think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so I says:

“Mumps.”

“Mumps your granny! They don’t set up with people that’s got the mumps.”

“They don’t, don’t they? You better bet they do with these mumps. These
mumps is different. It’s a new kind, Miss Mary Jane said.”

“How’s it a new kind?”

“Because it’s mixed up with other things.”

“What other things?”

“Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and consumption, and yaller
janders, and brain-fever, and I don’t know what all.”

“My land! And they call it the mumps?”

“That’s what Miss Mary Jane said.”

“Well, what in the nation do they call it the mumps for?”

“Why, because it is the mumps. That’s what it starts with.”

“Well, ther’ ain’t no sense in it. A body might stump his toe, and take pison,
and fall down the well, and break his neck, and bust his brains out, and
somebody come along and ask what killed him, and some numskull up and say,
‘Why, he stumped his toe.’ Would ther’ be any sense in that? No.
And ther’ ain’t no sense in this, nuther. Is it ketching?”

“Is it ketching? Why, how you talk. Is a harrow catching—in the
dark? If you don’t hitch on to one tooth, you’re bound to on another, ain’t
you? And you can’t get away with that tooth without fetching the whole harrow
along, can you? Well, these kind of mumps is a kind of a harrow, as you may
say—and it ain’t no slouch of a harrow, nuther, you come to get it hitched on
good.”

“Well, it’s awful, I think,” says the hare-lip. “I’ll go to Uncle Harvey and—”

“Oh, yes,” I says, “I would. Of course I would. I wouldn’t lose
no time.”

“Well, why wouldn’t you?”

“Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. Hain’t your uncles obleegd to
get along home to 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, he’ll say, ‘It’s a great pity, but my church matters has got to get
along the best way they can; for my niece has been exposed to the dreadful
pluribus-unum mumps, and so it’s my bounden duty to set down here and wait the
three months it takes to show on her if she’s got it.’ But never mind, if you
think it’s best to tell your uncle Harvey—”

“Shucks, and stay fooling around here when we could all be having good times in
England whilst we was waiting to find out whether Mary Jane’s got it or not?
Why, you talk like a muggins.”

“Well, anyway, maybe you’d better tell some of the neighbors.”

“Listen at that, now. You do beat all for natural stupidness. Can’t you
see that they’d go and tell? Ther’ ain’t no way but just to not
tell anybody at all.”

“Well, maybe you’re right—yes, I judge you are right.”

“But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she’s gone out a while, anyway, so
he won’t be uneasy about her?”

“Yes, Miss Mary Jane she wanted you to do that. She says, ‘Tell them to give
Uncle Harvey and William my love and a kiss, and say I’ve run over the river to
see Mr.’—Mr.—what is the name of that rich family your uncle Peter used
to think so much of?—I mean the one that—”

“Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain’t it?”

“Of course; bother them kind of names, a body can’t ever seem to remember them,
half the time, somehow. Yes, she said, say she has run over for to ask the
Apthorps to be sure and come to the auction and buy this house, because she
allowed her uncle Peter would ruther they had it than anybody else; and she’s
going to stick to them till they say they’ll come, and then, if she ain’t too
tired, she’s coming home; and if she is, she’ll be home in the morning anyway.
She said, don’t say nothing about the 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 pisonest, up there longside of the auctioneer, and
chipping in a little Scripture now and then, or a little goody-goody saying of
some kind, and the duke he was around goo-gooing for sympathy all he knowed
how, and just spreading himself generly.

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 new-comers like it give him the
stomach-ache in his very heart to think there could be such frauds and rascals
in the world. Oh, he done it admirable. Lots of the principal people gethered
around the king, to let him see they was on his side. That old gentleman that
had just come looked all puzzled to death. Pretty soon he begun to speak, and I
see straight off he pronounced like an Englishman—not the king’s way,
though the king’s was pretty good for an imitation. I can’t give the old
gent’s words, nor I can’t imitate him; but he turned around to the crowd, and
says, about like this:

“This is a surprise to me which I wasn’t looking for; and I’ll acknowledge,
candid and frank, I ain’t very well fixed to meet it and answer it; for my
brother and me has had misfortunes; he’s broke his arm, and our baggage got put
off at a town above here last night in the night by a mistake. I am Peter
Wilks’ brother Harvey, and this is his brother William, which can’t hear nor
speak—and can’t even make signs to amount to much, now’t he’s only got one hand
to work them with. We are who we say we are; and in a day or two, when I get
the baggage, I can prove it. But up till then I won’t say nothing more, but go
to the hotel and wait.”

So him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs, and blethers out:

“Broke his arm—very likely, ain’t it?—and very convenient, too,
for a fraud that’s got to make signs, and ain’t learnt how. Lost their baggage!
That’s mighty good!—and mighty ingenious—under the
circumstances!”

So he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three or four, or maybe
half a dozen. One of these was that doctor; another one was a sharp-looking
gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-fashioned kind made out of
carpet-stuff, that had just come off of the steamboat and was talking to him in
a low voice, and glancing towards the king now and then and nodding their
heads—it was Levi Bell, the lawyer that was gone up to Louisville; and another
one was a big rough husky that come along and listened to all the old gentleman
said, and was listening to the king now. And when the king got done this husky
up and says:

“Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when’d you come to this town?”

“The day before the funeral, friend,” says the king.

“But what time o’ day?”

“In the evenin’—’bout an hour er two before 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
suppos’n’ ’em honest, like servants in England. The niggers stole it the very
next mornin’ after I had went down stairs; and when I sold ’em I hadn’t missed
the money yit, so they got clean away with it. My servant here k’n tell you
’bout it, gentlemen.”

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 knowed.
The king he give me a left-handed look out of the corner of his eye, and so I
knowed enough to talk on the right side. I begun to tell about Sheffield, and
how we lived there, and all about the English Wilkses, and so on; but I didn’t
get pretty fur till the doctor begun to laugh; and Levi Bell, the lawyer, says:

“Set down, my boy; I wouldn’t strain myself if I was you. I reckon you ain’t
used to lying, it don’t seem to come handy; what you want is practice. You do
it pretty awkward.”

I didn’t care nothing for the compliment, but I was glad to be let off, anyway.

The doctor he started to say something, and turns and says:

“If you’d been in town at first, Levi Bell—” The king broke in and reached out
his hand, and says:

“Why, is this my poor dead brother’s old friend that he’s wrote so often
about?”

The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and looked pleased, and
they talked right along awhile, and then got to one side and talked low; and at
last the lawyer speaks up and says:

“That’ll fix it. I’ll take the order and send it, along with your brother’s,
and then they’ll know it’s all right.”

So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and twisted his head
to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled off something; and then they
give the pen to the duke—and then for the first time the duke looked sick. But
he took the pen and wrote. So then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman
and says:

“You and your brother please write a line or two and sign your names.”

The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn’t read it. The lawyer looked
powerful astonished, and says:

“Well, it beats me”—and snaked a lot of old letters out of his pocket,
and examined them, and then 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 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 hand
writing, and anybody can tell, easy enough, he didn’t write them—fact
is, the scratches he makes ain’t properly writing at all. Now, here’s
some letters from—”

The new old gentleman says:

“If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but my brother there—so
he copies for me. It’s his hand you’ve got there, not mine.”

“Well!” says the lawyer, “this is a state of things. I’ve got
some of William’s letters, too; so if you’ll get him to write a line or so we
can com—”

“He can’t write with his left hand,” says the old gentleman. “If he
could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his own letters and mine
too. Look at both, please—they’re by the same hand.”

The lawyer done it, and says:

“I believe it’s so—and if it ain’t so, there’s a heap stronger resemblance than
I’d noticed before, anyway. Well, well, well! I thought we was right on the
track of a solution, 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 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:

“Perhaps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his breast?”

Blamed if the king didn’t have to brace up mighty quick, or he’d a squshed down
like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took him so sudden; and,
mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to make most anybody sqush
to get fetched such a solid one as that without any notice, because how was
he going to know what was tattooed on the man? He whitened a little; he
couldn’t help it; and it was mighty still in there, and everybody bending a
little forwards and gazing at him. Says I to myself, Now he’ll throw up
the sponge—there ain’t no more use. Well, did he? A body can’t hardly believe
it, but he didn’t. I reckon he thought he’d keep the thing up till he tired
them people out, so they’d thin out, and him and the duke could break loose and
get away. Anyway, he set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says:

“Mf! It’s a very tough question, ain’t it! Yes, sir, I k’n
tell you what’s tattooed on his breast. It’s jest a small, thin, blue
arrow—that’s what it is; and if you don’t look clost, you can’t see it.
Now what do you say—hey?”

Well, I never see anything like that old blister for clean out-and-out
cheek.

The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and his pard, and his eye
lights up like he judged he’d got the king this time, and says:

“There—you’ve heard what he said! Was there any such mark on Peter Wilks’
breast?”

Both of them spoke up and says:

“We didn’t see no such mark.”

“Good!” says the old gentleman. “Now, what you did see on his breast was
a small dim P, and a B (which is an initial he dropped when he was young), and
a W, with dashes between them, so: P—B—W”—and he marked them that way on a
piece of paper. “Come, ain’t that what you saw?”

Both of them spoke up again, and says:

“No, we didn’t. We never seen any marks at all.”

Well, everybody was in a state of mind now, and they sings out:

“The whole bilin’ of ’m ’s frauds! Le’s duck ’em! le’s drown ’em! le’s
ride ’em on a rail!” and everybody was whooping at once, and there was a
rattling powwow. But the lawyer he jumps on the table and yells, and says:

“Gentlemen—gentlemen! Hear me just a word—just a single word—if
you PLEASE! There’s one way yet—let’s go and dig up the corpse
and look.”

That took them.

“Hooray!” they all shouted, and was starting right off; but the lawyer and the
doctor sung out:

“Hold on, hold on! Collar all these four men and the boy, and fetch them
along, too!”

“We’ll do it!” they all shouted; “and if we don’t find them marks we’ll lynch
the whole gang!”

I was scared, now, I tell you. But there warn’t no getting away, you
know. They gripped us all, and marched us right along, straight for the
graveyard, which was a mile and a half down the river, and the whole town at
our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was only nine in the evening.

As we went by our house I wished I hadn’t sent Mary Jane out of town; because
now if I could tip her the wink she’d light out and save me, and blow on our
dead-beats.

Well, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying on like wildcats; and
to make it more scary the sky was darking up, and the lightning beginning to
wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver amongst the leaves. This was the most
awful trouble and most dangersome I ever was in; and I was kinder stunned;
everything was going so different from what I had allowed for; stead of being
fixed so I could take my own time if I wanted to, and see all the fun, and have
Mary Jane at my back to save me and set me free when the close-fit come, here
was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden death but just them
tattoo-marks. If they didn’t find them—

I couldn’t bear to think about it; and yet, 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 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 tow-head, I
begun to look sharp for a boat to borrow, and the first time the lightning
showed me one that wasn’t chained I snatched it and shoved. It was a canoe, and
warn’t fastened with nothing but a rope. The tow-head was a rattling big
distance off, away out there in the middle of the river, but I didn’t lose no
time; and when I struck the raft at last I was so fagged I would a just laid
down to blow and gasp if I could afforded it. But I didn’t. As I sprung aboard
I sung out:

“Out with you, Jim, and set her loose! Glory be to goodness, we’re shut of
them!”

Jim lit out, and was a-coming for me with both arms spread, he was so full of
joy; but when I glimpsed him in the lightning my heart shot up in my mouth and
I went overboard backwards; for I forgot he was old King Lear and a drownded
A-rab all in one, and it most scared the livers and lights out of me. But Jim
fished me out, and was going to hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so glad
I was back and we was shut of the king and the duke, but I says:

“Not now; have it for breakfast, have it for 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
knowed mighty well, and held my breath and listened and waited; and sure
enough, when the next flash busted out over the water, here they come!—and just
a-laying to their oars and making their skiff hum! It was the king and the
duke.

So I wilted right down on to the planks then, and give up; and it was all I
could do to keep from crying.

CHAPTER XXX.

When they got aboard the king went for me, and shook me by the collar, and
says:

“Tryin’ to give us the slip, was ye, you pup! Tired of our company, hey?”

I says:

“No, your majesty, we warn’t—please don’t, your majesty!”

“Quick, then, and tell us what was your idea, or I’ll shake the insides
out o’ you!”

“Honest, I’ll tell you everything just as it happened, your majesty. The man
that had a-holt of me was very good to me, and kept saying he had a boy about
as big as me that died last year, and he was sorry to see a boy in such a
dangerous fix; and when they was all took by surprise by finding the gold, and
made a rush for the coffin, he lets go of me and whispers, ‘Heel it now, or
they’ll hang ye, sure!’ and I lit out. It didn’t seem no good for me to
stay—I couldn’t do nothing, and I didn’t want to be hung if I could get
away. So I never stopped running till I found the canoe; and when I got here I
told Jim to hurry, or they’d catch me and hang me yet, and said I was afeard
you and the duke wasn’t alive now, and I was awful sorry, and so was Jim, and
was awful glad when we see you coming; you may ask Jim if I didn’t.”

Jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up, and said, “Oh, yes, it’s
mighty likely!” and shook me up again, and said he reckoned he’d drownd
me. But the duke says:

“Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would you a done any different? Did you
inquire around for him when you got loose? I don’t remember it.”

So the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and everybody in it. But
the duke says:

“You better a blame sight give yourself a good cussing, for you’re the
one that’s entitled to it most. You hain’t done a thing from the start that had
any sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky with that imaginary
blue-arrow mark. That was bright—it was right down bully; and it was the
thing that saved us. For if it hadn’t been for that, they’d a jailed us till
them Englishmen’s baggage come—and then—the penitentiary, you bet! But that
trick took ’em to the graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger kindness;
for if the excited fools hadn’t let go all holts and made that rush to get a
look, we’d a slept in our cravats to-night—cravats warranted to wear,
too—longer than we’d need ’em.”

They was still a minute—thinking; then the king says, kind of absent-minded
like:

“Mf! And we reckoned the niggers stole it!”

That made me squirm!

“Yes,” says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate and sarcastic, “We
did.”

After about a half a minute the king drawls out:

“Leastways, I did.”

The duke says, the same way:

“On the contrary, I did.”

The king kind of ruffles up, and says:

“Looky here, Bilgewater, what’r you referrin’ to?”

The duke says, pretty brisk:

“When it comes to that, maybe you’ll let me ask, what was you referring
to?”

“Shucks!” says the king, very sarcastic; “but I don’t know—maybe you was
asleep, and didn’t know what you was about.”

The duke bristles up now, and says:

“Oh, let up on this cussed nonsense; do you take me for a blame’ fool?
Don’t you reckon I know who hid that money in that coffin?”

“Yes, sir! I know you do know, because you done it yourself!”

“It’s a lie!”—and the duke went for him. The king sings out:

“Take y’r hands off!—leggo my throat!—I take it all back!”

The duke says:

“Well, you just own up, first, that you did hide that money there,
intending to give me the slip one of these days, and come back and dig it up,
and have it all to yourself.”

“Wait jest a minute, duke—answer me this one question, honest and fair; if you
didn’t put the money there, say it, and I’ll b’lieve you, and take back
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 never die if I done it, duke, and that’s honest. I won’t say I
warn’t goin’ to do it, because I was; but you—I mean somebody—got in
ahead o’ me.”

“It’s a lie! You done it, and you got to say you done it, or—”

The king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out:

“’Nough!—I own up!”

I was very glad to hear him say that; it made me feel much more easier than
what I was feeling before. So the duke took his hands off and says:

“If you ever deny it again I’ll drown you. It’s well for you to set
there and blubber like a baby—it’s fitten for you, after the way you’ve acted.
I never see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble 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 on to a lot of poor
niggers, and you never say a word for ’em. It makes me feel ridiculous to think
I was soft enough to believe that rubbage. Cuss you, I can see now why
you was so anxious to make up the deffisit—you wanted to get what money I’d got
out of the Nonesuch and one thing or another, and scoop it all!”

The king says, timid, and still a-snuffling:

“Why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffisit; it warn’t me.”

“Dry up! I don’t want to hear no more out of you!” says the duke. “And
now you see what you got by it. They’ve got all their own money
back, and all of ourn but a shekel or two besides. G’long to bed,
and don’t you deffersit me no more deffersits, long ’s you live!”

So the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to his bottle for comfort, and
before long the duke tackled his bottle; and so in about a half an hour
they was as thick as thieves again, and the tighter they got, the lovinger they
got, and went off a-snoring in each other’s arms. They both got powerful
mellow, but I noticed the king didn’t get mellow enough to forget to remember
to not deny about hiding the money-bag again. That made me feel easy and
satisfied. Of course when they got to snoring we had a long gabble, and I told
Jim everything.

CHAPTER XXXI.

We dasn’t stop again at any town for days and days; kept right along down the
river. We was down south in the warm weather now, and a mighty long ways from
home. We begun to come to trees with Spanish moss on them, hanging down from
the limbs like long, gray beards. It was the first I ever see it growing, and
it made the woods look solemn and dismal. So now the frauds reckoned they was
out of danger, and they begun to work the villages again.

First they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn’t make enough for them
both to get drunk on. Then in another village they started a dancing-school;
but they didn’t know no more how to dance than a kangaroo does; so the first
prance they made the general public jumped in and pranced them out of town.
Another time they tried to go at yellocution; but they didn’t yellocute long
till the audience got up and give them a solid good cussing, and made them skip
out. They tackled missionarying, and mesmerizing, and doctoring, and telling
fortunes, and a little of everything; but they couldn’t seem to have no luck.
So at last they got just about dead broke, and laid around the raft as she
floated along, thinking and thinking, and never saying nothing, by the half a
day at a time, and dreadful blue and desperate.

And at last they took a change and begun to lay their heads together in the
wigwam and talk low and confidential two or three hours at a time. Jim and me
got uneasy. We didn’t like the look of it. We judged they was studying up some
kind of worse deviltry than ever. We turned it over and over, and at last we
made up our minds they was going to break into somebody’s house or store, or
was going into the counterfeit-money business, or something. So then we was
pretty scared, and made up an agreement that we wouldn’t have nothing in the
world to do with such actions, and if we ever got the least show we would give
them the cold shake and clear out and leave them behind. Well, early one
morning we hid the raft in a good, safe place about two mile below a little bit
of a shabby village named Pikesville, and the king he went ashore and told us
all to stay hid whilst he went up to town and smelt around to see if anybody
had got any wind of the Royal Nonesuch there yet. (“House to rob, you
mean,” says I to myself; “and when you get through robbing it you’ll
come back here and wonder what has become of me and Jim and the raft—and you’ll
have to take it out in wondering.”) And he said if he warn’t back by midday the
duke and me would know it was all right, and we was to come along.

So we stayed where we was. The duke he fretted and sweated around, and was in a
mighty sour way. He scolded us for everything, and we couldn’t seem to do
nothing right; he found fault with every little thing. Something was a-brewing,
sure. I was good and glad when midday come and no king; we could have a change,
anyway—and maybe a chance for the 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
a-threatening with all his might, and so tight he couldn’t walk, and couldn’t
do nothing to them. The duke he begun to abuse him for an old fool, and the
king begun to sass back, and the minute they was fairly at it I lit out and
shook the reefs out of my hind legs, and spun down the river road like a deer,
for I see our chance; and I made up my mind that it would be a long day before
they ever see me and Jim again. I got down there all out of breath but loaded
up with joy, and sung out:

“Set her loose, Jim! we’re all right now!”

But there warn’t no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. Jim was gone! I
set up a shout—and then another—and then another one; and run this way and that
in the woods, whooping and 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.”

“Whereabouts?” says I.

“Down to Silas Phelps’ place, two mile below here. He’s a runaway nigger, and
they’ve got him. Was you looking for him?”

“You bet I ain’t! I run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago, and
he said if I hollered he’d cut my livers out—and told me to lay down and stay
where I was; and I done it. Been there ever since; afeard to come out.”

“Well,” he says, “you needn’t be afeard no more, becuz they’ve got him. He run
off f’m down South, som’ers.”

“It’s a good job they got him.”

“Well, I reckon! There’s two hunderd dollars 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 it was all come to nothing,
everything all busted up and ruined, because they could have the heart to serve
Jim such a trick as that, and make him a slave again all his life, and amongst
strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars.

Once I said to myself it would be a thousand times better for Jim to be a slave
at home where his family was, as long as he’d got to be a slave, and so
I’d better write a letter to Tom Sawyer and tell him to tell Miss Watson where
he was. But I soon give up that notion for two things: she’d be mad and
disgusted at his rascality and ungratefulness for leaving her, and so she’d
sell him straight down the river again; and if she didn’t, everybody naturally
despises an ungrateful nigger, and they’d make Jim feel it all the time, and so
he’d feel ornery and disgraced. And then think of me! It would get all
around that Huck Finn helped a nigger to get his freedom; and if I was ever to
see anybody from that town again I’d be ready to get down and lick his boots
for shame. That’s just the way: a person does a low-down thing, and then he
don’t want to take no consequences of it. Thinks as long as he can hide it, it
ain’t no disgrace. That was my fix exactly. The more I studied about this, the
more my conscience went to grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and
ornery I got to feeling. And at last, when it hit me all of a sudden that here
was the plain hand of Providence slapping me in the face and letting me know my
wickedness was being watched all the time from up there in heaven, whilst I was
stealing a poor old woman’s nigger that hadn’t ever done me no harm, and now
was showing me there’s One that’s always on the lookout, and ain’t a-going to
allow no such miserable doings to go only just so fur and no further, I most
dropped in my tracks I was so scared. Well, I tried the best I could to kinder
soften it up somehow for myself by saying I was brung up wicked, and so I
warn’t so much to blame; but something inside of me kept saying, “There was the
Sunday-school, you could a gone to it; and if you’d a done it they’d a learnt
you there that people that acts as I’d been acting about that nigger goes to
everlasting fire.”

It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray, and see if I couldn’t
try to quit being the kind of a boy I was and be better. So I kneeled down. But
the words wouldn’t come. Why wouldn’t they? It warn’t no use to try and hide it
from Him. Nor from me, neither. I knowed very well why they wouldn’t
come. It was because my heart warn’t right; it was because I warn’t square; it
was because I was playing double. I was letting on to give up sin, but
away inside of me I was holding on to the biggest one of all. I was trying to
make my mouth say I would do the right thing and the clean thing, and go
and write to that nigger’s owner and tell where he was; but deep down in me I
knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it. You can’t pray a lie—I found that out.

So I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and didn’t know what to do. At
last I had an idea; and I says, I’ll go and write the letter—and then
see if I can pray. Why, it was astonishing, the way I felt as light as a
feather right straight off, and my troubles all gone. So I got a piece of paper
and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and wrote:

Miss Watson, your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile below Pikesville,
and Mr. Phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send.

HUCK FINN.

I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so
in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn’t do it straight off, but
laid the paper down and set there thinking—thinking how good it was all this
happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on
thinking. And got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim
before me all the time: in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight,
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 knowed it. I
studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself:

“All right, then, I’ll go to hell”—and tore it up.

It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. And I let them stay
said; and never thought no more about reforming. I shoved the whole thing out
of my head, and said I would take up wickedness again, which was in my line,
being brung up to it, and the other warn’t. And for a starter I would go to
work and steal Jim out of slavery again; and if I could think up anything
worse, I would do that, too; 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 some considerable
many ways in my mind; and at last fixed up a plan that suited me. So then I
took the bearings of a woody island that was down the river a piece, and as
soon as it was fairly dark I crept out with my raft and went for it, and hid it
there, and then turned in. I slept the night through, and got up before it was
light, and had my breakfast, and put on my store clothes, and tied up some
others and one thing or another in a bundle, and took the canoe and cleared for
shore. I landed below where I judged was Phelps’s place, and hid my bundle in
the woods, and then filled up the canoe with water, and loaded rocks into her
and sunk her where I could find her again when I wanted her, about a quarter of
a mile below a little steam sawmill that was on the bank.

Then I struck up the road, and when I passed the mill I see a sign on it,
“Phelps’s Sawmill,” and when I come to the farm-houses, two or three hundred
yards further along, I kept my eyes peeled, but didn’t see nobody around,
though it was good daylight now. But I didn’t mind, because I didn’t want to
see nobody just yet—I only wanted to get the lay of the land. According to my
plan, I was going to turn up there from the village, not from below. So I just
took a look, and shoved along, straight for town. Well, the very first man I
see when I got there was the duke. He was sticking up a bill for the Royal
Nonesuch—three-night performance—like that other time. They had the
cheek, them frauds! I was right on him 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 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 a-holt of
the rope and went behind him to shove him along, he was too strong for me and
jerked loose and run, and we after him. We didn’t have no dog, and so we had to
chase him all over the country till we tired him out. We never got him till
dark; then we fetched him over, and I started down for the raft. When I got
there and see it was gone, I says to myself, ‘they’ve got into trouble and had
to leave; and they’ve took my nigger, which is the only nigger I’ve got in the
world, and now I’m in a strange country, and ain’t got no property no more, nor
nothing, and no way to make my living;’ so I set down and cried. I slept in the
woods all night. But what did become of the raft, then?—and Jim—poor
Jim!”

“Blamed if I know—that is, what’s become of the raft. That old fool had
made a trade and got forty dollars, and when we found him in the doggery the
loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got every cent but what he’d
spent for whisky; and when I got him home late last night and found the raft
gone, we said, ‘That little rascal has stole our raft and shook us, and run off
down the river.’”

“I wouldn’t shake my nigger, would I?—the only nigger I had in the
world, and the only property.”

“We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we’d come to consider him
our nigger; yes, we did consider him so—goodness knows we had trouble
enough for him. So when we see the raft was gone and we flat broke, there
warn’t anything for it but to try the Royal Nonesuch another shake. And I’ve
pegged along ever since, dry as a powder-horn. Where’s that ten cents? Give it
here.”

I had considerable money, so I give him ten cents, but begged him to spend it
for something to eat, and give me some, because it was all the money I had, and
I hadn’t had nothing to eat since yesterday. He never said nothing. The next
minute he whirls on me and says:

“Do you reckon that nigger would blow on us? We’d skin him if he done that!”

“How can he blow? Hain’t he run off?”

“No! That old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the money’s gone.”

“Sold him?” I says, and begun to cry; “why, he was my nigger, and
that was my money. Where is he?—I want my nigger.”

“Well, you can’t get your nigger, that’s all—so dry up your blubbering.
Looky here—do you think you’d venture to blow on us? Blamed if I think
I’d trust you. Why, if you was to blow on us—”

He stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes before. I
went on a-whimpering, and says:

“I don’t want to blow on nobody; and I ain’t got no time to blow, nohow. I got
to turn out and find my nigger.”

He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering on his
arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his forehead. At last he says:

“I’ll tell you something. We got to be here three days. If you’ll promise you
won’t blow, and won’t let the nigger blow, I’ll tell you where to find him.”

So I promised, and he says:

“A farmer by the name of Silas Ph—” and then he stopped. You see, he started to
tell me the truth; but when he stopped that way, and begun to study and think
again, I reckoned he was changing his mind. And so he was. He wouldn’t trust
me; he wanted to make sure of having me out of the way the whole three days. So
pretty soon he says:

“The man that bought him is named Abram Foster—Abram G. Foster—and he lives
forty mile back here in the country, on the road to Lafayette.”

“All right,” I says, “I can walk it in three days. And I’ll start this very
afternoon.”

“No you wont, you’ll start now; and don’t you lose any time about it,
neither, nor do any gabbling by the way. Just keep a tight tongue in your head
and move right along, and then you won’t get into trouble with us, d’ye
hear?”

That was the order I wanted, and that was the one I played for. I wanted to be
left free to work my plans.

“So clear out,” he says; “and you can tell Mr. Foster whatever you want to.
Maybe you can get him to believe that Jim is your nigger—some idiots
don’t require documents—leastways I’ve heard there’s such down South here. And
when you tell him the handbill and the reward’s bogus, maybe he’ll believe you
when you explain to him what the idea was for getting ’em out. Go ’long now,
and tell him anything you want to; but mind you don’t work your jaw any
between here and there.”

So I left, and struck for the back country. I didn’t look around, but I kinder
felt like he was watching me. But I knowed I could tire him out at that. I went
straight out in the country as much as a mile before I stopped; then I doubled
back through the woods towards Phelps’. I reckoned I better start in on my plan
straight off without fooling around, because I wanted to stop Jim’s mouth till
these fellows could get away. I didn’t want no trouble with their kind. I’d
seen all I wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely shut of them.

CHAPTER XXXII.

When I got there it was all still and Sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny; the
hands was gone to the fields; and there was them kind of faint dronings of bugs
and flies in the air that makes it seem so 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’ 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 on to a
horse; some sickly grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and
smooth, like an old hat with the nap rubbed off; big double log-house for the
white folks—hewed logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar, and
these mud-stripes been whitewashed some time or another; round-log kitchen,
with a big broad, open but roofed passage joining it to the house; log
smoke-house back of the kitchen; three little log nigger-cabins in a row
t’other side the smoke-house; one little hut all by itself away down against
the back fence, and some outbuildings down a piece the other side; ash-hopper
and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut; bench by the kitchen door,
with bucket of water and a gourd; hound asleep there in the sun; more hounds
asleep round about; about three shade trees away off in a corner; some currant
bushes and gooseberry bushes in one place by the fence; outside of the fence a
garden and a watermelon patch; then the cotton fields begins, and after the
fields the woods.

I went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper, and started for
the kitchen. When I got a little ways I heard the dim hum of a spinning-wheel
wailing along up and sinking along down again; and then I knowed for certain I
wished I was dead—for that is the lonesomest sound in the whole world.

I went right along, not fixing up any particular plan, but just trusting to
Providence to put the right words in my mouth when the time come; for I’d
noticed that Providence always did put the right words in my mouth if I left it
alone.

When I got half-way, first one hound and then another got up and went for me,
and of course I stopped and faced them, and kept still. And such another powwow
as they made! In a quarter of a minute I was a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you
may say—spokes made out of dogs—circle of fifteen of them packed together
around me, with their necks and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and
howling; and more a-coming; you could see them 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 them howling, and then the
rest followed; and the next second half of them come back, wagging their tails
around me, and making friends with me. There ain’t no harm in a hound, nohow.

And behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little nigger boys
without anything on but tow-linen shirts, and they hung on to their mother’s
gown, and peeped out from behind her at me, bashful, the way they always do.
And here comes the white woman running from the house, about forty-five or
fifty year old, bareheaded, and her spinning-stick in her hand; and behind her
comes her little white children, acting the same way the little niggers was
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!
Children, it’s your cousin Tom!—tell him howdy.”

But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their mouths, and hid
behind her. So she run on:

“Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right away—or did you get your
breakfast on the boat?”

I said I had got it on the boat. So then she started for the house, leading me
by the hand, and the children tagging after. When we got there she set me down
in a split-bottomed chair, and set herself down on a little low stool in front
of me, holding both of my hands, and says:

“Now I can have a good look at you; and, laws-a-me, I’ve been hungry for
it a many and a many a time, all these long years, and it’s come at last! We
been expecting you a couple of days and more. What kep’ you?—boat get aground?”

“Yes’m—she—”

“Don’t say yes’m—say Aunt Sally. Where’d she get aground?”

I didn’t rightly know what to say, because I didn’t know whether the boat would
be coming up the river or down. But I go a good deal on instinct; and my
instinct said she would be coming up—from down towards Orleans. That didn’t
help me much, though; for I didn’t know the names of bars down that way. I see
I’d got to invent a bar, or forget the name of the one we got aground on—or—Now
I struck an idea, and fetched it out:

“It warn’t the grounding—that didn’t keep us back but a little. We blowed out a
cylinder-head.”

“Good gracious! anybody hurt?”

“No’m. Killed a nigger.”

“Well, it’s lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. Two years ago last
Christmas your uncle Silas was coming up from Newrleans on the old Lally
Rook, and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crippled a man. And I think he
died afterwards. He was a Baptist. Your uncle Silas knowed a family in Baton
Rouge that knowed his people very well. Yes, I remember now, he did die.
Mortification set in, and they had to amputate him. But it didn’t save him.
Yes, it was mortification—that was it. He turned blue all over, and died in the
hope of a glorious resurrection. They say he was a sight to look at. Your
uncle’s been up to the town every day to fetch you. And he’s gone again, not
more’n an hour ago; he’ll be back any minute now. You must a met him on the
road, didn’t you?—oldish man, with a—”

“No, I didn’t see nobody, Aunt Sally. The boat landed just at daylight, and I
left my baggage on the wharf-boat and went looking around the town and out a
piece in the country, to put in the time and not get here too soon; and so I
come down the back way.”

“Who’d you give the baggage to?”

“Nobody.”

“Why, child, it’ll be stole!”

“Not where I hid it I reckon it won’t,” I says.

“How’d you get your breakfast so early on the boat?”

It was kinder thin ice, but I says:

“The captain see me standing around, and told me I better have something to eat
before I went ashore; so he took me in the texas to the officers’ lunch, and
give me all I wanted.”

I was getting so uneasy I couldn’t listen good. I had my mind on the children
all the time; I wanted to get them out to one side and pump them a little, and
find out who I was. But I couldn’t get no show, Mrs. Phelps kept it up and run
on so. Pretty soon she made the cold chills streak all down my back, because
she says:

“But here we’re a-running on this way, and you hain’t told me a word about Sis,
nor any of them. Now I’ll rest my works a little, and you start up yourn; just
tell me everything—tell me all about ’m all every one of ’m; and how
they are, and what they’re doing, and what they told you to tell me; and every
last thing you can think of.”

Well, I see I was up a stump—and up it good. Providence had stood by me this
fur all right, but I was hard and tight aground now. I see it warn’t a bit of
use to try to go ahead—I’d got to throw up my hand. So I says to myself,
here’s another place where I got to resk the truth. I opened my mouth to begin;
but she grabbed me and hustled me in behind the bed, and says:

“Here he comes! Stick your head down lower—there, that’ll do; you can’t be seen
now. Don’t you let on you’re here. I’ll play a joke on him. Children, don’t you
say a word.”

I see I was in a fix now. But it warn’t no use to worry; there warn’t nothing
to do but just hold still, and try and be ready to stand from under when the
lightning struck.

I had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he come in; then the
bed hid him. Mrs. Phelps she jumps for him, and says:

“Has he come?”

“No,” says her husband.

“Good-ness gracious!” she says, “what in the warld can have become of
him?”

“I can’t imagine,” says the old gentleman; “and I must say it makes me dreadful
uneasy.”

“Uneasy!” she says; “I’m ready to go distracted! He must a come; and
you’ve missed him along the road. I know it’s so—something tells me so.”

“Why, Sally, I couldn’t miss him along the road—you know that.”

“But oh, dear, dear, what will Sis say! He must a come! You must a
missed him. He—”

“Oh, don’t distress me any more’n I’m already 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 bolthead it would
a done just as well.

Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pretty
uncomfortable all up the other. Being Tom Sawyer was easy and comfortable, and
it stayed easy and comfortable till by-and-by I hear a steamboat coughing along
down the river. Then I says to myself, s’pose Tom Sawyer comes down on that
boat? And s’pose he steps in here any minute, and sings out my name before I
can throw him a wink to keep quiet? Well, I couldn’t have it that way;
it wouldn’t do at all. I must go up the road and waylay him. So I told the
folks I reckoned I would go up to the town and fetch down my baggage. The old
gentleman was for going along with me, but I said no, I could drive the horse
myself, and I druther he wouldn’t take no trouble about me.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

So I started for town in the wagon, and when I was half-way I see a wagon
coming, and sure enough it was Tom Sawyer, and I stopped and waited till he
come along. I says “Hold on!” and it stopped alongside, and his mouth opened up
like a trunk, and stayed so; and he swallowed two or three times like a person
that’s got a dry throat, and then says:

“I hain’t ever done you no harm. You know that. So, then, what you want to come
back and ha’nt me for?”

I says:

“I hain’t come back—I hain’t been gone.”

When he heard my voice it righted him up some, but he warn’t quite satisfied
yet. He says:

“Don’t you play nothing on me, because I wouldn’t on you. Honest injun 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 a-going to steal him, and I want
you keep mum and not let on. Will you?”

His eye lit up, and he says:

“I’ll help you steal him!”

Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It was the most astonishing
speech I ever heard—and I’m bound to say Tom Sawyer fell considerable in my
estimation. Only I couldn’t believe it. Tom Sawyer a nigger stealer!

“Oh, shucks!” I says; “you’re joking.”

“I ain’t joking, either.”

“Well, then,” I says, “joking or no joking, if you hear anything said about a
runaway nigger, don’t 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! Whoever would a thought it was in that mare to do it?
I wish we’d a timed her. And she hain’t sweated a hair—not a hair. It’s
wonderful. Why, I wouldn’t take a hundred dollars for that horse now—I
wouldn’t, honest; and yet I’d a sold her for fifteen before, and thought ’twas
all she was worth.”

That’s all he said. He was the innocentest, best old soul I ever see. But it
warn’t surprising; because he warn’t only just a farmer, he was a preacher,
too, and had a little one-horse log church down back of the plantation, which
he built it himself at his own expense, for a church and schoolhouse, and never
charged 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
a-front of us he lifts his hat ever so gracious and dainty, like it was the lid
of a box that had butterflies asleep in it and he didn’t want to disturb them,
and says:

“Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?”

“No, my boy,” says the old gentleman, “I’m sorry to say ’t your driver has
deceived you; Nichols’s place is down a matter of three mile more. Come in,
come in.”

Tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says, “Too late—he’s out of
sight.”

“Yes, he’s gone, my son, and you must come in and eat your dinner with us; and
then we’ll hitch up and take you down to Nichols’s.”

“Oh, I can’t make you so much trouble; I couldn’t think of it. I’ll
walk—I don’t mind the distance.”

“But we won’t let you walk—it wouldn’t be 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 ther’ll be an idiot short.”

He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says:

“I’m sorry, and I warn’t expecting it. They told me to. They all told me to.
They all said, kiss her; and said she’d like it. They all said it—every one of
them. But I’m sorry, m’am, and I won’t do it no more—I won’t, honest.”

“You won’t, won’t you? Well, I sh’d reckon you won’t!”

“No’m, I’m honest about it; I won’t ever do it again—till you ask me.”

“Till I ask you! Well, I never see the beat of it in my born days! I lay
you’ll be the Methusalem-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 somewheres, and fetched
up on the old gentleman’s, and says, “Didn’t you think she’d like me to
kiss her, sir?”

“Why, no; I—I—well, no, I b’lieve I didn’t.”

Then he looks on around the same way to me, and says:

“Tom, didn’t you think Aunt Sally ’d open out her arms and say, ‘Sid
Sawyer—’”

“My land!” she says, breaking in and jumping for him, “you impudent young
rascal, to fool a body so—” and was going to hug him, but he fended her off,
and says:

“No, not till you’ve asked me first.”

So she didn’t lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him and kissed him over
and over again, and then turned him over to the old man, and he took what was
left. And after they got a little quiet again she says:

“Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We warn’t looking for you at
all, but only Tom. Sis never wrote to me about anybody coming but him.”

“It’s because it warn’t intended for any of us to come but Tom,” he
says; “but I begged and begged, and at the last minute she let me come, too;
so, 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 good-night and went up to bed right
after supper, and clumb out of the window and down the lightning-rod, and
shoved for the town; for I didn’t believe anybody was going to give the king
and the duke a hint, and so if I didn’t hurry up and give them one they’d get
into trouble sure.

On the road Tom he told me all about how it was reckoned I was murdered, and
how pap disappeared pretty soon, and didn’t come back no more, and what a stir
there was when Jim run away; and I told Tom all about our Royal Nonesuch
rapscallions, and as much of the raft voyage as I had time to; and as we struck
into the town and up through the 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 knowed it was the king and the duke,
though they was all over tar and feathers, and didn’t look like nothing in the
world that was human—just looked like a couple of monstrous big soldier-plumes.
Well, it made me sick to see it; and I was sorry for them poor pitiful rascals,
it seemed like I couldn’t ever feel any hardness against them any more in the
world. It was a dreadful thing to see. Human beings can be awful cruel
to one another.

We see we was too late—couldn’t do no good. We asked some stragglers about it,
and they said everybody went to the show looking very innocent; and laid low
and kept dark till the poor old king was in the middle of his cavortings on the
stage; then somebody give a signal, and the house rose up and went for them.

So we poked along back home, and I warn’t feeling so brash as I was before, but
kind of ornery, and humble, and to blame, somehow—though I hadn’t done
nothing. But that’s always the way; it don’t make no difference whether you do
right or wrong, a person’s conscience ain’t got no sense, and just goes for him
anyway. If I had a yaller dog that didn’t know no more than a person’s
conscience does I would pison him. It takes up more room than all the rest of a
person’s insides, and yet ain’t no good, nohow. Tom Sawyer he says the same.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

We stopped talking, and got to thinking. By-and-by Tom says:

“Looky here, Huck, what fools we are to not think of it before! I bet I know
where Jim is.”

“No! Where?”

“In that hut down by the ash-hopper. Why, looky here. When we was at dinner,
didn’t you see a nigger man go in there with some vittles?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think the vittles was for?”

“For a dog.”

“So’d I. Well, it wasn’t for a dog.”

“Why?”

“Because part of it was watermelon.”

“So it was—I noticed it. Well, it does beat all that I never thought about a
dog not eating 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 came out. He fetched uncle a key about the time we got up from
table—same key, I bet. Watermelon shows man, lock shows prisoner; and it ain’t
likely there’s two prisoners on such a little plantation, and where the
people’s all so kind and good. Jim’s the prisoner. All right—I’m glad we found
it out detective fashion; I wouldn’t give shucks for any other way. Now you
work your mind, and study out a plan to steal Jim, and I will study out one,
too; and we’ll take the one we like the best.”

What a head for just a boy to have! If I had Tom Sawyer’s head I wouldn’t trade
it off to be a duke, nor mate of a steamboat, nor clown in a circus, nor
nothing I can think of. I went to thinking out a plan, but only just to be
doing something; I knowed very well where the right plan was going to come
from. Pretty soon Tom says:

“Ready?”

“Yes,” I says.

“All right—bring it out.”

“My plan is this,” I says. “We can easy find out if it’s Jim in there. Then get
up my canoe to-morrow night, and fetch my raft over from the island. Then the
first dark night that comes steal the key out of the old man’s britches after
he goes to bed, and shove off down the river on the raft with Jim, hiding
daytimes and running nights, the way me and Jim used to do 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
knowed mighty well that whenever he got his plan ready it wouldn’t have
none of them objections to it.

And it didn’t. He told me what it was, and I see in a minute it was worth
fifteen of mine for style, and would make Jim just as free a man as mine would,
and maybe get us all killed besides. So I was satisfied, and said we would
waltz in on it. I needn’t tell what it was here, because I knowed it wouldn’t
stay the way, it was. I knowed he would be changing it around every which way
as we went along, and heaving in new 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 knowed I ought to just up and tell him so; and so
be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right where he was and save
himself. And I did start to tell him; but he shut me up, and says:

“Don’t you reckon I know what I’m about? Don’t I generly know what I’m about?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t I say I was going to help steal the nigger?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then.”

That’s all he said, and that’s all I said. It warn’t no use to say any more;
because when he said he’d do a thing, he always done it. But I couldn’t
make out how he was willing to go into this thing; so I just let it go, and
never bothered no more about it. If he was bound to have it so, I
couldn’t help it.

When we got home the house was all dark and still; so we went on down to the
hut by the ash-hopper for to examine it. We went through the yard so as to see
what the hounds would do. They knowed us, and didn’t make no more noise than
country dogs is always doing when anything comes by in the night. When we got
to the cabin we took a look at the front and the two sides; and on the side I
warn’t acquainted with—which was the north side—we found a square window-hole,
up tolerable high, with just one stout board nailed across it. I says:

“Here’s the ticket. This hole’s big enough for Jim to get through if we wrench
off the board.”

Tom says:

“It’s as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as easy as playing hooky. I
should hope we can find a way that’s a little more complicated than
that, Huck Finn.”

“Well, then,” I says, “how’ll it do to saw him out, the way I done before I
was murdered that time?”

“That’s more like,” he says. “It’s real mysterious, and troublesome, and
good,” he says; “but I bet we can find a way that’s twice as long. There ain’t
no hurry; le’s keep on looking around.”

Betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to that joined the
hut at the eaves, and was made out of plank. It was as long as the hut, but
narrow—only about six foot wide. The door to it was at the south end, and was
padlocked. Tom he went to the soap-kettle and searched around, and fetched back
the iron thing they lift the lid with; so he took it and prized out one of the
staples. The chain fell down, and we opened the door and went in, and shut it,
and struck a match, and see the shed was only built against a cabin and hadn’t
no connection with it; and there warn’t no floor to the shed, nor nothing in it
but some old rusty played-out hoes and spades and picks and a crippled plow.
The match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the staple again, and the door
was locked as good as ever. Tom was joyful. He says;

“Now we’re all right. We’ll dig him out. It’ll take about a week!”

Then we started for the house, and I went in the back door—you only have to
pull a buckskin latch-string, they don’t fasten the doors—but that warn’t
romantical enough for Tom Sawyer; no way would do him but he must climb up the
lightning-rod. But after he got up half way about three times, and missed fire
and fell every time, and the last time most busted his brains out, he thought
he’d got to give it up; but after he was rested he allowed he would give her
one more turn for luck, and this time he made the trip.

In the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger cabins to pet
the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed Jim—if it was Jim
that was being fed. The niggers was just getting through 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
a-going to do. So Tom says:

“What’s the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?”

The nigger kind of smiled around gradually over his face, like when you heave a
brickbat in a mud-puddle, and he says:

“Yes, Mars Sid, a dog. Cur’us dog, too. Does you want to go en look at
’im?”

“Yes.”

I hunched Tom, and whispers:

“You going, right here in the daybreak? That warn’t the plan.”

“No, it warn’t; but it’s the plan now.”

So, drat him, we went along, but I didn’t like it much. When we got in we
couldn’t hardly see 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 knowed how it would be; I just expected it. I didn’t know nothing
to do; and if I had I couldn’t a done it, because that nigger busted in and
says:

“Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you 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, dis-yer runaway nigger.”

“I don’t reckon he does; but what put that into your head?”

“What put it dar? Didn’ he jis’ dis minute sing out like he knowed you?”

Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way:

“Well, that’s mighty curious. Who sung out? When did he sing out?
what did he sing out?” And turns to me, perfectly ca’m, and says, “Did
you hear anybody sing out?”

Of course there warn’t nothing to be said but the one thing; so I says:

“No; I ain’t heard nobody say nothing.”

Then he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he never see him before, and
says:

“Did you sing out?”

“No, sah,” says Jim; “I hain’t said nothing, sah.”

“Not a word?”

“No, sah, I hain’t said a word.”

“Did you ever see us before?”

“No, sah; not as I knows on.”

So Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and distressed, and says,
kind of severe:

“What do you reckon’s the matter with you, 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 ole 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 noth’n’en fine it out f’r deyselves, en when you
fine it out en tell um ’bout it, dey doan’ b’lieve you.”

Tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn’t tell 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 awkward as it can be. And so it
makes it so rotten difficult to get up a difficult plan. There ain’t no
watchman to be drugged—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 honor
in getting him out through a lot of difficulties and dangers, where there
warn’t one of them furnished to you by the people who it was their duty to
furnish them, and you had to contrive them all out of your own head. Now look
at just that one thing of the lantern. When you come down to the cold facts, we
simply got to let on that a lantern’s resky. Why, we could work with a
torchlight procession if we wanted to, I believe. Now, whilst I think of
it, we got to hunt up something to make a saw out of the first chance we get.”

“What do we want of a saw?”

“What do we want of 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? Who ever heard of getting a prisoner loose in such an
old-maidy way as that? No; the way all the best authorities does is to saw the
bed-leg in two, and leave it just so, and swallow the sawdust, so it can’t be
found, and put some dirt and grease around the sawed place so the very keenest
seneskal can’t see no sign of 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.
S’pose he don’t do nothing with it? ain’t it there in his bed, for a
clew, after he’s gone? and don’t you reckon they’ll want clews? Of course they
will. And you wouldn’t leave them any? That would be a pretty howdy-do,
wouldn’t it! I never heard of such a thing.”

“Well,” I says, “if it’s in the regulations, and he’s got to have it, all
right, let him have it; because I don’t wish to go back on no regulations; but
there’s one thing, Tom Sawyer—if we go to tearing up our sheets to make Jim a
rope ladder, we’re going to get into trouble with Aunt Sally, just as sure as
you’re born. Now, the way I look at it, a hickry-bark ladder don’t cost
nothing, and don’t waste nothing, and is just as good to load up a pie with,
and hide in a straw tick, as any rag ladder you can start; and as for Jim, he
ain’t had no experience, and so he don’t care what kind of a—”

“Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant as you I’d keep still—that’s what
I’d do. Who ever heard of a state prisoner escaping by a hickry-bark
ladder? Why, it’s perfectly ridiculous.”

“Well, all right, Tom, fix it your own way; but if you’ll take my advice,
you’ll let me borrow a sheet off of the clothesline.”

He said that would do. And that gave him another idea, and he says:

“Borrow a shirt, too.”

“What do we want of a shirt, Tom?”

“Want it for Jim to keep a journal on.”

“Journal your granny—Jim can’t write.”

“S’pose he can’t write—he can make marks on the shirt, can’t he, if we
make him a pen out of an old pewter spoon or a piece of an old iron
barrel-hoop?”

“Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him a better one; and
quicker, too.”

“Prisoners don’t have geese running around the donjon-keep to pull pens
out of, you muggins. They always make their pens out of the hardest,
toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or 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 nothing; we can get him some.”

“Can’t nobody read his plates.”

“That ain’t got anything to do with it, Huck Finn. All he’s got
to do is to write on the plate and throw it out. You don’t have to be
able to read it. Why, half the time you can’t read anything a prisoner writes
on a tin plate, or anywhere else.”

“Well, then, what’s the sense in wasting the plates?”

“Why, blame it all, it ain’t the prisoner’s plates.”

“But it’s somebody’s plates, ain’t it?”

“Well, spos’n it is? What does the prisoner care whose—”

He broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn blowing. So we cleared
out for the house.

Along during the morning I borrowed a sheet and a white shirt off of the
clothes-line; and I found an old sack and put them in it, and we went down and
got the fox-fire, and put that in too. I called it borrowing, because that was
what pap always called it; but Tom said it warn’t borrowing, it was stealing.
He said we was representing prisoners; and prisoners don’t care how they get a
thing so they get it, and nobody don’t blame them for it, either. It ain’t no
crime in a prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get away with, Tom said;
it’s his right; and so, as long as we was representing a prisoner, we had a
perfect right to steal anything on this place we had the least use for to get
ourselves out of prison with. He said if we warn’t prisoners it would be a very
different thing, and nobody but a mean, ornery person would steal when he
warn’t a prisoner. So we allowed we would steal 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 woodpile to talk. He says:

“Everything’s all right now except tools; and that’s easy fixed.”

“Tools?” I says.

“Yes.”

“Tools for what?”

“Why, to dig with. We ain’t a-going to gnaw him out, are we?”

“Ain’t them old crippled picks and things in there good enough to dig a nigger
out with?” I says.

He turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a body cry, and says:

“Huck Finn, did you ever hear of a prisoner having picks and shovels,
and all the modern conveniences in his wardrobe to dig himself out with? Now I
want to ask you—if you got any reasonableness in you at all—what kind of a show
would that give him to be a hero? Why, they might as well lend him the
key and done with it. Picks and shovels—why, they wouldn’t furnish ’em to a
king.”

“Well, then,” I says, “if we don’t want the picks and shovels, what do we
want?”

“A couple of case-knives.”

“To dig the foundations out from under that cabin with?”

“Yes.”

“Confound it, it’s foolish, Tom.”

“It don’t make no difference how foolish it is, it’s the right way—and
it’s the regular way. And there ain’t no other way, that ever I
heard of, and I’ve read all the books that gives any information about these
things. They always dig out with a case-knife—and not through dirt, mind you;
generly it’s through solid rock. And it takes them weeks and weeks and weeks,
and for ever and ever. Why, look at one of them prisoners in the bottom dungeon
of the Castle Deef, in the harbor of Marseilles, that dug himself out that way;
how long was he at it, you reckon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, guess.”

“I don’t know. A month and a half.”

“Thirty-seven year—and he come out in China. That’s the kind. I
wish the bottom of this fortress was solid rock.”

“Jim don’t know nobody in China.”

“What’s that got to do with it? Neither did that other fellow. But
you’re always a-wandering off on a side issue. Why can’t you stick to the main
point?”

“All right—I don’t care where he comes out, so he comes out; and
Jim don’t, either, I reckon. But there’s one thing, anyway—Jim’s too old to be
dug out with a case-knife. He won’t last.”

“Yes he will last, too. You don’t reckon it’s going to take thirty-seven
years to dig out through a dirt foundation, do you?”

“How long will it take, Tom?”

“Well, we can’t resk being as long as we ought to, because it mayn’t take very
long for Uncle Silas to hear from down there by New Orleans. He’ll hear Jim
ain’t from there. Then his next move will be to advertise Jim, or something
like that. So we can’t resk being as long digging him out as we ought to. By
rights I reckon we ought to be a couple of years; but we can’t. Things being so
uncertain, what I recommend is this: that we really dig right in, as quick as
we can; and after that, we can let on, to ourselves, that we was at it
thirty-seven years. Then we can snatch him out and rush him away the first time
there’s an alarm. Yes, I reckon that’ll be the best way.”

“Now, there’s sense in that,” I says. “Letting on don’t cost nothing;
letting on ain’t no trouble; and if it’s any object, I don’t mind letting on we
was at it a hundred and fifty year. It wouldn’t strain me none, after I got my
hand in. So I’ll mosey along now, and smouch a couple of case-knives.”

“Smouch three,” he says; “we want one to make a saw out of.”

“Tom, if it ain’t unregular and irreligious to sejest it,” I says, “there’s an
old rusty saw-blade around yonder sticking under the weather-boarding behind
the smoke-house.”

He looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and says:

“It ain’t no use to try to learn you nothing, Huck. Run along and smouch the
knives—three of them.” So I done it.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

As soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep that night we went down the
lightning-rod, and shut ourselves up in the lean-to, and got out our pile of
fox-fire, and went to work. We cleared everything out of the way, about four or
five foot along the 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
counter-pin hung down most to the ground, and you’d have to raise it up and
look under to see the hole. So we dug and dug with the case-knives till most
midnight; and then we was dog-tired, and our hands was blistered, and yet you
couldn’t see we’d done anything hardly. At last I says:

“This ain’t no thirty-seven year job; this is a thirty-eight year job, Tom
Sawyer.”

He never said nothing. But he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped digging, and
then for a good little while I knowed that he was thinking. Then he says:

“It ain’t no use, Huck, it ain’t a-going to work. If we was prisoners it would,
because then we’d have as many years as we wanted, and no hurry; and we
wouldn’t get but a few minutes to dig, every day, while they was changing
watches, and so our hands wouldn’t get blistered, and we could keep it up right
along, year in and year out, and do it right, and the way it ought to be done.
But we can’t fool along; we got to rush; we ain’t got no time to spare.
If we was to put in another night this way we’d have to knock off for a week to
let our hands get well—couldn’t touch a case-knife with them sooner.”

“Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?”

“I’ll tell you. It ain’t right, and it ain’t moral, and I wouldn’t like it to
get out; but there ain’t only just the one way: we got to dig him out with the
picks, and let on it’s case-knives.”

“Now you’re talking!” I says; “your head gets leveler and leveler
all the time, Tom Sawyer,” I says. “Picks is the thing, moral or no moral; and
as for me, I don’t care shucks for the morality of it, nohow. When I start in
to steal a nigger, or a watermelon, or a Sunday-school book, I ain’t no ways
particular how it’s done so it’s done. What I want is my nigger; or what I want
is my watermelon; or what I want is my Sunday-school book; and if a pick’s the
handiest thing, that’s the thing I’m a-going to dig that nigger or that
watermelon or that Sunday-school book out with; and I don’t give a dead rat
what the authorities thinks about it nuther.”

“Well,” he says, “there’s excuse for picks and letting-on in a case like this;
if it warn’t so, I wouldn’t approve of it, nor I wouldn’t stand by and see the
rules broke—because right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a body ain’t got no
business doing wrong when he ain’t ignorant and knows better. It might answer
for you to dig Jim out with a pick, without any letting on,
because you don’t know no better; but it wouldn’t for me, because I do know
better. Gimme a case-knife.”

He had his own by him, but I handed him mine. He flung it down, and says:

“Gimme a case-knife.”

I didn’t know just what to do—but then I thought. I scratched around amongst
the old tools, and got a pickaxe and give it to him, and he took it and went to
work, and never said a word.

He was always just that particular. Full of principle.

So then I got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn about, and made
the fur fly. We stuck to it about a half an hour, which was as long as we could
stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole to show for it. When I got up stairs
I looked out at the window and see Tom doing his level best with the
lightning-rod, but he couldn’t come it, his hands was so sore. At last he says:

“It ain’t no use, it can’t be done. What you reckon I better do? Can’t you
think of no way?”

“Yes,” I says, “but I reckon it ain’t regular. Come up the stairs, and let on
it’s a lightning-rod.”

So he done it.

Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the house, for to
make some pens for Jim out of, and six tallow candles; and I hung around the
nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole three tin plates. Tom says it
wasn’t enough; but I said nobody wouldn’t ever see the plates that Jim throwed
out, because they’d fall in the dog-fennel and jimpson weeds under the
window-hole—then we could tote them back and he could use them over again. So
Tom was satisfied. Then he says:

“Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to Jim.”

“Take them in through the hole,” I says, “when we get it done.”

He only just looked scornful, and said something about nobody ever heard of
such an idiotic idea, and then he went to studying. By-and-by he said he had
ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn’t no need to decide on any of
them yet. Said we’d got to post Jim first.

That night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten, and took one of
the candles along, and listened under the window-hole, and heard Jim snoring;
so we pitched it in, and it didn’t wake him. Then we whirled in with the pick
and shovel, and in about two hours and a half the job was done. We crept in
under Jim’s bed and into the cabin, and pawed around and found the candle and
lit it, and stood over Jim awhile, and found him looking hearty and healthy,
and then we woke him up gentle and gradual. He was so glad to see us he most
cried; and called us honey, and all the pet names he could think of; and was
for having us hunt up a cold-chisel to cut the chain off of his leg with right
away, and clearing out without losing any time. But Tom he showed him how
unregular it would be, and set down and told him all about our plans, and how
we could alter them in a minute any time there was an alarm; and not to be the
least afraid, because we would see he got away, sure. So Jim he said it
was all right, and we set there and talked over old times awhile, and then Tom
asked a lot of 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 knowed better than him; so he was satisfied, and said he would do it all
just as Tom said.

Jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so we had a right down good sociable
time; then we crawled out through the hole, and so home to bed, with hands that
looked like they’d been chawed. Tom was in high spirits. He said it was the
best fun he ever had in his life, and the most intellectural; and said if he
only could see his way to it we would keep it up all the rest of our lives and
leave Jim to our children to get out; for he believed Jim would come to like it
better and better the more he got used to it. He said that in that way it could
be strung out to as much as eighty year, and would be the best time on record.
And he said it would make us all celebrated that had a hand in it.

In the morning we went out to the woodpile and chopped up the brass candlestick
into handy sizes, and Tom put them and the pewter spoon in his pocket. Then we
went to the nigger cabins, and while I got Nat’s notice off, Tom shoved a piece
of candlestick into the middle of a corn-pone that was in Jim’s pan, and we
went along with Nat to see how it would work, and it just worked noble; when
Jim bit into it it most mashed all his teeth out; and there warn’t ever
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 on to the floor amongst the dogs,
and begun to groan like he was dying. Tom jerked the door open and flung out a
slab of Jim’s meat, and the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he was out
himself and back again and shut the door, and I knowed he’d fixed the other
door too. Then he went to work on the nigger, coaxing him and petting him, and
asking him if he’d been imagining he saw something again. He raised up, and
blinked his eyes around, and says:

“Mars Sid, you’ll say I’s a fool, but if I didn’t b’lieve I see most a million
dogs, er devils, er some’n, I wisht I may die right heah in dese tracks. I did,
mos’ sholy. Mars Sid, I felt um—I felt um, sah; dey was all over
me. Dad fetch it, I jis’ wisht I could git my han’s on one er dem witches jis’
wunst—on’y jis’ wunst—it’s all I’d ast. But mos’ly I wisht dey’d lemme
’lone, I does.”

Tom says:

“Well, I tell you what I think. What makes them come here just at this
runaway nigger’s breakfast-time? It’s because they’re hungry; that’s the
reason. You make them a witch pie; that’s the thing for you to do.”

“But my lan’, Mars Sid, how’s I gwyne to make ’m a witch pie? I doan’
know how to make it. I hain’t ever hearn er sich a thing b’fo’.”

“Well, then, I’ll have to make it myself.”

“Will you do it, honey?—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-talkin’ ’bout? I wouldn’ lay
de weight er my finger on um, not f’r ten hund’d thous’n billion dollars, I
wouldn’t.”

CHAPTER XXXVII.

That was all fixed. So then we went away and went to the rubbage-pile in the
back yard, where they keep the old boots, and rags, and pieces of bottles, and
wore-out tin things, and all such truck, and scratched around and found an old
tin washpan, and stopped up the holes as well as we could, to bake the pie in,
and took it down cellar and stole it full of flour and started for breakfast,
and found a couple of shingle-nails that Tom said would be handy for a prisoner
to scrabble his name and sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped one of
them in Aunt Sally’s apron-pocket which was hanging on a chair, and t’other we
stuck in the band of Uncle Silas’s hat, which was on the bureau, because we
heard the children say their pa and ma was going to the runaway nigger’s house
this morning, and then went to breakfast, and Tom dropped the pewter spoon in
Uncle Silas’s coat-pocket, and Aunt Sally wasn’t come yet, so we had to wait a
little while.

And when she come she was hot and red and cross, and couldn’t hardly wait for
the blessing; and then she went to sluicing out coffee with one hand and
cracking the handiest child’s head with her thimble with the other, and says:

“I’ve hunted high and I’ve hunted low, and it does beat all what has
become of your other shirt.”

My heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things, and a hard piece of
corn-crust started down my throat after it and got met on the road with a
cough, and was shot across the table, and took one of the children in the eye
and curled him up like a fishing-worm, and let a cry out of him the size of a
warwhoop, and Tom he turned kinder blue around the gills, and it all amounted
to a considerable state of things for about a quarter of a minute or as much as
that, and I would a sold out for half price if there was a bidder. But after
that we was all right again—it was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so
kind of cold. Uncle Silas he says:

“It’s most uncommon curious, I can’t understand it. I know perfectly well I
took it off, because—”

“Because you hain’t got but one on. Just listen at the man!
I know you took it off, and know it by a better way than your
wool-gethering memory, too, because it was on the clo’s-line yesterday—I see it
there myself. But it’s gone, that’s the long and the short of it, and you’ll
just have to change to a red flann’l one till I can get time to make a new one.
And it’ll be the third I’ve made in two years. It just keeps a body on the
jump to keep you in shirts; and whatever you do manage to do with ’m all
is more’n I can make out. A body ’d think you would learn to take
some sort of care of ’em at your time of life.”

“I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it oughtn’t to be altogether my
fault, because, you know, I don’t see them nor have nothing to do with them
except when they’re on me; and I don’t believe I’ve ever lost one of them
off of me.”

“Well, it ain’t your fault if you haven’t, Silas; you’d a done it if you
could, I reckon. And the shirt ain’t all that’s gone, nuther. Ther’s a spoon
gone; and that ain’t all. There was ten, and now ther’s only nine. The
calf got the shirt, I reckon, but the calf never took the spoon, that’s
certain.”

“Why, what else is gone, Sally?”

“Ther’s six candles gone—that’s what. The rats could a got the candles,
and I reckon they did; I wonder they don’t walk off with the whole place, the
way you’re always going to stop their holes and don’t do it; and if they warn’t
fools they’d sleep in your hair, Silas—you’d never find it out; but you
can’t lay the spoon on the rats, and that I know.”

“Well, Sally, I’m in fault, and I acknowledge it; I’ve been remiss; but I won’t
let to-morrow go by without stopping up them holes.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t hurry; next year’ll do. Matilda Angelina Araminta
Phelps!”

Whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out of the sugar-bowl
without fooling around any. Just then the nigger woman steps on to the passage,
and says:

“Missus, dey’s a sheet gone.”

“A sheet gone! Well, for the land’s sake!”

“I’ll stop up them holes to-day,” says Uncle Silas, looking sorrowful.

“Oh, do shet up!—s’pose the rats took the sheet? Where’s it gone,
Lize?”

“Clah to goodness I hain’t no notion, Miss’ Sally. She wuz on de clo’sline
yistiddy, but she done gone: she ain’ dah no mo’ now.”

“I reckon the world is coming to an end. I never see the beat of
it in all my born days. A shirt, and a sheet, and a spoon, and six can—”

“Missus,” comes a young yaller wench, “dey’s a brass cannelstick miss’n.”

“Cler out from here, you hussy, er I’ll take a skillet to ye!”

Well, she was just a-biling. I begun to lay for a chance; I reckoned I would
sneak out and go for the woods till the weather moderated. She kept a-raging
right along, running her insurrection all by herself, and everybody else mighty
meek and quiet; and at last Uncle Silas, looking kind of foolish, fishes up
that spoon out of his pocket. She stopped, with her mouth open and her hands
up; and as for me, I wished I was in Jeruslem or somewheres. But not long,
because she says:

“It’s just as I expected. So you had it in your pocket all the time; and
like as not you’ve got the other things there, too. How’d it get there?”

“I reely don’t know, Sally,” he says, kind of apologizing, “or you know I would
tell. I was a-studying over my text in Acts Seventeen before 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 ther’ ain’t but nine!” she says. “Why, what in
the world—plague take the things, I’ll count ’m again.”

So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting, she says:

“Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther’s ten now!” and she looked huffy and
bothered both. But Tom says:

“Why, Aunty, I don’t think there’s ten.”

“You numskull, didn’t you see me count ’m?”

“I know, but—”

“Well, I’ll count ’m again.”

So I smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other time. Well, she
was in a tearing way—just a-trembling all over, she was so mad. But she
counted and counted till she got that addled she’d start to count in the
basket for a spoon sometimes; and so, three times they come out right,
and three times they come out wrong. Then she grabbed up the basket and slammed
it across the house and knocked the cat galley-west; and she said cle’r out and
let her have some peace, and if we come bothering around her again betwixt that
and dinner she’d skin us. So we had the odd spoon, and dropped it in her
apron-pocket whilst she was a-giving us our sailing orders, and Jim got it all
right, along with her shingle nail, before noon. We was very well satisfied
with this business, and Tom allowed it was worth twice the trouble it took,
because he said now she couldn’t ever count them spoons twice alike
again to save her life; and wouldn’t believe she’d counted them right if she
did; and said that after she’d about counted her head off for the next
three days he judged she’d give it up and offer to kill anybody that wanted her
to ever count them any more.

So we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one out of her
closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it again for a couple of days
till she didn’t know how many sheets she had any more, and she didn’t
care, and warn’t a-going to bullyrag the rest of her soul out about it,
and wouldn’t count them again not to save her life; she druther die first.

So we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the spoon and the
candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and the mixed-up counting; and as
to the candlestick, it warn’t no consequence, it would blow over by-and-by.

But that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie. We fixed it up
away down in the woods, and cooked it there; and we got it done at last, and
very satisfactory, too; but not all in one day; and we had to use up three
wash-pans full of flour before we got through, and we got burnt pretty much all
over, in places, and eyes put out with the smoke; because, you see, we didn’t
want nothing but a crust, and we couldn’t prop it up right, and she would
always cave in. But of course we thought of the right way at last—which was to
cook the ladder, too, in the pie. So then we laid in with Jim the second night,
and tore up the sheet all in little strings and twisted them together, and long
before daylight we had a lovely rope that you could a hung a person with. We
let on it took nine months to make it.

And in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it wouldn’t go into the
pie. Being made of a whole sheet, that way, there was rope enough for forty
pies if we’d a wanted them, and plenty left over for soup, or sausage, or
anything you choose. We could a had a whole dinner.

But we didn’t need it. All we needed was just enough for the pie, and so we
throwed the rest away. We didn’t cook none of the pies in the wash-pan—afraid
the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas he had a noble brass warming-pan which
he thought 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 he had to have it; Tom said
he’d got to; there warn’t no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling his
inscription to leave behind, and his coat of arms.

“Look at Lady Jane Grey,” he says; “look at Gilford Dudley; look at old
Northumberland! Why, Huck, s’pose it is considerble trouble?—what you
going to do?—how you going to get around it? Jim’s got to do his
inscription and coat of arms. They all do.”

Jim says:

“Why, Mars Tom, I hain’t got no coat o’ arm; I hain’t got nuffn but dish yer
ole shirt, en you knows I got to keep de journal on dat.”

“Oh, you don’t understand, Jim; a coat of arms is very different.”

“Well,” I says, “Jim’s right, anyway, when he says he ain’t got no coat of
arms, because he hain’t.”

“I reckon I knowed that,” Tom says, “but you bet he’ll have one before
he goes out of this—because he’s going out right, and there ain’t going
to be no flaws in his record.”

So whilst me and Jim filed away at the pens on a brickbat apiece, Jim a-making
his’n out of the brass and I making mine out of the spoon, Tom set to work to
think out the coat of arms. By-and-by he said he’d struck so many good ones he
didn’t hardly know which to take, but there was one which he reckoned he’d
decide on. He says:

“On the scutcheon we’ll have a bend or in the dexter base, a saltire
murrey in the fess, with a dog, couchant, for common charge, and under
his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron vert in a chief
engrailed, and three invected lines on a field azure, with the nombril
points rampant on a dancette indented; crest, a runaway nigger, sable,
with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a couple of gules for
supporters, which is you and me; motto, Maggiore fretta, minore 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
on to the wall, they was all so good; but at last he allowed he would let him
scrabble them all on. Jim said it would take him a year to scrabble such a lot
of truck on to the logs with a nail, and he didn’t know how to make letters,
besides; but Tom said he would block them out for him, and then he wouldn’t
have nothing to do but just follow the lines. Then pretty soon he says:

“Come to think, the logs ain’t a-going to do; they don’t have log walls in a
dungeon: we got to dig the inscriptions into a rock. We’ll fetch a rock.”

Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would take him such a
pison long time to dig them into a rock he wouldn’t ever get out. But Tom said
he would let me help him do it. Then he took a look to see how me and Jim was
getting along with the pens. It was most pesky tedious hard work and slow, and
didn’t give my hands no show to get well of the sores, and we didn’t seem to
make no headway, hardly; so Tom says:

“I know how to fix it. We got to have a rock for the coat of arms and mournful
inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with that same rock. There’s a gaudy
big grindstone down at the mill, and we’ll smouch it, and carve the things on
it, and file out the pens and the saw on it, too.”

It warn’t no slouch of an idea; and it warn’t no slouch of a grindstone nuther;
but we allowed we’d tackle it. It warn’t quite midnight yet, so we cleared out
for the mill, leaving Jim at work. We smouched the grindstone, and set out to
roll her home, but it was a most nation tough job. Sometimes, do what we could,
we couldn’t keep her from falling over, and she come mighty near mashing us
every time. Tom said she was going to get one of us, sure, before we got
through. We got her half way; and then we was plumb played out, and most
drownded with sweat. We see it warn’t no use; we got to go and fetch Jim. So he
raised up his bed and slid the chain off of the bed-leg, and wrapt it round and
round his neck, and we crawled out through our hole and down there, and Jim and
me laid into that grindstone and walked her along like nothing; and Tom
superintended. He could out-superintend any boy I ever see. He knowed how to do
everything.

Our hole was pretty big, but it warn’t big enough to get the grindstone
through; but Jim he took the pick and soon made it big enough. Then Tom marked
out them things on it with the nail, and set Jim to work on them, with the nail
for a chisel and an iron bolt from the rubbage in the lean-to for a hammer, and
told him to work till the rest of his candle quit on him, and then he could go
to bed, and hide the grindstone under his straw tick and sleep on it. Then we
helped him fix his chain back on the bed-leg, and was ready for bed ourselves.
But Tom thought of something, and says:

“You got any spiders in here, Jim?”

“No, sah, thanks to goodness I hain’t, Mars Tom.”

“All right, we’ll get you some.”

“But bless you, honey, I doan’ want none. I’s afeard un um. I jis’ ’s
soon have rattlesnakes aroun’.”

Tom thought a minute or two, and says:

“It’s a good idea. And I reckon it’s been done. It must a been done; it
stands to reason. Yes, it’s a prime good idea. Where could you keep it?”

“Keep what, Mars Tom?”

“Why, a rattlesnake.”

“De goodness gracious alive, Mars Tom! Why, if dey was a rattlesnake to come in
heah I’d take en bust right out thoo dat log wall, I would, wid my head.”

“Why, Jim, you wouldn’t be afraid of it after a little. You could tame it.”

“Tame it!”

“Yes—easy enough. Every animal is grateful for kindness and petting, and they
wouldn’t think of 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 favor, hain’t it? I lay he’d wait
a pow’ful long time ’fo’ I ast him. En mo’ en dat, I doan’ want
him to sleep wid me.”

“Jim, don’t act so foolish. A prisoner’s got to have some kind of a dumb
pet, and if a rattlesnake hain’t ever been tried, why, there’s more glory to be
gained in your being the first to ever try it than any other way you could ever
think of to save your life.”

“Why, Mars Tom, I doan’ want no sich glory. Snake take ’n bite Jim’s
chin off, den whah is de glory? No, sah, I doan’ want no sich doin’s.”

“Blame it, can’t you try? I only want you to try—you needn’t keep
it up if it don’t work.”

“But de trouble all done ef de snake bite me while I’s a tryin’ him.
Mars Tom, I’s willin’ to tackle mos’ anything ’at ain’t onreasonable, but ef
you en Huck fetches a rattlesnake in heah for me to tame, I’s gwyne to
leave, dat’s shore.”

“Well, then, let it go, let it go, if you’re so bull-headed about it. We can
get you some garter-snakes, and you can tie some buttons on their tails, and
let on they’re rattlesnakes, and I reckon that’ll have to do.”

“I k’n stan’ dem, Mars Tom, but blame’ ’f I couldn’ get along widout um,
I tell you dat. I never knowed b’fo’ ’t was so much bother and trouble to be a
prisoner.”

“Well, it always is when it’s done right. You got any rats around here?”

“No, sah, I hain’t seed none.”

“Well, we’ll get you some rats.”

“Why, Mars Tom, I doan’ want no rats. Dey’s de dadblamedest creturs to
’sturb a body, en rustle roun’ over ’im, en bite his feet, when he’s tryin’ to
sleep, I ever see. No, sah, gimme g’yarter-snakes, ’f I’s got to have ’m, but
doan’ gimme no rats; I hain’ got no use f’r um, skasely.”

“But, Jim, you got to have ’em—they all do. So don’t make no more fuss
about it. Prisoners ain’t ever without rats. There ain’t no instance of it. And
they train them, and pet them, and learn them tricks, and they get to be as
sociable as flies. But you got to play music to them. You got anything to play
music on?”

“I ain’ got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o’ paper, en a juice-harp; but I
reck’n dey wouldn’ take no stock in a juice-harp.”

“Yes they would. They don’t care what kind of music ’tis. A jews-harp’s
plenty good enough for a rat. All animals like music—in a prison they dote on
it. Specially, painful music; and you can’t get no other kind out of a
jews-harp. It always interests them; they come out to see what’s the matter
with you. Yes, you’re all right; you’re fixed very well. You want to set on
your bed nights before you go to sleep, and early in the mornings, and play
your jews-harp; play ‘The Last Link is Broken’—that’s the thing that’ll scoop
a rat quicker ’n anything else; and when you’ve played about two minutes you’ll
see all the rats, and the snakes, and spiders, and things begin to feel worried
about you, and come. And they’ll just fairly swarm over you, and have a noble
good time.”

“Yes, dey will, I reck’n, Mars Tom, but what kine er time is Jim
havin’? Blest if I kin see de pint. But I’ll do it ef I got to. I reck’n I
better keep de animals satisfied, en not have no trouble in de house.”

Tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn’t nothing else; and pretty
soon he says:

“Oh, there’s one thing I forgot. Could you raise a flower here, do you reckon?”

“I doan know but maybe I could, Mars Tom; but it’s tolable dark in heah, en I
ain’ got no use f’r no flower, nohow, en she’d be a pow’ful sight o’ trouble.”

“Well, you try it, anyway. Some other prisoners has done it.”

“One er dem big cat-tail-lookin’ mullen-stalks would grow in heah, Mars Tom, I
reck’n, but she wouldn’t be wuth half de trouble she’d coss.”

“Don’t you believe it. We’ll fetch you a little one and you plant it in the
corner over there, and raise it. And don’t call it mullen, call it
Pitchiola—that’s its right name when it’s in a prison. And you want to water it
with your tears.”

“Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom.”

“You don’t want spring water; you want to water it with your tears. It’s
the way they always do.”

“Why, Mars Tom, I lay I kin raise one er dem mullen-stalks twyste wid spring
water whiles another man’s a start’n one wid tears.”

“That ain’t the idea. You got to do it with tears.”

“She’ll die on my han’s, Mars Tom, she sholy will; kase I doan’ skasely ever
cry.”

So Tom was stumped. But he studied it over, and then said Jim would have to
worry along the best he could with an onion. He promised he would go to the
nigger cabins and drop one, private, in Jim’s coffee-pot, in the morning. Jim
said he would “jis’ ’s soon have tobacker in his coffee;” and found so much
fault with it, and with the work and bother of raising the mullen, and
jews-harping the rats, and petting and flattering up the snakes and spiders and
things, on top of all the other work he had to do on pens, and 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 stayed with
them as long as we could; because we allowed we’d tire them out or they’d got
to tire us out, and they done it. Then we got allycumpain and rubbed on the
places, and was pretty near all right again, but couldn’t set down convenient.
And so we went for the snakes, and grabbed a couple of dozen garters and
house-snakes, and put them in a bag, and put it in our room, and by that time
it was supper-time, and a rattling good honest day’s work: and hungry?—oh, no,
I reckon not! And there warn’t a blessed snake up there when we went back—we
didn’t half tie the sack, and they worked out somehow, and left. But it didn’t
matter much, because they was still on the premises somewheres. So we judged we
could get some of them again. No, there warn’t no real scarcity of snakes about
the house for a considerable spell. You’d see them dripping from the rafters
and places every now and then; and they generly landed in your plate, or down
the back of your neck, and most of the time where you didn’t want them. Well,
they was handsome and striped, and there warn’t no harm in a million of them;
but that never made no difference to Aunt Sally; she despised snakes, be the
breed what they might, and she couldn’t stand them no way you could fix it; and
every time one of them flopped down on her, it didn’t make no difference what
she was doing, she would just lay that work down and light out. I never see
such a woman. And you could hear her whoop to Jericho. You couldn’t get her to
take a-holt of one of them with the tongs. And if she turned over and found one
in bed she would scramble out and lift a howl that you would think the house
was afire. She disturbed the old man so that he said he could most wish there
hadn’t ever been no snakes created. Why, after every last snake had been gone
clear out of the house for as much as a week Aunt Sally warn’t over it yet; she
warn’t near over it; when she was setting thinking about something you could
touch her on the back of her neck with a feather and she would jump right out
of her stockings. It was very curious. But Tom said all women was just so. He
said they was made that way for some reason or other.

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. Any way that suits you suits me. What
you going to do about the servant-girl?”

“You’ll be her. You slide in, in the middle of the night, and hook that yaller
girl’s frock.”

“Why, Tom, that’ll make trouble next morning; because, of course, she prob’bly
hain’t got any but that one.”

“I know; but you don’t want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the nonnamous
letter and shove it under the front door.”

“All right, then, I’ll do it; but I could carry it just as handy in my own
togs.”

“You wouldn’t look like a servant-girl then, would you?”

“No, but there won’t be nobody to see what I look like, anyway.”

“That ain’t got nothing to do with it. The thing for us to do is just to do our
duty, and not worry about whether anybody sees us do it or not.
Hain’t you got no principle at all?”

“All right, I ain’t saying nothing; I’m the servant-girl. Who’s Jim’s mother?”

“I’m his mother. I’ll hook a gown from Aunt Sally.”

“Well, then, you’ll have to stay in the cabin when me and Jim leaves.”

“Not much. I’ll stuff Jim’s clothes full of straw and lay it on his bed to
represent his mother in 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 got two-thirds around she’d whirl back again, and say
it again; and she was afraid to go to bed, but she dasn’t set up. So the thing
was working very well, Tom said; he said he never see a thing work more
satisfactory. He said it showed it was done right.

So he said, now for the grand bulge! So the very next morning at the streak of
dawn we got another letter ready, and was wondering what we better do with it,
because we heard them say at supper they was going to have a nigger on watch at
both doors all night. Tom he went down the lightning-rod to spy around; and the
nigger at the back door was asleep, and he stuck it in the back of his neck and
come back. This letter said:

Don’t betray me, I wish to be your friend. There is a desprate gang of
cutthroats from over in the Indian Territory going to steal your runaway nigger
to-night, and they have been trying to scare you so as you will stay in the
house and not bother them. I am one of the gang, but have got religgion and
wish to quit it and lead an honest life again, and will betray the helish
design. They will sneak down from northards, along the fence, at midnight
exact, with a false key, and go in the nigger’s cabin to get him. I am to be
off a piece and blow a tin horn if I see any danger; but stead of that I will
BA like a sheep soon as they get in and not blow at all; then
whilst they are getting his chains loose, you slip there and lock them in, and
can kill them at your leasure. Don’t do anything but just the way I am telling
you, if you do they will suspicion something and raise whoop-jamboreehoo. I do
not wish any reward but to know I have done the right thing.

UNKNOWN FRIEND

CHAPTER XL.

We was feeling pretty good after breakfast, and took my canoe and went over the
river a-fishing, with a lunch, and had a good time, and took a look at the raft
and found her all right, and got home late to supper, and found them in such a
sweat and worry they didn’t know which end they was standing on, and made us go
right off to bed the minute we was done supper, and wouldn’t tell us what the
trouble was, and never let on a word about the new letter, but didn’t need to,
because we knowed as much about it as anybody did, and as soon as we was half
up stairs and her back was turned we slid for the cellar cupboard and loaded up
a good lunch and took it up to our room and went to bed, and got up about
half-past eleven, and Tom put on Aunt Sally’s dress that he stole and was going
to start with the lunch, but says:

“Where’s the butter?”

“I laid out a hunk of it,” I says, “on a piece of a corn-pone.”

“Well, you left it laid out, then—it ain’t here.”

“We can get along without it,” I says.

“We can get along with it, too,” he says; “just you slide down cellar
and fetch it. And then mosey right down the lightning-rod and come along. I’ll
go and stuff the straw into Jim’s clothes to represent his mother in disguise,
and be ready to ba like a sheep and shove soon as you get there.”

So out he went, and down cellar went I. The hunk of butter, big as a person’s
fist, was where I had left it, so I took up the slab of corn-pone with it on,
and blowed out my light, and started up stairs very stealthy, and got up to the
main floor all right, but here comes Aunt Sally with a candle, and I clapped
the truck in my hat, and clapped my hat on my head, and the next second she see
me; and she says:

“You been down cellar?”

“Yes’m.”

“What you been doing down there?”

“Noth’n.”

“Noth’n!”

“No’m.”

“Well, then, what possessed you to go down there this time of night?”

“I don’t know ’m.”

“You don’t know? Don’t answer me that way. Tom, I want to know what you
been doing down there.”

“I hain’t been doing a single thing, Aunt Sally, I hope to gracious if I have.”

I reckoned she’d let me go now, and as a generl thing she would; but I s’pose
there was so many strange things going on she was just in a sweat about every
little thing that warn’t yard-stick straight; so she says, very decided:

“You just march into that setting-room and stay there till I come. You been up
to something you no business to, and I lay I’ll find out what it is before
I’m done with you.”

So she went away as I opened the door and walked into the setting-room. My, but
there was a crowd there! Fifteen farmers, and every one of them had a gun. I
was most powerful sick, and slunk to a chair and set down. They was setting
around, some of them talking a little, in a low voice, and all of them fidgety
and uneasy, but trying to look like they warn’t; but I knowed they was, because
they was always taking off their hats, and putting them on, and scratching
their heads, and changing their seats, and fumbling with their buttons. I
warn’t easy myself, but I didn’t take my hat off, all the same.

I did wish Aunt Sally would come, and get done with me, and lick me, if she
wanted to, and let me get away and tell Tom how we’d overdone this thing, and
what a thundering hornet’s-nest we’d got ourselves into, so we could stop
fooling around straight off, and clear out with Jim before these rips got out
of patience and come for us.

At last she come and begun to ask me questions, but I couldn’t answer
them straight, I didn’t know which end of me was up; because these men was in
such a fidget now that some was wanting to start right now and lay for
them desperadoes, and saying it warn’t but a few minutes to midnight; and
others was trying to get them to hold on and wait for the sheep-signal; and
here was Aunty pegging away at the questions, and me a-shaking all over and
ready to sink down in my tracks I was that scared; and the place getting hotter
and hotter, and the butter beginning to melt and run down my neck and behind my
ears; and pretty soon, when one of them says, “I’m for going and getting
in the cabin first and right now, and catching them when they
come,” I most dropped; and a streak of butter come a-trickling down my
forehead, and Aunt Sally she see it, and turns white as a sheet, and says:

“For the land’s sake, what is the matter with the child? He’s got the
brain-fever as shore as you’re born, and they’re oozing out!”

And everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my hat, and out comes the bread
and what was left of the butter, and she grabbed me, and hugged me, and says:

“Oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad and grateful I am it ain’t no
worse; for luck’s against us, and it never rains but it pours, and when I see
that truck I thought we’d lost you, for I knowed by the color and all it was
just like your brains would be if—Dear, dear, whyd’nt you tell me that
was what you’d been down there for, I wouldn’t a cared. Now cler out to
bed, and don’t lemme see no more of you till morning!”

I was up stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod in another one, and
shinning through the dark for the lean-to. I couldn’t hardly get my words out,
I was so anxious; but I told Tom as quick as I could we must jump for it now,
and not a minute to lose—the house full of men, yonder, with guns!

His eyes just blazed; and he says:

“No!—is that so? Ain’t it bully! Why, Huck, if it was to do over again,
I bet I could fetch two 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 pad-lock, and heard a man say:

“I told you we’d be too soon; they haven’t come—the door is locked.
Here, I’ll lock some of you into the cabin, and you lay for ’em in the dark and
kill ’em when they come; and the rest scatter around a piece, and listen if you
can hear ’em coming.”

So in they come, but couldn’t see us in the dark, and most trod on us whilst we
was hustling to get under the bed. But we got under all right, and out through
the hole, swift but soft—Jim first, me next, and Tom last, which was according
to Tom’s orders. Now we was in the lean-to, and heard trampings close by
outside. So we crept to the door, and Tom stopped us there and put his eye to
the crack, but couldn’t make out nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and
said he would listen for the steps to get further, and when he nudged us Jim
must glide out first, and him last. So he set his ear to the crack and
listened, and listened, and listened, and the steps a-scraping around out there
all the time; and at last he nudged us, and we slid out, and stooped down, not
breathing, and not making the least noise, and slipped stealthy towards the
fence in Injun file, and got to it all right, and me and Jim over it; but Tom’s
britches catched fast on a splinter on the top rail, and then he hear the steps
coming, so he had to pull loose, which snapped the splinter and made a noise;
and as he dropped in our tracks and started somebody sings out:

“Who’s that? Answer, or I’ll shoot!”

But we didn’t answer; we just unfurled our heels and shoved. Then there was a
rush, and a bang, bang, bang! and the bullets fairly whizzed around us!
We heard them sing out:

“Here they are! They’ve broke for the river! After ’em, boys, and turn loose
the dogs!”

So here they come, full tilt. We could hear them because they wore boots and
yelled, but we didn’t wear no boots and didn’t yell. We was in the path to the
mill; and when they got pretty close on to us we dodged into the bush and let
them go by, and then dropped in behind them. They’d had all the dogs shut up,
so they wouldn’t scare off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let them
loose, and here they come, making powwow enough for a million; but they was our
dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till they catched up; and when they see it
warn’t nobody but us, and no excitement to offer them, they only just said
howdy, and tore right ahead towards the shouting and clattering; and then we
up-steam again, and whizzed along after them till we was nearly to the mill,
and then struck up through the bush to where my canoe was tied, and hopped in
and pulled for dear life towards the middle of the river, but didn’t make no
more noise than we was obleeged to. Then we struck out, easy and comfortable,
for the island where my raft was; and we could hear them yelling and barking at
each other all up and down the bank, till we was so far away the sounds got dim
and died out. And when we stepped 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 wuz, too, Huck. It ’uz planned beautiful, en it ’uz
done beautiful; en dey ain’t nobody kin git up a plan dat’s mo’
mixed-up en splendid den what dat one wuz.”

We was all glad as we could be, but Tom was the gladdest of all because he had
a bullet in the calf of his leg.

When me and Jim heard that we didn’t feel so brash as what we did before. It
was hurting him considerable, and bleeding; so we laid him in the wigwam and
tore up one of the duke’s shirts for to bandage him, but he says:

“Gimme the rags; I can do it myself. Don’t stop now; don’t fool around here,
and the evasion booming along so handsome; man the sweeps, and set her loose!
Boys, we done it elegant!—’deed we did. I wish we’d a had the handling
of Louis XVI., there wouldn’t a been no ‘Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven!’
wrote down in his biography; no, sir, we’d a whooped him over the
border—that’s what we’d a done with him—and done it just as slick
as nothing at all, too. Man the sweeps—man the sweeps!”

But me and Jim was consulting—and thinking. And after we’d thought a minute, I
says:

“Say it, Jim.”

So he says:

“Well, den, dis is de way it look to me, Huck. Ef it wuz him dat ’uz
bein’ sot free, en one er de boys wuz to git shot, would he say, ‘Go on en save
me, nemmine ’bout a doctor f’r to save dis one?’ Is dat like Mars Tom Sawyer?
Would he say dat? You bet he wouldn’t! Well, den, is Jim
gywne to say it? No, sah—I doan’ budge a step out’n dis place ’dout a
doctor; not if it’s forty year!”

I knowed he was white inside, and I reckoned he’d say what he did say—so it was
all right now, and I told Tom I was a-going for a doctor. He raised
considerable row about it, but me and Jim stuck to it and wouldn’t budge; so he
was for crawling out and setting the raft loose himself; but we wouldn’t let
him. Then he give us a piece of his mind, but it didn’t do no good.

So when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he says:

“Well, then, if you’re bound to go, I’ll tell you the way to do when you get to
the village. Shut the door and blindfold the doctor tight and fast, and make
him swear to be silent as the grave, and put a purse full of gold in his hand,
and then take and lead him all around the back alleys and everywheres in the
dark, and then fetch him here in the canoe, in a roundabout way amongst the
islands, and search him and take his chalk away from him, and don’t give it
back to him till you get him back to the village, or else he will chalk this
raft so he can find it again. It’s the way they all do.”

So I said I would, and left, and Jim was to hide in the woods when he see the
doctor coming till he was gone again.

CHAPTER XLI.

The doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-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
sees the canoe he didn’t like the look of her—said she was big enough for one,
but didn’t look pretty safe for two. I says:

“Oh, you needn’t be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us easy enough.”

“What three?”

“Why, me and Sid, and—and—and the guns; that’s what I mean.”

“Oh,” he says.

But he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook his head, and said
he reckoned he’d look around for a bigger one. But they was all locked and
chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait till he come back, or I
could hunt around further, or maybe I better go down home and get them ready
for the surprise if I wanted to. But I said I didn’t; so I told him just how to
find the raft, and then he started.

I struck an idea pretty soon. I says to myself, spos’n he can’t fix that leg
just in three shakes of a sheep’s tail, as the saying is? spos’n it takes him
three or four days? What are we going to do?—lay around there till he lets the
cat out of the bag? No, sir; I know what I’ll do. I’ll wait, and when he
comes back if he says he’s got to go any more I’ll get down there, too, if I
swim; and we’ll take and tie him, and keep him, and shove out down the river;
and when Tom’s done with him we’ll give him what it’s worth, or all we got, and
then let him get ashore.

So then I crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and next time I waked up
the sun was away up over my head! I shot out and went for the doctor’s house,
but they told me he’d gone away in the night some time or other, and warn’t
back yet. Well, thinks I, that looks powerful bad for Tom, and I’ll dig out for
the island right off. So away I shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly
rammed my head into Uncle Silas’s stomach! He says:

“Why, Tom! Where you been all this time, you rascal?”

“I hain’t been nowheres,” I says, “only just 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 outrun us, and we lost them; but we thought we heard them on the
water, so we got a canoe and took out after them and crossed over, but couldn’t
find nothing of them; so we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired
and beat out; and tied up the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up till
about an hour ago; then we paddled over here to hear the news, and Sid’s at the
post-office to see what he can hear, and I’m a-branching out to get something
to eat for us, and then we’re going home.”

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 plum full of farmers and farmers’ wives, to dinner; and such
another clack a body never heard. Old Mrs. Hotchkiss was the worst; her tongue
was a-going all the time. She says:

“Well, Sister Phelps, I’ve ransacked that-air cabin over, an’ I b’lieve the
nigger was crazy. I says to Sister Damrell—didn’t I, Sister Damrell?—s’I, he’s
crazy, s’I—them’s the very words I said. You all hearn me: he’s crazy, s’I;
everything shows it, s’I. Look at that-air grindstone, s’I; want to tell
me’t any cretur ’t’s in his right mind ’s a goin’ to scrabble all them
crazy things onto a grindstone, s’I? Here sich ’n’ sich a person busted his
heart; ’n’ here so ’n’ so pegged along for thirty-seven year, ’n’ all
that—natcherl son o’ Louis somebody, ’n’ sich everlast’n rubbage. He’s plumb
crazy, s’I; it’s what I says in the fust place, it’s what I says in the middle,
’n’ it’s what I says last ’n’ all the time—the nigger’s crazy—crazy ’s
Nebokoodneezer, s’I.”

“An’ look at that-air ladder made out’n rags, Sister Hotchkiss,” says old Mrs.
Damrell; “what in the name o’ goodness could he ever want of—”

“The very words I was a-sayin’ no longer ago th’n this minute to Sister
Utterback, ’n’ she’ll tell you so herself. Sh-she, look at that-air rag ladder,
sh-she; ’n’ s’I, yes, look at it, s’I—what could he a-wanted of
it, s’I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she—”

“But how in the nation’d they ever git that grindstone in there,
anyway? ’n’ who dug that-air hole? ’n’ who—”

“My very words, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin’—pass that-air sasser o’
m’lasses, won’t ye?—I was a-sayin’ to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute, how
did they git that grindstone in there, s’I. Without help, mind
you—’thout help! Thar’s wher ’tis. Don’t tell me, s’I;
there wuz help, s’I; ’n’ ther’ wuz a plenty help, too, s’I;
ther’s ben a dozen a-helpin’ that nigger, ’n’ I lay I’d skin every last
nigger on this place but I’d find out who done it, s’I; ’n’ moreover,
s’I—”

“A dozen says you!—forty couldn’t a done every thing that’s been
done. Look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they’ve been made;
look at that bed-leg sawed off with ’m, a week’s work for six men; look at that
nigger made out’n straw on the bed; and look at—”

“You may well say it, Brer Hightower! It’s jist as I was a-sayin’ to
Brer Phelps, his own self. S’e, what do you think of it, Sister
Hotchkiss, s’e? Think o’ what, Brer Phelps, s’I? Think o’ that bed-leg sawed
off that a way, s’e? think of it, s’I? I lay it never sawed
itself off, s’I—somebody sawed it, s’I; that’s my opinion, take
it or leave it, it mayn’t be no ’count, s’I, but sich as ’t is, it’s my
opinion, s’I, ’n’ if any body k’n start a better one, s’I, let him do
it, s’I, that’s all. I says to Sister Dunlap, s’I—”

“Why, dog my cats, they must a ben a house-full o’ niggers in there every night
for four weeks to a done all that work, Sister Phelps. Look at that shirt—every
last inch of it kivered over with secret African writ’n done with blood! Must a
ben a raft uv ’m at it right along, all the time, amost. Why, I’d give two
dollars to have it read to me; ’n’ as for the niggers that wrote it, I ’low I’d
take ’n’ lash ’m t’ll—”

“People to help him, Brother Marples! Well, I reckon you’d think
so if you’d a been in this house for a while back. Why, they’ve stole
everything they could lay their hands on—and we a-watching all the time, mind
you. They stole that shirt right off o’ the line! and as for that sheet they
made the rag ladder out of, ther’ ain’t no telling how many times they
didn’t steal that; and flour, and candles, and candlesticks, and spoons,
and the old warming-pan, and most a thousand things that I disremember now, and
my new calico dress; and me and Silas and my Sid and Tom on the constant watch
day and night, as I was a-telling you, and not a one of us could catch
hide nor hair nor sight nor sound of them; and here at the last minute, lo and
behold you, they slides right in under our noses and fools us, and not only
fools us but the Injun 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 ther’ ain’t no better; well,
them dogs never even got on the track of ’m once! You explain
that to me if you can!—any of you!”

“Well, it does beat—”

“Laws alive, I never—”

“So help me, I wouldn’t a be—”

“House-thieves as well as—”

“Goodnessgracioussakes, I’d a ben afeard to live in sich a—”

“’Fraid to live!—why, I was that scared I dasn’t hardly go to bed, or
get up, or lay down, or set down, Sister Ridgeway. Why, they’d steal the
very—why, goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of a fluster I was in
by the time midnight come last night. I hope to gracious if I warn’t afraid
they’d steal some o’ the family! I was just to that pass I didn’t have no
reasoning faculties no more. It looks foolish enough now, in the
daytime; but I says to myself, there’s my two poor boys asleep, ’way up stairs
in that lonesome room, and I declare to goodness I was that uneasy ’t I crep’
up there and locked ’em in! I did. And anybody would. Because, you know,
when you get scared that way, and it keeps running on, and getting worse and
worse all the time, and your wits gets to addling, and you get to doing all
sorts o’ wild things, and by-and-by you think to yourself, spos’n I was
a boy, and was away up there, and the door ain’t locked, and you—” She stopped,
looking kind of wondering, and then she turned her head around slow, and when
her eye lit on me—I got up and took a walk.

Says I to myself, I can explain better how we come to not be in that room this
morning if I go out to one side and study over it a little. So I done it. But I
dasn’t go fur, or she’d a sent for me. And when it was late in the day the
people all went, and then I come in and told her the noise and shooting waked
up me and “Sid,” and the door was locked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we
went down the lightning-rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn’t
never want to try that no more. And then I went on and told her all what
I told Uncle Silas before; and then she said she’d forgive us, and maybe it was
all right enough anyway, and about what a body might expect of boys, for all
boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as fur as she could see; and so, as long as
no harm hadn’t come of it, she judged she better put in her time being grateful
we was alive and well and she had us still, stead of fretting over what was
past and done. So then she kissed me, and patted me on the head, and dropped
into a kind of a brown study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says:

“Why, lawsamercy, it’s most night, and Sid not come yet! What has become
of that boy?”

I see my chance; so I skips up and says:

“I’ll run right up to town and get him,” I says.

“No you won’t,” she says. “You’ll stay right wher’ you are; one’s enough
to be lost at a time. If he ain’t here to supper, your uncle ’ll go.”

Well, he warn’t there to supper; so right after supper uncle went.

He come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn’t run across Tom’s track. Aunt
Sally was a good deal uneasy; but Uncle Silas he said there warn’t no
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 drownded, and might be laying at this minute somewheres
suffering or dead, and she not by him to help him, and so the tears would drip
down silent, and I would tell her that Sid was all right, and would be home in
the morning, sure; and she would squeeze my hand, or maybe kiss me, and tell me
to say it again, and keep on saying it, because it done her good, and she was
in so much trouble. And when she was going away she looked down in my eyes so
steady and gentle, and says:

“The door ain’t going to be locked, Tom, and there’s the window and the rod;
but you’ll be good, won’t you? And you won’t go? For my sake.”

Laws knows I wanted to go bad enough to see about Tom, and was all
intending to go; but after that I wouldn’t a went, not for kingdoms.

But she was on my mind and Tom was on my mind, so I slept very restless. And
twice I went down the rod away in the night, and slipped around front, and see
her setting there by her candle in the window with her eyes towards the road
and the tears in them; and I wished I could do something for her, but I
couldn’t, only to swear that I wouldn’t never do nothing to grieve her any
more. And the third time I waked up at dawn, and slid down, and she was there
yet, and her candle was most out, and her old gray head was resting on her
hand, and she was asleep.

CHAPTER XLII.

The old man was uptown again before breakfast, but couldn’t get no track of
Tom; and both of them set at the table thinking, and not saying nothing, and
looking mournful, and their coffee getting cold, and not eating anything. And
by-and-by the old man says:

“Did I give you the letter?”

“What letter?”

“The one I got yesterday out of the post-office.”

“No, you didn’t give me no letter.”

“Well, I must a forgot it.”

So he rummaged his pockets, and then went off somewheres 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 bulldog tied to the door in the
daytime; and about this time they was through with the job and was tapering off
with a kind of generl good-bye cussing, and then the old doctor comes and takes
a look, and says:

“Don’t be no rougher on him than you’re obleeged to, because he ain’t a bad
nigger. When I got to where I found the boy I see I couldn’t cut the bullet out
without some help, and he warn’t in no condition for me to leave to go and get
help; and he got a little worse and a little worse, and after a long time he
went out of his head, and wouldn’t let me come a-nigh him any more, and said if
I chalked his raft he’d kill me, and no end of wild foolishness like that, and
I see I couldn’t do anything at all with him; so I says, I got to have
help somehow; and the minute I says it out crawls this nigger from
somewheres and says he’ll help, and he done it, too, and done it very well. Of
course I judged he must be a runaway nigger, and there I was! and there
I had to stick right straight along all the rest of the day and all night. It
was a fix, I tell you! I had a couple of patients with the chills, and of
course I’d of liked to run up to town and see them, but I dasn’t, because the
nigger might get away, and then I’d be to blame; and yet never a skiff come
close enough for me to hail. So there I had to stick plumb until daylight this
morning; and I never see a nigger that was a better nuss or faithfuller, and
yet he was risking his freedom to do it, and was all tired out, too, and I see
plain enough he’d been worked main hard lately. I liked the nigger for that; I
tell you, gentlemen, a nigger like that is worth a thousand dollars—and kind
treatment, too. I had everything I needed, and the boy was doing as well there
as he would a done at home—better, maybe, because it was so quiet; but there I
was, with both of ’m on my hands, and there I had to stick till about
dawn this morning; then some men in a skiff come by, and as good luck would
have it the nigger was setting by the pallet with his head propped on his knees
sound asleep; so I motioned them in quiet, and they slipped up on him and
grabbed him and tied him before he knowed what he was about, and we never had
no trouble. And the boy being in a kind of a flighty sleep, too, we muffled the
oars and hitched the raft on, and towed her over very nice and quiet, and the
nigger never made the least row nor said a word from the start. He ain’t no bad
nigger, gentlemen; that’s what I think about him.”

Somebody says:

“Well, it sounds very good, doctor, I’m obleeged to say.”

Then the others softened up a little, too, and I was mighty thankful to that
old doctor for doing Jim that good turn; and I was glad it was according to my
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 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 made the
rope ladder and send it in cooked up in a pie, and send in spoons and things to
work with in your apron pocket—”

“Mercy sakes!”

“—and load up the cabin with rats and snakes and so on, for company for Jim;
and then you kept Tom here so long with the butter in his hat that you come
near spiling the whole business, because the men come before we was out of the
cabin, and we had to rush, and they heard us and let drive at us, and I got my
share, and we dodged out of the path and let them go by, and when the dogs come
they warn’t interested in us, but went for the most noise, and we got our
canoe, and made for the raft, and was all safe, and Jim was a free man, and we
done it all by ourselves, and wasn’t it bully, Aunty!”

“Well, I never heard the likes of it in all my born days! So it was you,
you little rapscallions, that’s been making all this trouble, and turned
everybody’s wits clean inside out and scared us all most to death. I’ve as good
a notion as ever I had in my life to take it out o’ you this very minute. To
think, here I’ve been, night after night, a—you just get well once, you
young scamp, and I lay I’ll tan the Old Harry out o’ both o’ ye!”

But Tom, he was so proud and joyful, he just couldn’t hold in,
and his tongue just went it—she a-chipping in, and spitting fire all
along, and both of them going it at once, like a cat convention; and she says:

“Well, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it now, for mind
I tell you if I catch you meddling with him again—”

“Meddling with who?” Tom says, dropping his smile and looking surprised.

“With who? Why, the runaway nigger, of course. Who’d you reckon?”

Tom looks at me very grave, and says:

“Tom, didn’t you just tell me he was all right? Hasn’t he got away?”

“Him?” says Aunt Sally; “the runaway nigger? ’Deed he hasn’t. They’ve
got him back, safe and sound, and he’s in that cabin again, on bread and water,
and loaded down with chains, till he’s claimed or sold!”

Tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and his nostrils opening and
shutting like gills, and sings out to me:

“They hain’t no right to shut him up! Shove!—and don’t you lose a
minute. Turn him loose! he ain’t no slave; he’s as free as any cretur that
walks this earth!”

“What does the child mean?”

“I mean every word I say, Aunt Sally, and if somebody don’t go,
I’ll go. I’ve knowed him all his life, and so has Tom, there. Old Miss
Watson died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going to sell him
down the river, and said so; and she set him free in her will.”

“Then what on earth did you want to set him free for, seeing he was
already free?”

“Well, that is a question, I must say; and just like women! Why,
I wanted the adventure of it; and I’d a waded neck-deep in blood
to—goodness alive, AUNT POLLY!”

If she warn’t standing right there, just inside the door, looking as sweet and
contented as an angel half full of pie, I wish I may never!

Aunt Sally jumped for her, and most hugged the head off of her, and cried over
her, and I found a good enough place for me under the bed, for it was getting
pretty sultry for us, seemed to me. And I peeped out, and in a little
while Tom’s Aunt Polly shook herself loose and stood there looking across at
Tom over her spectacles—kind of grinding him into the earth, you know. And then
she says:

“Yes, you better turn y’r head away—I would if I was you, Tom.”

“Oh, deary me!” says Aunt Sally; “is he changed so? Why, that ain’t
Tom, it’s Sid; Tom’s—Tom’s—why, where is Tom? He was here a minute ago.”

“You mean where’s Huck Finn—that’s what you mean! I reckon I hain’t
raised such a scamp as my Tom all these years not to know him when I see
him. That would be a pretty howdy-do. Come out from under that bed, Huck
Finn.”

So I done it. But not feeling brash.

Aunt Sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking persons I ever see—except
one, and that was Uncle Silas, when he come in and they told it all to him. It
kind of made him drunk, as you may say, and he didn’t know nothing at all the
rest of the day, and preached a prayer-meeting sermon that night that gave him
a rattling ruputation, because the oldest man in the world couldn’t a
understood it. So Tom’s Aunt Polly, she told all about who I was, and what; and
I had to up and tell how I was in such a tight place that when Mrs. Phelps took
me for Tom Sawyer—she chipped in and says, “Oh, go on and call me Aunt Sally,
I’m used to it now, and ’tain’t no need to change”—that when Aunt Sally took me
for Tom Sawyer I had to stand it—there warn’t no other way, and I knowed he
wouldn’t mind, because it would be nuts for him, being a mystery, and he’d make
an 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 creetur’s up to
this time; as long as I couldn’t seem to get any answer out of you about
it.”

“Why, I never heard nothing from you,” says Aunt Sally.

“Well, I wonder! Why, I wrote you twice to ask you what you could mean by Sid
being here.”

“Well, I never got ’em, Sis.”

Aunt Polly she turns around slow and severe, and says:

“You, Tom!”

“Well—what?” he says, kind of pettish.

“Don’t you what me, you impudent thing—hand out them letters.”

“What letters?”

“Them letters. I be bound, if I have to take 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 knowed they’d make trouble, and I thought if you warn’t in no hurry,
I’d—”

“Well, you do need skinning, there ain’t no mistake about it. And I
wrote another one to tell you I was coming; and I s’pose he—”

“No, it come yesterday; I hain’t read it yet, but it’s all right, I’ve
got that one.”

I wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn’t, but I reckoned maybe it was
just as safe to not to. So I never said nothing.

CHAPTER THE LAST

The first time I catched Tom private I asked him what was his idea, time of the
evasion?—what it was he’d planned to do if the evasion worked all right and he
managed to set a nigger free that was already free before? And he said, what he
had planned in his head from the start, if we got Jim out all safe, was for us
to run him down the river on the raft, and have adventures plumb to the mouth
of the river, and then tell him about his being free, and take him back up home
on a steamboat, in style, and pay him for his lost time, and write word ahead
and get out all the niggers around, and have them waltz him into town with a
torchlight procession and a brass-band, and then he would be a hero, and so
would we. But I reckoned it was about as well the way it was.

We had Jim out of the chains in no time, and when Aunt Polly and Uncle Silas
and Aunt Sally found out how good he helped the doctor nurse Tom, they made a
heap of fuss over him, and fixed him up prime, and give him all he wanted to
eat, and a good time, and nothing to do. And we had him up to the sick-room,
and had a high talk; and Tom give Jim forty dollars for being prisoner for us
so patient, and doing it up so good, and Jim was pleased most to death, and
busted out, and says:

“Dah, now, Huck, what I tell you?—what I tell you up dah on Jackson
islan’? I tole you I got a hairy breas’, en what’s de sign un it; en I
tole you I ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich agin; en it’s
come true; en heah she is! Dah, now! doan’ talk to me—signs is
signs, mine I tell you; en I knowed jis’ ’s well ’at I ’uz gwineter be
rich agin as I’s a-stannin’ heah dis minute!”

And then Tom he talked along and talked along, and says, le’s all three slide
out of here one of these nights and get an outfit, and go for howling
adventures amongst the Injuns, over in the Territory, for a couple of weeks or
two; and I says, all right, that suits me, but I ain’t got no money for to buy
the outfit, and I reckon I couldn’t get none from home, because it’s likely
pap’s been back before now, and got it all away from Judge Thatcher and drunk
it up.

“No, he hain’t,” Tom says; “it’s all there yet—six thousand dollars and more;
and your pap hain’t ever been back since. Hadn’t when I come away, anyhow.”

Jim says, kind of solemn:

“He ain’t a-comin’ back no mo’, Huck.”

I says:

“Why, Jim?”

“Nemmine why, Huck—but he ain’t comin’ back no mo.”

But I kept at him; so at last he says:

“Doan’ you ’member de house dat was float’n down de river, en dey wuz a man in
dah, kivered up, en I went in en unkivered him and didn’ let you come in? Well,
den, you kin git yo’ money when you wants it, kase dat wuz him.”

Tom’s most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on a watch-guard for a
watch, and is always seeing what time it is, and so there ain’t nothing more to
write about, and I am rotten glad of it, because if I’d a knowed what a trouble
it was to make a book I wouldn’t a tackled it, and ain’t a-going to no more.
But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because
Aunt Sally she’s going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can’t stand it. I
been there before.

THE END. YOURS TRULY, HUCK FINN.

ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN

(Tom Sawyer’s Comrade)

By Mark Twain

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

HUCKLEBERRY FINN

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHAPTER XXXII.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CHAPTER XXXV.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

CHAPTER XL.

CHAPTER XLI.

CHAPTER XLII.

CHAPTER THE LAST

ADVENTURES
OF
HUCKLEBERRY FINN