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                    THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN
                              by Mark Twain


                                 NOTICE

      Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be
      prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be
      banished;  persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
                          By Order of the Author
                      Per G. G., Chief of  Ordnance

                                EXPLANATORY

In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri
Negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods South-Western
dialect; the ordinary "Pike-County" dialect; and four modified
varieties of this last. The shadings have not been done in a
hap-hazard fashion, or by guess-work; but 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

CHAPTER 1

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 wasn'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 the 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.
  (1 - }5)
    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 was shining,  and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so
mournful; and I heard an  owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody
that was dead, and a   whippowill and a dog crying about somebody
that was going to die;  and the wind was trying to whisper
something to me and I couldn't make  out what it was, and so it
made the cold shivers run over me. Then  away out in the woods I
heard that kind of a sound that a ghost  makes when it wants to
tell about something that's on its mind and  can't make itself
understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave  and has to go
about that way every night grieving. I got so  down-hearted and
scared, I did wish I had some company. Pretty soon  a spider went
crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and it lit  in the
candle; and before I could budge it was all shriveled up. I  didn't
need anybody to tell me that was an awful bad sign and would  fetch
me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes off
of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks three times and
crossed  my breast every time; and then I tied up a little lock of
my hair with  a thread to keep witches away. But I hadn't no
confidence. You do that  when you've lost a horse-shoe that you've
found, instead of nailing it  up over the door, but I hadn't ever
heard anybody say it was any way  to keep off bad luck when you'd
killed a spider.
    I set down again, a shaking all over, and got out my pipe for
a  smoke; for the house was all as still as death, now, and so the
 widow wouldn't know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock
away  off in the town go boom- boom- boom-twelve licks- and all
still again-  stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap,
down in the dark  amongst the trees- something was a stirring. I
set still and listened.  Directly I could just barely hear a
"me-yow! me-yow!" down there. That  was good! Says I, "me-yow!
me-yow!" as soft as I could, and then I put  out the light and
scrambled out of the window onto the shed. Then I  slipped down to
the ground and crawled in amongst the trees, and  sure enough there
was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.
(1 - }9)

CHAPTER 2

We went tip-toeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the
end of the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches
wouldn't  scrape our heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I
fell over a  root and made a noise. We scrouched down and laid
still. Miss Watson's  big nigger, named Jim, was setting in the
kitchen door; we could see  him pretty clear, because there was a
light behind him. He got up  and stretched his neck out about a
minute, listening. Then he says:
     "Who dah?"
    He listened some more; then he come tip-toeing down and stood
right between us; we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it
was minutes and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there
so  close together. There was a place on my ankle that got to
itching; but  I dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch;
and next my  back, right between my shoulders. Seemed like I'd die
if I couldn't  scratch. Well, I've noticed that thing plenty of
times since. If you  are with the quality, or at a funeral, or
trying to go to sleep when  you ain't sleepy- if you are anywheres
where it won't do for you to  scratch, why you will itch all over
in upwards of a thousand places.  Pretty soon Jim says:
    "Say- who is you? What is you? Dog my cats ef I didn' hear
sumf'n.  Well, I knows what I's gwyne to do. I's gwyne to set down
here and  listen tell I hears it 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.
(2 - 5})
    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 the 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 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 around his
neck with  a string and said it was a charm the devil give to him
with his own   hands and told him he could cure anybody with it and
fetch witches  whenever he wanted to, just by saying something to
it; but he never  told what it was he said to it. Niggers would
come from all around  there and give Jim anything they had, just
for a sight of that  five-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 so stuck up on account of having
seen the devil and been rode by  witches.
    Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hill-top, we
looked  away down into the village and could see three or four
lights  twinkling, where there was sick folks, may be; and the
stars over us  was sparkling ever so fine; and down by the village
was the river, a  whole mile broad, and awful still and grand. We
went down the hill and  found Jo Harper, and Ben Rogers, and two or
three more of the boys,  hid in the old tanyard. So we unhitched a
skiff and pulled down the  river two mile and a half, to the big
scar on the hillside, and went  ashore.
    We went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made everybody swear to
keep  the secret, and then showed them a hole in the hill, right in
the  thickest part of the bushes. Then we lit the candles and
crawled in on   our hands and knees. We went about two hundred
yards, and then the  cave opened up. Tom poked about amongst the
passages and pretty soon  ducked under a wall where you wouldn't a
noticed that there was a  hole. We went along a narrow place and
got into a kind of room, all  damp and sweaty and cold, and there
we stopped. Tom says:
    "Now we'll start this band of robbers and call it Tom Sawyer's
Gang.  Everybody that wants to join has got to take an oath, and
write his  name in blood."
(2 - 10})
    Everybody was willing. So Tom got out a sheet of paper that he
had  wrote the oath on, and read it. It swore every boy to stick to
the  band, and never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody done
anything to any boy in the band, whichever boy was ordered to kill
that person and his family must do it, and he mustn't eat and he
mustn't sleep till he had killed them and hacked a cross in their
breasts, which was the sign of the band. And nobody that didn't
belong  to the band could use that mark, and if he did he must be
sued; and if  he done it again he must be killed. And if anybody
that belonged to  the band told the secrets, he must have his
throat cut, and then  have his carcass burnt up and the ashes
scattered all around, and   his name blotted off the list with
blood and never mentioned again  by the gang, but have a curse put
on it and be forgot, forever.
     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.
(2 - 15})
    "Yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find him, these
days.  He used to lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard, but he
hain't  been seen in these parts for a year or more."
    They talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because
they  said every boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or
else it  wouldn't be fair and square for the others. Well, nobody
could think  of anything to do- everybody was stumped, and set
still. I was most   ready to cry; but all at once I thought of a
way, and so I offered  them Miss Watson- they could kill her.
Everybody said:
    "Oh, she'll do, she'll do. That's all right. Huck can come in."
    Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign
with, and I made my mark on the paper.
    "Now," says Ben Rogers, "what's the line of business of this
Gang?"
(2 - 20})
    "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."
(2 - 25})
    "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 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?"
(2 - 30})
    "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- 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."
(2 - 35})
    "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 they 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.
(2 - 40})
    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.
(2 - 42})

CHAPTER 3

Well, I got a good going-over in the morning, from old Miss
Watson, on account of my clothes; but the widow she didn't scold,
but only cleaned off the grease and clay and looked so sorry that
I  thought I would behave a while if I could. Then Miss Watson she
took  me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. She told
me to  pray every day, and whatever I asked for I would get it. But
it warn't  so. I tried it. Once I got a fish-line, but no hooks. It
warn't any  good to me without hooks. I tried for the hooks three
or four times,  but somehow I couldn't make it work. By-and-by, one
day, I asked  Miss Watson to try for me, but she said I was a fool.
She never told  me why, and I couldn't make it out no way.
    I set down, one time, back in the woods, and had a long think
about it. I says to myself, if a body can get anything they pray
for, why don't Deacon Winn get back the money he lost on pork? Why
can't the widow get back her silver snuff-box that was stole? Why
can't Miss Watson fat up? No, says I to myself, there ain't nothing
in  it. I went and told the widow about it, and she said the thing
a  body could get by praying for it was "spiritual gifts." This was
too   many for me, but she told me what she meant- I must help
other people,  and do everything I could for other people, and look
out for them  all the time, and never think about myself. This was
including Miss  Watson, as I took it. I went out in the woods and
turned it over in my  mind a long time, but I couldn't see no
advantage about it- except for  the other people- so at last I
reckoned I wouldn't worry about it  any more, but just let it go.
Sometimes the widow would take me one  side and talk about
Providence in a way to make a body's mouth  water; but maybe next
day Miss Watson would take hold and knock it all  down again. I
judged I could see that there was two Providences, and a  poor chap
would stand considerable show with the widow's Providence,  but if
Miss Watson's got him there warn't no help for him any more.  I
thought it all out, and reckoned I would belong to the widow's, if
he wanted me, though I couldn't make out how he was agoing to be
any  better off then than what he was before, seeing I was so
ignorant  and so kind of low-down and ornery.
    Pap he hadn't been seen for more than a year, and that was
comfortable for me; I didn't want to see him no more. He used to
always whale me when he was sober and could get his hands on me;
though I used to take to the woods most of the time when he was
around. Well, about this time he was found in the river drowned,
about  twelve miles above town, so people said. They judged it was
him,  anyway; said this drowned man was just his size, and was
ragged, and  had uncommon long hair- which was all like pap- but
they couldn't make  nothing out of the face, because it had been in
the water so long it  warn't much like a face at all. They said he
was floating on his  back in the water. They took him and buried
him on the bank. But I  warn't comfortable long, because I happened
to think of something. I  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, we hadn't
killed any  people, but only just pretended. We used to hop out of
the woods and  go charging down on hog-drovers and women in carts
taking garden stuff  to market, but we never hived any of them. Tom
Sawyer called the  hogs "ingots," and he called the turnips and
stuff "julery" and we  would go to the cave and pow-wow over what
we had done and how many  people we had killed and marked. But I
couldn't see no profit in it. One time Tom sent a boy to run about
town with a blazing stick,  which he called a slogan (which was the
sign for the Gang to get  together), and then he said he had got
secret news by his spies that  next day a whole parcel of Spanish
merchants and rich Arabs was  going to camp in Cave Hollow with two
hundred elephants, and six  hundred camels, and over a thousand
"sumter" mules, all loaded down  with di'monds, and they didn't
have only a guard of four hundred  soldiers, and so we would lay in
ambuscade, as he called it, and  kill the lot and scoop the things.
He said we must slick up our swords  and guns, and get ready. He
never could go after even a turnip-cart  but he must have the
swords and guns all scoured up for it; though they was only lath
and broom-sticks, and you might scour at them till you rotted and
then they warn't worth a mouthful of ashes more than what they was
before. I didn't believe we could lick such a crowd of Spaniards
and A-rabs, but I wanted to see the camels and elephants, so I was
on hand next day, Saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got the
word, we rushed out of the woods and down the hill. But there
warn't no Spaniards and Arabs, 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 Arabs  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, allright, then the thing for  us to do was to go for the
magicians. Tom Sawyer said I was a  numskull.
    "Why," says he, "a magician could call up a lot of genies, and
they would hash you up like nothing before you could say Jack
Robinson. They are as tall as a tree and as big around as a
church."
(3 - 5})
    "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?"
(3 - 10})
    "Why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. They belong to whoever
rubs  the lamp or the ring, and they've got to do whatever he says.
If he  tells them to build a palace forty miles long, out of
di'monds, and  fill it full of chewing gum, or whatever you want,
and fetch an  emperor's daughter from China for you to marry,
they've got to do  it- and they've got to do it before sun-up next
morning, too. And  more-they've got to waltz that palace around
over the country wherever  you want it, you understand."
    "Well," says I, "I think they are a pack of flatheads for not
keeping the palace themselves 'stead of fooling them away like
that.   And what's more- if I was one of them I would see a man in
Jericho  before I would drop my business and come to him for the
rubbing of  an old tin lamp."
    "How you talk, Huck Finn. Why, you'd have to come when he
rubbed it,  whether you wanted to or not."
    "What, and I as high as a tree and as big as a church? All
right,  then; I would come; but I lay I'd make that man climb the
highest tree  there was in the country."
    "Shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, Huck Finn. You don't
seem  to know anything, somehow- perfect sap-head."
(3 - 15})
    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.
(3 - 16})

CHAPTER 4

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 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:
(4 - 5})
    "Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did you come for your
interest?"
    "No sir," I says; "is there some for me?"
    "Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in, last night. Over a hundred and
fifty dollars. Quite a fortune for you. You better let me invest it
along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend
it."
    "No sir," I says, "I don't want to spend it. I don't want it at
all-  nor the six thousand, nuther. I want you to take it; I want
to give it  to you- the six thousand and all."
    He looked surprised. He couldn't seem to make it out. He says:
(4 - 10})
    "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. I's 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:
(4 - 15})
    "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, 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:
(4 - 20})
    "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 'tother one  is black. De white one gits him to go right,
a little while, den de  black one sail in en bust it all up. A body
can't tell, yit, which one  gwyne to fetch him at de las'. But you
is all right. You gwyne to have  considable trouble in yo' life, en
considable joy. Sometimes you gwyne  to git hurt, en sometimes you
gwyne to git sick; but every time  you's gwyne to git well agin.
Dey's two gals flyin' 'bout you in yo'  life. One uv 'em's light en
'tother one is dark. One is rich en  'tother is po'. You's gwyne to
marry de po' one fust en de rich one  by-en-by. You wants to keep
'way fum de water as much as you kin, en  don't run no resk, 'kase
it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne to  git hung."
    When I lit my candle and went up to my room that night, there
set  pap, his own self!
(4 - 22})

CHAPTER 5

I had shut the door to. Then I turned around, and there he was. I
used to be scared of him all the time, he tanned me so much. I
reckoned I was scared now, too; but in a minute I see I was
mistaken. That is, after the first jolt, as you may say, when my
breath sort of hitched- he being so unexpected; but right away
after, I see I warn't scared of him worth bothering about.
    He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was long and
tangled  and greasy, and hung down, and you could see his eyes
shining  through like he was behind vines. It was all black, no
gray; so was  his long, mixed-up whiskers. There warn't no 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
'tother knee; the boot on  that foot was busted, and two of his
toes stuck through, and he worked  them now and then. His hat was
laying on the floor; an old black  slouch with the top caved in,
like a lid.
    I stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with
his   chair tilted back a little. I set the candle down. I noticed
the  window was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. He kept
a-looking me  all over. By-and-by he says:
    "Starchy clothes- very. You think you're a good deal of a
big-bug,  don't you?"
    "Maybe I am, maybe I ain't," I says.
(5 - 5})
    "Don't you give me none o' your lip," says he. "You've put on
considerble many frills since I been away. I'll take you down a peg
before I get done with you. You're educated, too, they say; can
read  and write. You think you're better'n your father, now, don't
you,  because he can't? I'll take it out of you. Who told you you
might  meddle with such hifalut'n foolishness, hey?- who told you
you could?"
    "The widow. She told me."
    "The widow, hey?- and who told the widow she could put in her
shovel  about a thing that ain't none of her business?"
    "Nobody never told her."
    "Well, I'll learn her how to meddle. And looky here- you drop
that  school, you hear? I'll learn people to bring up a boy to put
on airs  over his own father and let on to be better'n what he is.
You lemme   catch you fooling around that school again, you hear?
Your mother  couldn't read, and she couldn't write, nuther, before
she died. None  of the family couldn't, before they died. I can't;
and here you're  a-swelling yourself up like this. I ain't the man
to stand it- you  hear? Say- lemme hear you read."
(5 - 10})
    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."
(5 - 15})
    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."
(5 - 20})
    "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."
(5 - 25})
    "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.
(5 - 30})
    That pleased the old man till he couldn't rest. He said he'd
cowhide  me till I was black and blue if I didn't raise some money
for him. I  borrowed three dollars from Judge Thatcher, and pap
took it and got  drunk and went a-blowing around and cussing and
whooping and  carrying on; and he kept it up all over town, with a
tin pan, till  most midnight; then they jailed him, and next day
they had him  before court, and jailed him again for a week. But he
said he was  satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make
it warm for him.
    When he got out the new judge said he was agoing to make a man
of  him. So he took him to his own house, and dressed him up clean
and  nice, and had him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the
family, and was just old pie to him, so to speak. And after supper
he talked to him about temperance and such things till the old man
cried, and said he'd been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now
he  was agoing to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn't
be  ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not look
down on  him. The judge said he could hug him for them words; so he
cried,  and his wife she cried again; pap said he'd been a man that
had always   been misunderstood before, and the judge said he
believed it. The  old man said that what a man wanted that was
down, was sympathy; and  the judge said it was so; so they cried
again. And when it was  bedtime, the old man rose up and held out
his hand, and says:
    "Look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take ahold of it; shake
it.  There's a hand that was the hand of a hog; but it ain't so no
more;  it's the hand of a man that's started in on a new life, and
'll die  before he'll go back. You mark them words- don't forget I
said them.  It's a clean hand now; shake it- don't be 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
sometime he got  powerful thirsty and clumb out onto the porch-roof
and slid down a  stanchion and traded his new coat for a jug of
forty-rod, and clumb  back again and had a good old time; and
towards daylight he crawled  out again, drunk as a fiddler, and
rolled off the porch and broke  his left arm in two places and was
most froze to death when somebody  found him after sun-up. And when
they come to look at that spare room,   they had to take soundings
before they could navigate it.
    The judge he felt kind of sore. He said he reckoned a body
could  reform the ole man with a shot-gun, maybe, but he didn't
know no other  way.
(5 - 35})

CHAPTER 6

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
miles, in a  skiff, and crossed over to the Illinois shore where it
was woody and  there warn't no houses but an old log hut in a place
where the  timber was so thick you couldn't find it if you didn't
know where it  was.
    He kept me with him all the time, and I never got a chance to
run  off. We lived in that old cabin, and he always locked the door
and put  the key under his head, nights. He had a gun which he had
stole, I  reckon, and we fished and hunted, and that was what we
lived on. Every  little while he locked me in and went down to the
store, three  miles, to the ferry, and traded fish and game for
whisky and fetched  it home and got drunk and had a good time, and
licked me. The widow  she found out where I was, by-and-by, and she
sent a man over to try  to get hold of me, but pap drove him off
with the gun, and it warn't  long after that till I was used to
being where I was, and liked it,  all but the cowhide part.
     It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day,
smoking and fishing, and no books nor study. Two months or more run
along, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn't see
how I'd ever got to like it so well at the widow's, where you had
to  wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up
regular, and be forever bothering over a book and have old Miss
Watson  pecking at you all the time. I didn't want to go back no
more. I had  stopped cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but
now I took to  it again because pap hadn't no objections. It was
pretty good times up  in the woods there take it all around.
    But by-and-by pap got too handy with his hick'ry, and I
couldn't  stand it. I was all over welts. He got to going away so
much, too, and  locking me in. Once he locked me in and was gone
three days. It was  dreadful lonesome. I judged he had got drowned
and I wasn't ever going  to get out any more. I was scared. I made
up my mind I would fix up  some way to leave there. I had tried to
get out of that cabin many a  time, but I couldn't find no way.
There warn't a window to it big  enought for a dog to get through.
I couldn't get up the chimbly, it  was too narrow. The door was
thick solid oak slabs. Pap was pretty  careful not to leave a knife
or anything in the cabin when he was away; I reckon I had hunted
the place over as much as a hundred times;  well, I was most all
the time at it, because it was about the only way  to put in the
time. But this time I found something at last; I found  an old
rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid in between a  rafter
and the clapboards of the roof. I greased it up and went to  work.
There was an old horse-blanket nailed against the logs at the  far
end of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind from blowing
through the chinks and putting the candle out. I got under the
table  and raised the blanket and went to work to saw a section of
the big  bottom log out, big enough to let me through. Well, it was
a good long  job, but I was getting towards the end of it when I
heard pap's gun in  the woods. I got rid of the signs of my work,
and dropped the  blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap came
in.
(6 - 5})
    Pap warn't in a good humor- so he was his natural self. He said
he  was down to town, and everything was going wrong. His lawyer
said he  reckoned he would win his lawsuit and get the money, if
they ever  got started on the trial; but then there was ways to put
it off a long  time, and Judge Thatcher 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  upards, and jams him into an old
trap of a cabin like this, and lets  him go round in clothes that
ain't fitten for a hog. They call that  govment! A man can't get
his rights in a govment like this.  Sometimes I've a mighty notion
to just leave the country for good  and all. Yes, and I told 'em
so; I told old Thatcher so to his face.  Lots of 'em heard me, and
can tell what I said. Says I, for two  cents I'd leave the blamed
country and never come anear it 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.
(6 - 10})
     "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 ahold of a prowling, thieving, infernal,
white-shirted nigger,  and-"
    Pap was agoing on so, he never noticed where his old limber
legs was  taking him to, so he went head over heels over the tub of
salt pork,  and barked both shins, and the rest of his speech was
all the  hottest kind of language- mostly hove at the nigger and
the govment,  though he give the tub some, too, all along, here and
there. He hopped  around the cabin considerable, first on one leg
and then on the other,  holding first one shin and then the other
one, and at last he let  out with his left foot all of a sudden and
fetched the tub a  rattling kick. But it warn't good judgment,
because that was the  boot that had a couple of his toes leaking
out of the front end of it;  so now he raised a howl that fairly
made a body's hair raise, and down  he went in the dirt, and rolled
there, and held his toes; and the  cussing he done then laid over
anything he had ever done previous.  He said so his own self,
afterwards. He had heard old Sowberry Hagan in his best days, and
he said it laid over him, too; but I reckon that  was sort of
piling it on, maybe.
    After supper pap took the jug, and said he had enough whisky
there  for two drunks and one delirium tremens. That was always his
word. I  judged he would be blind drunk in about an hour, and then
I would  steal the key, or saw myself out, one or 'tother. He
drank, and drank,  and tumbled down on his blankets, by-and-by; but
luck didn't run my  way. He didn't go sound asleep, but was uneasy.
He groaned, and  moaned, and thrashed around this way and that, for
a long time. At  last I got so sleepy I couldn't keep my eyes open,
all I could do, and  so before I 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
ahold of him. He  wore out, by-and-by, and laid still a while,
moaning. Then he laid  stiller, and didn't make a sound. I could
hear the owls and the  wolves, away off in the woods, and it seemed
terrible still. He was  laying over by the corner. By-and-by he
raised up, part way, and  listened, with his head to one side. He
says very low:
    "Tramp- tramp- tramp; that's the dead; tramp- tramp- tramp;
they're coming after me; but I won't go- Oh, they're here! don't
touch  me- don't! hands off- they're cold; let go- Oh, let a poor
devil  alone!"
(6 - 15})
    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
splitbottom  chair and clumb up, as easy as I could, not to make
any noise, and got  down the gun. I slipped the ramrod down it to
make sure it was loaded,  and then I laid it across the turnip
barrel, pointing towards pap, and  set down behind it to wait for
him to stir. And how slow and still the  time did drag along.
(6 - 17})


CHAPTER 7

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."
(7 - 5})
    "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  cord-wood floating down, and pieces
of log rafts- sometimes a dozen logs together; so all you have to
do is to catch them and sell them to  the wood yards and the
sawmill.
    I went along up the bank with one eye out for pap and 'tother
one  out for what the rise might fetch along. Well, all at once,
here comes  a canoe; just a beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen
foot long,  riding high like a duck. I shot head first off of the
bank, like a  frog, clothes and all on, and struck out for the
canoe. I just  expected there'd be somebody laying down in it,
because people often  done that to fool folks, and when a chap had
pulled a skiff out most  to it they'd raise up and laugh at him.
But it warn't so this time. It  was a drift-canoe, sure enough, and
I clumb in and paddled her ashore.  Thinks I, the old man will be
glad when he sees this- she's worth  ten dollars. But when I got to
shore pap wasn't 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.
(7 - 10})
    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
cat-fish off  of the lines and went home.
    While we laid off, after breakfast, to sleep up, both of us
being  about wore out, I got to thinking that if I could fix up
some way to  keep pap and the widow from trying to follow me, it
would be a  certainer thing than trusting to luck to get far enough
off before  they missed me; you see, all kinds of things might
happen. Well, I  didn't see no way for a while, but by-and-by pap
raised up a minute,  to drink another barrel of water, and he says:
    "Another time a man comes a-prowling round here, you roust me
out,  you hear? That man warn't here for no good. I'd a shot him.
Next time,  you roust me out, you hear?"
    Then he dropped down and went to sleep again- but what he had
been saying give me the very idea I wanted. I says to myself, I can
fix  it now so nobody won't think of following me.
(7 - 15})
    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 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
wood pile, 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
in  its place, and put two rocks under it and one against it to
hold it  there,- for it was bent up at that place, and didn't quite
touch  ground. If you stood four or five foot away and didn't know
it was  sawed, you wouldn't ever notice it; and besides, this was
the back  of the cabin and it warn't likely anybody would go
fooling around  there.
    It was all grass clear to the canoe; so I hadn't left a track.
I  followed around to see. I stood on the bank and looked out over
the  river. All safe. So I took the gun and went up a piece into
the  woods and was hunting around for some birds, when I see a wild
pig; hogs soon went wild in them bottoms after they had got away
from the  prairie farms. I shot this fellow and took him into camp.
  I took the axe and smashed in the door- I beat it and hacked it
considerable, a-doing it. I fetched the pig in and took him back
nearly to the table and hacked into his throat with the axe, and
laid him down on the ground to bleed- I say ground, because it was
ground- hard packed, and no boards. Well, next I took an old sack
and put a lot of big rocks in it,- all I could drag- and I started
it from the pig and dragged it to the door and through the woods
down to the river and dumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight.
You could easy see that something had been dragged over the ground.
I did wish Tom Sawyer was there, I 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.
(7 - 20})
    Well, last I pulled out some of my hair, and bloodied the axe
good, and stuck it on the back side, and slung the axe in the
corner. Then I took 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. Pretty soon
I made it  out. It was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes
from oars  working in rowlocks when it's a still night. I peeped
out through  the willow branches, and there it was- a skiff, away
across the water. I couldn't tell how many was in it. It kept
a-coming, and when it  was abreast of me I see there warn't but one
man in it. Thinks I,  maybe it's pap, though I warn't expecting
him. He dropped below me,  with the current, and by-and-by he come
a-swinging up shore in the  easy water, and he went by so close I
could a reached out the gun  and touched him. Well, it was pap,
sure enough- and sober, too, by the  way he laid to his oars.
    I didn't lose no time. The next minute I was a-spinning down
stream soft but quick in the shade of the bank. I made two mile and
a half, and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more towards the
middle of the river, because soon I would be passing the ferry
landing  and people might see me and hail me. I got out amongst the
drift-wood and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let
her  float. I laid there and had a good rest and a smoke out of my
pipe,  looking away into the sky, not a cloud in it. The sky looks
ever so  deep when you lay down on your back in the moonshine; I
never 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. 'Tother one said
this warn't one of the short ones, he reckoned- and then they
laughed, and he said it  over again and they laughed again; then
they waked up another fellow  and told him, and laughed, but he
didn't laugh; he ripped out  something brisk and said let him
alone. The first fellow said he  'lowed to tell it to his old
woman- she would think it was pretty  good; but he said that warn't
nothing to some things he had said in  his tune. 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.
(7 - 25})
    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 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.
(7 - 30})

CHAPTER 8

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 think I hears
a  deep sound of "boom!" away up the river. I rouses up and rests
my  elbow and listens; pretty soon I hears it again. I hopped up
and  went and looked out a hole in the leaves, and I see a bunch of
smoke  laying on the water a long ways up- about abreast the ferry.
And there  was the ferryboat full of people, floating along down.
I knowed what  was the matter, now. "Boom!" I see the white smoke
squirt out of the  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.
(8 - 5})
    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 of 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
cat-fish  and haggled him open with my saw, and towards sundown I
started my  camp fire and had supper. Then I set out a line to
catch some fish for  breakfast.
(8 - 10})
    When it was dark I set by my camp fire smoking, and feeling
pretty  satisfied; but by-and-by it got sort of lonesome, and so I
went and  set on the bank and listened to the currents washing
along, and  counted the stars and drift-logs and rafts that come
down, and then  went to bed; there ain't no better way to put in
time when you are  lonesome; you can't stay so, you soon get over
it.
    And so for three days and nights. No difference- just the same
thing. But the next day I went exploring around down through the
island. I was boss of it; it all belonged to me, so to say, and I
wanted to know all about it; but mainly I wanted to put in the
time. I  found plenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and green
summer-grapes,  and green razberries; and the green blackberries
was just beginning to  show. They would all come handy by-and-by,
I judged.
    Well, I went fooling along in the deep woods till I judged I
warn't far from the foot of the island. I had my gun along, but I
hadn't shot nothing, it was for protection; thought I would kill
some game nigh home. About this time I mighty near stepped on a
good  sized snake, and it went sliding off through the grass and
flowers,  and I after it, trying to get a shot at it. I clipped
along, and all  of a sudden I bounded right on to the ashes of a
camp fire that was  still smoking.
    My heart jumped up amongst my lungs. I never waited for to look
further, but uncocked my gun and went sneaking back on my tip-toes
as fast as ever I could. Every now and then I stopped a second,
amongst the thick leaves, and listened; but my breath come so hard
I  couldn't hear nothing else. I slunk along another piece further,
then listened again; and so on, and so on; if I see a stump, I took
it  for a man; if I trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel
like a  person had cut one of my breaths in two and I only got
half, and the  short half, too.
    When I got to camp I warn't feeling very brash, there warn't
much  sand in my craw; but I says, this ain't no time to be fooling
around. So I got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have
them  out of sight, and I put out the fire and scattered the ashes
around to  look like an old last year's camp, and then clumb a
tree.
(8 - 15})
    I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I didn't see
nothing, I  didn't hear nothing- I only thought I heard and seen as
much as a  thousand things. Well, I couldn't stay up there forever;
so at last  I got down, but I kept in the thick woods and on the
lookout all the  time. All I could get to eat was berries and what
was left over from  breakfast.
    By the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So when it was
good  and dark, I slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled
over to  the Illinois bank- about a quarter of a mile. I went out
in the  woods and cooked a supper, and I had about made up my mind
I would  stay there all night, when I hear a plunkety-plunk,
plunkety-plunk,  and says to myself, horses coming; and next I hear
people's voices. I got everything into the canoe as quick as I
could, and then went  creeping through the woods to see what I
could find out. I hadn't  got far when I hear a man say:
    "We better camp here, if we can find a good place; the horses
is  about beat out. Let's look around."
    I didn't wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. I tied up
in  the old place, and reckoned I would sleep in the canoe.
    I didn't sleep much. I couldn't, somehow, for thinking. And
every  time I waked up I thought somebody had me by the neck. So
the sleep  didn't do me no good. By-and-by I says to myself, I
can't live this  way; I'm agoing to find out who it is that's here
on the island with  me; I'll find it out or bust. Well, I felt
better, right off.
(8 - 20})
    So I took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two,
and then let the canoe drop along down amongst the shadows. The
moon  was shining, and outside of the shadows it made it most as
light as  day. I poked along well onto an hour, everything still as
rocks and  sound asleep. Well by this time I was most down to the
foot of the  island. A little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow,
and that was as  good as saying the night was about done. I give
her a turn with the  paddle and brung her nose to shore; then I got
my gun and slipped  out and into the edge of the woods. I set down
there on a log and  looked out through the leaves. I see the moon
go off watch and the  darkness begin to blanket the river. But in
a little while I see a  pale streak over the tree-tops, and 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  awluz 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:
(8 - 25})
    "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?"
(8 - 30})
    "I come heah de night arter you's killed."
    "Yes- indeedy."
    "What, all that time?"
   "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?"
(8 - 35})
    "I reckon 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
cat-fish, too, and Jim  cleaned him with his knife, and fried him.
    When breakfast was ready, we lolled on the grass and eat it
smoking hot. Jim laid it in with all his might, for he was most
about starved. Then when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid
off  and lazied.
(8 - 40})
    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:
(8 - 45})
    "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."
(8 - 50})
    "But mind, you said you wouldn't tell- you know you said you
wouldn't tell, Huck."
    "Well, I did. I said I wouldn't, and I'll stick to it. Honest
injun I will. People would call me a low down Abolitionist and
despise  me for keeping mum- but that don't make no difference. I
ain't  agoing to tell, and I ain't agoing back there anyways. So
now, le's  know all about it."
    "Well, you see, it' uz dis way. Ole Missus- dat's Miss Watson-
she  pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she
awluz said she wouldn' sell me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey
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 ole 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
of 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 skit 'long
de  sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirrin' 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 skit 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 agoin' over
for to see de place. Sometimes  dey'd pull up at de sho' en take a
res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so  by de talk I got to know all
'bout de killin'. I 'uz powerful sorry  you's killed, Huck, but I
ain't no mo, now.
    "I laid dah under de shavins all day. I 'uz hungry, but I
warn't  afeared; bekase I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin'
to start to  de camp meetn' right arter breakfas' en be gone all
day, en dey  knows I goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey
wouldn' 'spec to  see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me
tell arter dark in de  evenin'. De yuther servants wouldn' miss me,
kase dey'd shin out en  take holiday, soon as de ole folks 'uz
out'n de way.
(8 - 55})
    "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 aholt. It clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for
a little while. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De men 'uz
all 'way  yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz
arisin' 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
Illinoi side.
    "But I didn'have no luck. When we 'uz mos' down to de head er
de  islan', a man begin to come aft wid de lantern. I see it warn't
no use  fer to wait, so I slid overboard, en struck out fer de
islan'. Well, I  had a notion I could lan' mos' anywheres, but I
couldn't- bank too  bluff. I 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo'
I foun' a good  place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn'
fool wid raffs no mo',  long as dey move de lantern roun' so. I had
my pipe en a plug er  dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey
warn't wet, so I 'uz all  right."
    "And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time?
Why  didn't you get mud-turkles?"
    "How you gwyne to git'm? You can't slip up on um en grab um; en
how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it in
de night? en I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de
daytime."
(8 - 60})
    "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 musn't count the things you are going to cook for
dinner, because that would bring bad luck. The same if you shook
the  table-cloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a
bee-hive,  and that man died, the bees must be told about it before
sun-up next  morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and
quit work and die.  Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I
didn't believe that,  because I had tried them lots of times
myself, and they wouldn't sting  me.
    I had heard about some of these things before, but not all of
them. Jim 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 goodluck signs. He
says:
(8 - 65})
    "Mighty few- an' dey ain' no use to a body. What you want to
know  when good luck's a-comin' for? want to keep it off?" And he
said:  "Ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat
you's  agwyne to be rich. Well, dey's some use in a sign like dat,
'kase it's  so fur ahead. You see, maybe you's got to be po' a long
time fust,  en so you might git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you
didn'know by  de sign dat you gwyne be rich bymeby."
    "Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?"
    "What's de use to ax dat question? don' 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."
(8 - 70})
    "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't gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. De cow up 'n' died
on  my han's."
    "So you lost the ten dollars."
(8 - 75})
    "No, I didn'lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of it. I sole
de  hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents."
    "You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you speculate any
more?"
    "Yes. You know dat one-laigged nigger dat b'longs to old Misto
Bradish? well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar
would git fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de year. Well, all de
niggers  went in, but dey didn'have much. I 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'
keep me out er  de business, bekase he say dey warn't business
'nough for two banks,  so he say I could put in my five dollars en
he pay me thirty-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?"
(8 - 80})
    "Well, I 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but I had a dream, en de dream
tole me to give it to a nigger name' Balum- Balum's Ass dey call
him  for short, he's one er dem chuckle-heads, you know. But he's
lucky,  dey say, en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let Balum
inves' de ten  cents en he'd make a raise for me. Well, Balum he
tuck de money, en  when he 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 get 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 hundred dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn' want
no mo'."
(8 - 85})

CHAPTER 9

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.
(9 - 5})
    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.
(9 - 10})
    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 up-stairs window. But it was too
dark to see  yet, so we made the canoe fast and set in her to wait
for daylight.
    The light begun to come before we got to the foot of the
island.  Then we looked in at the window. We could make out a bed,
and a table,  and two old chairs, and lots of things around about
on the floor;  and there was clothes hanging against the wall.
There was something  laying on the floor in the far corner that
looked like a man. So Jim  says:
    "Hello, you!"
    But it didn't budge. So I hollered again, and then Jim says:
(9 - 15})
    "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 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 under-clothes, 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 milk
in it; and it had a rag  stopper for a baby to suck. We would a
took the bottle, but it was  broke. There was a seedy old chest,
and an old hair trunk with the  hinges broke. They stood open, but
there warn't nothing left in them  that was any account. The way
things was scattered about, we  reckoned the people left in a hurry
and warn't fixed so as to carry off most of their stuff.
    We got an old tin lantern, and a butcher knife without any
handle,  and a bran-new Barlow knife worth two bits in any store,
and a lot  of tallow candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd,
and a tin  cup, and a ratty old bed-quilt off the bed, and a
reticule with  needles and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread
and all such truck  in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a
fish-line as thick as my  little finger, with some monstrous hooks
on it, and a roll of  buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and a
horse-shoe, and some vials  of medicine that didn't have no label
on them; and just as we was  leaving I found a tolerable good
curry-comb, and Jim he found a  ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden
leg. The straps was broke off of  it, but barring that, it was a
good enough leg, though it was too long  for me and not long enough
for Jim, and we couldn't find the other  one, though we hunted all
around.
(9 - 20})
    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.
(9 - 21})

CHAPTER 10

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.
(10 - 5})
    He jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light showed was
the  varmit 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
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 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 would help. Then I slid out quiet and throwed
the snakes clear away amongst the bushes; for I warn't going to let
Jim find out it was all my fault, not if I could help it.
    Jim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and then he got out
of his  head and pitched around and yelled; but every time he come
to  himself he went to sucking at the jug again. His foot swelled
up  pretty big, and so did his leg; but by-and-by the drunk begun
to come,  and so I judged he was all right; but I'd druther been
bit with a  snake than pap's whisky.
    Jim was laid up for four days and nights. Then the swelling was
all gone and he was around again. I made up my mind I wouldn't ever
take aholt of a snake-skin again with my hands, now that I see what
had come of it. Jim said he reckoned I would believe him next time.
And he said that handling a snake-skin was such awful bad luck that
maybe we hadn't got to the end of it yet. He said he druther see
the  new moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand times
than  take up a snake-skin in his hand. Well, I was getting to feel
that way  myself, though I've always reckoned that looking at the
new moon  over your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and
foolishest  things a body can do. Old Hank Bunker done it once, and
bragged  about it; and in less than two years he got drunk and fell
off of  the shot tower and spread himself out so that he was just
a kind of  a layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways
between two barn  doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they
say, but I didn't see  it. Pap told me. But anyway, it all come of
looking at the moon that  way, like a fool.
    Well, the days went along, and the river went down between its
banks  again; and about the first thing we done was to bait one of
the big  hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a
cat-fish that was  as big as a man, being six foot two inches long,
and weighed over  two hundred pounds. We couldn't handle him, of
course; he would a flung us into Illinois. We just set there and
watched him rip and tear  around till he 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.
(10 - 10})
    Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted
to  get a stirring up, some way. I said I reckoned I would slip
over the  river and find out what was going on. Jim liked that
notion; but he  said I must go in the dark and look sharp. Then he
studied it over and  said, couldn't I put on some of them old
things and dress up like a  girl? That was a good notion, too. So
we shortened up one of the  calico gowns and I turned up my
trowser-legs to my knees and got  into it. Jim hitched it behind
with the hooks, and it was a fair  fit. I put on the sun-bonnet and
tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and see my
face was like looking down a joint of  stove-pipe. Jim said nobody
would know me, even in the daytime,  hardly. I 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.
(10 - 13})

CHAPTER 11

"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."
(11 - 5})
    "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 mile
below here at a farm; so I ain't hungry no more. It's what makes me
so  late. My mother's down sick, and out of money and everything,
and I  come to tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end
of the  town, she says. I hain't ever been here before. Do you know
him?"
    "No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't lived here quite
two weeks. It's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town.
You better stay here all night. Take off your bonnet."
(11 - 10})
    "No," I says, "I'll rest a while, I reckon, and go on. I ain't
afeard 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 this town;  but by-and-by she dropped onto pap
and the murder, and then I was  pretty willing to let her clatter
right along. She told about me and  Tom Sawyer finding the six
thousand dollars (only she got it ten)  and all about pap and what
a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot I  was, and at last she got
down to where I was murdered. I says:    "Who done it? We've heard
considerable about these goings on, down in Hookerville, but we
don't know who 'twas that killed Huck Finn."
    "Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of people here
that'd  like to know who killed him. Some thinks old Finn done it
himself."
    "No- is that so?"
(11 - 15})
    "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 give him some, and that evening
he got drunk and was around till  after midnight with a couple of
mighty hard looking strangers, and  then went off with them. Well,
he hain't come back sence, and they  ain't looking for him back
till this thing blows over a little, for  people thinks now that he
killed his boy and fixed things so folks  would think robbers done
it, and then he'd get Huck's money without  having to bother a long
time with a lawsuit. People do say he warn't  any too good to do
it. Oh, he's sly, I reckon. If he don't come back  for a year,
he'll be all right. You can't prove anything on him, you  know;
everything will be quieted down then, and he'll walk into Huck's
money as easy as nothing."
    "Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the way of it.
Has  everybody quit thinking the nigger done it?"
(11 - 20})
    "Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done it. But
they'll  get the nigger pretty soon, now, and maybe they can scare
it out of  him."
    "Why, are they after him yet?"
    "Well, you're innocent, ain't you! Does three hundred dollars
lay  round every day for people to pick up? Some folks thinks the
nigger  ain't far from here. I'm one of them- but I hain't talked
it around. A  few days ago I was talking with an old couple that
lives next door  in the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly
anybody ever goes  to that island over yonder that they call
Jackson's Island. Don't  anybody live there? says I. No, nobody,
says they. I didn't say any  more, but I done some thinking. I was
pretty near certain I'd seen  smoke over there, about the head of
the island, a day or two before  that, so I says to myself, like as
not that nigger's hiding over  there; anyway, says I, it's worth
the trouble to give the place a  hunt. I hain't seen any smoke
sence, so I reckon maybe he's gone, if  it was him; but my
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?"
(11 - 25})
    "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:
(11 - 30})
    "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 afeard maybe I was looking it, too. I wished
the woman would say something more; the longer she set still, the
uneasier  I was. But now she says:
    "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."
(11 - 35})
    "Oh, that's the way of it?"
    "Yes'm."
    I was feeling better, then, but I wished I was out of there,
anyway.  I couldn't look up yet.
    Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and
how  poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they
owned  the place, and so forth, and so on, and then I got easy
again. She was  right about the rats. You'd see one stick his nose
out of a hole in  the corner every little while. She said she had
to have things handy  to throw at them when she was alone, or they
wouldn't give her no  peace. She showed me a bar of lead, twisted
up into a knot, and said  she was a good shot with it generly, but
she'd wrenched her arm a  day or two ago, and didn't know whether
she could throw true, now. But  she watched for a chance, and
directly she banged away at a rat, but she missed him wide, and
said "Ouch!" it hurt her arm so. Then she  told me to try for the
next one. I wanted to be getting away before  the old man got back,
but of course I didn't let on. I got the  thing, and the first rat
that showed his nose I let drive, and if he'd  a stayed where he
was he'd a been a tolerable sick rat. She said  that 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."
(11 - 40})
    So she dropped the lump into my lap, just at that moment, and
I  clapped my legs together on it and she went on talking. But only
about  a minute. Then she took off the hank and looked me straight
in the  face, but very pleasant, and says:
    "Come, now- what's your real name?"
    "Wh- what, mum?"
    "What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?- or what is
it?"
    I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know hardly what to
do.  But I says:
(11 - 45})
    "Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. If I'm
in the  way, here, I'll-"
    "No, you won't. Set down and stay where you are. I ain't going
to  hurt you, and I ain't going to tell on you, nuther. You just
tell me  your secret, and trust me. I'll keep it; and what's more,
I'll help  you. So'll my old man, if you want him to. You see,
you're a runaway  'prentice- that's all. It ain't anything. There
ain't any harm in  it. You've been treated bad, and you made up
your mind to cut. Bless  you, child, I wouldn't tell on you. Tell
me all about it, now-  that's a good boy."
    So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer,
and  I would just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but
she  mustn't go back on her promise. Then I told her my father and
mother  was dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer
in the  country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me
so bad I  couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a
couple of days,  and so I took my chance and stole some of his
daughter's old clothes, and cleared out, and I had been three
nights coming the  thirty miles; I traveled nights, and hid
day-times and slept, and  the bag of bread and meat I carried from
home lasted me all the way  and I had a plenty. I said I believed
my uncle Abner Moore would  take care of me, and so that was why I
struck out for this town of  Goshen.
    "Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St. Petersburg.
Goshen's ten mile further up the river. Who told you this was
Goshen?"
    "Why, a man I met at day-break this morning, just as I was
going  to turn into the woods for my regular sleep. He told me when
the roads  forked I must take the right hand, and five mile would
fetch me to  Goshen."
(11 - 50})
    "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
day-light."
    "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?"
(11 - 55})
    "The hind end, mum."
    "Well, then, a horse?"
    "The for'rard end, mum."
    "Which side of a tree does the most moss grow on?"
    "North side."
(11 - 60})
    "If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them
eats  with their heads pointed the same direction?"
    "The whole fifteen, mum."
    "Well, I reckon you have lived in the country. I thought maybe
you  was trying to hocus me again. What's your real name now?"
    "George Peters, mum."
    "Well, try to remember it, George. Don't forget and tell me
it's  Elexander before you go, and then get out by saying it's
George-Elexander when I catch you. And don't go about women in that
old calico. You do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men,
maybe. Bless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle, don't
hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the
needle  still and poke the thread at it- that's the way a woman
most always  does; but a man always does 'tother way. And when you
throw at a rat  or anything, hitch yourself up a tip-toe, and fetch
your hand up  over your head as awkard as you can, and miss your
rat about six or  seven foot. Throw stiff-armed from the shoulder,
like there was a  pivot there for it to turn on- like a girl; not
from the wrist and  elbow, with your arm out to one side like a
boy. And mind you, when  a girl tries to catch anything in her lap,
she throws her knees apart;  she don't clap them together, the way
you did when you 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 Lotus,  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."
(11 - 65})
    I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I doubled on my
tracks and slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below
the house. I jumped in and was off in a hurry. I went up stream far
enough to make the head of the island, and then started across. I
took  off the sun-bonnet, for I didn't want no blinders on, then.
When I was  about the middle, I hear the clock begin to strike; so
I stops and  listens; the sound come faint over the water, but
clear- eleven.  When I struck the head of the island I never waited
to blow, though  I was most winded, but I shoved right into the
timber where my old  camp used to be, and started a good fire there
on a high-and-dry spot.
    Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place a mile and
a  half below, as hard as I could go. I landed, and slopped through
the  timber and up the ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid,
sound  asleep on the ground. I roused him out and says:
    "Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a minute to lose.
They're after us!"
    Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way
he  worked for the next half an hour showed about how he was
scared. By  that time everything we had in the world was on our
raft and she was  ready to be shoved out from the willow cove where
she was hid. We  put out the camp fire at the cavern the first
thing, and didn't show a candle outside after that.
    I took the canoe out from shore a little piece and took a look,
but if there was a boat around I couldn't see it, for stars and
shadows ain't good to see by. Then we got out the raft and slipped
along down in the shade, past the foot of the island dead still,
never  saying a word.
(11 - 70})

CHAPTER 12

It must a been close onto one o'clock when we got below the island
at last, and the raft did seem to go mighty slow. If a boat was to
come along, we was going to take to the canoe and break for the
Illinois shore; and it was well a boat didn't come, for we hadn't
ever  thought to put the gun into the canoe, or a fishing-line or
anything  to eat. We was in ruther too much of a sweat to think of
so many  things. It warn't good judgment to put everything on the
raft.
    If the men went to the island, I just expect they found the
camp  fire I built, and watched it all night for Jim to come.
Anyways,  they stayed away from us, and if my building the fire
never fooled them it warn't no fault of mine. I played it as
low-down on them as  I could.
    When the first streak of day begun to show, we tied up to a
tow-head  in a big bend on the Illinois side, and hacked off
cotton-wood  branches with the hatchet and covered up the raft with
them so she  looked like there had been a cave-in in the bank
there. A tow-head  is a sand-bar that has 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 upbound steamboats fight the big river in the
middle. I  told Jim all about the time I had jabbering with that
woman; and Jim  said she was a smart one, and if she was to start
after us herself she  wouldn't set down and watch a camp fire- no,
sir, she'd fetch a dog.  Well, then, I said, why couldn't she tell
her husband to fetch a  dog? Jim said he bet she did think of it by
the time the men was ready  to start, and he believed they must a
gone up town to get a dog and so  they lost all that time, or else
we wouldn't be here on a tow-head  sixteen or seventeen mile below
the village- no, indeedy, we would be in that same old town again.
So I said I didn't care what was the  reason they didn't get us, as
long as they didn't.
    When it was beginning to come on dark, we poked our heads out
of the  cottonwood thicket and looked up, and down, and across;
nothing in  sight; so Jim took up some of the top planks of the
raft and built a  snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and
rainy, and to keep the  things dry. Jim made a floor for the
wigwam, and raised it a foot or  more above the level of the raft,
so now the blankets and all the  traps was out of the reach of
steamboat waves. Right in the middle  of the wigwam we made a layer
of dirt about five or six inches deep  with a frame around it for
to hold it to its place; this was to  build a fire on in sloppy
weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep  it from being seen. We
made an extra steering oar, too, because one of  the others might
get broke, on a snag or something. We fixed up a  short forked
stick to hang the old lantern on; because we must  always light the
lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down  stream, to keep
from getting run over; but we wouldn't have to light  it for
upstream boats unless we see we was in what they call a
"crossing"; for the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being
still a little under water; so up-bound boats didn't always run the
channel, but hunted easy water.
(12 - 5})
    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 corn fields and
borrowed a  watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new
corn, or things  of that kind. Pap always said it warn't no harm to
borrow things, if  you was meaning to pay them back, sometime; but
the widow said it  warn't anything but a soft name for stealing,
and no decent body would  do it. Jim said he reckoned the widow was
partly right and pap was  partly right; so the best way would be
for us to pick out two or three  things from the list and say we
wouldn't borrow them any more- then he  reckoned it wouldn't be no
harm to borrow the others. So we talked  it over all one night,
drifting along down the river, trying to make  up our minds whether
to drop the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or  the mushmelons, or
what. But towards daylight we got it all settled  satisfactory, and
concluded to drop crabapples and p'simmons. We  warn't feeling just
right, before that, but it was all comfortable  now. I was glad the
way it come out, too, because crabapples ain't  ever good, and the
p'simmons wouldn't be ripe for two or three  months yet.
    We shot a water-fowl, now and then, that got up too early in
the  morning or didn't go to bed early enough in the evening. Take
it all  around, we lived pretty high.
(12 - 10})
    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."
(12 - 15})
    "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 pilothouse such
a night as this,  when it's likely to break up and wash off down
the river any  minute?" Jim couldn't say nothing to that, so he
didn't try. "And  besides," I says, "we might borrow something
worth having, out of  the captain's stateroom. Seegars, I bet you-
and cost five cents  apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is
always rich, and get sixty  dollars a month, and they don't care a
cent what a thing costs, you  know, long as they want it. Stick a
candle in your pocket; I can't  rest, Jim, till we give her a
rummaging. Do you reckon Tom Sawyer  would ever go by this thing?
Not for pie, he wouldn't. He'd call it an adventure- that's what
he'd call it; and he'd land on that wreck if it  was his last act.
And wouldn't he throw style into it?- wouldn't he  spread himself,
nor nothing? Why, you'd think it was Christopher  C'lumbus
discovering Kingdom-Come. I wish Tom Sawyer was here."
    Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we mustn't talk
any  more than we could help, and then talk mighty low. The
lightning  showed us the wreck again, just in time, and we fetched
the  starboard derrick, and made fast there.
    The deck was high out, here. We went sneaking down the slope of
it  to labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way
slow with  our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the
guys, for it was  so dark we couldn't see no sign of them. Pretty
soon we struck the  forward end of the skylight, and clumb onto it;
and the next step  fetched us in front of the captain's door, which
was open, and by  Jimminy, away down through the texas-hall we see
a light! and all in  the same second we seem to hear low voices in
yonder!    Jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and
told me  to come along. I says, all right; and was going to start
for the raft;  but just then I heard a voice wail out and say:
    "Oh, please don't, boys; I swear I won't ever tell!"
(12 - 20})
    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 swor't if you didn't you'd tell. But this
time you've  said it jest one time too many. You're the meanest,
treacherousest  hound in this country."
    By this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was just a-biling
with  curiosity; and I says to myself, Tom Sawyer wouldn't back out
now, and  so I won't either; I'm agoing to see what's going on
here. So I  dropped on my hands and knees, in the little passage,
and crept aft in  the dark, till there warn't but about one
stateroom betwixt me and the  cross-hall of the texas. Then, in
there I see a man stretched on the  floor and tied hand and foot,
and two men standing over him, and one  of them had a dim lantern
in his hand, and the other one had a pistol.
  This one kept pointing the pistol at the man's head on the floor
and  saying-
    "I'd like to! And I orter, too, a mean skunk!"
    The man on the floor would shrivel up, and say: "Oh, please
don't,  Bill- I hain't ever goin' to tell."
(12 - 25})
    And every time he said that, the man with the lantern would
laugh,  and say:
    "'Deed you ain't! You never said no truer thing 'n that, you
bet  you." And once he said: "Hear him beg! and yit if we hadn't
got the  best of him and tied him, he'd a killed us both. And what
for? Jist  for noth'n. Jist because we stood on our rights- that's
what for.  But I lay you ain't agoin'to threaten nobody any more,
Jim Turner. Put  up that pistol, Bill."
    Bill says:
    "I don't want to, Jake Packard. I'm for killin' him- and din'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."
(12 - 30})
    "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 tune;
so to keep from getting run over and catched I crawled into a
stateroom  on the upper side. The man come a-pawing along in the
dark, and when  Packard got to my stateroom, he says:
    "Here- come in here."
    And in he come, and Bill after him. But before they got in, I
was up  in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come. Then they
stood there,  with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and
talked. I couldn't see  them, but I could tell where they was, by
the whisky they'd been  having. I was glad I didn't drink whisky;
but it wouldn't made much  difference, anyway, because most of the
time they couldn't a treed  me because I didn't breathe. I was too
scared. And besides, a body  couldn't breathe, and hear such talk.
They talked low and earnest.  Bill wanted to kill Turner. He says:
    "He's said he'll tell, and he will. If we was to give both our
shares to him now, it wouldn't make no difference after the row,
and  the way we've served him. Shore's you're born, he'll turn
State's  evidence; now you hear me. I'm for putting him out of his
troubles."
(12 - 35})
    "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 gotto 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 gether up
whatever  pickins we've overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for
shore and  hide the truck. Then we'll wait. Now I say it ain't
agoin' to be  more 'n two hours befo' this wrack breaks up and
washes off down the  river. See? He'll be 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  around it; it ain't good
sense, it ain't good morals. Ain't I right?"
(12 - 40})
    "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-"
(12 - 45})
    "Oh, my lordy, lordy! Raf Dey ain' no raf' no mo', she done
broke  loose en gone!- 'en here we is!"
(12 - 46})

CHAPTER 13

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 onto the shutters, I was so weak. But
Bill  says:
(13 - 5})
    "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?"
(13 - 10})
    "Maybe he won't. But we got to have it anyway. Come along."
    So they got out and went in.
    The door slammed to, because it was on the careened side; and
in a  half second I was in the boat, and Jim come a tumbling after
me. I out  with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went!
    We didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor
hardly even breathe. We went gliding swift along, dead silent, past
the tip of the paddlebox, 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 the rascals had missed their boat, and was
beginning to understand that they was in just as much trouble, now,
as  Jim Turner was.
(13 - 15})
    Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. Now
was  the first time I begun to worry about the men- I reckon I
hadn't had  time to before. I begun to think how dreadful it was,
even for  murderers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself, there
ain't no  telling but I might come to be a murderer myself, yet,
and then how  would I like it? So says I to Jim:
    "The first light we see, we'll land a hundred yards below it or
above it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place for you and the
skiff, and then I'll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get
somebody to go for that gang and get them out of their scrape, so
they  can be hung when their time comes."
    But that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun to storm
again, and this time worse than ever. The rain poured down, and
never a light showed; everybody in bed, I reckon. We boomed along
down  the river, watching for lights and watching for our raft.
After a long time the rain let up, but the clouds staid, and the
lightning kept  whimpering, and by-and-by a flash showed us a black
thing ahead,  floating, and we made for it.
    It was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it
again.  We seen a light, now, away down to the right, on shore. So
I said I  would go for it. The skiff was half full of plunder which
that gang  had stole, there on the wreck. We hustled it onto the
raft in a  pile, and I told Jim to float along down, and show a
light when he  judged he had gone about two mile, and keep it
burning till I come;  then I manned my oars and shoved for the
light. As I got down  towards it, three or four more showed- up on
a hillside. It was a  village. I closed in above the shore-light,
and laid on my oars and  floated. As I went by, I see it was a
lantern hanging on the jackstaff  of a double-hull ferry-boat. I
skimmed around for the watchman,  a-wondering whereabouts he slept;
and by-and-by I found him roosting  on the bitts, forward, with his
head down between his knees. I give  his shoulder two or three
little shoves, and begun to cry.
    He stirred up, in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it
was only me, he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says:
(13 - 20})
   "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?"
(13 - 25})
    "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?"
(13 - 30})
    "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."
(13 - 35})
    "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?"
(13 - 40})
    "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 afloating down,
stern-first,  about two mile, and saddle-baggsed on the wreck, and
the ferry man and  the nigger woman and the horses was all lost,
but Miss Hooker she made  a grab and got aboard the wreck. Well,
about an hour after dark, we  come along down in our trading-scow,
and it was so dark we didn't  notice the wreck till we was right on
it; and so we saddle-baggsed;  but all of us was saved but Bill
Whipple- and oh, he was the best  cretur!- I most wish't it had
been me, I do."
    "My George! It's the beatenest thing I ever struck. And then
what  did you all do?"
    "Well, we hollered and took on, but it's so wide there, we
couldn't make nobody hear. So pap said somebody got to get ashore
and get help somehow. I was the only one that could swim, so I made
a dash for it, and Miss Hooker she said if I didn't strike help
sooner, come here and hunt up her uncle, and he'd fix the thing. I
made the land about a mile below, and been fooling along ever
since,  trying to get people to do something, but they said, 'What,
in such a night and such a current? there ain't no sense in it; go
for the  steam-ferry.' Now if you'll go, and-"
(13 - 45})
    "By Jackson, I'd like to, and blame it I don't know but I will;
but who in the dingnation's agoin' to pay for it? Do you reckon
your  pap-"
    "Why that's all right. Miss Hooker she told me, particular,
that her  uncle Hornback-"
    "Great guns! is he her uncle? Looky here, you break for that
light  over yonder-way, and turn out west when you git there, and
about a  quarter of a mile out you'll come to the tavern; tell 'em
to dart  you out to Jim Hornback's and he'll foot the bill. And
don't you  fool around any, because he'll want to know the news.
Tell him I'll  have his niece all safe before he can get to town.
Hump yourself, now;  I'm agoing up around the corner here, to roust
out my engineer."
    I struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the corner I
went  back and got into my skiff and bailed her out and then pulled
up shore  in the easy water about six hundred yards, and tucked
myself in  among some woodboats; for I couldn't rest easy till I
could see the  ferry-boat start. But take it all around, I was
feeling ruther comfortable on accounts of taking all this trouble
for that gang,  for not many would a done it. I wished the widow
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 heavyhearted about the gang, but
not much, for I  reckoned if they could stand it, I could.
(13 - 50})
    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 Horseback would want them; and
then pretty soon  the ferryboat give it up and went for shore, and
I laid into my work  and went a-booming down the river.
    It did seem a powerful long time before Jim's light showed up;
and  when it did show, it looked like it was a thousand mile off.
By the  time I got there the sky was beginning to get a little gray
in the  east; so we struck for an island, and hid the raft, and
sunk the  skiff, and turned in and slept like dead people.
(13 - 52})

CHAPTER 14

By-and-by, when we got up, we turned over the truck the gang had
stole off 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 old King Sollermun, onless you counts dem
kings dat's  in a pack er k'yards. How much do a king git?"
"Get?" I says; "why, they get a thousand dollars a month if they
want it; they can have just as much as they want; everything
belongs  to them."
    "Ain't dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?"
(14 - 5})
    "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."
(14 - 10})
    "Roun' de which?"
    "What's de harem?"
    "The place where he keep his wives. Don't you know about the
harem? Solomon had one; he had about a million wives."
    "Why, yes, dat's so; I- I'd done forgot it. A harem's a
bo'd'n-house, I reck'on. 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 blimblammin' all de time? No- 'deed he
wouldn't. A wise man 'ud take en buil' a biler-factry; en den he
could shet down de  biler-factry when he want to res'."
    "Well, but he was the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she
told  me so, her own self."
(14 - 15})
    "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't 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 would'n give a dern for a million un um."
    "But hang it, Jim, you've clean missed the point- blame it,
you've  missed it a thousand mile."
    "Who? Me? Go 'long. Doan' talk to me 'bout yo' pints. I reck'n
I  knows sense when I sees it; en dey ain' no sense in 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."
(14 - 20})
    "But I tell you don't get the point."
    "Blame de pint! I reck'n I knows what I knows. En mine you, de
real pint is down furder- it's down deeper. It lays in de way
Sollermun was raised. You take a man dat's got on'y one er two
chillen; is dat man gwyne to be waseful o' chillen? No, he ain't;
he  can't'ford it. He know how to value 'em. But you take a man
dat's  got 'bout five million chillen runnin' roun' de house, en
it's  diffunt. He as soon chop a chile in two as a cat. Dey's
plenty mo'.  A chile er two, mo'er less, warn't no consekens to
Sollermun, dad fetch him!"
    I never see such a nigger. If he got a notion in his head once,
there warn't no getting it out again. He was the most down on
Solomon of any nigger I ever see. So I went to talking about other
kings, and let Solomon slide. I told about Louis Sixteenth that got
his head cut off in France long time ago; and about his little boy
the  dolphin, that would a been a king, but they took and shut him
up in  jail, and some say he died there.
    "Po' little chap."
    "But some says he got out and got away, and come to America."
(14 - 25})
    "Dat's good! But he'll be ooty 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?"
(14 - 30})
    "No, Jim; you couldn't understand a word they said- not a
single word."
    "Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat come?"
    "I don't know; but it's so. I got some of their jabber out of
a  book. Spose a man was to come to you and say 'Polly-voo-franzy'-
what would you think?"
    "I wouldn't think nuff'n; I'd take en bust him over de head.
Dat is,  if he warn't white. I wouldn't 'low no nigger to call me
dat."
    "Shucks, it ain't calling you anything. It's only saying do you
know  how to talk French."
(14 - 35})
    "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."
(14 - 40})
    "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?"
(14 - 45})
    "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?"
(14 - 50})
    "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' got no business to talk like either one or
the yuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman a man?"
    "Well, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he talk like a man? You
answer  me dat!"
(14 - 55})
    I see it warn't no use wasting words- you can't learn a nigger
to  argue. So I quit.
(14 - 56})

CHAPTER 15

We judged that three nights more would fetch us to Cairo, at the
bottom of Illinois, where the Ohio River comes in, and that was
what  we was after. We would sell the raft and get on a steamboat
and go way  up the Ohio amongst the free States, and then be out of
trouble.
    Well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for
a  tow-head to tie to, for it wouldn't do to try to run in fog; but
when I paddled ahead in the canoe, with the line, to make fast,
there warn't anything but little saplings to tie to. I passed the
line  around one of them right on the edge of the cut bank, but
there was  a stiff current, and the raft come booming down so
lively she tore  it out by the roots and away she went. I see the
fog closing down, and  it made me so sick and scared I couldn't
budge for most a half a  minute it seemed to me- and then there
warn't no raft in sight; you couldn't see twenty yards. I jumped
into the canoe and run back to the  stern and grabbed the paddle
and set her back a stroke. But she didn't  come. I was in such a
hurry I hadn't untied her. I got up and tried to  untie her, but I
was so excited my hands shook so I couldn't hardly do  anything
with them.
    As soon as I got started I took out after the raft, hot and
heavy,  right down to 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  'tother, but it was going straight ahead all
the time.
    I did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it
all  the time, but he never did, and it was the still places
between the  whoops that was making the trouble for me. Well, I
fought along, and  directly I hears the whoop behind me. I was
tangled good, now. That  was somebody else's whoop, or else I was
turned around.
(15 - 5})
    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 current was tearing by them so
swift.
    In another second or two it was solid white and still again. I
set  perfectly still, then, listening to my heart thump, and I
reckon I  didn't draw a breath while it thumped a hundred.
    I just give up, then. I knowed what the matter was. That cut
bank  was an island, and Jim had gone down 'tother side of it. It
warn't  no tow-head, that you could float by in ten minutes. It had
the big  timber of a regular island; it might be five or six mile
long and more  than a half a mile wide.
    I kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, I
reckon. I was floating along, of course, four or five mile an hour;
but you don't ever think of that. No, you feel like you are laying
dead still on the water; and if a little glimpse of a snag slips
by,  you don't think to yourself how fast you're going, but you
catch  your breath and think, my! how that snag's tearing along. If
you think  it ain't dismal and lonesome out in a fog that way, by
yourself, in  the night, you try it once- you'll see.
(15 - 10})
    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 losing the whoops, down amongst the
tow-heads; and  I only tried to chase them a little while, anyway,
because it was  worse than chasing a Jack-o-lantern. You never
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 just one
little cat-nap.
    But I reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when I waked up
the  stars was shining bright, the fog was all gone, and I was
spinning  down a big bend stern first. First I didn't know where I
was; I  thought I was dreaming; and when things begun to come back
to me, they seemed to come up dim out of last week.
    It was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest and the
thickest  kind of timber on both banks; just a solid wall, as well
as I could  see, by the stars. I looked away down stream, and seen
a black speck  on the water. I took out after it; but when I got to
it warn't nothing  but a couple of saw-logs made fast together.
Then I see another speck,  and chased that; then another, and this
time I was right. It was the  raft.
(15 - 15})
    When I got to it Jim was setting there with his head down
between  his knees, asleep, with his right arm hanging over the
steering oar.  The other oar was smashed off, and the raft was
littered up with  leaves and branches and dirt. So she'd had a
rough time.
    I made fast and laid down under Jim's nose on the raft, and
begun to  gap, and stretch my fists out against Jim, and says:
    "Hello, Jim, have I been asleep? Why didn't you stir me up?"
    "Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you ain' dead- you
ain'drownded- you's back again? It's too good for true, honey, it's
too good for true. Lemme look at you, chile, lemme feel o' you. No,
you ain' dead! you's back again, 'live en soun', jis de same ole
Huck-  de same ole Huck, thanks to goodness!"    "What's the matter
with you, Jim? You been a drinking?"
(15 - 20})
    "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?"
(15 - 25})
    "Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you mean? I hain't been
gone anywheres. Where would I go to?"
    "Well, looky here, boss, dey's sumf'n wrong, dey is. Is I me,
or who  is I? Is I heah, or whah is I? Now dat's what I wants to
know?"
    "Well, I think you're here, plain enough, but I think you're a
tangle-headed old fool, Jim."
    "I is, is I? Well you answer me dis. Didn't you tote out de
line  in de canoe, fer to make fas' to de tow-head?"
    "No, I didn't. What tow-head? I hain't seen no tow-head."
(15 - 30})
    "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 ben aroun' all night. En didn't you
whoop,  en didn't I whoop, tell we got mix' up in de islands en one
un us  got los' en 'tother one was jis' as good as los', 'kase he
didn'  know whah he wuz? En didn't I bust up again 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?"
(15 - 35})
    "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."
(15 - 40})
    "Oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does tire a body
like  everything, sometimes. But this one was a staving dream- tell
me all  about it, Jim."
    So Jim went to work and told me the whole thing right through,
just as it happened, only he painted it up considerable. Then he
said he must start in and "'terpret" it, because it was sent for a
warning. He said the first tow-head stood for a man that would try
to do us some good, but the current was another man that would get
us away from him. The whoops was warnings that would come to us
every now and then, and if we didn't try hard to make out to
understand them they'd just take us into bad luck, 'stead of
keeping  us out of it. The lot of tow-heads was troubles we was
going to get  into with quarrelsome people and all kinds of mean
folks, but if we  minded our business and didn't talk back and
aggravate them, we  would pull through and get out of the fog and
into the big clear  river, which was the free States, and wouldn't
have no more trouble.
    It had clouded up pretty dark just after I got onto the raft,
but it  was clearing up again, now.
    "Oh, well, that's all interpreted well enough, as far as it
goes,  Jim," I says; "but what does these things stand for?"
    It was the leaves and rubbish on the raft, and the smashed oar.
You could see them first rate, now.
(15 - 45})
    Jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the
trash again. He had got the dream fixed so strong in his head that
he couldn't seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its
place again, right away. But when he did get the thing straightened
around, he looked at me steady, without ever smiling, and says:
    "What do dey stan' for? I's gwyne to tell you. When I got all
wore  out wid work, en wid de callin' for you, en went to sleep, my
heart 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.
(15 - 49})

CHAPTER 16

We slept most all day, and started out at night, a little ways
behind a monstrous long raft that was as long going by as a
procession. She had four long sweeps at each end, so we judged she
carried as many as thirty men, likely. She had five big wigwams
aboard, wide apart, and an open camp fire in the middle, and a tall
flag-pole at each end. There was a power of style about her. It
amounted to something being a raftsman on such a craft as that.
    We went drifting down into a big bend, and the night clouded up
and got hot. The river was very wide, and was walled with solid
timber  on both sides; you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever,
or a light.  We talked about Cairo, and wondered whether we would
know it when we  got to it. I said likely we wouldn't, because I
had heard say there  warn't but about a dozen houses there, and if
they didn't happen to  have them lit up, how was we going to know
we was passing a town?  Jim said if the two big rivers joined
together there, that would show.  But I said maybe we might think
we was passing the foot of an island  and coming into the same old
river again. That disturbed Jim- and me  too. So the question was,
what to do? I said, paddle ashore the  first time a light showed,
and tell them pap was behind, coming  along with a trading-scow,
and was a green hand at the business, and  wanted to know how far
it was to Cairo. Jim thought it was a good idea, so we took a smoke
on it and waited.
    There warn't nothing to do, now, but to look out sharp for the
town,  and not pass it without seeing it. He said he'd be mighty
sure to  see it, because he'd be a free man the minute he seen it,
but if he  missed it he'd be in the slave country again and no more
show for  freedom. Every little while he jumps up and says:
    "Dah she is!"
    But it warn't. It was Jack-o-lanterns, or lightning-bugs; so he
set down again, and went to watching, same as before. Jim said it
made  him all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom.
Well, I  can tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish,
too, to hear  him, because I begun to get it through my head that
he was most  free- and who was to blame for it? Why, me. I couldn't
get that out of  my conscience, no how nor no way. It got to
troubling me so I couldn't  rest; I couldn't stay still in one
place. It hadn't ever come home  to me before, what this thing was
that I was doing. But now it did;  and it staid with me, and
scorched me more and more. I tried to make  out to myself that I
warn't to blame, because I didn't run Jim off  from his rightful
owner; but it warn't no use, conscience up and says,  every time,
"But you 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, no way. That was where it pinched. Conscience says to
me,  "What had poor Miss Watson done to you, that you could see her
nigger go off right under your eyes and never say one single word?
What did that poor old woman do to you, that you could treat her so
mean? Why, she tried to learn you your book, she tried to learn you
your manners, she tried to be good to you every way she knowed how.
That's what she done."
(16 - 5})
    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!"
(16 - 10})
    I says:
    "I'll take the canoe and go see, Jim. It mightn't be, you
know."
    He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the
bottom for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as I shoved
off, he says:
    "Pooty soon I'll be a-shout'n for joy, en I'll say, it's all on
accounts o' Huck; I's a free man, en I couldn't ever ben free ef it
hadn't 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:
(16 - 15})
    "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.
    "So you belong on it?"
(16 - 20})
    "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-
(16 - 25})
    "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:
(16 - 30})
    "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."
(16 - 35})
    "I will, sir, I will, honest- but don't leave us, please. It's
the- the- gentlemen, if you'll only pull ahead, and let me heave
you  the head-line, you won't have to come a-near the raft- please
do."
    "Set her back, John, set her back!" says one. They backed
water.  "Keep away, boy- keep to looard. Confound it, I just expect
the wind  has blowed it to us. Your pap's got the smallpox, and you
know it  precious well. Why didn't you come out and say so? Do you
want to  spread it all over?"
    "Well," says I, a-blubbering, "I've told everybody before, and
then they just went away and left us."
    "Poor devil, there's something in that. We are right down sorry
for you, but we- well, hang it, we don't want the smallpox, you
see.  Look here, I'll tell you what to do. Don't you try to land by
yourself, and 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 smallpox,
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."
(16 - 40})
    "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 comes handiest
at the time.
    I went into the wigwam; Jim warn't there. I looked all around;
he  warn't anywhere. I says:
    "Jim!"
(16 - 45})
    "Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o' sight yit? Don't talk loud."
    He was in the river, under the stern oar, with just his nose
out.  I told him they was out of sight, so he come aboard. He says:
    "I was a-listenin' to all de talk, en I slips into de river en
was  gwyne to shove for sho' if dey come aboard. Den I was gwyne to
swim to  de raf' agin when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did
fool 'em, Huck!  Dat wuz de smartes' dodge! tell you, chile, I
'speck it save' ole Jim-  ole Jim ain' gwyne to forgit you for dat,
honey."
    Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty good raise,
twenty  dollars apiece. Jim said we could take deck passage on a
steamboat  now, and the money would last us as far as we wanted to
go in the free  States. He said twenty mile more warn't far for the
raft to go, but he  wished we was already there.
    Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty particular
about hiding the raft good. Then he worked all day fixing things in
bundles,  and getting all ready to quit rafting.
(16 - 50})
    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 aver 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?"
(16 - 55})
    "If you want to know, go and find out. If you stay here
botherin'  around me for about a half 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:
(16 - 60})
    "Doan' less' talk about it, Huck. Po' niggers can't have no
luck.  I awluz 'spected dat rattle-snake 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 in shore,
sure  enough, and outside was the old regular Muddy! So it was all
up with  Cairo.
    We talked it all over. It wouldn't do to take to the shore; we
couldn't take the raft up the stream, of course. There warn't no
way  but to wait for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the
chances. So we slept all day amongst the cotton-wood thicket, so as
to  be fresh for the work, and when we went back to the raft about
dark  the canoe was gone!
(16 - 65})
    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
rattle-snake  skin; so what was the use to talk about it? It would
only look like we  was finding fault, and that would be bound to
fetch more bad luck- and  keep on fetching it, too, till we 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 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 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.
(16 - 70})
    We could hear her pounding along, but we didn't see her good
till  she was close. She aimed right for us. Often they do that and
try to  see how close they can come without touching; sometimes the
wheel  bites off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out
and  laughs, and thinks he's mighty smart. Well, here she comes,
and we  said she was going to try to shave us; but she didn't seem
to be  sheering off a bit. She was a big one, and she was coming in
a  hurry, too, looking like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms
around it; but all of a sudden she laughed out, big and scary, with
a long row of wide-open furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth,
and her monstrous bows and guards hanging right over us. There was
a  yell at us, and a jingling of bells to stop the engines, a
pow-wow  of cussing, and whistling of steam- and as Jim went
overboard on one  side and I on the other, she come smashing
straight through the raft.
    I dived- and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot
wheel had got to go over me, and I wanted it to have plenty of
room. I  could always stay under water a minute; this time I reckon
I staid  under water a minute and a half. Then I bounced for the
top in a  hurry, for I was nearly busting. I popped out to my
arm-pits and  blowed the water out of my nose, and puffed a bit. Of
course there was  a booming current; and of course that boat
started her engines again  ten seconds after she stopped them, for
they never cared much for  raftsmen; so now she was churning along
up the river, out of sight  in the thick weather, though I could
hear her.
    I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn't get any
answer;  so I grabbed a plank that touched me while I was "treading
water," and  struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. But I
made out to see  that the drift of the current was towards the
left-hand shore, which  meant that I was in a crossing; so I
changed off and went that way.
    It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so I
was a  good long time in getting over. I made a safe landing, and
clum up the  bank. I couldn't see but a little ways, but I went
poking along over  rough ground for a quarter of a mile or more,
and then I run across  a big old-fashioned double log house before
I noticed it. I was  going to rush by and get away, but a lot of
dogs jumped out and went  to howling and barking at me, and I
knowed better than to move another  peg.
(16 - 74})

CHAPTER 17

In about half a minute somebody spoke out of a window, without
putting his head out, and says:
    "Be done, boys! Who's there?"
    I says:
    "It's me."
    "Who's me?"
(17 - 5})
    "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."
(17 - 10})
    "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."
(17 - 15})
    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."
(17 - 20})
    "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
door-steps, 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
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:
(17 - 25})
    "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 frowsy-headed. He come in
gaping and digging  one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a
gun along with the other  one. He says:
(17 - 30})
    "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."
(17 - 35})
    "Well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right. I'm always
kep'  down; I don't get no show."
    "Never mind, Buck, my boy," says the old man, "you'll have show
enough, all in good time, don't you fret about that. Go 'long with
you now, and do as your mother told you."
    When we got up stairs to his room, he got me a coarse shirt and
a  roundabout and pants of his, and I put them on. While I was at
it he  asked me what my name was, but before I could tell him, he
started  to telling me about a blue jay and a young rabbit he had
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
about  it before?"
(17 - 40})
    "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!"
(17 - 45})
    "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.
(17 - 50})
    "I bet you can't spell my name," says I.
    "I bet you what you dare I can," says he.
    "All right," says I, "go ahead."
    "G-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n- there now," he says.
    "Well," says I, "you done it, but I didn't think you could. It
ain't  no slouch of a name to spell- right off without studying."
(17 - 55})
    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,
and the  same as houses in a town. There warn't no bed in the
parlor, not a  sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has
beds in them. There  was a big fireplace that was bricked on the
bottom, and the bricks was  kept clean and red by pouring water on
them and scrubbing them with  another brick; sometimes they washed
them over with red water-paint  that they called Spanish-brown,
same as they do in town. They had  big brass dog-irons that could
hold up a saw-log. There was a clock on  the middle of the
mantel-piece, with a picture of a town painted on  the bottom half
of the glass front, and a round place in the middle of  it for the
sun, and you could see the pendulum swing behind it. It was
beautiful to hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of these
peddlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in good
shape, she would start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she
got tuckered out. They wouldn't took any money for her.
    Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the
clock,  made out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. By
one of the parrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog
by the  other; and when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but
didn't  open their mouths nor look different nor interested. They
squeaked  through underneath. There was a couple of big
wild-turkey-wing fans  spread out behind those things. On a table
in the middle of the room  was a kind of lovely crockery basket
that had apples and oranges and  peaches and grapes piled up in it
which was much redder and yellower  and prettier than real ones is,
but they warn't real because you could  see where pieces had got
chipped off and showed the white chalk or  whatever it was,
underneath.
    This table had a cover made out of beautiful oil-cloth, with a
red  and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all
around. It come all the way from Philadelphia, they said. There was
some books too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the
table.  One was a big family Bible, full of pictures. One was
"Pilgrim's  Progress," about a man that left his family it didn't
say why. I  read considerable in it now and then. The statements
was  interesting, but tough. Another was "Friendship's Offering,"
full of  beautiful stuff and poetry; but I didn't read the poetry.
Another  was Henry Clay's Speeches, and another was Dr. Gunn's
Family Medicine, which told you all about what to do if a body was
sick or dead.  There was a Hymn Book, and a lot of other books. And
there was nice  split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too- not
bagged down in  the middle and busted, like an old basket.
    They had pictures hung on the walls- mainly Washingtons and
Lafayettes, and battles, and Highland Marys, and one called
"Signing  the Declaration." There was some that they called
crayons, which one  of the daughters which was dead made her own
self when she was only  fifteen years old. They was different from
any pictures I ever see  before; blacker, mostly, than is common.
One was a woman in a slim  black dress, belted small under the
arm-pits, with bulges like a  cabbage in the middle of the sleeves,
and a large black scoop-shovel  bonnet with a black veil, and white
slim ankles crossed about with  black tape, and very wee black
slippers, like a chisel, and she was  leaning pensive on a
tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping  willow, and her
other hand hanging down her side holding a white  handkerchief and
a reticule, and underneath the picture it said "Shall  I Never See
Thee More Alas." Another one was a young lady with her  hair all
combed up straight to the top of her head, and knotted  there in
front of a comb like a chair-back, and she was crying into a
handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other
hand with its heels up, and underneath the picture it said "I Shall
Never Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas." There was one where a
young  lady was at a window looking up at the moon, and tears
running down  her cheeks; and she had an open letter in one hand
with black  sealing-wax showing on one edge of it, and she was
mashing a locket  with a chain to it against her mouth, and
underneath the picture it  said "And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou Art
Gone Alas." These was all nice  pictures, I reckon, but I didn't
somehow seem to take to them, because  if ever I was down a little,
they always give me the fan-tods.  Everybody was sorry she died,
because she had laid out a lot more of  these pictures to do, and
a body could see by what she had done what  they had lost. But I
reckoned, that with her disposition, she was  having a better time
in the graveyard. She was at work on what they  said was her
greatest picture when she took sick, and every day and  every night
it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it  done, but
she never got the chance. It was a picture of a young  woman in a
long white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all ready  to
jump off, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the
moon, with the tears running down her face, and she had two arms
folded across her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and
two  more reaching up towards the moon- and the idea was, to see
which pair  would look best and then scratch out all the other
arms; but, as I was  saying, she died before she got her mind made
up, and now they kept  this picture over the head of the bed in her
room, and every time  her birthday come they hung flowers on it.
Other times it was hid with  a little curtain. The young woman in
the picture had a kind of a  nice sweet face, but there was so many
arms it made her look too  spidery, seemed to me.
(17 - 60})
    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,
(17 - 65})
                 And did young Stephen die?
               And did the sad hearts thicken,
                 And did the mourners cry?
  -
               No; such was not the fate of
(17 - 70})
                 Young Stephen Dowling Bots;
               Though sad hearts round him thickened,
                'Twas not from sickness'shots.
  -
               No whooping-cough did rack his frame,
(17 - 75})
                 Nor measles drear, with spots;
               Not these impaired the sacred name
                 Of Stephen Dowling Bots.
  -
               Despised love struck not with woe
(17 - 80})
                 That head of curly knots.
                Nor stomach troubles laid him low,
                 Young Stephen Dowling Bots.
  -
               O No. Then list with tearful eye,
(17 - 85})
                 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;
(17 - 90})
                 Alas it was too late;
               His spirit was gone for to sport aloft
                 In the realms of the good and great.
  -
    If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she
was  fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could a done
by-and-by. Buck  said she could rattle off poetry like nothing. She
didn't ever have to  stop to think. He said she would slap down a
line, and if she couldn't  find anything to rhyme with it she would
just scratch it out and slap down another one, and go ahead. She
warn't particular, she  could write about anything you choose to
give her to write about, just  so it was sadful. Every time a man
died, or a woman died, or a child  died, she would be on hand with
her "tribute" before he was cold.  She called them tributes. The
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 the dead  person's name,
which was Whistler. She warn't ever the same, after  that; she
never complained, but she kind of pined away and did not  live
long. Poor thing, many's the time I made myself go up to the
little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrapbook
and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and I had
soured on her a little. I liked all that family, dead ones and all,
and warn't going to let anything come between us. Poor Emmeline
made  poetry about all the dead people when she was alive, and it
didn't  seem right that there warn't nobody to make some about her,
now she  was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself,
but I  couldn't seem to make it go, somehow. They kept Emmeline's
room trim  and nice and all the things fixed in it just the way she
liked to have  them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept
there. The old lady took care of the room herself, though there was
plenty of niggers, and  she sewed there a good deal and read her
Bible there, mostly.
(17 - 95})
    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!
(17 - 97})

CHAPTER 18

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 cloud-bank it was awful dark for a half a minute  and that
was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a week.
    When him and the old lady come down in the morning, all the
family  got up out of their chairs and give them good-day, and
didn't set down  again till they had set down. Then Tom and Bob
went to the sideboard  where the decanters was, and mixed a glass
of bitters and handed it to  him, and he held it in his hand and
waited till Tom's and Bob's was  mixed, and then they bowed and
said "Our duty to you, sir, and madam;"  and they bowed the least
bit in the world and said thank you, and so  they drank, all three,
and Bob and Tom poured a spoonful of water on  the sugar and the
mite of whisky or apple brandy in the bottom of  their tumblers,
and give it to me and Buck, and we drank to the old  people too.
    Bob was the oldest, and Tom next. Tall, beautiful men with very
broad shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black
eyes.  They dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old
gentleman,  and wore broad Panama hats.
    Then there was Miss Charlotte, she was twenty-five, and tall
and  proud and grand, but as good as she could be, when she warn't
stirred up; but when she was, she had a look that would make you
wilt in your tracks, like her father. She was beautiful.
    So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different kind.
She was  gentle and sweet, like a dove, and she was only twenty.
(18 - 5})
    Each person had their own nigger to wait on them- Buck, too. My
nigger had a monstrous easy time, because I warn't used to having
anybody do anything for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of the
time.
    This was all there was of the family, now; but there used to be
more- three sons, they got killed; and Emmeline that died.
    The old gentleman owned a lot of farms, and over a hundred
niggers. Sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback,
from  ten or fifteen mile around, and stay five or six days, and
have such junketings round about and on the river, and dances and
picnics in the  woods, day-times, and balls at the house, nights.
These people was  mostly 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 the Grangerfords used the same
steamboat landing,  which was about two mile above our house; so
sometimes when I went  up there with a lot of our folks I used to
see a lot of the  Shepherdsons there, on their fine horses.
    One day Buck and me was away out in the woods, hunting, and
heard  a horse coming. We was crossing the road. Buck says:
(18 - 10})
    "Quick! Jump for the woods!"
    We done it, and then peeped down the woods through the leaves.
Pretty soon a splendid young man came galloping down the road,
setting  his horse easy and looking like a soldier. He had his gun
across his  pommel. I had seen him before. It was young Harney
Shepherdson. I  heard Buck's gun go off at my ear, and Harney's hat
tumbled off from his head. He grabbed his gun and rode straight to
the place where we  was hid. But we didn't wait. We started through
the woods on a run.  The woods warn't thick, so I looked over my
shoulder, to dodge the  bullet, and twice I seen Harney cover Buck
with his gun; and then he  rode away the way he come- 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 came back when she found the man warn't
hurt.
(18 - 15})
    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."
(18 - 20})
    "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."
(18 - 25})
    "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."
(18 - 30})
    "Well, who done the shooting?- was it a Grangerford or a
Shepherdson?"
    "Laws, how do I know? it was so long ago."
    "Don't anybody know?"
    "Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old folks;
but  they don't know, now, what the row was about in the first
place."
    "Has there been many killed, Buck?"
(18 - 35})
    "Yes- right smart chance of funerals. But they don't always
kill.  Pa's got a few buck-shot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz
he don't  weigh much anyway. Bob's been carved up some with a
bowie, and Tom's  been hurt once or twice."
    "Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?"
    "Yes, we got one and they got one. 'Bout three months ago, my
cousin  Bud, fourteen years old, was riding through the woods, on
t'other side  of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him,
which was blame' foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a
horse a-coming  behind him, and sees old Baldy Shepherdson
a-linkin' after him with  his gun in his hand and his white hair
a-flying in the wind; and  'stead of jumping off and taking to the
brush, Bud 'lowed he could  outrun him; so they had it, nip and
tuck, for five mile and more,  the old man againing 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 a half an hour,
against three  Grangerfords, and come out winner. They was all
a-horseback; he lit  off of his horse and got behind a little
wood-pile, and kep' his horse  before him to stop the bullets; but
the Grangerfords staid on their  horses and capered around the old
man, and peppered away at him, and  he peppered away at them. Him
and his horse both went home pretty leaky and crippled, but the
Grangerfords had to be fetched home- and  one of 'em was dead, and
another died the next day. No, sir, if a  body's out hunting for
cowards, he don't want to fool away any time  against Shepherdsons,
becuz they don't breed any of that kind."
(18 - 40})
    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 up stairs, there was Miss Sophia in
her door  waiting for me. She pulled me in and shut the door; then
she looked in  the Testament till she found the paper, and as soon
as she read it she  looked glad; and before a body could think, she
grabbed me and give me  a squeeze, and said I was the best boy in
the world, and not to tell anybody. She was mighty red in the face,
for a minute, and her eyes  lighted up and it made her powerful
pretty. I was a good deal  astonished, but when I got my breath I
asked 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."
(18 - 45})
    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!
(18 - 50})
    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
reckoned 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 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 tuck me en showed me dis
place, whah de dogs can't  track me on accounts o' de water, en dey
brings me truck to eat  every night, en tells me how you's a gitt'n
along."
    "Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim?"
    "Well,'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck, tell we could do
sumfn-  but we's all right, now. I ben a-buyin' pots en pans en
vittles, as  I get a chanst, en a patchin' up de raf', nights,
when-"
    "What raft, Jim?"
(18 - 55})
    "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, too, in de place o' what
'uz los'."
    "Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim- did you
catch  her?"
    "How I gwyne to ketch her, en I out in de woods? No, some er de
niggers foun' her ketched on a snag, along heah in de 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."
(18 - 60})
    "Yes, he is. He ain't ever told me you was here; told me to
come,  and he'd show me a lot of water-moccasins. If anything
happens, he  ain't mixed up in it. He can say he never seen us
together, and  it'll be the truth."
    I don't want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I'll cut
it  pretty short. I waked up about dawn, and was agoing to turn
over and go to sleep again, when I noticed how still it was- didn't
seem to  be anybody stirring. That warn't usual. Next I noticed
that Buck was  up and gone. Well, I gets up, a-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?"
(18 - 65})
    "No," says I, "I don't."
    "Well, den, Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed she has. She run off
in  de night, sometime- nobody don't know jis' when- run off to git
married to dat young Harney Shepherdson, you know- leastways, so
dey  'spec. De fambly foun' it out, 'bout half an hour ago- maybe
a  little mo'- en' I tell you dey warn't no time los'. Sich another
hurryin' up guns en hosses you never see! De women folks has gone
for to stir up the 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 wood-pile where the steamboats lands, I worked
along under the  trees and brush till I got to a good place, and
then I clumb up into  the forks of a cotton-wood that was out of
reach, and watched. There  was a wood-rank four foot high, a little
ways in front of the tree,  and first I was going to hide behind
that; but maybe it was luckier  I didn't.
(18 - 70})
    There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in
the  open place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and
trying to  get at a couple of young chaps that was behind the
wood-rank alongside  of the steamboat landing- but they couldn't
come it. Every time one of  them showed himself on the river side
of the wood-pile he got shot at. The two boys was squatting back to
back behind the pile, so they could  watch both ways.
    By-and-by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They
started  riding towards the store; then up gets one of the boys,
draws a steady  bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them out
of his saddle.  All the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed
the hurt one and  started to carry him to the store; and that
minute the two boys  started on the run. They got half-way to the
tree I was in before  the men noticed. Then the men see them, and
jumped on their horses and  took out after them. They gained on the
boys, but it didn't do no  good, the boys had too good a start;
they got to the wood-pile that  was in front of my tree, and
slipped in behind it, and so they had the  bulge on the men again.
One of the boys was Buck, and the other was  a slim young chap
about nineteen years old.
    The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. As soon as
they  was out of sight, I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn't
know what  to make of my voice coming out of the tree, at first. He
was awful  surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him
know when the men  come in sight again; said they was up to some
devilment or other-  wouldn't be gone long. I wished I was out of
that tree, but I dasn't come down. Buck begun to cry and rip, and
'lowed that him and his  cousin Joe (that was the other young chap)
would make up for this day,  yet. He said his father and his two
brothers was killed, and two or  three of the enemy. Said the
Shepherdsons laid for them, in ambush.  Buck said his father and
brothers ought to waited for their relations-  the Shepherdsons was
too strong for them. I asked him what was  become of young Harney
and Miss Sophia. He said they'd got across  the river and was safe.
I was glad of that; but the way Buck did  take on because he didn't
manage to kill Harney that day he shot at  him- I hain't ever heard
anything like it.
    All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns- the
men had slipped around through the woods and come in from behind
without their horses! The boys jumped for the river- both of them
hurt- and as they swum down the current the men run along the bank
shooting at them and singing out, "Kill them, kill them!" It made
me  so sick I most fell out of the tree. I ain't agoing to tell all
that  happened- it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I
ain't  ever going to get shut of them- lots of times I dream about
them.
    I staid in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come
down. Sometimes I heard guns. away off in the woods; and twice I
seen little gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so I
reckoned the trouble was still agoing on. I was mighty
down-hearted;  so I made up my mind I wouldn't ever go anear that
house again,  because I reckoned I was to blame, somehow. I judged
that piece of  paper meant that Miss Sophia was to meet Harney
somewheres at halfpast  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.
(18 - 75})
    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."
(18 - 80})
    I says-
    "All right- that's mighty good; they won't find me, and they'll
think I've been killed, and floated down the river- there's
something up there that'll help them to think so- so don't you lose
no  time, Jim, but just shove off for the big water as fast as ever
you  can."
    I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and
out  in the middle of the Mississippi. Then we hung up our signal
lantern, and judged that we was free and safe once more. I hadn't
had a bite to eat since yesterday; so Jim he got out some
corn-dodgers  and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage, and greens-
there ain't  nothing in the world so good, when it's cooked right-
and whilst I eat  my supper we talked, and had a good time. I was
powerful glad to get  away from the feuds, and so was Jim to get
away from the swamp. We  said there warn't no home like a raft,
after all. Other places do seem  so cramped up and smothery, but a
raft don't. You feel mighty free and  easy and comfortable on a
raft.
(18 - 83})

CHAPTER 19

Two or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they
swum  by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. Here is
the way we  put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down
there- sometimes  a mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid
up and hid  day-times; soon as night was most gone, we stopped
navigating and tied  up- nearly always in the dead water under a
tow-head; and then cut  young 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- perfactly
still- just like the whole world was  asleep, only sometimes the
bull-frogs a-cluttering, maybe. The first  thing to see, looking
away over the water, was a kind of dull line-  that was the woods
on t'other side- you couldn't make nothing else  out; then a pale
place in the sky; then more paleness, spreading  around; then the
river softened up, away off, and warn't black any  more, but gray;
you could see little dark spots drifting along, ever  so far
away-trading scows, and such things; and long black streaks-
rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up
voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by-and-by you
could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the
streak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on
it  and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl
up  off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and
you make  out a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the
bank on  t'other side of the river, being a wood-yard, likely, and
piled by  them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres;
then the nice breeze blows up, and comes fanning you from over
there, so cool and  fresh, and sweet to smell, on account of the
woods and the flowers;  but sometimes not that way, because they've
left dead fish laying  around, gars, and such, and they do get
pretty rank; and next you've  got the full day, and everything
smiling in the sun, and the  song-birds just going it!
    A little smoke couldn't be noticed, now, so we would take some
fish off of the lines, and cook up a hot breakfast. And afterwards
we would watch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy
along, and by-and-by lazy off to sleep. Wake up, by-and-by, and
look  to see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat, coughing
along up  stream, so far off towards the other side you couldn't
tell nothing  about her only whether she was stern-wheel or
side-wheel; then for  about an hour there wouldn't be nothing to
hear nor nothing to see-  just solid lonesomeness. Next you'd see
a raft sliding by, away off  yonder, and maybe a galoot on it
chopping, because they're most always  doing it on a raft; you'd
see the ax flash, and come down- you don't  hear nothing; you see
that ax go up again, and by the time it's  above the man's head,
then you hear the 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.
(19 - 5})
    Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping
along  in the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world
of  sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the
river and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her
lights would wink out and her pow-wow shut off and leave the river
still again; and by-and-by her waves would get to us, a long time
after she was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you
wouldn't hear nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except maybe
frogs or something.
    After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for
two  or three hours the shores was black- no more sparks in the
cabin  windows. These sparks was our clock- the first one that
showed again  meant morning was coming, so we hunted a place to
hide and tie up,  right away.
    One morning about day-break, I found a canoe and crossed over
a  chute to the main shore- it was only two hundred yards- and
paddled  about a mile up a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see
if I  couldn't get some berries. Just as I was passing a place
where a  kind of a cow-path crossed the crick, here comes a couple
of men  tearing up the path as tight as they could foot it. I
thought I was  a goner, for whenever anybody was after anybody I
judged it was me- or  maybe Jim. I was about to dig out from there
in a hurry, but they  was pretty close to me then, and sung out and
begged me to save  their lives- said they hadn't been doing
nothing, and was being chased  for it- said there was men and dogs
a-coming. They wanted to jump  right in, but I says-
    "Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs and horses yet; you've
got  time to crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little
ways;  then you take to the water and wade down to me and get in-
that'll  throw the dogs off the scent."  -
   They done it, and as 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.
(19 - 10})
    One of these fellows was about seventy, or upwards, and had a
bald  head and very gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch
hat  on, and a greasy blue woolen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans
britches  stuffed into his boot tops, and home-knit galluses- no,
he only had  one. He had an old longtailed 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 with
it- but I  staid about one night longer than I ought to, and was
just in the  act of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail
this side of  town, and you told me they were coming, and begged me
to help you to  get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble
myself and would  scatter with you. That's the whole yarn- what's
yourn?"
    "Well, I'd been 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."
(19 - 15})
    "Old man," says the young one, "I reckon we might double-team
it  together; what do you think?"
    "I ain't undisposed. What's your line- mainly?"
    "Jour printer, by trade; do a little in patent medicines;
theatre-actor- tragedy, you know; take a turn at mesmerism and
phrenology when there's a chance; teach singing-geography school
for a  change; sling a lecture, sometimes- oh, I do lots of things-
most  anything that comes handy, so it ain't work. What's your
lay?"
    "I've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin'
on o'  hands is my best holt- for cancer, and paralysis, and 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-
(19 - 20})
    "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.
(19 - 25})
    "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-"
(19 - 30})
    "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 title and estates- the
infant real duke was ignored. I am  the lineal descendant of that
infant- I am the rightful Duke of  Bridgewater; and here am I,
forlorn, torn from my high estate,  hunted of men, despised by the
cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken,  and degraded to the
companionship of felons on a raft!"
    Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort
him, but he said it warn't much use, he couldn't be much comforted;
said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more
good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell
us  how. He said we ought to bow, when we spoke to him, and say
"Your  Grace," or "My Lord," or "Your Lordship"- and he wouldn't
mind it if  we called him plain "Bridgewater," which he said was a
title,  anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him
at  dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done.
    Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim
stood  around and waited on him, and says, "Will yo' Grace have
some o'dis,  or some o'dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was
mighty pleasing  to him.
(19 - 35})
    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!"
(19 - 40})
    "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, "The secret of your being: speak!"
    "Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!"
(19 - 45})
    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."
(19 - 50})
    Well, he cried and took on so, that me and Jim didn't know
hardly  what to do, we was so sorry- and so glad and proud we'd got
him with  us, too. So we set in, like we done before with the duke,
and tried to  comfort him. But he said it warn't no use, nothing
but to be dead  and done with it all could do him any good; though
he said it often  made him feel easier and better for a while if
people treated him  according to his rights, and got down on one
knee to speak to him, and  always called him "Your Majesty," and
waited on him first at meals,  and didn't set down in his presence
till he asked them. So Jim and  me set to majestying him, and doing
this and that and t'other for him,  and standing up till he told us
we might set down. This done him heaps  of good, and so he got
cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind  of soured on him, and
didn't look a bit satisfied with the way  things was going; still,
the king acted real friendly towards him, and  said the duke's
great-grandfather and all the other Dukes of  Bilgewater was a good
deal thought of by his father and was allowed to  come to the
palace considerable; but the duke staid hurry a good while, till
by-and-by the king says:
    "Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time, on this
h-yer  raft, Bilgewater, and so what's the use o' your bein' sour?
It'll only  make things oncomfortable. It ain't my fault I warn't
born a duke,  it ain't your fault you warn't born a king- so what's
the use to  worry? Make the best o' things the way you find 'em,
says I- that's my  motto. This ain't no bad thing that we've struck
here- plenty grub and  an easy life- come, give us your hand, Duke,
and less all be friends."
    The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It
took away all the uncomfortableness, and we felt mighty good over
it, because it would a been a miserable business to have any
unfriendliness on the raft; for what you want, above all things, on
a raft, is for everybody to be satisfied, and feel right and kind
towards the others.
    It didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars
warn't no  kings nor dukes, at all, but just low-down humbugs and
frauds. But I  never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself;
it's the best  way; then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get
into no trouble.  If they wanted us to call them kings and dukes,
I hadn't no  objections, 'long as it would keep peace in the
family; and it warn't no use to tell Jim, so I didn't tell him. If
I never learnt  nothing else out of pap, I learnt that the best way
to get along  with his kind of people is to let them have their own
way.
(19 - 54})

CHAPTER 20

They asked us considerable many questions; wanted to know what we
covered up the raft that way for, and laid by in the day-time
instead of running- was Jim a runaway nigger? Says I-    "Goodness
sakes, would a runaway nigger run south?"
     No, they allowed he wouldn't. I had to account for things some
way,  so I says:
    "My folks was living in Pike County, in Missouri, where I was
born, and they all died off but me and pa and my brother Ike. Pa,
he  'lowed he'd break up and go down and live with Uncle Ben, who's
got  a little one-horse place on the river, forty-four mile below
Orleans. Pa was pretty poor, and had some debts; so when he'd
squared up there warn't nothing left but sixteen dollars and our
nigger, Jim. That warn't enough to take us fourteen hundred mile,
deck passage nor no other way. Well, when the river rose, pa had a
streak  of luck one day; he ketched this piece of a raft; so we
reckoned  we'd go down to Orleans on it. Pa's luck didn't hold out;
a  steamboat run over the 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 day-times no more,
now; nights they don't  bother us."
    The duke says-
(20 - 5})
    "Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the
day-time if  we want to. I'll think the thing over- I'll invent a
plan that'll  fix it. We'll let it alone for to-day, because of
course we don't want  to go by that town yonder in daylight- it
mightn't be healthy."
    Towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the
heat  lightning was squirting around, low down in the sky, and the
leaves  was beginning to shiver- it was going to be pretty ugly, it
was easy to see that. So the duke and the king went to overhauling
our  wigwam, to see what the beds was like. My bed was a straw
tick- better  than Jim's, which was a corn-shuck tick; there's
always cobs around  about in a shuck tick, and they poke into you
and hurt; and when you  roll over, the dry shucks sound like you
was rolling over in a pile of  dead leaves; it makes such a
rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke  allowed he would take my
bed; but the king allowed he wouldn't. He  says-
    "I should a reckoned the difference in rank would a sejested to
you that a corn-shuck bed warn't just fitten for me to sleep on.
Your Grace'll take the shuck bed yourself."
    Jim and me was in a sweat again, for a minute, being afraid
there  was going to be some more trouble amongst them; so we was
pretty  glad when the duke says-
   "'Tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the iron
heel  of oppression. Misfortune has broken my once haughty spirit;
I  yield, I submit; 'tis my fate. I am alone in the world- let me
suffer;  I can bear it."
    We got away as soon as it was good and dark. The king told us
to  stand well out towards the middle of the river, and not show a
light till we got a long ways below the town. We come in sight of
the little  bunch of lights by-and-by- that was the town, you know-
and slid by,  about a half a mile out, all right. When we was
three-quarters of a  mile below, we hoisted up our signal lantern;
and about ten o'clock it  come on to rain and blow and thunder and
lighten like everything; so  the king told us to both stay on watch
till the weather got better;  then him and the duke crawled into
the wigwam and turned in for the  night. It was my watch below,
till twelve, but I wouldn't a turned in,  anyway, if I'd had a bed;
because a body don't see such a storm as  that every night in the
week, not by a long sight. My souls, how the  wind did scream
along! And every second or two there'd come a glare  that lit up
the white-caps for a half a mile around, and you'd see the  islands
looking dusty through the rain, and the trees thrashing around  in
the wind; then comes a h-wack!- bum! bum!
bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum- and the thunder would go rumbling
and  grumbling away, and quit- and then rip comes another flash and
another  sockdolager. The waves most washed me off the raft,
sometimes, but I  hadn't any clothes on, and didn't mind. We didn't
have no trouble  about snags; the lightning was glaring and
flittering around so  constant that we could see them plenty soon
enough to throw her head this way or that and miss them.
(20 - 10})
    I had the middle watch, you know, but I was pretty sleepy by
that  time, so Jim he said he would stand the first half of it for
me; he  was always mighty good, that way, Jim was. I crawled into
the  wigwam, but the king and the duke had their legs sprawled
around so  there warn't no show for me; so I laid outside- I didn't
mind the  rain, because it was warm, and the waves warn't running
so high,  now. About two they come up again, though, and Jim was
going to call  me, but he changed his mind because he reckoned they
warn't high  enough yet to do any harm; but he was mistaken about
that, for  pretty soon all of a sudden along comes a regular
ripper, and washed  me overboard. It most killed Jim a-laughing. He
was the easiest nigger  to laugh that ever was, anyway.
    I took the watch, and Jim he laid down and snored away; and
by-and-by the storm let up for good and all; and the first
cabin-light  that showed, I rousted him out and we slid the raft
into  hiding-quarters for the day.
    The king got out an old ratty deck of cards, after breakfast,
and  him and the duke played seven-up a while, five cents a game.
Then they got tired of it, and allowed they would "lay out a
campaign," as  they called it. The duke went down into his
carpet-bag and fetched  up a lot of little printed bills, and read
them out loud. One bill  said "The celebrated Dr. Armand de
Montalban of Paris," would "lecture  on the Science of Phrenology"
at such and such a place, on the blank  day of blank, at ten cents
admission, and "furnish charts of character  at twenty-five cents
apiece." The duke said that was him. In another  bill he was the
"world renowned Shaksperean tragedian, Garrick the  Younger, of
Drury Lane, London." In other bills he had a lot of  other names
and done other wonderful things, like finding water and  gold with
a "divining rod," "dissipating witch-spells," and so on.  By-and-by
he says-    "But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you ever
trod the  boards, Royalty?"
    "No," says the king.
(20 - 15})
    "You shall, then, before you're three days older, Fallen
Grandeur," says the duke. "The first good town we come to, we'll
hire a hall and do the sword-fight in Richard III. and the balcony
scene in Romeo and Juliet. How does that strike you?"
    "I'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, Bilgewater,
but you see I don't know nothing about play-actn', and hain't ever
seen much of it. I was too small when pap used to have 'em at the
palace. Do you reckon you can learn me?"
    "Easy!"
    "All right. I'm jist a-freezn' for something fresh, anyway.
Less  commence, right away."
    So the duke he told him all about who Romeo was, and who Juliet
was,  and said he was used to being Romeo, so the king could be
Juliet.
(20 - 20})
    "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 night-cap. 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 night-shirt and a ruffled night-cap to match. The king was
satisfied; so the duke got out his book and read the parts over in
the  most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around and acting at
the same  time, to show how it had got to be done; then he give the
book to  the king and told him to get his part by heart.
    There was a little one-horse town about three mile down the
bend,  and after dinner the duke said he had ciphered out his idea
about  how to run in daylight without it being dangersome for Jim;
so he  allowed he would go down to the town and fix that thing. The
king  allowed he would go too, and see if he couldn't strike
something. We  was out of coffee, so Jim said I better go along
with them in the  canoe and get some.
    When we 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.
(20 - 25})
    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 sunbonnets; 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! (amen!) 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!)
(20 - 30})
    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 agoing; and you could
hear  him over everybody; 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
the pirate crews in that ocean; and though it  would take him a
long time to get there, without money, he would get  there anyway,
and every time he convinced a pirate he would say to  him, "Don't
you thank me, don't you give me no credit, it all  belongs to them
dear people in Pokeville camp-meeting, natural  brothers and
benefactors of the race- and that dear preacher there,  the truest
friend a pirate ever had!"
    And then he busted into tears, and so did everybody. Then
somebody  sings out, "Take up a collection for him, take up a
collection!" Well,  a half 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 we was starting home through the
woods. The king  said, take it all around, it laid over any day
he'd ever put 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.
(20 - 35})
    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 much. He
had set up  and printed off two little jobs for farmers, in that
printing office- horse bills- and took the money, four dollars. And
he had  got in ten dollars worth of advertisements for the paper,
which he  said he would put in for four dollars if they would pay
in advance- so  they done it. The price of the paper was two
dollars a year, but he  took in three subscriptions for half a
dollar apiece on condition of  them paying him in advance; they
were going to pay in cord-wood and  onions, as usual, but he said
he had just bought the concern and  knocked down the price as low
as he could afford it, and was going  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 pow-wow we
reckoned the  duke's work in the printing office was going to make
in that little  town- then we could boom right along, if we wanted
to.    We laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly
ten  o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and
didn't  hoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it.
(20 - 40})
   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.
(20 - 45})

CHAPTER 21

It was after sun-up, now, but we went right on, and didn't tie up.
The king and the duke turned out, by-and-by, looking pretty rusty;
but  after they'd jumped overboard and took a swim, it chippered
them up  a good deal. After breakfast the king he took a seat on a
corner of  the raft, and pulled off his boots and rolled up his
britches, and let his legs dangle in the water, so as to be
comfortable, and lit his  pipe, and went to getting his Romeo and
Juliet by heart. When he had  got it pretty good, him and the duke
begun to practice it together.  The duke had to learn him over and
over again, how to say every  speech; and he made him sigh, and put
his hand on his heart, and after  while he said he done it pretty
well; "only," he says, "you mustn't  bellow out Romeo! that way,
like a bull- you must say it soft, and  sick, and languishy, so-
R-o-o-meo! that is the idea; for Juliet's a  dear sweet mere child
of a girl, you know, and she don't bray like a  jackass."
    Well, next they got out a couple of long swords that the duke
made  out of oak laths, and begun to practice the swordfight- 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?"
(21 - 5})
    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:
(21 - 10})
  -
    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
(21 - 15})
    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:
(21 - 20})
    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
(21 - 25})
    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
(21 - 30})
      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.
(21 - 35})
    '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!
    -
(21 - 40})
    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!!!
(21 - 45})
                        Wonderful Attraction!
                         For One Night Only!
  -
                    The world renowned tragedians,
                      David Garrick the younger,
(21 - 50})
                    of Drury Lane Theatre, London,
                                and
                        Edmund Kean the elder,
             of the Royal Haymarket Theatre, Whitechapel,
                Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the
(21 - 55})
               Royal Continental Theatres, in their sublime
                     Shaksperean Spectacle entitled

   -
                           The Balcony Scene
                                  in
(21 - 60})
                           Romeo and Juliet!!!
  -
    Romeo............................................... Mr.
Garrick.
    Juliet.............................................. Mr. Kean.
  -
(21 - 65})
                                Also:
             The thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling
  -
                        Broad-sword conflict
                         In Richard III.!!!
(21 - 70})
  -
           Assisted by the whole strength of the company!
            New costumes, new scenery, new appointments!
  -
     Richard III........................................ Mr.
Garrick.
(21 - 75})
    Richmond........................................... Mr. Kean.
  -
                                Also
                        (by special request,)
  -
(21 - 80})
                    Hamlet's Immortal Soliloquy!!
  -
                      By the Illustrious Kean!
             Done by him 300 consecutive nights in Paris!
                       For One Night Only,
(21 - 85})
            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 dry-goods boxes under the
awnings, and  loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them
with their  Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping and
yawning and  stretching- a mighty ornery lot. They generly had on
yellow straw hats  most as wide as an umbrella, but didn't wear no
coats nor  waistcoats; they called one another Bill, and Buck, and
Hank, and Joe,  and Andy, and talked lazy and drawly, and used
considerable many  cuss-words. There was as many as one loafer
leaning up against every awning-post, and he most always had his
hands in his britches pockets,  except when he fetched them out to
lend a chaw of tobacco or  scratch. What a body was hearing amongst
them, all the time was-
(21 - 90})
    "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 every time; it don't fool
nobody but a stranger;  but Jack ain't no stranger, so he says-
    "You give him a chaw, did you? so did your sister's cat's
grandmother. You pay me back the chaws you've awready borry'd off'n
me, Lafe Buckner, then I'll loan you one or two ton of it, and
won't  charge you no back intrust, nuther."
    "Well, I did pay you back some of it wunst."
(21 - 95})
    "Yes, you did- 'bout six chaws. You borry'd store tobacker and
paid back nigger-head."
    Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly
chaws the  natural leaf twisted. When they borrow a chaw, they
don't generly  cut it off with a knife, but they set the plug in
between their teeth,  and gnaw with their teeth and tug at the plug
with their hands till  they get it in two- then sometimes the one
that owns the tobacco looks  mournful at it when it's handed back,
and says, sarcastic-
    "Here, gimme the chaw, and you take the plug."
    All the streets and lanes was just mud, they warn't nothing
else but  mud- mud as black as tar, and nigh about a foot deep in
some places;  and two or three inches deep in all the places. The
hogs loafed and  grunted around, everywheres. You'd see a muddy sow
and a litter of  pigs come lazying along the street and whollop
herself right down in  the way, where folks had to walk around her,
and she'd stretch out,  and shut her eyes, and wave her ears,
whilst the pigs was milking her,  and look as happy as if she was
on salary. And pretty soon you'd  hear a loafer sing out, "Hi! so
boy! sick him, Tige!" and away the sow  would go, squealing most
horrible, with a dog or two swinging to  each ear, and three or
four dozen more a-coming; and then you would  see all the loafers
get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh at the fun and
look grateful for the noise. Then they'd settle back  again till
there was a dog-fight. There couldn't anything wake them up  all
over, and make them happy all over, like a dog-fight- unless it
might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to him,
or  tying a tin 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.
(21 - 100})
    The nearer it got to noon that day, the thicker and thicker was
the wagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time.
Families fetched their dinners with them, from the country, and eat
them in the wagons. There was considerable whiskey drinking going
on, and I seen three fights. By-and-by somebody sings out-
    "Here comes old Boggs!- in from the country for his little old
monthly drunk- here he comes, boys!"
    All the loafers looked glad- I reckoned they was used to having
fun out of Boggs. One of them says-
    "Wonder who he's a gwyne to chaw up this time. If he'd a chawed
up  all the men he's 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."
(21 - 105})
    Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whopping 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?"
(21 - 110})
    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 proudlooking 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."
(21 - 115})
    Then he turns and goes in. The crowd looked mighty sober;
nobody  stirred, and there warn't no more laughing. Boggs rode off
blackguarding Sherburn as loud as he could yell, all down the
street; and pretty soon back he comes and stops before the store,
still keeping it up. Some men crowded around him and tried to get
him to shut up, but he wouldn't; they told him it would be one
o'clock  in about fifteen minutes, and so he must go home- he must
go right  away. But it didn't do no good. He cussed away, with all
his might,  and throwed his hat down in the mud and rode over it,
and pretty  soon away he went a-raging down the street again, with
his gray hair  a-flying. Everybody that could get a chance at him
tried their best to  coax him off of his horse so they could lock
him up and get him sober;  but it warn't no use- up the street he
would tear again, and give  Sherburn another cussing. By-and-by
somebody says-
    "Go for his daughter!- quick, go for his daughter; sometimes
he'll  listen to her. If anybody can persuade him, she can."
    So somebody started on a run. I walked down street a ways, and
stopped. In about five or ten minutes, here comes Boggs again- but
not  on his horse. He was a-reeling across the street towards me,
bareheaded, with a friend on both sides of him aholt of his arms
and  hurrying him along. He was quiet, and looked uneasy; and he
warn't  hanging back any, but was doing some of the hurrying
himself. Somebody  sings out-
    "Boggs!"
    I looked over 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!"
(21 - 120})
    Colonel Sherburn he tossed his pistol onto the ground, and
turned  around on his heels and walked off.
    They took Boggs to a little drug store, the crowd pressing
around,  just the same, and the whole town following, and I rushed
and got a  good place at the window, where I was close to him and
could see in.  They laid him on the floor, and put one large Bible
under his head,  and opened another one and spread it on his
breast- but they tore open  his shirt first, and I seen where one
of the bullets went in. He  made about a dozen long gasps, his
breast lifting the Bible up when he  drawed in his breath, and
letting it down again when he breathed it  out- and after that he
laid still; he was dead. Then they pulled his  daughter away from
him, screaming and crying, and took her off. She  was about
sixteen, and very sweet and gentle-looking, but awful pale  and
scared.
   Well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming and
scrouging and pushing and shoving to get at the window and have a
look, but people that had the places wouldn't give them up, and
folks behind them was saying all the time, "Say, now, you've looked
enough, you fellows; 'taint right and 'taint fair, for you to stay
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 stove-pipe
hat on the back of his head, and a  crooked-handled cane, marked
out the places on the ground where  Boggs stood, and where Sherburn
stood, and the people following him  around from one place to
t'other and watching everything he done,  and bobbing their heads
to show they understood, and stopping 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 hatbrim 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.
(21 - 125})

CHAPTER 22

They swarmed up the street towards Sherburn's house, a-whooping
and yelling and raging like Injuns, and everything had to clear the
way or get run over and tromped to mush, and it was awful to see.
Children was heeling it ahead of the mob, screaming and trying to
get out of the way; and every window along the road was full of
women's heads, and there was nigger boys in every tree, and bucks
and wenches looking over every fence; and as soon as the mob would
get  nearly to them they would break and skaddle back out of reach.
Lots of  the women and girls was crying and taking on, scared most
to death.
    They swarmed 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 of the roof of his little front
porch, with a double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand,
perfectly ca'm and deliberate, not saying a word. The racket
stopped, and the wave sucked back.
    Sherburn never said a word- just stood there, looking down. The
stillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable. Sherburn run his eye
slow along the crowd; and wherever it struck, the people tried a
little to outgaze him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes
and looked sneaky. Then pretty soon Sherburn sort of laughed; not
the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you
are eating bread that's got sand in it.
    Then he says, slow and scornful:
(22 - 5})
    "The idea of you lynching anybody! It's amusing. The idea of
you  thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a man! Because you're
brave  enough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women
that come  along here, did that make you think you had grit enough
to lay your  hands on a man? Why, a man's safe in the hands of ten
thousand of your  kind- as long as it's day-time and you're not
behind him.
    "Do I know you? I know you clear through. I was born and raised
in  the South, and I've lived in the North; so I know the average
all  around. The average man's a coward. In the North he lets
anybody  walk over him that wants to, and goes home and prays for
a humble  spirit to bear it. In the South one man, all by himself,
has stopped a  stage full of men, in the day-time, and robbed the
lot. Your  newspapers call you brave people so much that you think
you are braver  than any other people- whereas you're just as
brave, and no braver.  Why don't your juries hang murderers?
Because they're afraid the man's  friends will shoot them in the
back, in the dark- and it's just what  they would do.
    "So they always acquit; and then a man goes in the night, with
a  hundred masked cowards at his back, and lynches the rascal. Your
mistake is, that you didn't bring a man with you; that's one
mistake, and the other is that you didn't come in the dark, and
fetch your masks. You brought part of a man- Buck Harkness, there-
and  if you hadn't had him to start you, you'd a taken it out in
blowing.
    "You didn't want to come. The average man don't like trouble
and  danger. You don't like trouble and danger. But if only half a
man-  like Buck Harkness, there- shouts 'Lynch him, lynch him!'
you're  afraid to back down- afraid you'll be found out to be what
you are-  cowards- and so you raise a yell, and hang yourselves
onto that  half-a-man's coat tail, and come raging up here,
swearing what big  things you're going to do. The pitifulest thing
out is a mob; that's  what an army is- a mob; they don't fight with
courage that's born in  them, but with courage that's borrowed from
their mass, and from their  officers. But a mob without any man at
the head of it, is beneath  pitifulness. Now the thing for you to
do, is to droop your tails and  go home and crawl in a hole. If any
real lynching's going to be  done, it will be done in the dark,
Southern fashion; and when they  come they'll bring their masks,
and fetch a man along. Now leave-  and take your half-a-man with
you"- tossing his gun up across his left arm and cocking it, when
he says this.
    The crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart and went
tearing off every which way, and Buck Harkness he heeled it after
them, looking tolerable cheap. I could a staid, if I'd a wanted to,
but I didn't want to.
(22 - 10})
    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 a
twenty-dollar gold piece and some other money, but I reckoned I
better  save, 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 two and two, a gentleman and
lady, side  by side, the men just in their drawers and
under-shirts, 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, and
their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up  there under the
tentroof, and every lady's rose-leafy dress flapping  soft and
silky around her hips, and she looking like the most  loveliest
parasol.
    And then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing,
first one  foot stuck out in the air and then the other, the horses
leaning  more and more, and the ring-master going round and round
the  centre-pole, cracking his whip and shouting "hi!- hi!" and the
clown  cracking jokes behind him; and by-and-by all hands dropped
the  reins, and every lady put her knuckles on her hips and every
gentleman  folded his arms, and then how the horses did lean over
and hump  themselves! And so, one after the other they all skipped
off into  the ring, and made the sweetest bow I ever see, and then
scampered  out, and everybody clapped their hands and went just
about wild.
    Well, all through the circus they done the most astonishing
things; and all the time that clown carried on so it most killed
the people. The ring-master couldn't ever say a word to him but he
was  back at him quick as a wink with the funniest things a body
ever said;  and how he ever could think of so many of them, and so
sudden and so  pat, was what I couldn't noway understand. Why, I
couldn't a thought  of them in a year. And by-and-by a drunk man
tried to get into the  ring- said he wanted to ride; said he could
ride as well as anybody  that ever was. They argued and tried to
keep him out, but he  wouldn't listen, and the whole show come to
a standstill. Then the  people begun to holler at him and make fun
of him, and that made him  mad, and he begun to rip and tear; so
that stirred up the people,  and a lot of men begun to pile down
off of the benches and swarm  towards the ring, saying, "Knock him
down! throw him out!" and one  or two women begun to scream. So,
then, the ring-master he made a  little speech, and said he hoped
there wouldn't be no disturbance, and  if the man would promise he
wouldn't make no more trouble, he would  let him ride, if he
thought he could stay on the horse. So everybody  laughed and said
all right, and the man got on. The minute he was  on, the horse
begun to rip and tear and jump and cavort around, with  two circus
men hanging onto his bridle trying to hold him, and the  drunk man
hanging onto his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump,
and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting and  laughing
till the tears rolled down. And at last sure enough, all  the
circus men could do, the horse broke loose, and away he went  like
the very nation, round and round the ring, with that sot laying
down on him and hanging to his neck with first one leg hanging most
to  the ground on one side, and then t'other one on t'other side,
and  the people just crazy. It warn't funny to me, though; I was
all of a  tremble to see his danger. But pretty soon he struggled
up astraddle  and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that;
and the next  minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle and stood!
and the horse  agoing like a house afire too. He just stood up
there, a-sailing  around as easy and comfortable as if he warn't
ever drunk in his life-  and then he begun to pull off his clothes
and sling them. He shed them  so thick they kind of clogged up the
air, and altogether he shed  seventeen suits. And then, there he
was, slim and handsome, and  dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you
ever saw, and he lit into  that horse with his whip and made him
fairly hum- and finally  skipped off, and made his bow and danced
off to the dressing-room, and  everybody just a-howling with
pleasure and astonishment.
    Then the ring-master he see how he had been fooled, and he was
the sickest ring-master you ever see, I reckon. Why, it was one of
his own  men! He had got up that joke all out of his own head, and
never let on  to nobody. Well, I felt sheepish enough, to be took
in so, but I  wouldn't a been in that ringmaster's place, not for
a thousand  dollars. I don't know; there may be bullier circuses
than what that  one was, but I never struck them yet. Anyways it
was plenty good  enough for me; and wherever I run across it, it
can have all of my  custom, every time.
(22 - 15})
    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
Shakspeare; what they  wanted was low comedy- and may be something
ruther worse than low  comedy, he reckoned. He said he could size
their style. So next  morning he got some big sheets of
wrapping-paper and some black paint,  and drawed off some handbills
and stuck them up all over the  village. The bills said:
  -
                        AT THE COURT HOUSE!
                         For 3 Nights Only!
                   The World-Renowned Tragedians
(22 - 20})
                     DAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER!
                                 AND
                       EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER!
               Of the London and Continental Theatres,
                   In their Thrilling Tragedy of
(22 - 25})
                       THE KING'S CAMELOPARD
                                 or
                       THE ROYAL NONESUCH!!!
                         Admission 50 cents.
  -
  Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all-which said:
  -
(22 - 30})
                  LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED
  -
    "There," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, I don't know
Arkansaw!"
(22 - 33})

CHAPTER 23


Well, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a stage,
and a curtain, and a row of candles for footlights; and that night
the  house was jam full of men in no time. When the place couldn't
hold  no more, the duke he quit tending door and went around the
back way  and come onto the stage and stood up before the curtain,
and made a  little speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it
was the most  thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on
a-bragging about the  tragedy and about Edmund Kean the Elder,
which was to play the main  principal part in it; and at last when
he'd got everybody's  expectations up high enough, he rolled up the
curtain, and the next  minute the king come a-prancing out on all
fours, naked; and he was  painted all over,
ring-streaked-and-striped, all sorts of colors, as  splendid as a
rainbow. And- 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 agin; and after that,
they made him do it another time. Well, it would a made a cow laugh
to  see the shines that old idiot cut.
    Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people,
and says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more,
on accounts of pressing London engagements, where the seats is all
sold aready for it in Drury Lane; and then he makes 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 agoing for that stage and them
tragedians. But a big fine-looking man jumps up on a bench, and
shouts:
 (23 - 5})

     "Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen." They stopped to listen. "We
are  sold- mighty badly sold. But we don't want to hear the last of
this  thing as long as we live. No. What we be the laughing-stock
of this  whole town, I reckon, and never want, is to go out 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 the 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:
(23 - 10})
    "Well, how'd the old thing pan out this time, Duke?"
    He hadn't been up town at all.
    We never showed a light till we was about ten mile below that
village. Then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke
----------------------------------        251
   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.
(23 - 15})
    By-and-by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says:
    "Don't it 'sprise you, de way dem kings carries on, Huck?"
    "No," I says, "it don't."
    "Why don't it, Huck?"
    "Well, it don't, because it's in the breed. I reckon they're
all  alike."

(23 - 20})
    "But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is regular 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.' 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. Spose people left
money laying around where he  was- what did he do? He collared it.
Spose he contracted to do a  thing; and you paid him, and didn't
set down there and see that he  done it- what did he do? He always
done the other thing. Spose he  opened his mouth- what then? If he
didn't shut it up powerful quick,  he'd lose a lie, every time.
That's the kind of a bug Henry was; and  if we'd a had him along
'stead of our kings, he'd a fooled that town a  heap worse than
ourn done. I don't say that ourn is lambs because they  ain't, when
you come right down to the cold facts; but they ain't  nothing to
that old ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is kings, and you got to
make allowances. Take them all around, they're a mighty  ornery
lot. It's the way they're raised."
    "But dis one do smell so like de nation, Huck."
(23 - 25})
    "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."
(23 - 30})
    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 setting
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! its mighty hard;
I spec' I ain't ever gwyne to see  you no mo', no mo'!" He was a
mighty good nigger, Jim was.
    But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife
and  young ones; and by-and-by he says:
    "What makes me feel so bad dis time, 'uz bekase I hear sumpn
over  yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it
mine me er  de time I treat my little 'Lizabeth so ornery. She
warn't on'y 'bout  fo' year 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'.'
(23 - 35})
    "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
agwyne for de  chile, but jis' den- it was a do' dat open innerds-
jis' den 'long  come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile,
ker-blam!- en my lan', de  chile never move'! My breff mos' hop
outer me; en I feel so- so- I  doan' know how I feel. I crope out,
all a-tremblin', en crope aroun'  en open de do' easy en slow, en
poke my head in behine de chile,  sof' en still, en all uv a
sudden, I says pow! jis' as loud as I could  yell. She never budge!
Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in  my arms, en say,
'Oh, de po' little thing! de Lord God Amighty fogive po' 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!"
(23 - 40})

CHAPTER 24

Next day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow tow-head
out in the middle, where there was a village on each side of the
river, and the duke and the king begun to lay out a plan for
working  them towns. Jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it
wouldn't  take but a few hours, because it got mighty heavy and
tiresome to  him when he had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with
the rope. You  see, when we left him all alone we had to tie him,
because if  anybody happened on him all by himself and not tied, it
wouldn't  look much like he was a runaway nigger, you know. So the
duke said  it was kind of hard to have to lay roped all day, and
he'd cipher  out some way to get around it.    He was uncommon
bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it. He  dressed Jim up in
King Lear's outfit- it was a long curtain-calico gown, and a white
horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his  theatre-paint
and painted Jim's face and hands and ears and neck all  over a dead
dull solid blue, like a man that's been 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 the shingle to
a lath, and stood the lath up four  or five foot in front of the
wigwam. Jim was satisfied. He said it was  a sight better than
laying tied a couple of years every day and  trembling all over
every time there was a sound. The duke told him  to make himself
free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling  around he must
hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch  a howl or
two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light  out and
leave him alone. Which was sound enough judgment; but you take  the
average man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. Why, he  didn't
only look like he was dead, he looked considerable more than  that.
  These rapscallions wanted to try the Nonesuch again, because
there  was so much money in it, but they judged it wouldn't be
safe,  because maybe the news might a worked along down by this
time. They couldn't hit no project that suited, exactly; so at last
the duke said  he reckoned he'd lay off and work his brains an hour
or two and see if  he couldn't put up something on the Arkansaw
village; and the king  he allowed he would drop over to t'other
village, without any plan,  but just trust in Providence to lead
him the profitable way- meaning  the devil, I reckon. We had all
bought store clothes where we  stopped last; and now the king put
his'n on, and he told me to put  mine on. I done it, of course. The
king's duds was all black, and he  did look real swell and starchy.
I never 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 town- been there a couple of hours,
taking on freight. Says the king:
(24 - 5})
    "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.
(24 - 10})
    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 in such  weather. He asked the king where he was going, and
the king told him  he'd come down the river and landed at the other
village this morning,  and now he was going up a few mile to see an
old friend on a farm up  there. The young fellow says:
    "When I first see you, I says to myself, 'It's Mr. Wilks, sure,
and he come mighty near getting here in time.' But then I says
again, 'No, I reckon it ain't him, or else he wouldn't be paddling
up the river.' You ain't him, are you?"
    "No, my name's Blodgett- Elexander Blodgett- Reverend Elexander
Blodgett, I spose I must say, as I'm one o' the Lord's poor
servants. But still I'm 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 was the only ones that
come out here;  George was the married brother; him and his wife
both died last  year. Harvey and William's the only ones that's
left now; and, as I  was saying, they haven't got here in time."
     "Did anybody send' em word?"
(24 - 15})
    "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."
(24 - 20})
    "It's a pretty long journey. But it'll be lovely; I wisht I was
agoing. Is Mary Jane the oldest? How old is the others?"
    "Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and Joanna's about
fourteen-  that's the one that gives herself to good works and has
a hare-lip."
    "Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so."
    "Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had friends, and they
ain't going to let them come to no harm. There's Hobson, the
Babtis'  preacher; and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner
Shackleford,  and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr. Robinson, and
their wives, and  the widow Bartley, and- well, there's a lot of
them; but these are the  ones that Peter was thickest with, and
used to write about  sometimes, when he wrote home; so Harvey'll
know where to look for  friends when he gets here."
    Well, the old man he went on asking questions till he just
fairly  emptied that young fellow. Blamed if he didn't inquire
about everybody  and everything in that blessed town, and all about
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:
(24 - 25})
    "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?"
(24 - 30})
    "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."
(24 - 35})
   When we struck the boat, she was about done loading, and pretty
soon  she got off. The king never said nothing about going aboard,
so I lost  my ride, after all. When the boat was gone, the king
made me paddle up  another mile to a lonesome place, and then he
got ashore, and says:
    "Now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up here, and
the new  carpet-bags. And if he's gone over to t'other side, go
over there  and git him. And tell him to git himself up regardless.
Shove along,  now."
    I see what he was up to; but I never said nothing, of course.
When I  got back with the duke, we hid the canoe and then they set
down on a  log, and the king told him everything, just like the
young fellow  had said it- every last word of it. And all the time
he was a doing  it, he tried to talk like an Englishman; and he
done it pretty well  too, for a slouch. I can't imitate him, and so
I ain't agoing to try  to; but he really done it pretty good. Then
he says:
    "How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?"
    The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a
deef  and dumb person on the histrionic boards. So then they waited
for a  steamboat.
(24 - 40})
    About the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats come
along, but they didn't come from high enough up the river; but at
last  there was a big one, and they hailed her. She sent out her
yawl, and  we went aboard, and she was from Cincinnati; and when
they found we  only wanted to go four or five mile, they was
booming mad, and give us  a cussing, and said they wouldn't land
us. But the king was ca'm. He  says:
    "If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece, to be
took  on and put off in a yawl, a steamboat kin afford to carry
'em, can't  it?"
    So they softened down and said it was all right; and when we
got  to the village, they yawled us ashore. About two dozen men
flocked  down, when they see the yawl a coming; and when the king
says-
    "Kin any of you gentlemen tell me where 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."
(24 - 45})
    Sudden as winking, the ornery old cretur went all to smash, and
fell  up against the man, and put his chin on his shoulder, and
cried down  his back, and says:
    "Alas, alas, our poor brother- gone, and we never got to see
him;  oh, it's too, too hard!"
    Then he turns around, blubbering, and making a lot of idiotic
signs to the duke on his hands, and blamed if he didn't drop a
carpet-bag and bust out a-crying. If they warn't the beatenest lot,
them two frauds, that ever I struck.
    Well, the men gethered around, and sympathized with them, and
said  all sorts of kind things to them, and carried their
carpet-bags up the  hill for them, and let them lean on them and
cry, and told the king  all about his brother's last moments, and
the king he told it all over  again on his hands to the duke, and
both of them took on about that  dead tanner like they'd lost the
twelve disciples. Well, if ever I  struck anything like it, I'm a
nigger. It was enough to make a body  ashamed of the human race.
(24 - 49})

CHAPTER 25

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 door-yards was full; and every
minute  somebody would say, over a fence:
    "Is it them?"
    And somebody trotting along with the gang would answer back and
say,
    "You bet it is."
    When we got to the house, the street in front of it was packed,
and the three girls was standing in the door. Mary Jane was
red-headed, but that don't make no difference, she was most awful
beautiful, and her face and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she
was so glad her uncles was come. The king he spread his arms, and
Mary  Jane she jumped for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the
duke, and  there they had it! Everybody most, leastways women,
cried for joy to  see them meet again at last and have such good
times.
(25 - 5})
    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 dropping 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 neck, and hung their chins over
each other's  shoulders; and then for three minutes, or maybe four,
I never see  two men leak the way they done. And mind you,
everybody was doing  the same; and the place was that damp I never
see anything like it.  Then one of them got on one side of the
coffin, and t'other on t'other  side, and they kneeled down and
rested their foreheads on the  coffin, and let on to pray all to
theirselves. Well, when it come to  that, it worked the crowd like
you never see anything like it, and  so everybody broke down and
went to sobbing right out loud- the poor  girls, too; and every
woman, nearly, went up to the girls, without  saying a word, and
kissed them, solemn, on the forehead, and then    put their hand on
their head, and looked up towards the sky, with  the tears running
down, and then busted out and went off sobbing and  swabbing, and
give the next woman a show. I never see anything so  disgusting.
    Well, by-and-by the king he gets up and comes forward a little,
and works himself up and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears
and flapdoodle about its being a sore trial for him and his poor
brother to lose the diseased, and to miss seeing diseased alive,
after  the long journey of four thousand mile, but 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 hirnself loose and goes to crying fit
to bust.
    And the minute the words was out of his mouth somebody over in
the  crowd struck up the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with
all  their might, and it just warmed you up and made you feel as
good as  church letting out. Music is a good thing; and after all
that  soul-butter and hogwash, I never see it freshen up things so,
and sound so honest and bully.
    Then the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him
and his  nieces would be glad if a few of the main principal
friends of the  family would take supper here with them this
evening, and help set  up with the ashes of the diseased; and says
if his poor brother laying  yonder could speak, he knows who he
would name, for they was names  that was very dear to him, and
mentioned often in his letters; and  so he will name the same,
to-wit, as follows, vizz:- Rev. Mr.  Hobson, and Deacon Lot Hovey,
and Mr. Ben Rucker, and Abner  Shackleford, and Levi Bell, and Dr.
Robinson, and their wives, and the  widow Bartley.
    Rev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down to the end of the town,
a-hunting together; that is, I mean the doctor was shipping a sick
man  to t'other world, and the preacher was pinting him right.
Lawyer  Bell was away up to Louisville on some business. But the
rest was on  hand, 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.
(25 - 10})
    So the king he blatted along, and managed to inquire about
pretty  much everybody and dog in town, by his name, and mentioned
all sorts  of little things that happened one time or another in
the town, or  to George's family, or to Peter; and he always let on
that Peter wrote  him the things, but that was a lie, he got every
blessed one of them  out of that young flathead that we canoed up
to the steamboat.
    Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father left behind,
and  the king he read it out loud and cried over it. It give the
dwelling-house and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and
it give the tanyard (which was doing a good business), along with
some  other houses and land (worth about seven thousand), and three
thousand  dollars in gold to Harvey and William, and told where the
six thousand  cash was hid, down cellar. So these two frauds said
they'd go and  fetch it up, and have everything square and
above-board; and told me  to come with a candle. We shut the cellar
door behind us, and when  they found the bag they spilt it out on
the floor and it was a  lovely sight, all them yaller-boys. My, the
way the king's eyes did  shine! He slaps the duke on the shoulder,
and says:
    "Oh, this ain't bully, nor noth'n! Oh, no, I reckon not! Why,
Biljy,  it beats the Nonesuch, don't it!"
    The duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted
them  through their fingers and let them jingle down on the floor;
and the  king says:
    "It ain't no use 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."
(25 - 15})
    Most everybody would a been satisfied with the pile, and took
it  on trust; but no, they must count it. So they counts it, and it
comes out four hundred and fifteen dollars short. Says the king:
    "Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four hundred and
fifteen dollars?"
    They worried over that a while, and ransacked all around for
it.  Then the duke says:
    "Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake-
I  reckon that's the way of it. The best way's to let it go, and
keep still about it. We can spare it."
    "Oh, shucks, yes, we can spare it. I don't k'yer noth'n 'bout
that- it's the count I'm thinkin'about. We want to be awful square
and  open and aboveboard, 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-"
(25 - 20})
    "Hold on," says the duke. "Less make up the deffisit"- and he
begun to haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket.
    "It's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke- you have got a rattlin'
clever  head on you," says the king. "Blest if the old None-such
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."
(25 - 25})
    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 agin,
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 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-
(25 - 30})
    "-they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased. That's why
they're invited here this evenin'; but to-morrow we want all to
come- everybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody,
and  so it's fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public."
    And so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself
talk, and  every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies
again, till the  duke he couldn't stand it no more; so he writes on
a little scrap of  paper, "obsequies, you old fool," and folds it
up and goes to  goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to
him. The king he  reads it, and puts it in his pocket, and says:
    "Poor William, afflicted as he is, his heart's aluz right. Asks
me  to invite everybody to come to the funeral- wants me to make
'em all  welcome. But he needn't a worried- it was jest what I was
at."
    Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and goes to
dropping  in his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like
he done  before. And when he done it the third time he says:
    "I say orgies, not because it's the common term, because it
ain't-  obsequies bein' the common term- but because orgies is the
right term.  Obsequies ain't used in England no more, now- it's
gone out. We say  orgies now, in England. Orgies is better, because
it means the thing you're after, more exact. It's a word that's
made up outin 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."
(25 - 35})
    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!"
(25 - 40})
    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 girls'
feelings, and all that; but it warn't no use, he stormed right
along, and said any man  that pretended to be an Englishman and
couldn't imitate the lingo no  better than what he did, was a fraud
and a liar. The poor girls was  hanging to the king and crying; and
all of a sudden the doctor ups and  turns on them. He says:
    "I was your father's friend, and I'm your friend; and I warn
you  as a friend, and an honest one, that wants to protect you and
keep you  out of harm and trouble, to turn your backs on that
scoundrel, and  have nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp,
with his idiotic  Greek and Hebrew as he calls it. He is the
thinnest kind of an  imposter- has come here with a lot of empty
names and facts which he  has 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 it for me and my sisters any way you want to, and don't give
us  no receipt for it."
    Then she put her arm around the king on one side, and Susan and
the hare-lip done the same on the other. Everybody clapped their
hands  and stomped on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the
king held up  his hand and smiled proud. The doctor says:
(25 - 45})
    "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.
(25 - 47})

CHAPTER 26

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 along side of her, and
said how bad  the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was, and
how ornery and tough the fried chickens was- and all that kind of
rot, the way  women always do for to force out compliments; and the
people all  knowed everything was tip-top, and said so- said "How
do you get  biscuits to brown so nice?" and "Where, for the land's
sake did you  get these amaz'n pickles?" and all that kind of
humbug talky-talk,  just the way people always does at a supper,
you know.
    And when it was all done, me and the hare-lip had supper in the
kitchen off of the leavings, whilst the others was helping the
niggers  clean up the things. The hare-lip she got to pumping me
about England,  and blest if I didn't think the ice was getting
mighty thin,  sometimes. She says:
    "Did you ever see the king?"
(26 - 5})
    "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?"
(26 - 10})
    "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?"
(26 - 15})
    "Why, you did."
    "I didn't, nuther."
    "You did!"
    "I didn't."
    "You did."
(26 - 20})
    "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?"
(26 - 25})
    "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?"
(26 - 30})
    "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."
(26 - 35})
    "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?"
(26 - 40})
    "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?"
(26 - 45})
    "What!- to preach before a king? I never see such a girl as
you.  They don't have no less than seventeen."
    "Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn't set out such a string as
that, not if I never got to glory. It must take 'em a week."
    "Shucks, they don't all of 'em preach the same day- only one of
'em."
    "Well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?"
    "Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate- and one thing
or  another. But mainly they don't do nothing."
(26 - 50})
    "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?"
(26 - 55})
    "Oh, just listen! A body could tell you hain't ever been to
England,  by that. Why, Hare-l- why, Joanna, they never see a
holiday from  year's end to year's end; never go to the circus, nor
theatre, nor  nigger shows, nor nowheres."
    "Nor church?"
    "Nor church."
    "But you always went to church."
    Well, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old man's
servant. But  next minute I whirled in on a kind of an explanation
how a valley  was different from a common servant, and had to go to
church whether  he wanted to or not, and set with the family, on
account of it's being  the law. But I didn't do it pretty good, and
when I got done I see she  warn't satisfied. She says:
(26 - 60})
    "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."
(26 - 65})
    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."
(26 - 70})
    "Why, Maim, he said-"
    "It don't make no difference what he said- that ain't the
thing. The  thing is for you to treat him kind, and not be saying
things to make  him remember he ain't in his own country and
amongst his own folks."
    I says to myself, this is a girl that I'm letting that old
reptle  rob her of her money!
    Then Susan she waltzed in; and if you'll believe me, she did
give  Hare-lip hark from the tomb!
    Says I to myself, And this is another one that I'm letting him
rob  her of her money!
(26 - 75})
    Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and
lovely  again- which was her way- but when she got done there
warn't hardly  anything left o' poor Hare-lip. So she hollered.
    "All right, then," says the other girls, "you just ask his
pardon."
    She done it, too. And she done it beautiful. She done it so
beautiful it was good to hear; and I wished I could tell her a
thousand lies, so she could do it again.
    I says to myself, this is another one that I'm letting him rob
her  of her money. And when she got through, they all jest laid
theirselves  out to make me feel at home and know I was amongst
friends. I felt  so ornery and low down and mean, that I says to
myself, My mind's made  up; I'll hive that money for them or bust.
  So then I lit out- for bed, I said, meaning some time or another.
When I got by myself, I went to thinking the thing over. I says to
myself, shall I go to that doctor, private, and blow on these
frauds? No- that won't do. He might tell who told him; then the
king  and the duke would make it warm for me. Shall I go, private,
and tell Mary Jane? No- I dasn't do it. Her face would give them a
hint,  sure; they've got the money, and they'd slide right out and
get away  with it. If she was to fetch in help, I'd get mixed up in
the  business, before it was done with, I judge. No, there ain't no
good  way but one. I got to steal that money, somehow; and I got to
steal it  some way that they won't suspicion that I done it.
They've got a  good thing, here; and they ain't agoing to leave
till they've played  this family and this town for all they're
worth, so I'll find a chance  time enough. I'll steal it, and hide
it; and by-and-by, when I'm  away down the river, I'll write a
letter and tell Mary Jane where it's  hid. But I better hive it
to-night, if I can, because the doctor maybe  hasn't let up as much
as he lets on he has; he might scare them out of  here, yet.
(26 - 80})
    So, thinks I, I'll go and search them rooms. Up stairs the hall
was dark, but I found the duke's room, and started to paw around it
with my hands; but I recollected it wouldn't be much like the king
to let anybody else take care of that money but his own self; so
then I went to his room and begun to paw around there. But I see I
couldn't do nothing without a candle, and I dasn't light one, of
course. So I judged I'd got to do the other thing- lay for them and
eavesdrop. About that time, I hears their footsteps coming and was
going to skip under the bed; I reached for it, but it wasn't where
I  thought it would be; but I touched the curtain that hid Mary
Jane's  frocks, so I jumped in behind that and snuggled in amongst
the  gowns, and stood there perfectly still.
    They come in and shut the door; and the first thing the duke
done  was to get down and look under the bed. Then I was glad I
hadn't found  the bed when I wanted it. And yet, you know, it's
kind of natural to  hide under the bed when you are up to anything
private. They sets  down, then, and the king says:
    "Well, what is it? and cut it middlin' short, 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?"
(26 - 85})
    "That we better glide out of this, before three in the morning,
and clip it down the river with what we've got. Specially, seeing
we  got it so easy- given back to us, flung at our heads, as you
may  say, when of course we allowed to have to steal it back. I'm
for  knocking off and lighting out."
    That made me feel pretty bad. About an hour or two ago, it
would a  been a little different, but now it made me feel bad and
disappointed.  The king rips out and says:
    "What! And not sell out the rest o' the property? March off
like a  passel o' fools and leave eight or nine thous'n' dollars'
worth o'  property layin' around jest sufferin' to be scooped in?-
and all  good salable stuff, too."
    The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and he
didn't  want to go no deeper- didn't want to rob a lot of orphans
of  everything they had.
    "Why, how you talk!" says the king. "We shan't rob 'em of
nothing at  all but jest this money. The people that buys the
property is the  suff'rers; because as soon's it's found out 'at we
didn't own it-  which won't be long after we've slid- the sale
won't be valid, and  it'll all go back to the estate. These-yer
orphans'll git their  house back agin, and that's enough for them;
they're young and spry, and k'n easy earn a livin'. They ain't
agoing to suffer. Why, jest  think- there's thous'n's and thous'n's
that ain't nigh so well off.  Bless you, they ain't got noth'n to
complain of."
(26 - 90})
    Well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and
said all right, but said he believed it was blame foolishness to
stay,  and that doctor hanging over them. But the king says:
    "Cuss the doctor! What do we k'yer for him? Hain't we got all
the  fools in town on our side? and ain't that a big enough
majority in any  town?"
    So they got ready to go down stairs again. The duke says:
    "I don't think we put that money in a good place."
    That cheered me up. I'd begun to think I warn't going to get a
hint of no kind to help me. The king says:
(26 - 95})
    "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 come a
fumbling under the curtain two or three foot from where I was. I
stuck  tight to the wall, and kept mighty still, though quivery;
and I  wondered what them fellows would say to me if they 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.
(12 - 99})

CHAPTER 27

I crept to their doors and listened; they was snoring, so I
tip-toed  along, and got down stairs all right. There warn't a
sound  anywheres. I peeped through a crack of the diningroom 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 rather 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.
(27 - 5})
    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 blow 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
passage-ways, and  done it all with nods, and signs with his hands.
Then he took his  place over against the wall. He was the softest,
glidingest,  stealthiest man I ever see; and there warn't no more
smile to him than  there is to a ham.
    They had borrowed a melodeum- a sick one; and when everything
was  ready, a young woman set down and worked it, and it was pretty
skreeky  and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and Peter
was the  only one that had a good thing, according to my notion.
Then the  Reverend Hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and begun to
talk; and  straight off the most outrageous row busted out in the
cellar a body ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made a most
powerful racket,  and he kept it up, right along; the parson he had
to stand there, over  the coffin, and wait- you couldn't hear
yourself think. It was right  down awkward, and nobody didn't seem
to know what to do. But pretty  soon they see that long-legged
undertaker make a sign to the  preacher as much as to say, "Don't
you worry- just depend on me." Then  he stooped down and begun to
glide along the wall, just his  shoulders showing over the people's
heads. So he glided along, and the  pow-wow and racket getting more
and more outrageous all the time;  and at last, when he had gone
around two sides of the room, he  disappears down cellar. Then, in
about two seconds we heard a whack,  and the dog he finished up
with a most amazing howl or two, and then  everything was dead
still, and the parson begun his solemn talk  where he left off. In
a minute or two here comes this undertaker's  back and shoulders
gliding along the wall again; and so he glided, and  glided, around
three sides of the room, and then rose up, and shaded  his mouth
with his hands, and stretched his neck out towards the  preacher,
over the people's heads, and says, in a kind of a coarse  whisper,
"He had a rat!" Then he drooped down and glided along the  wall
again to his place. You could see it was a great satisfaction to
the people, because naturally they wanted to know. A little thing
like that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little things that
makes a man to be looked up to and liked. There warn't no more
popular  man in town than what that undertaker was.
    Well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and
tiresome;  and then the king he shoved in and got off some of his
usual  rubbage, and at last the job was through, and the undertaker
begun  to sneak up on the coffin with his screw-driver. I was in a
sweat  then, and watched him pretty keen. But he never meddled at
all; just  slid the lid along, as soft as mush, and screwed it down
tight and  fast. So there I was! I didn't know whether the money
was in there, or  not. So, says I, spose somebody has hogged that
bag on the sly?- now  how do I know whether to write to Mary Jane
or not? Spose she dug  him up and didn't find nothing- what would
she think of me? Blame  it, I says, I might get hunted up and
jailed; I'd better lay low and  keep dark, and not write at all;
the thing's awful mixed, now;  trying to better it, I've worsened
it a hundred times, and I wish to  goodness I'd just let it alone,
dad fetch the whole business!
    They buried him, and we come back home, and I went to watching
faces  again- I couldn't help it, and I couldn't rest easy. But
nothing come of it; the faces didn't tell me nothing.
(27 - 10})
    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 noontime, the
girls' joy got the first jolt; a couple of nigger traders come
along, and the king sold them the niggers reasonable, for three-day
drafts as they called it, and away they went, the two sons up the
river to Memphis, and their mother down the river to Orleans. I
thought them poor girls and them niggers would break their hearts
for grief; they cried around each other, and took on so it most
made  me down sick to see it. The girls said they hadn't ever
dreamed of  seeing the family separated or sold away from the town.
I can't ever  get it out of my memory, the sight of them poor
miserable girls and  niggers hanging around each other's necks and
crying; and I reckon I  couldn't a stood it all but would a had to
bust out and tell on our  gang if I hadn't known 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:
(27 - 15})
    "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 yesterday er last night?"
    "No, your majesty."
    "Honor bright, now- no lies."
(27 - 20})
    "Honor bright, your majesty, I'm telling you the truth. I
hain't  been anear your room since Miss Mary Jane took you and the
duke and  showed it to you."
    The duke says:
    "Have you seen anybody else go in there?"
    "No, your grace, not as I remember, I believe."
    "Stop and think."
(27 - 25})
    I studied a while, and see my chance, then I says:
    "Well, I see the niggers go in there several times."
    Both of them give a little jump; and looked like they hadn't
ever  expected it, and then like they had. Then the duke says:
    "What, all of them?"
    "No- leastways not all at once. That is, I don't think I ever
see  them all come out at once but just one time."
(27 - 30})
    "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 anything. And they didn't act anyway, much, as
fur  as I see. They tip-toed away; so I seen, easy enough, that
they'd  shoved in there to do up your majesty's room, or something,
sposing  you was up; and found you warn't up, and so they was
hoping to slide  out of the way of trouble without waking you up,
if they hadn't  already waked you up."
    "Great guns, this is a go!" says the king; and both of them
looked  pretty sick, and tolerable silly. They stood there a
thinking and  scratching their heads, a minute, and then the duke
he bust into a kind of a little raspy chuckle, and says:
(27 - 35})
    "It does beat all, how neat the niggers played their hand. They
let on to be sorry they was going out of this region! and I
believed  they was sorry. And so did you, and so did everybody.
Don't ever  tell me any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic
talent. Why,  the way they played that thing, it would fool
anybody. In my opinion  there's a fortune in 'em. If I had capital
and a theatre, I wouldn't  want a better lay out than that- and
here we've gone and sold 'em  for a song. Yes, and ain't privileged
to sing the song, yet. Say,  where is that song?- that draft."
"In the bank for to be collected. Where would it be?"
    "Well, that's all right then, thank goodness."
    Says I, kind of timid-like:
    "Is something gone wrong?"
(27 - 40})
    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,
(27 - 45})
    "I was trying to do for the best, in sellin' 'm out so quick.
If the  profits has turned out to be none, lackin' considable, and
none to  carry, is it my fault any more'n it's yourn?"
    "Well, they'd be in this house yet, and we wouldn't if I could
a got  my advice listened to."
    The king sassed back, as much as was safe for him, and then
swapped around and lit into me again. He give me down the banks for
not coming and telling him I see the niggers come out of his room
acting that way- said any fool would a knowed something was up. And
then waltzed in and cussed himself a while; and said it all come of
him not laying late and taking his natural rest that morning, and
he'd  be blamed if he'd ever do it again. So they went off a
jawing; and I  felt dreadful glad I'd worked it all off onto the
niggers and yet  hadn't done the niggers no harm by it.
(27 - 48})

CHAPTER 28

By-and-by it was getting-up time; so I come down the ladder and
started for down stairs, but as I come to the girls' room, the door
was open, and I see Mary Jane setting by her old hair trunk, which
was  open and she'd been packing things in it- getting ready to go
to  England. But she had stopped now, with a folded gown in her
lap, and  had her face in her hands, crying. I felt awful bad to
see it; of  course anybody would. I went in there, and says:
"Miss Mary Jane, you can't abear to see people in trouble, and I
can't- most always. Tell me about it."
    So she done it. And it was the niggers- I just expected it. She
said  the beautiful trip to England was most about spoiled for her;
she  didn't know how she was ever going to be happy there, knowing
the  mother and the children warn't ever going to see each other no
more-  and then busted out bitterer than ever, and flung up her
hands, and  says:
    "Oh, dear, 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.
(28 - 5})
    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 agoing to chance it; I'll up and tell the
truth this time,  though it does seem most like setting down on a
kag of powder and  touching it off just to see where you'll go to.
Then I says:
    "Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a little ways,
where  you could go and stay three or four days?"
    "Yes- Mr. Lathrop's. Why?"
    "Never mind why, yet. If I 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. Lathrop's and stay four
days?"
(28 - 10})
    "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 holted her up like everything, of course; but I was over the
shoal water now, so I went right along, her eyes a blazing higher
and higher all the time, and told her every blame thing, from where
we  first struck that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear
through to where she flung herself onto the king's breast at the
front  door and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times- and then
up she  jumps, with her face afire like sunset, and says:
(28 - 15})
    "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. Lathrop'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."
(28 - 20})
    Saying them words put a good idea in my head. I see how maybe
I  could get me and Jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed here,
and then  leave. But I didn't want to run the raft in day-time,
without  anybody aboard to answer questions but me; so I didn't
want the plan  to begin working till pretty late to-night. I says:
  "Miss Mary Jane, I'll tell you what we'll do- and you won't have
to stay at Mr. Lathrop'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."
(28 - 25})
    "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 shan'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 shan'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  oldyed 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."
(28 - 30})
    "Well," she says, "I'll run down to breakfast now, and then
I'll  start straight for Mr. Lathrop'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?"
(28 - 35})
   "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 shan't be." It was well enough to tell her so-
no  harm in it. It was only a little thing to do, and no trouble;
and it's the little things that smoothes people's roads the most,
down here  below; it would make Mary Jane comfortable, and it
wouldn't cost  nothing. Then I says: "There's one more thing- that
bag of money."
(28 - 40})
    "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?"
(28 - 45})
    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. Lathrop'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:
(28 - 50})
    "Good-bye- I'm going to do everything just as you've told me;
and if  I don't ever see you again, I shan'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 backdown 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,  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 harelip, 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:
(28 - 55})
    "There's several; but it's the Proctors, mainly."
    "That's the name," I says; "I most forgot it. Well, Miss Mary
Jane she told me to tell you she's gone over there in a dreadful
hurry- one  of them's sick."
    "Which one?"
    "I don't know; leastways I kinder forget; but I think it's-"
    "Sakes alive, I hope it ain't Hanner?"
(28 - 60})
    "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:
(28 - 65})
    "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."
(28 - 70})
    "What other things?"
    "Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and
consumption, and yeller 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?"
(28 - 75})
    "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 onto one tooth, you're bound to on
another,  ain't you? And you can't get away with that tooth without
fetching the whole harrow along, can you? Well, these kind of mumps
is a kind of  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."
(28 - 80})
    "Well, why wouldn't you?"
    "Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. Hain't your
uncles  obleeged to get along home to England as fast as they can?
And do  you reckon they'd be mean enough to go off and leave you to
go all  that journey by yourselves? 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 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
not to  tell anybody at all."
(28 - 85})
    "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."
(28 - 90})
    "All right," they said, and cleared out to lay for their
uncles, and  give them the love and the kisses, and tell them the
message.
    Everything was all right now. The girls wouldn't say nothing
because  they wanted to go to England; and the king and the duke
would ruther  Mary Jane was off working for the auction than around
in reach of  Doctor Robinson. I felt very good; I judged I had done
it pretty neat-  I reckoned Tom Sawyer couldn't a done it no neater
himself. Of  course he would a throwed more style into it, but I
can't do that very  handy, not being brung up to it.
    Well, they held the auction in the public square, along towards
the end of the afternoon, and it strung along, and strung along,
and  the old man he was on hand and looking his level piousest, up
there  longside of the auctioneer, and chipping in a little
Scripture, now  and then, or a little goody-goody saying, of some
kind, and the duke  he was around goo-gooing for sympathy all he
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!"
(28 - 95})

CHAPTER 29

They was fetching a very nice looking old gentleman along, and a
nice looking younger one, with his right arm in a sling. And my
souls,  how the people yelled, and laughed, and kept it up. But I
didn't see  no joke about it, and I judged it would strain the duke
and the king  some to see any. I reckoned they'd turn pale. But no,
nary a pale  did they turn. The duke he never let on he suspicioned
what was up,  but just went a goo-gooing around, happy and
satisfied, like a jug  that's googling out buttermilk; and as for
the king, he just gazed and  gazed down sorrowful on them newcomers
like it give him the  stomach-ache in his very heart to think there
could be such frauds and  rascals in the world. Oh, he done it
admirable. Lots of the  principal people gethered around the king,
to let him see they was  on his side. That old gentleman that had
just come looked all  puzzled to death. Pretty soon he begun to
speak, and I see, straight  off, he pronounced like an Englishman,
not the king's way, though  the king's was pretty good, for an
imitation. I can't give the old  gent's words, nor I can't imitate
him; but he turned around to the  crowd, and says, about like this:
    "This is a surprise to me which I wasn't looking for; and I'll
acknowledge, candid and frank, I ain't very well fixed to meet it
and answer it; for my brother and me has had misfortunes, he's
broke his arm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here,
last  night in the night by a mistake. I am Peter Wilks's brother
Harvey,  and this is his brother William, which can't hear nor
speak- and can't  even make signs to amount to much, now't he's
only got one hand to  work them with. We are who we say we are; and
in a day or two, when  I get the baggage, I can prove it. But, up
till then, I won't say  nothing more, but go to the hotel and
wait."
    So him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs,
and  blethers out:
    "Broke his arm- very likely ain't it?- and very convenient,
too, for  a fraud that's got to make signs, and hain't learnt how.
Lost their  baggage! That's mighty good!- and mighty ingenious-
under the  circumstances!"
    So he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three or
four, or maybe half a dozen. One of these was that doctor; another
one  was a sharp looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the
old-fashioned kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just come off
of  the steamboat and was talking to him in a low voice, and
glancing  towards the king now and then and nodding their heads- it
was Levi  Bell, the lawyer that was gone up to Louisville; and
another one was a big rough husky that come along and listened to
all the old  gentleman said, and was listening to the king now. And
when the king  got done, this husky up and says:
(29 - 5})
    "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?"
(29 - 10})
    "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.
(29 - 15})
    "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:
(29 - 20})
    "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:
(29 - 25})
    "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?"
(29 - 30})
    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:
(29 - 35})
    "If you'd been in town at first, Levi Bell-"
    The king broke in and reached out his hand, and says:
    "Why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend that he's wrote
so  often about?"
    The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and
looked  pleased, and they talked right along a while, and then got
to one side and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and
says:
    "That'll fix it. I'll take the order and send it, along with
your  brother's, and then they'll know it's all right."
(29 - 40})
    So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and
twisted his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled
off something; and then they give the pen to the duke- and then for
the first time, the duke looked sick. But he took the pen and
wrote.  So then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says:
    "You and your brother please write a line or two and sign your
names."
    The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't read it. The
lawyer  looked powerful astonished, and says:
    "Well, it beats me"- and snaked a lot of old letters out of his
pocket, and examined them, and then examined the old man's writing,
and then them again; and then says: "These old letters is from
Harvey Wilks; and here's these two's handwritings, and anybody can
see  they didn't write them" (the king and the duke looked sold and
foolish, I tell you, to see how the lawyer had took them in), "and
here's this old gentleman's handwriting, and anybody can tell, easy
enough, he didn't write them- fact is, the scratches he makes ain't
properly writing, at all. Now here's some letters from-"
    The new old gentleman says:
(29 - 45})
    "If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but my
brother there- so he copies for me. It's his hand you've got there,
not mine."
    "Well!" says the lawyer, "this is a state of things. I've got
some  of William's letters too; so if you'll get him to write a
line or so  we can com-"
    "He can't write with his left hand," says the old gentleman.
 "If  he could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his
own  letters and mine too. Look at both, please- they're by the
same hand."
    The lawyer done it, and says:
    "I believe it's so- and if it ain't so, there's a heap stronger
resemblance than I'd noticed before, anyway. Well, well, well! I
thought we was right on the track of a slution, but it's gone to
grass, partly. But anyway, one thing is proved- these two ain't
either  of 'em Wilkses"- and he wagged his head towards the king
and the duke.
(29 - 50})
   Well, what do you think?- that muleheaded old fool wouldn't give
in then! Indeed he wouldn't. Said it warn't no fair test. Said his
brother William was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't
tried  to write- he see William was going to play one of his jokes
the minute  he put the pen to paper. And so he warmed up and went
warbling and  warbling right along, till he was actuly beginning to
believe what  he was saying, himself- but pretty soon the new old
gentleman broke  in, and says:
    "I've thought of something. Is there anybody here that helped
to lay  out my br- helped to lay out the late Peter Wilks for
burying?"
    "Yes," says somebody, "me and Ab Turner done it. We're both
here."
    Then the old man turns towards the king, and says:
    "Perhaps this gentleman can tell me what was tatooed on his
breast?"
(29 - 55})
    Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or
he'd a  squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut
under, it took  him so sudden- and mind you, it was a thing that
was calculated to  make most anybody sqush to get fetched such a
solid one as that  without any notice- because how was he going to
know what was  tatooed on the man? He whitened a little; he
couldn't help it; and it was mighty still in there, and everybody
bending a little  forwards and gazing at him. Says I to myself, Now
he'll throw up the  sponge- there ain't no more use. Well, did he?
A body can't hardly  believe it, but he didn't. I reckon he thought
he'd keep the thing  up till he tired them people out, so they'd
thin out, and him and  the duke could break loose and get away.
Anyway, he set there, and  pretty soon he begun to smile, and says:
  "Mf! It's a very tough question, ain't it! Yes, sir, I k'n tell
you what's tatooed on his breast. It's jest a small, thin, blue
arrow-  that's what it is; and if you don't look clost, you can't
see it.  Now what do you say- hey?"
    Well, I never see anything like that old blister for clean
out-and-out cheek.
    The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and his
pard,  and his eye lights up like he judged he'd got the king this
time,  and says:
    "There- you've heard what he said! Was there any such mark on
Peter Wilks's breast?"
(29 - 60})
    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."
(29 - 65})
    Well, everybody was in a state of mind, now; and they sings
out:
    "The whole bilin' of' m's frauds! Le's duck 'em! le's drown
'em!  le's ride'em on a rail!" and everybody was whooping at once,
and there  was a rattling pow-wow. But the lawyer he jumps on the
table and  yells, and says:
    "Gentlemen- gentlemen! Hear me just a word- just a single word-
if  you PLEASE! There's one way yet- let's go and dig up the corpse
and  look."
    That took them.
    "Hooray!" they all shouted, and was starting right off; but the
lawyer and the doctor sung out:
(29 - 70})
    "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  wild-cats; and to make it more scary, the sky was darking up,
and  the lightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to
shiver  amongst the leaves. This was the most awful trouble and
most  dangersome I ever was in; and I was kinder stunned;
everything was  going so different from what I had allowed for;
stead of being fixed  so I could take my own time, if I wanted to,
and see all the fun,  and have Mary Jane at my back to save me and
set me free when the close-fit come, here was nothing in the world
betwixt me and sudden  death but just them tatoo-marks. If they
didn't find them-
(29 - 75})
    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:
(29 - 80})
    "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:
(29 - 85})
    "Out with you Jim, and set her loose! Glory be to goodness,
we're  shut of them!"
    Jim lit out, and was a coming for me with both arms spread, he
was  so full of joy; but when I glimpsed him in the lightning, my
heart  shot up in my mouth, and I went overboard backwards; for I
forgot he  was old King Lear and a drowned A-rab all in one, and it
most scared  the livers and lights out of me. But Jim fished me
out, and was  going to hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so
glad I was back and  we was shut of the king and the duke, but I
says:
    "Not now- have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast! Cut
loose  and let her slide!"
    So, in two seconds, away we went, a sliding down the river, and
it  did seem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the
big  river and nobody to bother us. I had to skip around a bit, and
jump up  and crack my heels a few times, I couldn't help it; but
about the  third crack, I noticed a sound that I 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 onto the planks, then, and give up; and
it  was all I could do to keep from crying.
(29 - 90})

CHAPTER 30

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!"
(30 - 5})
    "Honest, I'll tell you everything, just as it happened, your
majesty. The man that had aholt of me was very good to me, and kept
saying he had a boy about as big as me that died last year, and he
was  sorry to see a boy in such a dangerous fix; and when they was
all took by surprise by finding the gold, and made a rush for the
coffin, he  lets go of me and whispers, 'Heel it, now, or they'll
hang ye,  sure!' and I lit out. It didn't seem no good for me to
stay- I  couldn't do nothing, and I didn't want to be hung if I
could get away.  So I never stopped running till I found the canoe;
and when I got  there 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 drowned 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."
(30 - 10})
    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:
(30 - 15})
    "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?"
(30 - 20})
    The duke says, pretty brisk:
    "When it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask, what was you
referring to?"
    "Shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but I don't know-
maybe  you was asleep, and didn't know what you was about."
    The duke bristles right up, now, and says:
    "Oh, let up on this cussed nonsense- do you take me for a
blame'  fool? Don't you reckon I know who hid that money in that
coffin?"
(30 - 25})
    "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 that money there, say it, and I'll
b'lieve you, and take back everything I said."
(30 - 30})
    "You old scoundrel, I didn't, and you know I didn't. There,
now!"
    "Well, then, I b'lieve you. But answer me only jest this one
more-  now don't git mad; didn't you have it in your mind to hook
the money  and hide it?"
    The duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says:
    "Well- I don't care if I did, I didn't do it, anyway. But you
not  only had it in mind to do it, but you done it."
    "I wisht I may never die if I done it, duke, and that's honest.
I  won't say I warn't goin' to do it, because I was; but you- I
mean  somebody- got in ahead o' me."
(30 - 35})
    "It's a lie! You done it, and you got to say you done it, or-"
  The king begun to gurgle, and then he gasps out:
    "'Nough!- I own up!"
    I was very glad to hear him say that, it made me feel much more
easier than what I was feeling before. So the duke took his hands
off,  and says:
    "If you ever deny it again, I'll drown you. It's well for you
to set there and blubber like a baby- it's fitten for you, after
the way  you've acted. I never see such an old ostrich for wanting
to gobble  everything- and I a trusting you all the time, like you
was my own  father. You ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand
by and hear  it saddled onto a lot of poor niggers and you never
say a word for  'em. It makes me feel ridiculous to think I was
soft enough to believe  that rubbage. Cuss you, I can see, now, why
you was so anxious to make  up the deffesit- you wanted to get what
money I'd got out of the  Nonesuch and one thing or another, and
scoop it all!"
(30 - 40})
    The king says, timid, and still a snuffling:
    "Why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffersit, it
warn't  me."
    "Dry up! I don't want to hear no more out of you!" says the
duke.  "And now you see what you got by it. They've got all their
own money  back, and all of ourn but a shekel or two, besides.
G'long to bed- and  don't you deffersit me no more deffersits,
long's you live!"
    So the king sneaked into the wigwam, and took to his bottle for
comfort; and before long the duke tackled his bottle; and so in
about a half an hour they was as thick as thieves again, and the
tighter they got, the lovinger they got; and went off a snoring in
each other's arms. They both got powerful mellow, but I noticed the
king didn't get mellow enough to forget to remember to not deny
about hiding the money-bag again. That made me feel easy and
satisfied. Of course when they got to snoring, we had a long
gabble,  and I told Jim everything.
(30 - 44})

CHAPTER 31

We dasn't stop again at any town, for days and days; kept right
along down the river. We was down south in the warm weather, now,
and a mighty long ways from home. We begun to come to trees with
Spanish moss on them, hanging down from the limbs like long gray
beards. It was the first I ever see it growing, and it made the
woods look solemn and dismal. So now the frauds reckoned they was
out of danger, and they begun to work the villages again.
    First they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn't make
enough  for them both to get drunk on. Then in another village they
started  a dancing school; but they didn't know no more how to
dance than a kangaroo does; so the first prance they made, the
general public  jumped in and pranced them out of town. Another
time they tried a go  at yellocution; but they didn't yellocute
long till the audience got  up and give them a solid good cussing
and made them skip out. They  tackled missionarying, and
mesmerizering, and doctoring, and telling  fortunes, and a little
of everything; but they couldn't seem to have  no luck. So at last
they got just about dead broke, and laid around  the raft, as she
floated along, thinking, and thinking, and never  saying nothing,
by the half a day at a time, and dreadful blue and  desperate.
    And at last they took a change, and begun to lay their heads
together in the wigwam and talk low and confidential two or three
hours at a time. Jim and me got uneasy. We didn't like the look of
it.  We judged they was studying up some kind of worse deviltry
than  ever. We turned it over and over, and at last we made up our
minds  they was going to break into somebody's house or store, or
was going  into the counterfeit-money business, or something. So
then we was  pretty scared, and made up an agreement that we
wouldn't have  nothing in the world to do with such actions, and if
we ever got the  least show we would give them the cold shake, and
clear out and leave them behind. Well, early one morning we hid the
raft in a good  safe place about two mile below a little bit of a
shabby village,  named Pikesville, and the king he went ashore, and
told us all to stay  hid whilst he went up to town and smelt around
to see if anybody had  got any wind of the Royal Nonesuch there
yet. ("House to rob, you  mean," says I to myself; "and when you
get through robbing it you'll  come back here and wonder what's
become of me and Jim and the raft-  and you'll have to take it out
in wondering.") And he said if he  warn't back by midday, the duke
and me would know it was all right,  and we was to come along.
    So we staid where 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 abrewing, sure. I was
good and glad when midday  come and no king; we could have a
change, anyway- and maybe a chance  for the change, on top of it.
So me and the duke went up to the  village, and hunted around there
for the king, and by-and-by we  found him in the back room of a
little low doggery, very tight, and  a lot of loafers bullyragging
him for sport, and he a cussing and  threatening with all his
might, and so tight he couldn't walk, and couldn't do nothing to
them. The duke he 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!"
(31 - 5})
    But there warn't no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam.
Jim  was gone! I set up a shout- 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's place, two miles 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."
(31 - 10})
    "Well," he says, "you needn't be afeard no more, becuz they've
got  him. He run f'm down South, som'ers."
    "It's a good job they got him."
    "Well, I reckon! There two hundred 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."
(31 - 15})
    "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-siree-bob, they ain't no  trouble 'bout that speculation, you
bet you. Say, gimme a chaw  tobacker, won't ye?"
    I didn't have none, so he left. I went to the raft, and set
down  in the wigwam to think. But I couldn't come to nothing. I
thought till  I wore my head sore, but I couldn't see no way out of
the trouble.  After all this long journey, and after all we'd done
for them  scoundrels, here was it all come to nothing, everything
all busted  up and ruined, because they could have the heart to
serve Jim such a  trick as that, and make him a slave again all his
life, and amongst  strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars.
    Once I said to myself it would be a thousand times better for
Jim to  be a slave at home where his family was, as long as he's
got to be a  slave, and so I'd better write a letter to Tom Sawyer
and tell him  to tell Miss Watson where he was. But I soon give up
that notion,  for two things: she'd be mad and disgusted at his
rascality and  ungratefulness for leaving her, and so she'd sell
him straight down  the river again; and if she didn't, everybody
naturally despises an  ungrateful nigger, and they'd make Jim feel
it all the time, and so he'd feel ornery and disgraced. And then
think of me! It would get all  around, that Huck Finn helped a
nigger to get his freedom; and if I  was to ever see anybody from
that town again, I'd be ready to get down  and lick his boots for
shame. That's just the way: a person does a  low-down thing, and
then he don't want to take no consequences of  it. Thinks as long
as he can hide it, it ain't no disgrace. That was  my fix exactly.
The more I studied about this, the more my  conscience went to
grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and  ornery I got to
feeling. And at last, when it hit me all of a sudden  that here was
the plain hand of Providence slapping me in the face and  letting
me know my wickedness was being watched all the time from up  there
in heaven, whilst I was stealing a poor old woman's nigger  that
hadn't ever done me no harm, and now was showing me there's One
that's always on the lookout, and ain't agoing to allow no such
miserable doings to go only just so fur and no further, I most
dropped  in my tracks I was so scared. Well, I tried the best I
could to kinder  soften it up somehow for myself, by saying I was
brung up wicked,  and so I warn't so much to blame; but something
inside of me kept  saying, "There was the Sunday school, you could
a gone to it; and if  you'd a done it they'd a learnt you, there,
that people that acts as I'd been acting about that nigger goes to
everlasting fire."
    It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray; and see
if I  couldn't try to quit being the kind of a boy I was, and be
better.  So I kneeled down. But the words wouldn't come. Why
wouldn't they?  It warn't no use to try and hide it from Him. Nor
from me, neither.  I 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.
(31 - 20})
    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 agin in
the swamp, up there where the feud was; and  such-like times; and
would always call me honey, and pet me, and do  everything he could
think of for me, and how good he always was; and  at last I struck
the time I saved him by telling the men we had  smallpox aboard,
and he was so grateful, and said I was the best  friend old Jim
ever had in the world, and the only one he's got now;  and then I
happened to look around, and see that paper.
(31 - 25})
    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
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, 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 the other time. They  had
the cheek, them frauds! I was right on him, before I could  shirk.
He looked astonished and says:
(31 - 30})
    "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 agoing to ask your grace."
    Then he didn't look so joyful- and says:
    "What was your idea for asking me?" he says.
(31 - 35})
    "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, the man left me aholt of the
rope and went behind him  to shove him along, he was too strong for
me, and jerked loose and  run, and we after him. We didn't have no
dog, and so we had to chase him all over the country till we tired
him out. We never got him  till dark, then we fetched him over, and
I started down for the  raft. When I got there and see it was gone,
I says to myself, 'they've  got into trouble and had to leave; and
they've took my nigger, which  is the only nigger I've got in the
world, and now I'm in a strange  country, and ain't got no property
no more, nor nothing, and no way to  make my living'; so I set down
and cried. I slept in the woods all  night. But what did become of
the raft then?- and Jim, poor Jim!"
    "Blamed if I know- that is, what's become of the raft. That old
fool  had made a trade and got forty dollars, and when we found him
in the  doggery the loafers had matched half dollars with him and
got every  cent but what he'd spent for whisky; and when I got him
home late last  night and found the raft gone, we said, 'That
little rascal has  stole our raft and shook us, and run off down
the river.'"
      "I wouldn't shake my nigger, would I?- the only nigger I had
in  the world, and the only property."
    "We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we'd come to
consider  him our nigger; yes, we did consider him so- goodness
knows we had  trouble enough for him. So when we see the raft was
gone, and we  flat broke, there warn't anything for it but to try
the Royal Nonesuch another shake. And I've pegged along ever since,
dry as a  powderhorn. Where's that ten cents? Give it here."
    I had considerable money, so I give him ten cents, but begged
him to  spend it for something to eat, and give me some, because it
was all  the money I had, and I hadn't had nothing to eat since
yesterday.  The next minute he whirls on me and says:
(31 - 40})
    "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-"
(31 - 45})
    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:
(31 - 50})
    "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 agin, I reckoned he was changing
his mind.  And so he was. He wouldn't trust me; he wanted to make
sure of  having me out of the way the whole three days. So pretty
soon he says:
  "The man that bought him is named Abram Foster- Abram G. Foster-
and  he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to
Lafayette."
    "All right," I says, "I can walk it in three days. And I'll
start  this very afternoon."
    "No, you won't, you'll start now; and don't 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 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."
(31 - 55})
    So I left, and struck for the back country. I didn't look
around,  but I kinder felt like he was watching me. But I knowed I
could tire  him out at that. I went straight out in the country as
much as a mile,  before I stopped; then I doubled back through the
woods towards  Phelps's. I reckoned I better start in on my plan
straight off,  without fooling around, because I wanted to stop
Jim's mouth till  these fellows could get away. I didn't want no
kind. I'd seen all I wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely
shut of them.
(31 - 56})

CHAPTER 32

When I got there it was all still and Sunday-like, and hot and
sunshiny- the hands was gone to the fields; and there was them kind
of  faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem
so  lonesome and like everybody's dead and gone; and if a breeze
fans  along and quivers the leaves, it makes you feel mournful,
because  you feel like it's spirits whispering-spirits that's been
dead ever so  many years- and you always think they're talking
about you. As a  general thing it makes a body wish he was dead,
too, and done with  it all.
    Phelps's was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations;
and  they all look alike. A rail fence round a two-acre yard; a
stile, made  out of logs sawed off and up-ended, in steps, like
barrels of a  different length, to climb over the fence with, and
for the women to  stand on when they are going to jump onto a
horse; some sickly grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was
bare and smooth, like  an old hat with the nap rubbed off; big
double log house for the white  folks- hewed logs, with the chinks
stopped up with mud or mortar,  and these mud-stripes been
whitewashed some time or another; round-log  kitchen, with a big
broad, open but roofed passage joining it to the  house; log
smoke-house back of the kitchen; three little log  nigger-cabins in
a row t'other side the smokehouse; one little hut all  by itself
away down against the back fence, and some outbuildings down  a
piece the other side; ash-hopper, and big kettle to bile soap in,
by  the little hut; bench by the kitchen door, with bucket of water
and  a gourd; hound asleep there, in the sun; more hounds asleep,
round  about; about three shade-trees away off in a corner; some
currant  bushes and gooseberry bushes in one place by the fence;
outside of the  fence a garden and a water-melon patch; then the
cotton fields begins;  and after the fields, the woods.
    I went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper,
and  started for the kitchen. When I got a little ways, I heard the
dim hum  of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along
down again; and  then I 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 pow-wow as they made! In a quarter of a
minute I  was a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may say- spokes
made out of  dogs- circle of fifteen of them packed together around
me, with  their necks and noses stretched up towards me, a barking
and  howling; and more a coming; you could see them sailing over
fences and  around corners from everywheres.
(32 - 5})
    A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a
rolling-pin in  her hand, singing out, "Begone! you Tige! you Spot!
begone, sah!"  and she fetched first one and then another of them
a clip and sent him  howling, and then the rest followed; and the
next second, half of them  come back, wagging their tails around me
and making friends with me.  There ain't no harm in a hound, nohow.
  And behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little
nigger boys, without anything on but tow-linen shirts, and they
hung  onto their mother's gown, and peeped out from behind her at
me,  bashful, the way they always do. And here comes the white
woman  running from the house, about forty-five or fifty year old,
bareheaded, and her spinningstick 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."
(32 - 10})
    But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their
mouths, and hid behind her. So she run on:
    "Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast, right away- or did
you get your breakfast on the boat?"
    I said I had got it on the boat. So then she started for the
house, leading me by the hand, and the children tagging after. When
we  got there, she set me down in a split-bottomed chair, and set
herself down on a little low stool in front of me, holding both of
my hands, and says:
    "Now I can have a good look at you: and laws-a-me, I've been
hungry for it a many and a many a time, all these long years, and
it's  come at last! We been expecting you a couple of days and
more.  What's kep' you?- boat get aground?"
    "Don't say yes'm- say Aunt Sally. Where'd she get aground?"
(32 - 15})
    I didn't rightly know what to say, because I didn't know
whether the  boat would be coming up the river or down. But I go a
good deal on  instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming
up- from down  towards Orleans. That didn't help me much, though;
for I didn't know  the names of bars down that way. I see I'd got
to invent a bar, or  forget the name of the one we got aground on-
or- Now I struck an  idea, and fetched it out:
    "It warn't the grounding- that didn't keep us back but a
little.  We blowed out a cylinder-head."
    "Good gracious! anybody hurt?"
    "No'm. Killed a nigger."
    "Well, it's lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. Two
years  ago last Christmas, your uncle Silas was coming up from
Newrleans on  the old Lally Rook, and she blowed out a
cylinder-head and crippled  a man. And I think he died afterwards.
He was a Babtist. Your uncle  Silas 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-"
(32 - 20})
    "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.
(32 - 25})
    "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:
(32 - 30})
    "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.
(32 - 35})
    "Good-ness gracious!" she says, "what in the world can have
become of him?"
    "I can't imagine," says the old gentleman; "and I must say, it
makes  me dreadful uneasy."
    "Uneasy!" she says, "I'm ready to go distracted! He must a
come; and  you've missed him along the road. I know it's so-
something tells me  so."
    "Why Sally, I couldn't miss him along the road- you know that."
    "But oh, dear, dear, what will Sis say! He must a come! You
must a  missed him. He-"
(32 - 40})
    "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 gave
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?"
(32 - 45})
    "I haint no idea. Who is it?"
    "It's Tom Sawyer!"
    By jings, I most slumped through the floor. But there warn't no
time  to swap knives; the old man grabbed me by the hand and shook,
and kept  on shaking; and all the time, how the woman did dance
around and laugh  and cry; and then how they both did fire off
questions about Sid,  and Mary, and the rest of the tribe.
    But if they was joyful, it warn't nothing to what I was; for it
was like being born again, I was so glad to find out who I was.
Well, they froze to me for two hours; and at last when my chin was
so tired it couldn't hardly go, any more, I had told them more
about  my family- I mean the Sawyer family- than ever happened to
any six  Sawyer families. And I explained all about how we blowed
out a  cylinder-head at the mouth of White River and it took us
three days to fix it. Which was all right, and worked first rate;
because they  didn't know but what it would take three days to fix
it. If I'd a  called it a bolt-head it would a done just as well.
    Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and
pretty  uncomfortable all up the other. Being Tom Sawyer was easy
and  comfortable; and it stayed easy and comfortable till by-and-by
I  hear a steamboat coughing along down the river- then I says to
myself,  spose Tom Sawyer come down on that boat?- and spose he
steps in  here, any minute, and sings out my name before I can
throw him a  wink to keep quiet? Well, I couldn't have it that way-
it wouldn't  do at all. I must go up the road and waylay him. So I
told the folks I  reckoned I would go up to the town and fetch down
my baggage. The  old gentleman was for going along with me, but I
said no, I could  drive the horse myself, and I druther he wouldn't
take no trouble  about me.
(32 - 50})

CHAPTER 33

So I started for town, in the wagon, and when I was half-way I see
a wagon coming, and sure enough it was Tom Sawyer, and I stopped
and  waited till he come along. I says "Hold on!" and it stopped
alongside,  and his mouth opened up like a trunk, and staid so; and
he swallowed  two or three times like a person that's got a dry
throat, and then  says:
    "I hain't ever done you no harm. You know that. So then, what
you  want to come back and ha'nt me for?"
    I says:
    "I hain't come back- I hain't been gone."
    When he heard my voice, it righted him up some, but he warn't
quite satisfied yet. He says:
(33 - 5})
    "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:
(33 - 10})
    "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-"
(33 - 15})
    He stopped and went to studying. I says:
   "I know what you'll say. You'll say it's dirty low-down
business;  but what if it is?- I'm low down; and I'm agoing to
steal him, and I  want you to keep mum and not let on. Will you?"
    His eye lit up, and he says:
    "I'll help you steal him!"
    Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It was the most
astonishing speech I ever heard- and I'm bound to say Tom Sawyer
fell,  considerable, in my estimation. Only I couldn't believe it.
Tom Sawyer  a nigger stealer!
(33 - 20})
    "Oh, shucks," I says, "you're joking."
    "I ain't joking, either."
    "Well, then," I says, "joking or no joking, if you hear
anything  said about a runaway nigger, don't forget to remember
that you don't  know nothing about him, and I don't know nothing
about him."
    Then we took the trunk and put it in my wagon and he drove off
his  way, and I drove mine. But of course I forgot all about
driving slow, on accounts of being glad and full of thinking; so I
got home  a heap too quick for that length of a trip. The old
gentleman was at  the door, and he says:
    "Why, this is wonderful. Who ever would a thought it was in
that  mare to do it. I wish we'd a timed her. And she hain't
sweated a hair-  not a hair. It's wonderful. Why, I wouldn't take
a 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."
(33 - 25})
    That's all he said. He was the innocentest, best old soul I
ever  see. But it warn't surprising; because he warn't only just a
farmer,  he was a preacher, too, and had a little one-horse log
church down  back of the plantation, which he built it himself at
his own  expense, for a church and school-house, and never charged
nothing  for his preaching, and it was worth it, too. There was
plenty other  farmer-preachers like that, and done the same way,
down South.
    In about half an hour Tom's wagon drove up to the front stile,
and  Aunt Sally she see it through the window because it was only
about  fifty yards, and says:
    "Why, there's somebody come! I wonder who 'tis? Why, I do
believe it's a stranger. Jimmy" (that's one of the children), "run
and tell  Lize to put on another plate for dinner."
    Everybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course,
a  stranger don't come every year, and so he lays over the yaller
fever, for interest, when he does come. Tom was over the stile and
starting for the house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the
village, and we was all bunched in the front door. Tom had his
store  clothes on, and an audience- and that was always nuts for
Tom  Sawyer. In them circumstances it warn't no trouble to him to
throw  in an amount of style that was suitable. He warn't a boy to
meeky  along up that yard like a sheep; no, he come ca'm and
important,  like the ram. When he got afront of us, he lifts his
hat ever so  gracious and dainty, like it was the lid of a box that
had butterflies  asleep in it and he didn't want to disturb them,
and says:
    "Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?"
(33 - 30})
    "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."
(33 - 35})
    "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 was getting
a little  nervous, 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:
(33 - 40})
    "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?"
(33 - 45})
    "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."
(33 - 50})
    He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says:
  "I'm sorry, and I warn't expecting it. They told me to. They all
told me to. They all said kiss her; and said she'll like it. They
all said it- every one of them. But I'm sorry, m'am, and I won't do
it  no more- I won't honest."
    "You won't, won't you? Well, I sh'd reckon you won't!"
    "No'm, I'm honest about it; I won't ever do it again. Till you
ask  me."
    "Till I ask you! Well, I never see the beat of it in my born
days! I  lay you'll be the Methusalem-numskull of creation before
ever I ask  you- or the likes of you."
(33 - 55})
    "Well," he says, "it does surprise me so. I can't make it out,
somehow. They said you would, and I thought you would. But-" He
stopped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across
a  friendly eye, somewhere's; and fetched up on the old
gentleman's,  and says, "Didn't you think she'd like me to kiss
her, sir?"
    "Why, no, I- I- well, no, I b'lieve I didn't."
    Then he looks on around, the same way, to me- and says:
    "Tom, didn't you think Aunt Sally'd open out her arms and say,
'Sid Sawyer-'"
    "My land!" she says, breaking in and jumping for him, "you
impudent young rascal, to fool a body so-" and was going to hug
him,  but he fended her off, and says:
(33 - 60})
    "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."
(33 - 65})
    We had dinner out in that broad open passage betwixt the house
and  the kitchen; and there was things enough on that table for
seven  families- and all hot, too; none of your flabby tough meat
that's laid  in a cupboard in a damp cellar all night and tastes
like a hunk of old  cold cannibal in the morning. Uncle Silas he
asked a pretty long  blessing over it, but it was worth it; and it
didn't cool it a bit,  neither, the way I've seen them kind of
interruptions do, lots of  times.
    There was a considerable good deal of talk, all the afternoon,
and  me and Tom was on the lookout all the time, but it warn't no
use, they  didn't happen to say nothing about any runaway nigger,
and we was  afraid to try to work up to it. But at supper, at
night, one of the  little boys says:
    "Pa, mayn't Tom and Sid and me go to the show?"
    "No," says the old man, "I reckon there ain't going to be any;
and  you couldn't go if there was; because the runaway nigger told
Burton  and me all about that scandalous show, and Burton said he
would tell  the people; so I reckon they've drove the owdacious
loafers out of  town before this time."
    So there it was!- but I couldn't help it. Tom and me was to
sleep in  the same room and bed; so, being tired, we bid goodnight
and went up  to bed, right after supper, and clumb out of the
window and down the  lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for I
didn't believe anybody  was going to give the king and the duke a
hint, and so, if I didn't  hurry up and give them one they'd get
into trouble sure.
(33 - 70})
    On the road Tom he told me all about how it was reckoned I was
murdered, and how pap disappeared, pretty soon, and didn't come
back no more, and what a stir there was when Jim run away; and I
told Tom  all about our Royal Nonesuch rapscallions, and as much of
the  raft-voyage as I had time to; and as we struck into the town
and up  through the middle of it- it was as much as half-after
eight, then-  here comes a raging rush of people, with torches, and
an awful  whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blowing
horns; and we  jumped to one side to let them go by; and as they
went by, I see  they had the king and the duke astraddle of a rail-
that is, I  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.
(33 - 73})

CHAPTER 34

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?"
    "What did you think the vittles was for?"
(34 - 5})
    "For a dog."
    "So'd I. Well, it wasn't for a dog."
    "Because part of it was watermelon."
    "So it was- I noticed it. Well, it does beat all, that I never
thought about a dog not eating watermelon. It shows how a body can
see  and don't see at the same time."
    "Well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he went in, and he
locked it again when he come out. He fetched uncle a key, about the
time we got up from table- same key, I bet. Watermelon shows man,
lock  shows prisoner; and it ain't likely there's two prisoners on
such a  little plantation, and where the people's all so kind and
good.  Jim's the prisoner. All right- I'm glad we found it out
detective  fashion; I wouldn't give shucks for any other way. Now
you work your  mind and study out a plan to steal Jim, and I will
study out one, too;  and we'll take the one we like the best."
(34 - 10})
    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?"
(34 - 15})
    "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?"
(34 - 20})
    "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.
(34 - 25})
    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?"
(34 - 30})
    "That's more like," he says. "It's real mysterious, and
troublesome,  and good," he says; "but I bet we can find a way
that's twice as long.  There ain't no hurry; le's keep on looking
around."
    Betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to,
that  joined the hut at the eaves, and was made out of plank. It
was as long  as the hut, but narrow- only about six foot wide. The
door to it was  at the south end, and was padlocked. Tom he went to
the soap kettle,  and searched around and fetched back the iron
thing they lift the lid with; so he took it and prized out one of
the staples. The chain  fell down, and we opened the door and went
in, and shut it, and struck  a match, and see the shed was only
built against the cabin and  hadn't no connection with it; and
there warn't no floor to the shed,  nor nothing in it but some
rusty played-out hoes, and spades, and  packs, 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.
(34 - 35})
    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 going to do. So Tom says:
    "What's the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?"
    The nigger kind of smiled around graduly over his face, like
when  you heave a brickbat in a mud puddle, and he says:
    "Yes, Mars Sid, a dog. Cur'us dog, too. Does you want to go en
look at 'im?"
    "Yes."
(34 - 40})
    I hunched Tom, and whispers:
    "You going, right here in the day-break? That warn't the plan."
    "No, it warn't- but it's the plan now."
    So, drat him, we went along, but I didn't like it much. When we
got in, we couldn't hardly see anything, it was so dark; but Jim
was  there, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out:
    "Why, Huck! En good lan'! ain'dat Misto Tom?"
(34 - 45})
    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, dish-yer runaway nigger."
(34 - 50})
    "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 c'am, and
says, "Did  you hear anybody sing out?"
    Of course there warn't nothing to be said but the one thing; so
I  says:
(34 - 55})
    "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?"
(34 - 60})
    "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't fine no  way to git around it dis time. But it's awluz
jis' so; people dat's  sot, stays sot; dey won't look into nothin'
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:
(34 - 65})
    "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.
(34 - 68})

CHAPTER 35

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 get 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 punkinheaded 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."
(35 - 5})
    "Well, if that ain't just like you, Huck Finn. You can get up
the  infant-schooliest ways of going at a thing. Why, hain't you
ever  read any books at all?- Baron Trenck, nor Casanova, nor
Benvenuto  Chelleeny, nor Henri IV., nor none of them heroes?
Whoever heard of  getting a prisoner loose in such an old-maidy way
as that? No; the way  all the best authorities does, is to saw the
bed-leg in two, and leave  it just so, and swallow the sawdust, so
it can't be found, and put  some dirt and grease around the sawed
place so the very keenest  seneskal can't see no sign of its being
sawed, and thinks the  bed-leg is perfectly sound. Then, the night
you're ready, fetch the  leg a kick, down she goes; slip off your
chain, and there you are.  Nothing to do but hitch your rope-ladder
to the battlements, shin down  it, break your leg in the moat-
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."
(35 - 10})
    "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  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."
(35 - 15})
    "He has got use for it. How you talk, you better say; you don't
know  nothing about it. He's got to have a rope ladder; they all
do."
    "What in the nation can he do with it?"
    "Do with it? He can hide it in his bed, can't he? That's what
they  all do; and he's got to, too. Huck, you don't ever seem to
want to  do anything that's regular; you want to be starting
something fresh  all the time. Spose he don't do nothing with it?
ain't it there in his  bed, for a clew, after he's gone? and don't
you reckon they'll want  clews? Of course they will. And you
wouldn't leave them any? That  would be a pretty howdy- do,
wouldn't it! I never heard of such a  thing."
    "Well," I says, "if it's in the regulations, and he's got to
have  it, all right, let him have it; because I don't wish to go
back on  no regulations; but there's one thing, Tom Sawyer- if we
go to tearing  up our sheets to make Jim a rope-ladder, we're going
to get into  trouble with Aunt Sally, just as sure as you're born.
Now, the way I look at it, a hickry-bark ladder don't cost nothing,
and don't waste  nothing, and is just as good to load up a pie
with, and hide in a  straw tick, as any rag ladder you can start;
and as for Jim, he  ain't had no experience, and so he don't care
what kind of a-"
    "Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant as you, I'd keep
still-  that's what I'd do. Who ever heard of a state prisoner
escaping by a  hickry-bark ladder? Why, it's perfectly ridiculous."
(35 - 20})
    "Well, all right, Tom, fix it your own way; but if you'll take
my  advice, you'll let me borrow a sheet off of the clothes-line."
    He said that would do. And that give him another idea, and he
says:
    "Borrow a shirt, too."
    "What do we want of a shirt, Tom?"
    "Want it for Jim to keep a journal on."
(35 - 25})
    "Journal your granny- Jim can't write."
    "Spose he can't write- he can make marks on the shirt, can't
he,  if we make him a pen out of an old pewter spoon or a piece of
an old  iron barrel-hoop?"
    "Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him a
better one; and quicker, too."
    "Prisoners don't have geese running around the donjon-keep to
pull  pens out of, you muggins. They always make their pens out of
the  hardest, toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass
candlestick or  something like that they can get their hands on;
and it takes them  weeks and weeks, and months and months to file
it out, too, because  they've got to do it by rubbing it on the
wall. They wouldn't use a  goosequill if they had it. It ain't
regular."
    "Well, then, what'll we make him the ink out of?"
(35 - 30})
    "Many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but that's the
common  sort and women; the best authorities uses their own blood.
Jim can  do that; and when he wants to send any little common
ordinary  mysterious message to let the world know where he's
captivated, he can  write it on the bottom of a tin plate with a
fork and throw it out  of the window. The Iron Mask always done
that, and it's a blame'  good way, too."
    "Jim ain't got no tin plates. They feed him in a pan."
    "That ain't anything; we can get him some."
    "Can't nobody read his plates."
    "That ain't got nothing to do with it, Huck Finn. All he's got
to do  is to write on the plate and throw it out. You don't have to
be able  to read it. Why, half the time you can't read anything a
prisoner  writes on a plate, or anywhere else."
(35 - 35})
    "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.
(35 - 40})
    Along during that morning I borrowed a sheet and a white shirt
off  of the clothes-line; and I found an old sack and put them in
it, and  we went down and got the fox-fire, and put that in too. I
called it  borrowing, because that was what pap always called it;
but Tom said it  warn't borrowing, it was stealing. He said we was
representing  prisoners; and prisoners don't care how they get a
thing so they get  it, and nobody don't blame them for it, either.
It ain't no crime in a  prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get
away with, Tom said; it's his right; and so, as long as we was
representing a prisoner,  we had a perfect right to steal anything
on this place we had the  least use for, to get ourselves out of
prison with. He said if we  warn't prisoners it would be a very
different thing, and nobody but  a mean ornery person would steal
when he warn't a prisoner. So we  allowed we would steal everything
there was that come handy. And yet  he made a mighty fuss, one day,
after that, when I stole a  watermelon out of the nigger patch and
eat it; and he made me go and  give the niggers a dime, without
telling them what it was for. Tom  said that what he meant was, we
could steal anything we needed.  Well, I says, I needed the
watermelon. But he said I didn't need it to  get out of prison
with, there's where the difference was. He said if  I'd a wanted it
to hide a knife in, and smuggle it to Jim to kill  the seneskal
with, it would a been all right. So I let it go at  that, though I
couldn't see no advantage in 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 leanto whilst I stood off a
piece to keep watch. By-and-by he come out, and we went and set
down on  the wood-pile, to talk. He says:
    "Everything's all right, now, except tools; and that's easy
fixed."
    "Tools?" I says. "Tools for what?"
    "Why, to dig with. We ain't going to gnaw him out, are we?"
(35 - 45})
    "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."
(35 - 50})
    "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."
(35 - 55})
    "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 our fellow. But
you're  always a-wandering off on a side issue. Why can't you stick
to the main point?"
(35 - 60})
    "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."
(35 - 65})
    "Smouch three," he says; "we want one to make a saw out of."
    "Tom, if it ain't unregular and irreligious to sejest it," I
says,  "there's an old rusty saw-blade around yonder sticking under
the  weatherboarding behind the smoke-house."
    He looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and says:
    "It ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, Huck. Run along
and  smouch the knives- three of them." So I done it.
(35 - 69})

CHAPTER 36

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 it under it, and when we got through there couldn't nobody
in  the cabin ever know there was any hole there, because Jim's
counterpin  hung down most to the ground, and you'd have to raise
it up and look  under to see the hole. So we dug and dug, with the
caseknives, 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 he was
thinking.  Then he says:
    "It ain't no use, Huck, it ain't agoing to work. If we was
prisoners  it would, because then we'd have as many years as we
wanted, and no  hurry; and we wouldn't get but a few minutes to
dig, every day,  while they was changing watches, and so our hands
wouldn't get  blistered, and we could keep it up right along, year
in and year  out, and do it right, and the way it ought to be done.
But we can't  fool along, we got to rush; we ain't got no time to
spare. If we was  to put in another night this way, we'd have to
knock off for a week to  let our hands get well- couldn't touch a
case-knife with them sooner."
    "Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?"
(36 - 5})
    "I'll tell you. It ain't right, and it ain't moral, and I
wouldn't  like it to get out- but there ain't only just the one
way; we got to  dig him out with the picks, and let on it's
case-knives."
    "Now you're talking!" I says; "your head gets leveler and
leveler  all the time, Tom Sawyer," I says. "Picks is the thing,
moral or no  moral; and as for me, I don't care shucks for the
morality of it,  nohow. When I start in to steal a nigger, or a
watermelon, or a  Sunday-school book, I ain't no ways particular
how it's done so it's  done. What I want is my nigger; or what I
want is my watermelon; or  what I want is my Sunday-school book;
and if a pick's the handiest  thing, that's the thing I'm agoing to
dig that nigger or that  watermelon or that Sunday-school book out
with; and I don't give a  dead rat what the authorities think 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."
(36 - 10})
    I didn't know just what to do- but then I thought. I scratched
around amongst the old tools, and got a pick-ax and give it to him,
and he took it and went to work, and never said a word.
    He was always just that particular. Full of principle.
    So then I got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn
about,  and made the fur fly. We stuck to it about a half an hour,
which was  as long as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of
a hole to show  for it. When I got up stairs, I looked out at the
window and see Tom  doing his level best with the lightning-rod,
but he couldn't come  it, his hands was so sore. At last he says:
    "It ain't no use, it can't be done. What you reckon I better
do?  Can't you think up no way?"
    "Yes," I says, "but I reckon it ain't regular. Come up the
stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod."
(36 - 15})
    So he done it.
    Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in
the  house, for to make some pens for Jim out of, and six tallow
candles;  and I hung around the nigger cabins, and laid for a
chance, and  stole three tin plates. Tom said it wasn't 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.
(36 - 20})
    That night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten,
and  took one of the candles along, and listened under the
window-hole, and heard Jim snoring; so we pitched it in, and it
didn't wake him. Then  we whirled in with the pick and shovel, and
in about two hours and a  half the job was done. We crept in under
Jim's bed and into the cabin,  and pawed around and found the
candle and lit it, and stood over Jim a  while, and found him
looking hearty and healthy, and then we woke  him up gentle and
gradual. He was so glad to see us he most cried; and  called us
honey, and all the pet names he could think of; and was  for having
us hunt up a cold chisel to cut the chain off of his leg  with,
right away, and clearing out without losing any time. But Tom he
showed him how unregular it would be, and set down and told him all
about our plans, and how we could alter them in a minute any time
there was an alarm; and not be the least afraid, because we would
see he got away, sure. So Jim he said it was all right, and we set
there and talked over old times a while, and then Tom asked a lot
of  questions, and when Jim told him Uncle Silas come in every day
or  two to pray with him, and Aunt Sally come in to see if he was
comfortable and had plenty to eat, and both of them was kind as
they  could be, Tom says:
    "Now I know how to fix it. We'll send you some things by them."
    I said, "Don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of the most
jackass ideas I ever struck;" but he never paid no attention to me;
went right on. It was his way when he'd got his plans set.
    So he told Jim how we'd have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie,
and other large things, by Nat, the nigger that fed him, and he
must  be on the lookout, and not be surprised, and not let Nat see
him  open them; and we would put small things in uncle's coat
pockets and  he must steal them out; and we would tie things to
aunt's apron  strings or put them in her apron pocket, if we got a
chance; and  told him what they would be and what they was for. And
told him how to  keep a journal on the shirt with his blood, and
all that. He told  him everything. Jim he couldn't see no sense in
the most of it, but he  allowed we was white folks and 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.
(36 - 25})
    In the morning we went out to the wood-pile and chopped up the
brass  candlestick into handy sizes, and Tom put them and the
pewter spoon in  his pocket. Then we went to the nigger cabins, and
while I got Nat's  notice off, Tom shoved a piece of candlestick
into the middle of a  corn-pone that was in Jim's pan, and we went
along with Nat to see how  it would work, and it just worked noble;
when Jim bit into it most  mashed all his teeth out; and there
warn't ever anything could a  worked better. Tom said so himself.
Jim he never let on but what it  was only just a piece of rock or
something like that that's always  getting into bread, you know;
but after that he never bit into nothing  but what he jabbed his
fork into it in three or four places, first.
    And whilst we was a standing there in the dimmish light, here
comes a couple of the hounds bulging in, from under Jim's bed; and
they kept on piling in till there was eleven of them, and there
warn't  hardly room in there to get your breath. By jings, we
forgot to fasten that lean-to door. The nigger Nat he only just
hollered "witches!"  once, and keeled over onto the floor amongst
the dogs, and begun to  groan like he was dying. Tom jerked the
door open and flung out a slab  of Jim's meat, and the dogs went
for it, and in two seconds he was out  himself and back again and
shut the door, and I 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."
(36 - 30})
    "But my lan', Mars Sid, how's I gwyne to make 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."
(36 - 35})

CHAPTER 37

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 war-whoop,
and Tom he turned kinder  blue around the gills, and it all
amounted to a considerable state  of things for about a quarter of
a minute or as much as that, and I  would a sold out for half price
if there was a bidder. But after  that we was all right again- it
was the sudden surprise of it that  knocked us so kind of cold.
Uncle Silas he says:
    "It's most uncommon curious, I can't understand it. I know
perfectly  well I took it off, because-"
(37 - 5})
    "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'esline
yesterday- I see it there myself. But it's gone- that's the long
and  the short of it, and you'll just have to change to a red
flann'l one  till I can get time to make a new one. And it'll be
the third I've  made in two years; it just keeps a body on the jump
to keep you in  shirts; and whatever you do manage to do with 'm
all, is more'n I can make out. A body'd think you would learn to
take some sort of care  of 'em, at your time of life."
    "I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it oughtn't to
be  altogether my fault, because you know I don't see them nor have
nothing to do with them except when they're on me; and I don't
believe  I've ever lost one of them off of me."
    "Well, it ain't your fault if you haven't, Silas- you'd a done
it if  you could, I reckon. And the shirt ain't all that's gone,
nuther.  Ther's a spoon gone; and that ain't all. There was ten,
and now  there's only nine. The calf got the shirt I reckon, but
the calf never  took the spoon, that's certain."
    "Why, what else is gone, Sally?"
    "Ther's six candles gone- that's what. The rats could a got the
candles, and I reckon they did; I wonder they don't walk off with
the whole place, the way you're always going to stop their holes
and  don't do it; and if they warn't fools they'd sleep in your
hair,  Silas- you'd never find it out; but you can't lay the spoon
on the  rats, and that I know."
(37 - 10})
    "Well, Sally, I'm in fault, and I acknowledge it; I've been
remiss; but I won't let to-morrow go by without stopping up them
holes."
    "Oh, I wouldn't hurry, next year'll do. Matilda Angelina
Araminta  Phelps!"
    Whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out
of the  sugar-bowl without fooling around any. Just then, the
nigger woman  steps onto the passage, and says:
    "Missus, dey's a sheet gone."
    "A sheet gone! Well, for the land's sake!"
(37 - 15})
    "I'll stop up them holes to-day," says Uncle Silas, looking
sorrowful.
    "Oh, do shet up!- spose the rats took the sheet? Where's it
gone,  Lize?"
    "Clah to goodness I hain't no notion, Miss Sally. She wuz on de
clo's-line yistiddy, but she done gone; she ain' dah no mo', now."
    "I reckon the world is coming to an end. I never see the beat
of it,  in all my born days. A shirt, and a sheet, and a spoon, and
six can-"
    "Missus," comes a young yaller wench, "dey's a brass
cannelstick  miss'n."
(37 - 20})
    "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 that
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."
(37 - 25})
    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 ship-shape.
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.
(37 - 30})
    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 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."
(37 - 35})
    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
hurry and bothered both. But Tom says:
    "Why, Aunty, I don't think there's ten."
(37 - 40})
    "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 trembling all over, she
was so  mad. But she counted and counted, till she got that addled
she'd start  to count-in the basket for a spoon, sometimes; and so,
three times  they come out right and three times they come out
wrong. Then she  grabbed up the basket and slammed it across the
house and knocked the cat galley-west; and she said cle'r out and
let her have some  peace, and if we come bothering around her again
betwixt that and  dinner, she'd skin us. So we had the odd spoon;
and dropped it in  her apron pocket whilst she was a giving us our
sailing-orders, and  Jim got it all right, along with her
shingle-nail, before noon. We was  very well satisfied with this
business, and Tom allowed it was worth  twice the trouble it took,
because he said now she couldn't ever count  them spoons twice
alike again to save her life; and wouldn't believe  she'd counted
them right, if she did; and said that after she'd  about counted
her head off, for the next three days, he judged she'd  give it up
and offer to kill anybody that wanted her to ever count  them any
more.
    So we put the sheet back on the line, that night, and stole one
out of her closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it
again, for a couple of days till she didn't know how many sheets
she  had, any more, and said she didn't care, and warn't agoing to
bullyrag  the rest of her soul out about it, and wouldn't count
them again not  to save her life, she druther die first.
(37 - 45})
    So we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the
spoon and the candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and the
mixed-up  counting; and as to the candlestick, it warn't no
consequence, it  would blow over by-and-by.
    But that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie.
We  fixed it up away down in the woods, and cooked it there; and we
got it  done at last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in
one day;  and we had to use up three washpans full of flour, before
we got  through, and we got burnt pretty much all over, in places,
and eyes  put out with the smoke; because, you see, we didn't want
nothing but a  crust, and we couldn't prop it up right, and she
would always cave in.  But of course we thought of the right way at
last; which was to cook  the ladder, too, in the pie. So then we
laid in with Jim, the second  night, and tore up the sheet all in
little strings, and twisted them  together, and long before
daylight we had a lovely rope, that you  could a hung a person
with. We let on it took nine months to make it.
    And in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it
wouldn't go  in the pie. Being made of a whole sheet, that way,
there was rope  enough for forty pies, if we'd a wanted them, and
plenty left over for  soup, or sausage, or anything you choose. We
could a had a whole  dinner.
    But we didn't need it. All we needed was just enough for the
pie,  and so we throwed the rest away. We didn't cook none of the
pies in  the washpan, afraid the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas
he had a  noble brass warming-pan which he thought considerable of,
because it  belonged to one of his ancesters with a long wooden
handle that come  over from England with William the Conqueror in
the Mayflower or one  of them early ships and was hid away up
garret with a lot of other old  pots and things that was valuable,
not on account of being any account  because they warn't, but on
account of them being relicts, you know,  and we snaked her out,
private, and took her down there, but she  failed on the first
pies, because we didn't know how, but she come  up smiling on the
last one. We took and lined her with dough, and  set her in the
coals, and loaded her up with rag-rope, and put on a  dough roof,
and shut down the lid, and put hot embers on top, and  stood off
five foot, with the long handle, cool and comfortable, and  in
fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that was a satisfaction to
look at. But the person that et it would want to fetch a couple of
kags of toothpicks along, for if the rope-ladder wouldn't cramp him
down to business, I don't know nothing what I'm talking about, and
lay  him 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 so 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.
(37 - 50})

CHAPTER 38

Making them pens was a distressid-tough job, and so was the saw;
and  Jim allowed the inscription was going to be the toughest of
all.  That's the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the
wall. But  we had to have it; Tom said we'd got to; there warn't no
case of a  state priosner not scrabbling his inscription to leave
behind, and his  coat of arms.
    "Look at Lady Jane Grey," he says; "look at Gilford Dudley;
look  at old Northumberland! Why, Huck, spose it is considerable
trouble?-  what you going to do?- how you going to get around it?
Jim's got to do  his inscription and coat of arms. They all do."
    Jim says:
    "Why, Mars Tom, I hain't got no coat o' arms; I hain't got
nuffn but  dish-yer 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."
(38 - 5})
    "Well," I says, "Jim's right, anyway, when he says he hain't
got  no coat of arms, because he hain't."
    "I reckon I 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?"
(38 - 10})
    "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."
(38 - 15})
    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.
(38 - 20})
    4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of
bitter  captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of Louis
XIV.
    Tom's voice trembled, whilst he was reading them, and he most
broke down. When he got done, he couldn't no way make up his mind
which one for Jim to scrabble onto the wall, they was all so good;
but  at last he allowed he would let him scrabble them all on. Jim
said  it would take him a year to scrabble such a lot of truck onto
the logs  with a nail, and he didn't know how to make letters,
besides; but  Tom said he would block them out for him, and then he
wouldn't have  nothing to do but just follow the lines. Then pretty
soon he says:    "Come to think, the logs ain't agoing to do; they
don't have log walls in a dungeon: we got to dig the inscriptions
into a rock.  We'll fetch a rock."
    Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would
take him  such a pison long time to dig them into a rock, he
wouldn't ever get  out. But Tom said he would let me help him do
it. Then he took a  look to see how me and Jim was getting along
with the pens. It was  most pesky tedious hard work and slow, and
didn't give my hands no  show to get well of the sores, and we
didn't seem to make no  headway, hardly. So Tom says:
    "I know how to fix it. We got to have a rock for the coat of
arms  and mournful inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with
that same  rock. There's a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill,
and we'll  smouch it, and carve the things on it, and file out the
pens and the  saw on it, too."
(38 - 25})
    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 the  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 make 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."
(38 - 30})
    "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."
(38 - 35})
    "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."
(38 - 40})
    "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 bullheaded
about it.  We can get you some garter-snakes and you can tie some
buttons on  their tails, and let on they're rattlesnakes, and I
reckon that'll  have to do."
(38 - 45})
    "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 trying to sleep, I ever see. No, sah, gimme
g'yarter-snakes,  'f I's got to have 'm, but doan' gimme no rats,
I ain' got no use  f'r um, skasely."
(38 - 50})
   "But Jim, you got to have 'em- they all do. So don't make no
more  fuss about it. Prisoners ain't ever without rats. There ain't
no  instance of it. And they train them, and pet them, and learn
them  tricks, and they get to be as sociable as flies. But you got
to play  music to them. You got anything to play music on?"
    "I ain' got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o' paper, en a
juice-harp; but I reck'n dey wouldn' take no stock in a
juice-harp."
    "Yes they would. They don't care what kind of music 'tis. A
jews-harp's plenty good enough for a rat. All animals likes music-
in a prison they dote on it. Specially, painful music; and you
can't  get no other kind out of a jews-harp. It always interests
them; they  come out to see what's the matter with you. Yes, you're
all right;  you're fixed very well. You want to set on your bed,
nights, before  you go to sleep, and early in the mornings, and
play your jews-harp;  play The Last Link is Broken- that's the
thing that'll scoop a rat,  quicker'n anything else: and when
you've played about two minutes,  you'll see all the rats, and the
snakes, and spiders, and things begin  to feel worried about you,
and come. And they'll just fairly swarm  over you, and have a noble
good time."
    "Yes, dey will, I reck'n, Mars Tom, but what kine er time is
Jim 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 over, and see if there wasn't nothing else;
and pretty soon he says:
(38 - 55})
    "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 tolerable
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' 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."
(38 - 60})
    "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."
(38 - 65})
    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.
(38 - 66})

CHAPTER 39

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 liketo got a
hornet's nest, but we didn't. The family was at home. We didn't
give  it right up, but staid with them as long as we could; because
we  allowed we'd tire them out or they'd got to tire us out, and
they done  it. Then we got allycumpain and rubbed on the places,
and was pretty  near all right again, but couldn't set down
convenient. And so we went  for the snakes, and grabbed a couple of
dozen garters and housesnakes,  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 aholt of one of
them with the tongs. And if she turned  over and found one in bed,
she would scramble out and lift a howl that  you would think the
house was afire. She disturbed the old man so,  that he said he
could most wish there hadn't ever been no snakes  created. Why,
after every last snake had been gone clear out of the  house for as
much as a week, Aunt Sally warn't over it yet; she warn't  near
over it; when she was setting thinking about something, you could
touch her on the back of her neck with a feather and she would jump
right out of her stockings. It was very curious. But Tom said all
women was just so. He said they was made that way; for some reason
or other.
    We got a licking every time one of our snakes come in her way;
and she allowed these lickings warn't nothing to what she would do
if we  ever loaded up the place again with them. I didn't mind the
lickings, because they didn't amount to nothing; but I minded the
trouble we had, to lay in another lot. But we got them laid in, and
all the other things; and you never see a cabin as blithesome as
Jim's  was when they'd all swarm out for music and go for him. Jim
didn't  like the spiders, and the spiders didn't like Jim; and so
they'd lay  for him and make it mighty warm for him. And he said
that between  the rats, and the snakes, and the grindstone, there
warn't no room  in bed for him, skasely; and when there was, a body
couldn't sleep, it  was so lively, and it was always lively, he
said, because they never  all slept at one time, but took turn
about, so when the snakes was  asleep the rats was on deck, and
when the rats turned in the snakes  come on watch, so he always had
one gang under him, in his way, and  t'other gang having a circus
over him, and if he got up to hunt a  new place, the spiders would
take a chance at him as he crossed  over. He said if he ever got
out, this time, he wouldn't ever be a  prisoner again, not for a
salary.
    Well, by the end of three weeks, everything was in pretty good
shape. The shirt was sent in early, in a pie, and every time a rat
bit Jim he would get up and write a little in his journal whilst
the ink  was fresh; the pens was made, the inscriptions and so on
was all  carved on the grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in two,
and we had  et up the sawdust, and it give us a most amazing
stomach-ache. We  reckoned we was all going to die, but didn't. It
was the most  undigestible sawdust I ever see; and Tom said the
same. But as I was  saying, we'd got all the work done, now, at
last; and we was all  pretty much fagged out, too, but mainly Jim.
The old man had wrote a  couple of times to the plantation below
Orleans to come and get  their runaway nigger, but hadn't got no
answer, because there warn't  no such plantation; so he allowed he
would advertise Jim in the St.  Louis and New Orleans papers; and
when he mentioned the St. Louis  ones, it give me the cold shivers,
and I see we hadn't no time to  lose. So Tom said, now for the
nonnamous letters.
    "What's them?" I says.
(39 - 5})
    "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:
(39 - 10})
    "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."
(39 - 15})
    "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?"
(39 - 20})
    "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 Aunt
Sally'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, frinstance. 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:
  -
(39 - 25})
      Beware, Trouble is brewing. Keep a sharp lookout.
                                        UNKNOWN FRIEND
  -
    Next night, we stuck a picture which Tom drawed in blood, of a
skull  and crossbones, on the front door; and next night another
one of a  coffin, on the back door. I never see a family in such a
sweat. They  couldn't a been worse scared if the place had a been
full of ghosts  laying for them behind everything and under the
beds and shivering  through the air. If a door banged, Aunt Sally
she jumped, and said "ouch!" if anything fell, she jumped and said
"ouch!" if you  happened to touch her, when she warn't noticing,
she done the same;  she couldn't face noway and be satisfied,
because she allowed there  was something behind her every time-so
she was always a whirling  around, sudden, and saying "ouch," and
before she'd get two-thirds  around, she'd whirl back again, and
say it again; and she was afraid  to go to bed, but she dasn't set
up. So the thing was working very  well, Tom said; he said he never
see a thing work more satisfactory.  He said it showed it was done
right.
    So he said, now for the grand bulge! So the very next morning
at the  streak of dawn we got another letter ready, and was
wondering what  we better do with it, because we heard them say at
supper they was  going to have a nigger on watch at both doors all
night. Tom he went  down the lightning-rod to spy around; and the
nigger at the back  door was asleep, and he stuck it in the back of
his neck and come  back. This letter said:
(39 - 30})
  -
    Don't betray me, I wish to be your friend. There is a desprate
gang of cutthroats from over in the Ingean Territory going to steal
your runaway nigger to-night, and they have been trying to scare
you  so as you will stay in the house and not bother them. I am one
of  the gang, but have got religgion and wish to quit it and lead
a honest  life again, and will betray the helish design. They will
sneak down  from northards, along the fence, at midnight exact,
with a false  key, and go in the nigger's cabin to get him. I am to
be off a piece  and blow a tin horn if I see any danger; but stead
of that, I will  BA like a sheep soon as they get in and not blow
at all; then whilst  they are getting his chains loose, you slip
there and lock them in,  and can kill them at your leasure. Don't
do anything but just the  way I am telling you, if you do they will
suspicion something and  raise whoopjamboreehoo. I do not wish any
reward but to know I have  done the right thing.
                                    UNKNOWN FRIEND
(39 - 32})

CHAPTER 40

We was feeling pretty good, after breakfast, and took my canoe and
went over the river a fishing, with a lunch, and had a good time,
and took a look at the raft and found her all right, and got home
late  to supper, and found them in such a sweat and worry they
didn't know  which end they was standing on, and made us go right
off to bed the  minute we was done supper, and wouldn't tell us
what the trouble  was, and never let on a word about the new
letter, but didn't need to,  because we knowed as much about it as
anybody did, and as soon as we  was half up stairs and her back was
turned, we slid for the cellar  cubboard and loaded up a good lunch
and took it up to our room and  went to bed, and got up about
half-past eleven, and Tom put on Aunt  Sally's dress that he stole
and was going to start with the lunch, but  says:
    "Where's the butter?"
    "I laid out a hunk of it," I says, "on a piece of corn-pone."
    "Well, you left it laid out, then- it ain't here."
    "We can get along without it," I says.
(40 - 5})
    "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?"
(40 - 10})
    "Noth'n."
    "Noth'n!"
    "No'm."
    "Well, then, what possessed you to go down there, this time of
night?"
    "I don't know'm."
(40 - 15})
    "You don't know? Don't answer me that way, Tom, I want to know
what you been doing down there."
    "I hain't been doing a single thing, Aunt Sally, I hope to
gracious if I have."
    I reckoned she'd let me go, now, and as a generl thing she
would;  but I spose there was so many strange things going on she
was just  in a sweat about every little thing that warn't
yard-stick straight;  so she says, very decided:
    "You just march into that setting-room and stay there till I
come.  You been up to something you no business to, and I lay I'll
find out  what it is before I'm done with you."
    So she went away as I opened the door and walked into the
setting-room. My, but there was a crowd there! Fifteen farmers, and
every one of them had a gun. I was most powerful sick, and slunk to
a chair and set down. They was setting around, some of them talking
a little, in a low voice, and all of them fidgety and uneasy, but
trying to look like they warn't; but I 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.
(40 - 20})
    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 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!"
(40 - 25})
    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."
(40 - 30})
    But then we heard the tramp of men, coming to the door, and
heard  them begin to fumble with the padlock; and heard a man say:
    "I told you we'd be too soon; they haven't come- the door is
locked.  Here, I'll lock some of you into the cabin and you lay for
in the dark  and kill 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 heard 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:
(40 - 35})
    "Here they are! They've broke for the river! after 'em, boys!
And  turn loose the dogs!"
    So here they come, full tilt. We could hear them, because they
wore boots, and yelled, but we didn't wear no boots, and didn't
yell. We was in the path to the mill; and when they got pretty
close onto us, we dodged into the bush and let them go by, and then
dropped in behind them. They'd had all the dogs shut up, so they
wouldn't scare off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let
them  loose, and here they come, making pow-wow enough for a
million; but  they was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till
they 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 as glad as we could be, but Tom was the gladdest of
all, because he had a bullet in the calf of his leg.
(40 - 40})
    When me and Jim heard that, we didn't feel so brash as what we
did  before. It was hurting him considerble, and bleeding; so we
laid him  in the wigwam and tore up one of the duke's shirts for to
bandage him,  but he says:
    "Gimme the rags, I can do it myself. Don't stop, now; don't
fool  around here, and the evasion booming along so handsome; man
the  sweeps, and set her loose! Boys, we done it elegant!- 'deed we
did.  I wish we'd a had the handling of Louis XVI, there wouldn't
a been  no 'Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven!' wrote down in
his  biography: no, sir, we'd a whooped him over the border-that's
what  we'd a done with him- and done it just as slick as nothing at
all,  too. Man the sweeps- man the sweeps!"
    But me and Jim was consulting- and thinking. And after we'd
thought a minute, I says:
    "Say it, Jim."
    So he says:
(40 - 45})
    "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 gwyne to say it? No, sah- I doan'
budge a step out'n dis place,  'dout a doctor; not if it's forty
year!"
    I 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 agoing for
a  doctor. He raised considerble row about it, but me and Jim stuck
to it  and wouldn't budge; so he was for crawling out and setting
the raft  loose himself; but we wouldn't let him. Then he give us
a piece of his  mind- but it didn't do no good.
    So when he see me getting the canoe ready, he says:
    "Well, then, if you're bound to go, I'll tell you the way to
do,  when you get to the village. Shut the door, and blindfold the
doctor  tight and fast, and make him swear to be silent as the
grave, and  put a purse full of gold in his hand, and then take and
lead him all  around the back alleys and everywheres, in the dark,
and then fetch  him here in the canoe, in a roundabout way amongst
the islands, and search him and take his chalk away from him, and
don't give it back to  him till you get him back to the village, or
else he will chalk this  raft so he can find it again. It's the way
they all do."
    So I said I would, and left, and Jim was to hide in the woods
when  he see the doctor coming, till he was gone again.
(40 - 50})

CHAPTER 41

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."
(41 - 5})
    "Singular dream," he says.
    So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we
started.  But when he see the canoe, he didn't like the look of
her- said she  was big enough for one, but didn't look pretty safe
for two. I says:
    "Oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us,
easy  enough."
    "What three?"
    "Why me and Sid, and- and- the guns; that's what I mean."
(41 - 10})
    "Oh," he says.
    But he put his foot on the gunnel, and rocked her; and shook
his  head, and said he reckoned he'd look around for a bigger one.
But they  was all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said
for me to  wait till he come back, or I could hunt around further,
or maybe I  better go down home and get them ready for the
surprise, if I wanted  to. But I said I didn't; so I told him just
how to find the raft,  and then he started.
    I struck an idea, pretty soon. I says to myself, spos'n he
can't fix  that leg just in three shakes of a sheep's tail, as the
saying is?  spos'n it takes him three or four days? What are we
going to do?-  lay around there till he lets the cat out of the
bag? No, sir, I  know what I'll do. I'll wait, and when he comes
back, if he says  he's got to go any more, I'll get down there,
too, if I swim; and  we'll take and tie him, and keep him, and
shove out down the river;  and when Tom's done with him, we'll give
him what it's worth, or all  we got, and then let him get shore.
    So then I crept into a lumber pile to get some sleep; and next
time I waked up the sun was away up over my head! I shot out and
went for the doctor's house, but they told me he'd gone away in the
night, some time or other, and warn't back yet. Well, thinks I,
that  looks powerful bad for Tom, and I'll dig out for the island,
right  off. So away I shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly
rammed my  head into Uncle Silas's stomach! He says:
    "Why, Tom! Where you been, all this time, you rascal?"
(41 - 15})
    "I hain't been nowheres," I says, "only just hunting for the
runaway  nigger- me and Sid."
    "Why, where ever did you go?" he says. "Your aunt's been mighty
uneasy."
    "She needn't," I says, "because we was all right. We followed
the  men and the dogs, but they out-run us, and we lost them; but
we  thought we heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and took
out  after them, and crossed over but couldn't find nothing of
them; so  we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired and
beat out;  and tied up the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked
up till about  an hour ago, then we paddled over here to hear the
news, and Sid's  at the post-office to see what he can hear, and
I'm a branching out to  get something to eat for us, and then we're
going home."
    So then we went to the post-office to get "Sid"; but just as I
suspicioned, he warn't there; so the old man he got a letter out of
the office, and we waited a while longer but Sid didn't come; so
the  old man said come along, let Sid foot it home, or canoe-it,
when he  got done fooling around- but we would ride. I couldn't get
him to  let me stay and wait for Sid; and he said there warn't no
use in it,  and I must come along, and let Aunt Sally see we was
all right.
    When we got home, Aunt Sally was that glad to see me she
laughed and  cried both, and hugged me, and give me one of them
lickings of hern that don't amount to shucks, and said she'd serve
Sid the same when he  come.
(41 - 20})
    And the place was plumb full of farmers and farmers' wives, to
dinner; and such another clack a body never heard. Old Mrs.
Hotchkiss was the worst; her tongue was agoing all the time. She
says:
    "Well, Sister Phelps, I've ransacked that-air cabin over an' I
b'lieve the nigger was crazy. I says so to Sister Damrell- didn't
I,  Sister Damrell- s'I, he's crazy, s'I- them's the very words I
said.  You all hearn me: he's crazy, s'I; everything shows it, s'I.
Look at  that-air grindstone, s'I; want to tell me't any cretur 'ts
in his  right mind's agoin' to scrabble all them crazy things onto
a  grindstone, s'I? Here 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-"
(41 - 25})
    "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 everything that's
been  done. Look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious
they've  been made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with 'm, a
week's work for  six men; look at that nigger made out'n straw on
the bed; and look  at-"
    "You may well say it, Brer Hightower! It's 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 anybody k'n start a better
one, s'I, let him do  it, s'I, that's all. I says to Sister Dunlap,
s'I-"
    "Why, dog my cats, they must a 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 Africa 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!"
(41 - 30})
    "Well, it does beat-"
    "Laws alive, I never-"
    "So help me, I wouldn't a be-"
    "Goodnessgracioussakes, I'd a ben afeard to live in sich a-"
(41 - 35})
    "'Fraid to live!- why, I was that scared I dasn't hardly go to
bed, or get up, or lay down, or set down, Sister Ridgeway. Why,
they'd  steal the very- why, goodness sakes, you can guess what
kind of a  fluster I was in by the time midnight come, last night.
I hope to  gracious if I warn't afraid they'd steal some o' the
family! I was  just to that pass, I didn't have no reasoning
faculties no more. It  looks foolish enough, now, in the day-time;
but I says to myself,  there's my two poor boys asleep, 'way up
stairs in that lonesome room,  and I declare to goodness I was that
uneasy 't I crep' up there and  locked 'em in! I did. And anybody
would. Because, you know, when you  get scared, that way, and it
keeps running on, and getting worse and  worse, all the time, and
your wits get 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 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.
(41 - 40})
    "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."
(41 - 45})
    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.
(41 - 47})

CHAPTER 42

The old man was up town again, before breakfast, but couldn't get
no  track of Tom; and both of them set at the table, thinking, and
not  saying nothing, and looking mournful, and their coffee getting
cold,  and not eating anything. And by-and-by the old man says:
    "Did I give you the letter?"
    "What letter?"
    "The one I got yesterday out of the post-office."
    "No, you didn't give me no letter."
(42 - 5})
    "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!"
(42 - 10})
    And Tom he turned his head a little, and muttered something or
other, which showed he warn't in his right mind; then she flung up
her  hands, and says:
    "He's alive, thank God! And that's enough!" and she snatched a
kiss of him, and flew for the house to get the bed ready, and
scattering orders right and left at the niggers and everybody else,
as  fast as her tongue could go, every jump of the way.
    I followed the men to see what they was going to do with Jim;
and  the old doctor and Uncle Silas followed after Tom into the
house.  The men was very huffy, and some of them wanted to hang
Jim, for an  example to all the other niggers around there, so they
wouldn't be  trying to run away, like Jim done, and making such a
raft of  trouble, and keeping a whole family scared most to death
for days  and nights. But the others said, don't do it, it wouldn't
answer at  all, he ain't our nigger, and his owner would turn up
and make us  pay for him, sure. So that cooled them down a little,
because the people that's always the most anxious for to hang a
nigger that hain't  done just right, is always the very ones that
ain't the most anxious  to pay for him when they've got their
satisfaction out of him.
    They cussed Jim considerble, though, and give him a cuff or
two,  side the head, once in a while, but Jim never said nothing,
and he  never let on to know me, and they took him to the same
cabin, and  put his own clothes on him, and chained him again, and
not to no  bed-leg, this time, but to a big staple drove into the
bottom log, and  chained his hands, too, and both legs, and said he
warn't to have  nothing but bread and water to eat, after this,
till his owner come or  he was sold at auction, because he didn't
come in a certain length  of time, and filled up our hole, and said
a couple of farmers with  guns must stand watch around about the
cabin every night, and a  bull-dog tied to the door in the
day-time; and about this time they  was through with the job and
was tapering off with a kind of generl  good-bye cussing, and then
the old doctor comes and takes a look,  and says:
    "Don't be no rougher on him than you're 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 anigh 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 till daylight  this morning; and I
never see a nigger that was a better nuss or  faithfuller, and yet
he was resking his freedom to do it, and was  all tired out, too,
and I see plain enough he'd been worked main hard,  lately. I liked
the nigger for that; I tell you, gentlemen, a nigger  like that is
worth a thousand dollars- and kind treatment, too. I  had
everything I needed, and the boy was doing as well there as he
would a done at home- better, maybe, because it was so quiet; but
there I was, with both of 'm on my hands; and there I had to stick,
till about dawn this morning; then some men in a skiff come by, and
as  good luck would have it, the nigger was setting by the pallet
with his  head propped on his knees, sound asleep; so I motioned
them in, quiet,  and they slipped up on him and grabbed him and
tied him before he  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."
(42 - 15})
    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 sickroom all
day and all night; and every time I see Uncle Silas mooning around,
I dodged him.
(42 - 20})
    Next morning I heard Tom was a good deal better, and they said
Aunt Sally was gone to get a nap. So I slips to the sick-room, and
if I found him awake I reckoned we could put up a yarn for the
family that would wash. But he was sleeping, and sleeping very
peaceful, too; and pale, not fire-faced the way he was when he
come.
  So I set down and laid for him to wake. In about a half an hour,
Aunt Sally comes gliding in, and there I was, up a stump again! She
motioned me to be still, and set down by me, and begun to whisper,
and  said we could all be joyful now, because all the symptoms was
first  rate, and he'd been sleeping like that for ever so long, and
looking  better and peacefuller all the time, and ten to one he'd
wake up in  his right mind.
    So we set there watching, and by-and-by he stirs a bit, and
opened  his eyes very natural, and takes a look, and says:
    "Hello, why I'm at home! How's that? Where's the raft?"
    "It's all right," I says.
    "And Jim?"
(42 - 25})
    "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."
(42 - 30})
    "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 lightningrod, and dig
the hole into  the cabin, and make the rope-ladder and send it in
cooked up in a pie, and send in spoons and things to work with, in
your apron pocket-"
    "Mercy sakes!"
(42 - 35})
    -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 our  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.
(42 - 40})
    "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:
(42 - 45})
    "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 neckdeep in blood
to-  goodness alive, Aunt Polly!"
(42 - 50})
    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."
(42 - 55})
    So I done it. But not feeling brash.
    Aunt Sally she was one of the mixed-upest looking persons I
ever  see; except one, and that was Uncle Silas, when he come in,
and they  told it all to him. It kind of made him drunk, as you may
say, and  he didn't know nothing at all the rest of the day, and
preached a  prayer-meeting sermon that night that give him a
rattling  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 trill how I was in such a tight
place  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
'taint 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."
(42 - 60})
    "Why, I never heard nothing from you," says Aunt Sally.
    "Well, I wonder! Why, I wrote to you twice, to ask you what you
could mean by Sid being here."
    "Well, I never got 'em, Sis."
    Aunt Polly, she turns around slow and severe, and says:
    "You, Tom!"
(42 - 65})
    "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-"
(42 - 70})
    "Well, you do need skinning, there ain't no mistake about it.
And  I wrote another one to tell you I was coming; and I spose he-"
    "No, it come yesterday; I hain't read it yet, but it's all
right,  I've got that one."
    I wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn't, but I reckoned
maybe it was just as safe to not to. So I never said nothing.
(42 - 73})

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 reckened it was  about as well the way
it was.
    We had Jim out of the chains in no time, and when Aunt Polly
and  Uncle Silas and Aunt Sally found out how good he helped the
doctor nurse Tom, they made a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him
up  prime, and give him all he wanted to eat, and a good time, and
nothing  to do. And we had him up to the sick-room; and had a high
talk; and  Tom give Jim forty dollars for being prisoner for us so
patient, and  doing it up so good, and Jim was pleased most to
death, and busted  out, and says:
    "Dah, now, Huck, what I tell you?- what I tell you up dah on
Jackson  islan'? I tole you I got a hairy breas', en what's de sign
un it; en I  tole you I ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich
agin; en it's come  true; en heah she is! Dab, 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."
(CHAPTER THE LAST - 5})
    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'."
(CHAPTER THE LAST - 10})
    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't  let you come in? Well, den, you k'n 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 agoing to no more. But I reckon I
got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt
Sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me and I can't stand it.
I been there before.