# LongBench v2 / 66f52d48821e116aacb32cf4

task_id: f0b7bf81-3fcf-514a-9b54-51b5b030a5f8
task_key: train--66f52d48821e116aacb32cf4
task_revision_id: 3

{"choice_A":"He snorted loud and spit on the ground","choice_B":"His attempts to thread a needle were very awkward","choice_C":"He caught a bar of lead in his lap by bringing his knees together","choice_D":"He threw lead at a rat side-armed and with his elbow bent","context":"The Adventures of\nHuckleberry\nFinn\n(Tom Sawyer’s Comrade)\n\n\nNOTICE\nPERSONS attempting to ﬁnd a motive in this narrative will be pros-\necuted; persons attempting to ﬁnd a moral in it will be banished; per-\nsons attempting to ﬁnd a plot in it will be shot.\nBY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR,\nPer G.G., Chief of Ordnance.\n\n\nEXPLANATORY\nIN this book a number of dialects are used, to wit:  the Missouri\nnegro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern\ndialect; the ordinary “Pike County” dialect; and four modiﬁed vari-\neties of this last. The shadings have not been done in a haphazard\nfashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy\nguidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms\nof speech.\nI make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers\nwould suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and\nnot succeeding.\nTHE AUTHOR\n\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n1\nCHAPTER TWO\n5\nCHAPTER THREE\n11\nCHAPTER FOUR\n16\nCHAPTER FIVE\n20\nCHAPTER SIX\n25\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n32\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n39\nCHAPTER NINE\n50\nCHAPTER TEN\n54\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\n58\nCHAPTER TWELVE\n66\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\n73\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN\n79\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN\n84\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN\n90\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n99\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n108\nCHAPTER NINETEEN\n120\nCONTENTS\nv\n\n\nC\nO\nN\nT\nE\nN\nT\nS\nvi\nCHAPTER TWENTY\n129\nCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n138\nCHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n148\nCHAPTER TWENTY-THREE\n154\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR\n160\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE\n166\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SIX\n174\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN\n182\nCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT\n189\nCHAPTER TWENTY-NINE\n198\nCHAPTER THIRTY\n208\nCHAPTER THIRTY-ONE\n212\nCHAPTER THIRTY-TWO\n221\nCHAPTER THIRTY-THREE\n227\nCHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR\n234\nCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE\n240\nCHAPTER THIRTY-SIX\n247\nCHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN\n253\nCHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT\n260\nCHAPTER THIRTY-NINE\n267\nCHAPTER FORTY\n273\nCHAPTER FORTY-ONE\n279\nCHAPTER FORTY-TWO\n286\nTHE CHAPTER LAST\n294\n\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n1\nHUCKLEBERRY FINN\nScene: The Mississippi Valley\nTime: Forty to ﬁfty years ago\nY\nou don’t know about me, without you have read a book by the\nname of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That\nbook was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly.\nThere was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.\nThat is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another,\nwithout it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt\nPolly—Tom’s Aunt Polly, she is—and Mary, and the Widow Douglas\nis all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some\nstretchers, as I said before.\nNow the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found\nthe money that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We\ngot six thousand dollars apiece—all gold. It was an awful sight of\nmoney when it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put\n\n\nit out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year\nround—more than a body could tell what to do with. The Widow\nDouglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me;\nbut it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dis-\nmal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I\ncouldn’t stand it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my\nsugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisﬁed. But Tom Sawyer he\nhunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and\nI might join if I would go back to the widow and be respectable. So\nI went back.\nThe widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and\nshe called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm\nby it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn’t do noth-\ning but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old\nthing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you\nhad to come to time.  When you got to the table you couldn’t go\nright to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her\nhead and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn’t really\nanything the matter with them,—that is, nothing only everything\nwas cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different;\nthings get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the\nthings go better.\nAfter supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and\nthe Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to ﬁnd out all about him; but by\nand by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long\ntime; so then I didn’t care no more about him, because I don’t take\nno stock in dead people.\nPretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But\nshe wouldn’t. She said it was a mean practice and wasn’t clean, and I\nmust try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some people.\nThey get down on a thing when they don’t know nothing about it.\nHere she was a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and\nno use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet ﬁnding a power of fault\nwith me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And she took\nsnuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself.\nHer sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on,\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n2\n\n\nhad just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a\nspelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and\nthen the widow made her ease up. I couldn’t stood it much longer.\nThen for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was ﬁdgety. Miss Watson\nwould say, “Don’t put your feet up there, Huckleberry;” and “Don’t\nscrunch up like that, Huckleberry—set up straight;” and pretty soon\nshe would say, “Don’t gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry—why\ndon’t you try to behave?” Then she told me all about the bad place,\nand I said I wished I was there. She got mad then, but I didn’t mean\nno harm. All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was a\nchange, I warn’t particular. She said it was wicked to say what I said;\nsaid she wouldn’t say it for the whole world; she was going to live so\nas to go to the good place. Well, I couldn’t see no advantage in going\nwhere she was going, so I made up my mind I wouldn’t try for it.  But\nI never said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn’t do\nno good.\nNow she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the\ngood place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go\naround all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn’t\nthink much of it. But I never said so. I asked her if she reckoned Tom\nSawyer would go there, and she said not by a considerable sight. I\nwas glad about that, because I wanted him and me to be together.\nMiss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lone-\nsome. By and by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers, and\nthen everybody was off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of\ncandle, and put it on the table. Then I set down in a chair by the\nwindow and tried to think of something cheerful, but it warn’t no\nuse. I felt so lonesome I most wished I was dead. The stars were shin-\ning, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I\nheard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was\ndead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was\ngoing to die; and the wind was trying to whisper something to me,\nand I couldn’t make out what it was, and so it made the cold shivers\nrun over me. Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a\nsound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something\nthat’s on its mind and can’t make itself understood, and so can’t rest\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n3\n\n\neasy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving. I\ngot so down-hearted and scared I did wish I had some company.\nPretty soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I ﬂipped it\noff and it lit in the candle; and before I could budge it was all shriv-\neled up. I didn’t need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad\nsign and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared and most\nshook the clothes off of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks\nthree times and crossed my breast every time; and then I tied up a lit-\ntle lock of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. But I hadn’t\nno conﬁdence.  You do that when you’ve lost a horseshoe that you’ve\nfound, instead of nailing it up over the door, but I hadn’t ever heard\nanybody say it was any way to keep off bad luck when you’d killed a\nspider.\nI set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a\nsmoke; for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow\nwouldn’t know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock away off in\nthe town go boom—boom—boom—twelve licks; and all still\nagain—stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in the\ndark amongst the trees—something was a stirring. I set still and lis-\ntened.  Directly I could just barely hear a “me-yow! me-yow!” down\nthere. That was good! Says I, “me-yow! me-yow!” as soft as I could,\nand then I put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to\nthe shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in among\nthe trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n4\n\n\nWe went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards\nthe end of the widow’s garden, stooping down so as the branches\nwouldn’t scrape our heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I fell\nover a root and made a noise. We scrouched down and laid still. Miss\nWatson’s big nigger, named Jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we\ncould see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him.  He\ngot up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. Then he\nsays:\n“Who dah?”\nHe listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood\nright between us; we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was\nminutes and minutes that there warn’t a sound, and we all there so\nclose together. There was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but\nI dasn’t scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my back,\nright between my shoulders. Seemed like I’d die if I couldn’t scratch.\nWell, I’ve noticed that thing plenty times since. If you are with the\nquality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain’t\nsleepy—if you are anywheres where it won’t do for you to scratch,\nwhy you will itch all over in upwards of a thousand places. Pretty\nsoon Jim says:\n“Say, who is you?  Whar is you?  Dog my cats ef I didn’ hear sum-\nf’n. Well, I know what I’s gwyne to do: I’s gwyne to set down here\nand listen tell I hears it agin.”\nSo he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom.  He leaned his\nback up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them\nCHAPTER TWO\n5\n\n\nmost touched one of mine.  My nose begun to itch. It itched till the\ntears come into my eyes. But I dasn’t scratch. Then it begun to itch\non the inside. Next I got to itching underneath. I didn’t know how I\nwas going to set still.  This miserableness went on as much as six or\nseven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching\nin eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn’t stand it more’n a\nminute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then\nJim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore—and then I was\npretty soon comfortable again.\nTom he made a sign to me—kind of a little noise with his\nmouth—and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When\nwe was ten foot off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to\nthe tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a distur-\nbance, and then they’d ﬁnd out I warn’t in. Then Tom said he hadn’t\ngot candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some\nmore. I didn’t want him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come.\nBut Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles,\nand Tom laid ﬁve cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I\nwas in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do Tom but he must\ncrawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something\non him. I waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still\nand lonesome.\nAs soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden\nfence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other\nside of the house.  Tom said he slipped Jim’s hat off of his head and\nhung it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he did-\nn’t wake. Afterwards Jim said the witches bewitched him and put him\nin a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him under\nthe trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And\nnext time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans;\nand, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till\nby and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him\nmost to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. Jim was mon-\nstrous proud about it, and he got so he wouldn’t hardly notice the\nother niggers. Niggers would come miles to hear Jim tell about it,\nand he was more looked up to than any nigger in that country.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n6\n\n\nStrange niggers would stand with their mouths open and look him all\nover, same as if he was a wonder.  Niggers is always talking about\nwitches in the dark by the kitchen ﬁre; but whenever one was talking\nand letting on to know all about such things, Jim would happen in\nand say, “Hm! What you know ‘bout witches?” and that nigger was\ncorked up and had to take a back seat. Jim always kept that ﬁve-cen-\nter piece round his neck with a string, and said it was a charm the\ndevil give to him with his own hands, and told him he could cure\nanybody with it and fetch witches whenever he wanted to just by say-\ning something to it; but he never told what it was he said to it.\nNiggers would come from all around there and give Jim anything\nthey had, just for a sight of that ﬁve-center piece; but they wouldn’t\ntouch it, because the devil had had his hands on it. Jim was most\nruined for a servant, because he got stuck up on account of having\nseen the devil and been rode by witches.\nWell, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hill-top we looked\naway down into the village and could see three or four lights twin-\nkling, where there was sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was\nsparkling ever so ﬁne; and down by the village was the river, a whole\nmile broad, and awful still and grand. We went down the hill and\nfound Jo Harper and Ben Rogers, and two or three more of the boys,\nhid in the old tanyard.  So we unhitched a skiff and pulled down the\nriver two mile and a half, to the big scar on the hillside, and went\nashore.\nWe went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made everybody swear to\nkeep the secret, and then showed them a hole in the hill, right in the\nthickest part of the bushes. Then we lit the candles, and crawled in\non our hands and knees. We went about two hundred yards, and\nthen the cave opened up. Tom poked about amongst the passages,\nand pretty soon ducked under a wall where you wouldn’t a noticed\nthat there was a hole. We went along a narrow place and got into a\nkind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold, and there we stopped.\nTom says:\n“Now, we’ll start this band of robbers and call it Tom Sawyer’s\nGang. Everybody that wants to join has got to take an oath, and\nwrite his name in blood.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n7\n\n\nEverybody was willing. So Tom got out a sheet of paper that he\nhad wrote the oath on, and read it. It swore every boy to stick to the\nband, and never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody done any-\nthing to any boy in the band, whichever boy was ordered to kill that\nperson and his family must do it, and he mustn’t eat and he mustn’t\nsleep till he had killed them and hacked a cross in their breasts,\nwhich was the sign of the band. And nobody that didn’t belong to\nthe band could use that mark, and if he did he must be sued; and if\nhe done it again he must be killed. And if anybody that belonged to\nthe band told the secrets, he must have his throat cut, and then have\nhis carcass burnt up and the ashes scattered all around, and his name\nblotted off of the list with blood and never mentioned again by the\ngang, but have a curse put on it and be forgot forever.\nEverybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and asked Tom if he got it\nout of his own head. He said, some of it, but the rest was out of pirate-\nbooks and robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned had it.\nSome thought it would be good to kill the families of boys that told\nthe secrets. Tom said it was a good idea, so he took a pencil and\nwrote it in. Then Ben Rogers says:\n“Here’s Huck Finn, he hain’t got no family; what you going to do\n‘bout him?”\n“Well, hain’t he got a father?” says Tom Sawyer.\n“Yes, he’s got a father, but you can’t never ﬁnd him these days. He\nused to lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard, but he hain’t been\nseen in these parts for a year or more.”\nThey talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because\nthey said every boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or else it\nwouldn’t be fair and square for the others. Well, nobody could think\nof anything to do—everybody was stumped, and set still. I was most\nready to cry; but all at once I thought of a way, and so I offered them\nMiss Watson—they could kill her. Everybody said:\n“Oh, she’ll do. That’s all right. Huck can come in.”\nThen they all stuck a pin in their ﬁngers to get blood to sign with,\nand I made my mark on the paper.\n“Now,” says Ben Rogers, “what’s the line of business of this Gang?”\n“Nothing only robbery and murder,” Tom said.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n8\n\n\n“But who are we going to rob?—houses, or cattle, or—”\n“Stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain’t robbery; it’s burglary,”\nsays Tom Sawyer. “We ain’t burglars. That ain’t no sort of style. We\nare highwaymen. We stop stages and carriages on the road, with\nmasks on, and kill the people and take their watches and money.”\n“Must we always kill the people?”\n“Oh, certainly. It’s best. Some authorities think different, but most-\nly it’s considered best to kill them—except some that you bring to\nthe cave here, and keep them till they’re ransomed.”\n“Ransomed?  What’s that?”\n“I don’t know. But that’s what they do. I’ve seen it in books; and so\nof course that’s what we’ve got to do.”\n“But how can we do it if we don’t know what it is?”\n“Why, blame it all, we’ve got to do it. Don’t I tell you it’s in the\nbooks? Do you want to go to doing different from what’s in the\nbooks, and get things all muddled up?”\n“Oh, that’s all very ﬁne to say, Tom Sawyer, but how in the nation\nare these fellows going to be ransomed if we don’t know how to do it\nto them?—that’s the thing I want to get at. Now, what do you reck-\non it is?”\n“Well, I don’t know. But per’aps if we keep them till they’re ran-\nsomed, it means that we keep them till they’re dead. “\n“Now, that’s something like. That’ll answer.  Why couldn’t you said\nthat before? We’ll keep them till they’re ransomed to death; and a\nbothersome lot they’ll be, too—eating up everything, and always try-\ning to get loose.”\n“How you talk, Ben Rogers. How can they get loose when there’s a\nguard over them, ready to shoot them down if they move a peg?”\n“A guard! Well, that IS good. So somebody’s got to set up all night\nand never get any sleep, just so as to watch them. I think that’s fool-\nishness. Why can’t a body take a club and ransom them as soon as\nthey get here?”\n“Because it ain’t in the books so—that’s why.  Now, Ben Rogers, do\nyou want to do things regular, or don’t you?—that’s the idea. Don’t\nyou reckon that the people that made the books knows what’s the\ncorrect thing to do? Do you reckon you can learn ‘em anything? Not\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n9\n\n\nby a good deal. No, sir, we’ll just go on and ransom them in the reg-\nular way.”\n“All right. I don’t mind; but I say it’s a fool way, anyhow. Say, do we\nkill the women, too?”\n“Well, Ben Rogers, if I was as ignorant as you I wouldn’t let on. Kill\nthe women? No; nobody ever saw anything in the books like that.\nYou fetch them to the cave, and you’re always as polite as pie to them;\nand by and by they fall in love with you, and never want to go home\nany more.”\n“Well, if that’s the way I’m agreed, but I don’t take no stock in it.\nMighty soon we’ll have the cave so cluttered up with women, and fel-\nlows waiting to be ransomed, that there won’t be no place for the\nrobbers. But go ahead, I ain’t got nothing to say.”\nLittle Tommy Barnes was asleep now, and when they waked him\nup he was scared, and cried, and said he wanted to go home to his\nma, and didn’t want to be a robber any more.\nSo they all made fun of him, and called him cry-baby, and that\nmade him mad, and he said he would go straight and tell all the\nsecrets. But Tom give him ﬁve cents to keep quiet, and said we would\nall go home and meet next week, and rob somebody and kill some\npeople.\nBen Rogers said he couldn’t get out much, only Sundays, and so he\nwanted to begin next Sunday; but all the boys said it would be\nwicked to do it on Sunday, and that settled the thing. They agreed to\nget together and ﬁx a day as soon as they could, and then we elected\nTom Sawyer ﬁrst captain and Jo Harper second captain of the Gang,\nand so started home.\nI clumb up the shed and crept into my window just before day was\nbreaking. My new clothes was all greased up and clayey, and I was\ndog-tired.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n10\n\n\nW\nell I got a good going-over in the morning from old Miss\nWatson on account of my clothes; but the widow she didn’t scold,\nbut only cleaned off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry that I\nthought I would behave awhile if I could. Then Miss Watson she\ntook me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. She told\nme to pray every day, and whatever I asked for I would get it. But it\nwarn’t so. I tried it. Once I got a ﬁsh-line, but no hooks.  It warn’t\nany good to me without hooks. I tried for the hooks three or four\ntimes, but somehow I couldn’t make it work. By and by, one day, I\nasked Miss Watson to try for me, but she said I was a fool. She never\ntold me why, and I couldn’t make it out no way.\nI set down one time back in the woods, and had a long think about\nit. I says to myself, if a body can get anything they pray for, why don’t\nDeacon Winn get back the money he lost on pork? Why can’t the\nwidow get back her silver snuffbox that was stole?  Why can’t Miss\nWatson fat up? No, says I to my self, there ain’t nothing in it. I went\nand told the widow about it, and she said the thing a body could get\nby praying for it was “spiritual gifts.” This was too many for me, but\nshe told me what she meant—I must help other people, and do\neverything I could for other people, and look out for them all the\ntime, and never think about myself. This was including Miss Watson,\nas I took it. I went out in the woods and turned it over in my mind\na long time, but I couldn’t see no advantage about it—except for the\nother people; so at last I reckoned I wouldn’t worry about it any\nmore, but just let it go. Sometimes the widow would take me one\nCHAPTER THREE\n11\n\n\nside and talk about Providence in a way to make a body’s mouth\nwater; but maybe next day Miss Watson would take hold and knock\nit all down again. I judged I could see that there was two\nProvidences, and a poor chap would stand considerable show with\nthe widow’s Providence, but if Miss Watson’s got him there warn’t no\nhelp for him any more.  I thought it all out, and reckoned I would\nbelong to the widow’s if he wanted me, though I couldn’t make out\nhow he was agoing to be any better off then than what he was before,\nseeing I was so ignorant, and so kind of low-down and ornery.\nPap he hadn’t been seen for more than a year, and that was com-\nfortable for me; I didn’t want to see him no more. He used to always\nwhale me when he was sober and could get his hands on me; though\nI used to take to the woods most of the time when he was around.\nWell, about this time he was found in the river drownded, about\ntwelve mile above town, so people said. They judged it was him,\nanyway; said this drownded man was just his size, and was ragged,\nand had uncommon long hair, which was all like pap; but they\ncouldn’t make nothing out of the face, because it had been in the\nwater so long it warn’t much like a face at all. They said he was ﬂoat-\ning on his back in the water. They took him and buried him on the\nbank. But I warn’t comfortable long, because I happened to think of\nsomething. I knowed mighty well that a drownded man don’t ﬂoat\non his back, but on his face. So I knowed, then, that this warn’t pap,\nbut a woman dressed up in a man’s clothes. So I was uncomfortable\nagain. I judged the old man would turn up again by and by, though\nI wished he wouldn’t.\nWe played robber now and then about a month, and then I\nresigned. All the boys did. We hadn’t robbed nobody, hadn’t killed\nany people, but only just pretended. We used to hop out of the\nwoods and go charging down on hog-drivers and women in carts\ntaking garden stuff to market, but we never hived any of them. Tom\nSawyer called the hogs “ingots,” and he called the turnips and stuff\n“julery,” and we would go to the cave and powwow over what we\nhad done, and how many people we had killed and marked. But I\ncouldn’t see no proﬁt in it. One time Tom sent a boy to run about\ntown with a blazing stick, which he called a slogan (which was the\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n12\n\n\nsign for the Gang to get together), and then he said he had got\nsecret news by his spies that next day a whole parcel of Spanish mer-\nchants and rich A-rabs was going to camp in Cave Hollow with two\nhundred elephants, and six hundred camels, and over a thousand\n“sumter” mules, all loaded down with di’monds, and they didn’t\nhave only a guard of four hundred soldiers, and so we would lay in\nambuscade, as he called it, and kill the lot and scoop the things. He\nsaid we must slick up our swords and guns, and get ready. He never\ncould go after even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords and\nguns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath and broom-\nsticks, and you might scour at them till you rotted, and then they\nwarn’t worth a mouthful of ashes more than what they was before. I\ndidn’t believe we could lick such a crowd of Spaniards and A-rabs,\nbut I wanted to see the camels and elephants, so I was on hand next\nday, Saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got the word we\nrushed out of the woods and down the hill. But there warn’t no\nSpaniards and A-rabs, and there warn’t no camels nor no elephants.\nIt warn’t anything but a Sunday-school picnic, and only a primer-\nclass at that. We busted it up, and chased the children up the hol-\nlow; but we never got anything but some doughnuts and jam,\nthough Ben Rogers got a rag doll, and Jo Harper got a hymn-book\nand a tract; and then the teacher charged in, and made us drop\neverything and cut. I didn’t see no di’monds, and I told Tom Sawyer\nso. He said there was loads of them there, anyway; and he said there\nwas A-rabs there, too, and elephants and things. I said, why couldn’t\nwe see them, then? He said if I warn’t so ignorant, but had read a\nbook called Don Quixote, I would know without asking. He said it\nwas all done by enchantment. He said there was hundreds of soldiers\nthere, and elephants and treasure, and so on, but we had enemies\nwhich he called magicians; and they had turned the whole thing\ninto an infant Sunday-school, just out of spite. I said, all right; then\nthe thing for us to do was to go for the magicians. Tom Sawyer said\nI was a numskull.\n“Why,” said he, “a magician could call up a lot of genies, and they\nwould hash you up like nothing before you could say Jack Robinson.\nThey are as tall as a tree and as big around as a church.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n13\n\n\n“Well,” I says, “s’pose we got some genies to help us—can’t we lick\nthe other crowd then?”\n“How you going to get them?”\n“I don’t know. How do they get them?”\n“Why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the\ngenies come tearing in, with the thunder and lightning a-ripping\naround and the smoke a-rolling, and everything they’re told to do\nthey up and do it.  They don’t think nothing of pulling a shot-tower\nup by the roots, and belting a Sunday-school superintendent over the\nhead with it—or any other man.”\n“Who makes them tear around so?”\n“Why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. They belong to whoever\nrubs the lamp or the ring, and they’ve got to do whatever he says. If\nhe tells them to build a palace forty miles long out of di’monds, and\nfill it full of chewing-gum, or whatever you want, and fetch an\nemperor’s daughter from China for you to marry, they’ve got to do\nit—and they’ve got to do it before sun-up next morning, too. And\nmore: they’ve got to waltz that palace around over the country wher-\never you want it, you understand.”\n“Well,” says I, “I think they are a pack of ﬂat-heads for not keeping\nthe palace themselves ‘stead of fooling them away like that. And\nwhat’s more—if I was one of them I would see a man in Jericho\nbefore I would drop my business and come to him for the rubbing of\nan old tin lamp.”\n“How you talk, Huck Finn. Why, you’d have to come when he\nrubbed it, whether you wanted to or not.”\n“What! and I as high as a tree and as big as a church? All right,\nthen; I would come; but I lay I’d make that man climb the highest\ntree there was in the country.”\n“Shucks, it ain’t no use to talk to you, Huck Finn.  You don’t seem\nto know anything, somehow—perfect saphead.”\nI thought all this over for two or three days, and then I reckoned I\nwould see if there was anything in it.  I got an old tin lamp and an\niron ring, and went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till I\nsweat like an Injun, calculating to build a palace and sell it; but it\nwarn’t no use, none of the genies come. So then I judged that all that\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n14\n\n\nstuff was only just one of Tom Sawyer’s lies. I reckoned he believed in\nthe A-rabs and the elephants, but as for me I think different. It had\nall the marks of a Sunday-school.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n15\n\n\nW\nell three or four months run along, and it was well into the\nwinter now. I had been to school most all the time and could spell\nand read and write just a little, and could say the multiplication\ntable up to six times seven is thirty-five, and I don’t reckon I could\never get any further than that if I was to live forever. I don’t take no\nstock in mathematics, anyway.\nAt ﬁrst I hated the school, but by and by I got so I could stand it.\nWhenever I got uncommon tired I played hookey, and the hiding I\ngot next day done me good and cheered me up. So the longer I went\nto school the easier it got to be. I was getting sort of used to the\nwidow’s ways, too, and they warn’t so raspy on me. Living in a house\nand sleeping in a bed pulled on me pretty tight mostly, but before the\ncold weather I used to slide out and sleep in the woods sometimes,\nand so that was a rest to me. I liked the old ways best, but I was get-\nting so I liked the new ones, too, a little bit. The widow said I was\ncoming along slow but sure, and doing very satisfactory. She said she\nwarn’t ashamed of me.\nOne morning I happened to turn over the salt-cellar at breakfast. I\nreached for some of it as quick as I could to throw over my left shoul-\nder and keep off the bad luck, but Miss Watson was in ahead of me,\nand crossed me off. She says, “Take your hands away, Huckleberry;\nwhat a mess you are always making!” The widow put in a good word\nfor me, but that warn’t going to keep off the bad luck, I knowed that\nwell enough. I started out, after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky,\nand wondering where it was going to fall on me, and what it was\nCHAPTER FOUR\n16\n\n\n“There; you see it says ‘for a consideration.’ That means I have\nbought it of you and paid you for it.  Here’s a dollar for you. Now\nyou sign it.”\nSo I signed it, and left.\nMiss Watson’s nigger, Jim, had a hair-ball as big as your ﬁst, which\nhad been took out of the fourth stomach of an ox, and he used to do\nmagic with it.  He said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed\neverything. So I went to him that night and told him pap was here\nagain, for I found his tracks in the snow.  What I wanted to know\nwas, what he was going to do, and was he going to stay? Jim got out\nhis hair-ball and said something over it, and then he held it up and\ndropped it on the ﬂoor. It fell pretty solid, and only rolled about an\ninch. Jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just the\nsame. Jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and lis-\ntened. But it warn’t no use; he said it wouldn’t talk. He said some-\ntimes it wouldn’t talk without money. I told him I had an old slick\ncounterfeit quarter that warn’t no good because the brass showed\nthrough the silver a little, and it wouldn’t pass nohow, even if the\nbrass didn’t show, because it was so slick it felt greasy, and so that\nwould tell on it every time.  (I reckoned I wouldn’t say nothing about\nthe dollar I got from the judge.) I said it was pretty bad money, but\nmaybe the hair-ball would take it, because maybe it wouldn’t know\nthe difference. Jim smelt it and bit it and rubbed it, and said he\nwould manage so the hair-ball would think it was good. He said he\nwould split open a raw Irish potato and stick the quarter in between\nand keep it there all night, and next morning you couldn’t see no\nbrass, and it wouldn’t feel greasy no more, and so anybody in town\nwould take it in a minute, let alone a hair-ball. Well, I knowed a\npotato would do that before, but I had forgot it.\nJim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got down and listened\nagain. This time he said the hair-ball was all right. He said it would\ntell my whole fortune if I wanted it to. I says, go on. So the hair-ball\ntalked to Jim, and Jim told it to me. He says:\n“Yo’ ole father doan’ know yit what he’s a-gwyne to do. Sometimes\nhe spec he’ll go ‘way, en den agin he spec he’ll stay. De bes’ way is to\nres’ easy en let de ole man take his own way. Dey’s two angels hov-\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n17\n\n\ngoing to be. There is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but\nthis wasn’t one of them kind; so I never tried to do anything, but just\npoked along low-spirited and on the watch-out.\nI went down to the front garden and clumb over the stile where\nyou go through the high board fence.  There was an inch of new\nsnow on the ground, and I seen somebody’s tracks. They had come\nup from the quarry and stood around the stile a while, and then went\non around the garden fence. It was funny they hadn’t come in, after\nstanding around so. I couldn’t make it out. It was very curious, some-\nhow. I was going to follow around, but I stooped down to look at the\ntracks ﬁrst. I didn’t notice anything at ﬁrst, but next I did. There was\na cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil.\nI was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I looked over my\nshoulder every now and then, but I didn’t see nobody. I was at Judge\nThatcher’s as quick as I could get there. He said:\n“Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did you come for your\ninterest?”\n“No, sir,” I says; “is there some for me?”\n“Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night—over a hundred and ﬁfty\ndollars. Quite a fortune for you.  You had better let me invest it along\nwith your six thousand, because if you take it you’ll spend it.”\n“No, sir,” I says, “I don’t want to spend it. I don’t want it at all—\nnor the six thousand, nuther.  I want you to take it; I want to give it\nto you—the six thousand and all.”\nHe looked surprised. He couldn’t seem to make it out. He says:\n“Why, what can you mean, my boy?”\nI says, “Don’t you ask me no questions about it, please. You’ll take\nit—won’t you?”\nHe says:\n“Well, I’m puzzled. Is something the matter?”\n“Please take it,” says I, “and don’t ask me nothing—then I won’t\nhave to tell no lies.”\nHe studied a while, and then he says:\n“Oho-o! I think I see. You want to SELL all your property to me—\nnot give it. That’s the correct idea.”\nThen he wrote something on a paper and read it over, and says:\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n18\n\n\nerin’ roun’ ‘bout him. One uv ‘em is white en shiny, en t’other one is\nblack. De white one gits him to go right a little while, den de black\none sail in en bust it all up. A body can’t tell yit which one gwyne to\nfetch him at de las’. But you is all right. You gwyne to have consid-\nable trouble in yo’ life, en considable joy. Sometimes you gwyne to\ngit hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you’s\ngwyne to git well agin. Dey’s two gals ﬂyin’ ‘bout you in yo’ life. One\nuv ‘em’s light en t’other one is dark. One is rich en t’other is po’.\nYou’s gwyne to marry de po’ one fust en de rich one by en by. You\nwants to keep ‘way fum de water as much as you kin, en don’t run no\nresk, ‘kase it’s down in de bills dat you’s gwyne to git hung.”\nWhen I lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat\npap—his own self!\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n19\n\n\nI had shut the door to. Then I turned around, and there he was.\nI used to be scared of him all the time, he tanned me so much. I\nreckoned I was scared now, too; but in a minute I see I was mistak-\nen—that is, after the ﬁrst jolt, as you may say, when my breath sort\nof hitched, he being so unexpected; but right away after I see I warn’t\nscared of him worth bothring about.\nHe was most ﬁfty, and he looked it. His hair was long and tangled\nand greasy, and hung down, and you could see his eyes shining\nthrough like he was behind vines. It was all black, no gray; so was his\nlong, mixed-up whiskers. There warn’t no color in his face, where his\nface showed; it was white; not like another man’s white, but a white\nto make a body sick, a white to make a body’s ﬂesh crawl—a tree-\ntoad white, a ﬁsh-belly white. As for his clothes—just rags, that was\nall. He had one ankle resting on t’other knee; the boot on that foot\nwas busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked them\nnow and then.  His hat was laying on the ﬂoor—an old black slouch\nwith the top caved in, like a lid.\nI stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with his\nchair tilted back a little. I set the candle down. I noticed the window\nwas up; so he had clumb in by the shed. He kept a-looking me all\nover. By and by he says:\n“Starchy clothes—very. You think you’re a good deal of a big-bug,\ndon’t you?”\n“Maybe I am, maybe I ain’t,” I says.\n“Don’t you give me none o’ your lip,” says he.  “You’ve put on con-\nCHAPTER FIVE\n20\n\n\nsiderable many frills since I been away. I’ll take you down a peg\nbefore I get done with you. You’re educated, too, they say—can read\nand write. You think you’re better’n your father, now, don’t you,\nbecause he can’t? i’ll take it out of you. Who told you you might\nmeddle with such hifalut’n foolishness, hey?—who told you you\ncould?”\n“The widow. She told me.”\n“The widow, hey?—and who told the widow she could put in her\nshovel about a thing that ain’t none of her business?”\n“Nobody never told her.”\n“Well, I’ll learn her how to meddle. And looky here—you drop\nthat school, you hear? I’ll learn people to bring up a boy to put on\nairs over his own father and let on to be better’n what HE is. You\nlemme catch you fooling around that school again, you hear?  Your\nmother couldn’t read, and she couldn’t write, nuther, before she died.\nNone of the family couldn’t before they died. I can’t; and here you’re\na-swelling yourself up like this. I ain’t the man to stand it—you hear?\nSay, lemme hear you read.”\nI took up a book and begun something about General Washington\nand the wars. When I’d read about a half a minute, he fetched the\nbook a whack with his hand and knocked it across the house. He\nsays:\n“It’s so. You can do it. I had my doubts when you told me. Now\nlooky here; you stop that putting on frills. I won’t have it. I’ll lay for\nyou, my smarty; and if I catch you about that school I’ll tan you\ngood. First you know you’ll get religion, too. I never see such a son.\nHe took up a little blue and yaller picture of some cows and a boy,\nand says:\n“What’s this?”\n“It’s something they give me for learning my lessons good.”\nHe tore it up, and says:\n“I’ll give you something better—I’ll give you a cowhide.\nHe set there a-mumbling and a-growling a minute, and then he\nsays:\n“Ain’t you a sweet-scented dandy, though? A bed; and bedclothes;\nand a look’n’-glass; and a piece of carpet on the ﬂoor—and your own\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n21\n\n\nfather got to sleep with the hogs in the tanyard. I never see such a\nson. I bet I’ll take some o’ these frills out o’ you before I’m done with\nyou. Why, there ain’t no end to your airs—they say you’re rich.\nHey?—how’s that?”\n“They lie—that’s how.”\n“Looky here—mind how you talk to me; I’m a-standing about all I\ncan stand now—so don’t gimme no sass. I’ve been in town two days,\nand I hain’t heard nothing but about you bein’ rich. I heard about it\naway down the river, too. That’s why I come. You git me that money\ntomorrow—I want it.”\n“I hain’t got no money.”\n“It’s a lie. Judge Thatcher’s got it. You git it.\nI want it.”\n“I hain’t got no money, I tell you. You ask Judge Thatcher; he’ll tell\nyou the same.”\n“All right. I’ll ask him; and I’ll make him pungle, too, or I’ll know\nthe reason why. Say, how much you got in your pocket? I want it.”\n“I hain’t got only a dollar, and I want that to—”\n“It don’t make no difference what you want it for—you just shell it\nout.”\nHe took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then he said he was\ngoing down town to get some whisky; said he hadn’t had a drink all\nday. When he had got out on the shed he put his head in again, and\ncussed me for putting on frills and trying to be better than him; and\nwhen I reckoned he was gone he come back and put his head in\nagain, and told me to mind about that school, because he was going\nto lay for me and lick me if I didn’t drop that.\nNext day he was drunk, and he went to Judge Thatcher’s and bul-\nlyragged him, and tried to make him give up the money; but he\ncouldn’t, and then he swore he’d make the law force him.\nThe judge and the widow went to law to get the court to take me\naway from him and let one of them be my guardian; but it was a new\njudge that had just come, and he didn’t know the old man; so he said\ncourts mustn’t interfere and separate families if they could help it;\nsaid he’d druther not take a child away from its father. So Judge\nThatcher and the widow had to quit on the business.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n22\n\n\nThat pleased the old man till he couldn’t rest. He said he’d cowhide\nme till I was black and blue if I didn’t raise some money for him. I\nborrowed three dollars from Judge Thatcher, and pap took it and got\ndrunk, and went a-blowing around and cussing and whooping and\ncarrying on; and he kept it up all over town, with a tin pan, till most\nmidnight; then they jailed him, and next day they had him before\ncourt, and jailed him again for a week. But he said he was satisﬁed;\nsaid he was boss of his son, and he’d make it warm for him.\nWhen he got out the new judge said he was a-going to make a man\nof him. So he took him to his own house, and dressed him up clean\nand nice, and had him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the\nfamily, and was just old pie to him, so to speak. And after supper he\ntalked to him about temperance and such things till the old man\ncried, and said he’d been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he\nwas a-going to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn’t\nbe ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not look\ndown on him. The judge said he could hug him for them words; so\nhe cried, and his wife she cried again; pap said he’d been a man that\nhad always been misunderstood before, and the judge said he\nbelieved it. The old man said that what a man wanted that was down\nwas sympathy, and the judge said it was so; so they cried again. And\nwhen it was bedtime the old man rose up and held out his hand, and\nsays:\n“Look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take a-hold of it; shake it.\nThere’s a hand that was the hand of a hog; but it ain’t so no more; it’s\nthe hand of a man that’s started in on a new life, and’ll die before\nhe’ll go back. You mark them words—don’t forget I said them. It’s a\nclean hand now; shake it—don’t be afeard.”\nSo they shook it, one after the other, all around, and cried. The\njudge’s wife she kissed it. Then the old man he signed a pledge—\nmade his mark. The judge said it was the holiest time on record, or\nsomething like that. Then they tucked the old man into a beautiful\nroom, which was the spare room, and in the night some time he got\npowerful thirsty and clumb out on to the porch-roof and slid down a\nstanchion and traded his new coat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb\nback again and had a good old time; and towards daylight he crawled\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n23\n\n\nout again, drunk as a ﬁddler, and rolled off the porch and broke his\nleft arm in two places, and was most froze to death when somebody\nfound him after sun-up. And when they come to look at that spare\nroom they had to take soundings before they could navigate it.\nThe judge he felt kind of sore. He said he reckoned a body could\nreform the old man with a shotgun, maybe, but he didn’t know no\nother way.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n24\n\n\nW\nell, pretty soon the old man was up and around again, and\nthen he went for Judge Thatcher in the courts to make him give up\nthat money, and he went for me, too, for not stopping school. He\ncatched me a couple of times and thrashed me, but I went to school\njust the same, and dodged him or outrun him most of the time. I\ndidn’t want to go to school much before, but I reckoned I’d go now\nto spite pap. That law trial was a slow business—appeared like they\nwarn’t ever going to get started on it; so every now and then I’d bor-\nrow two or three dollars off of the judge for him, to keep from get-\nting a cowhiding.  Every time he got money he got drunk; and every\ntime he got drunk he raised Cain around town; and every time he\nraised Cain he got jailed. He was just suited—this kind of thing was\nright in his line.\nHe got to hanging around the widow’s too much and so she told\nhim at last that if he didn’t quit using around there she would make\ntrouble for him. Well, wasn’t he mad? He said he would show who\nwas Huck Finn’s boss. So he watched out for me one day in the\nspring, and catched me, and took me up the river about three mile in\na skiff, and crossed over to the Illinois shore where it was woody and\nthere warn’t no houses but an old log hut in a place where the timber\nwas so thick you couldn’t ﬁnd it if you didn’t know where it was.\nHe kept me with him all the time, and I never got a chance to run\noff. We lived in that old cabin, and he always locked the door and\nput the key under his head nights. He had a gun which he had stole,\nI reckon, and we ﬁshed and hunted, and that was what we lived on.\nCHAPTER SIX\n25\n\n\nEvery little while he locked me in and went down to the store, three\nmiles, to the ferry, and traded ﬁsh and game for whisky, and fetched\nit home and got drunk and had a good time, and licked me. The\nwidow she found out where I was by and by, and she sent a man over\nto try to get hold of me; but pap drove him off with the gun, and it\nwarn’t long after that till I was used to being where I was, and liked\nit—all but the cowhide part.\nIt was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day, smok-\ning and ﬁshing, and no books nor study.  Two months or more run\nalong, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn’t see how\nI’d ever got to like it so well at the widow’s, where you had to wash,\nand eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up regular,\nand be forever bothering over a book, and have old Miss Watson\npecking at you all the time. I didn’t want to go back no more. I had\nstopped cussing, because the widow didn’t like it; but now I took to\nit again because pap hadn’t no objections. It was pretty good times up\nin the woods there, take it all around.\nBut by and by pap got too handy with his hick’ry, and I couldn’t\nstand it. I was all over welts. He got to going away so much, too, and\nlocking me in. Once he locked me in and was gone three days. It was\ndreadful lonesome. I judged he had got drowned, and I wasn’t ever\ngoing to get out any more. I was scared. I made up my mind I would\nﬁx up some way to leave there. I had tried to get out of that cabin\nmany a time, but I couldn’t ﬁnd no way. There warn’t a window to it\nbig enough for a dog to get through. I couldn’t get up the chimbly;\nit was too narrow. The door was thick, solid oak slabs. Pap was pret-\nty careful not to leave a knife or anything in the cabin when he was\naway; I reckon I had hunted the place over as much as a hundred\ntimes; well, I was most all the time at it, because it was about the\nonly way to put in the time. But this time I found something at last;\nI found an old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid in\nbetween a rafter and the clapboards of the roof. I greased it up and\nwent to work. There was an old horse-blanket nailed against the logs\nat the far end of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind from\nblowing through the chinks and putting the candle out. I got under\nthe table and raised the blanket, and went to work to saw a section of\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n26\n\n\nthe big bottom log out—big enough to let me through. Well, it was\na good long job, but I was getting towards the end of it when I heard\npap’s gun in the woods. I got rid of the signs of my work, and\ndropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in.\nPap warn’t in a good humor—so he was his natural self. He said he\nwas down town, and everything was going wrong. His lawyer said he\nreckoned he would win his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got\nstarted on the trial; but then there was ways to put it off a long time,\nand Judge Thatcher knowed how to do it And he said people allowed\nthere’d be another trial to get me away from him and give me to the\nwidow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win this time.\nThis shook me up considerable, because I didn’t want to go back to\nthe widow’s any more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as they\ncalled it.  Then the old man got to cussing, and cussed everything\nand everybody he could think of, and then cussed them all over again\nto make sure he hadn’t skipped any, and after that he polished off\nwith a kind of a general cuss all round, including a considerable par-\ncel of people which he didn’t know the names of, and so called them\nwhat’s-his-name when he got to them, and went right along with his\ncussing.\nHe said he would like to see the widow get me.  He said he would\nwatch out, and if they tried to come any such game on him he\nknowed of a place six or seven mile off to stow me in, where they\nmight hunt till they dropped and they couldn’t ﬁnd me. That made\nme pretty uneasy again, but only for a minute;\nI reckoned I wouldn’t stay on hand till he got that chance.\nThe old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the things he had\ngot. There was a ﬁfty-pound sack of corn meal, and a side of bacon,\nammunition, and a four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and\ntwo newspapers for wadding, besides some tow. I toted up a load,\nand went back and set down on the bow of the skiff to rest. I thought\nit all over, and I reckoned I would walk off with the gun and some\nlines, and take to the woods when I run away. I guessed I wouldn’t\nstay in one place, but just tramp right across the country, mostly\nnight times, and hunt and ﬁsh to keep alive, and so get so far away\nthat the old man nor the widow couldn’t ever ﬁnd me any more. I\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n27\n\n\njudged I would saw out and leave that night if pap got drunk\nenough, and I reckoned he would. I got so full of it I didn’t notice\nhow long I was staying till the old man hollered and asked me\nwhether I was asleep or drownded.\nI got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark.\nWhile I was cooking supper the old man took a swig or two and got\nsort of warmed up, and went to ripping again. He had been drunk\nover in town, and laid in the gutter all night, and he was a sight to\nlook at. A body would a thought he was Adam—he was just all mud.\nWhenever his liquor begun to work he most always went for the gov-\nment.  his time he says:\n“Call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it’s like.\nHere’s the law a-standing ready to take a man’s son away from him—\na man’s own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety\nand all the expense of raising. Yes, just as that man has got that son\nraised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin’ for him\nand give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And they call that\ngovment!  That ain’t all, nuther. The law backs that old Judge\nThatcher up and helps him to keep me out o’ my property. Here’s\nwhat the law does: The law takes a man worth six thousand dollars\nand up’ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and\nlets him go round in clothes that ain’t ﬁtten for a hog. They call that\ngovment! A man can’t get his rights in a govment like this.\nSometimes I’ve a mighty notion to just leave the country for good\nand all. Yes, and I told ‘em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face. Lots\nof ‘em heard me, and can tell what I said. Says I, for two cents I’d\nleave the blamed country and never come a-near it agin. Them’s the\nvery words. I says look at my hat—if you call it a hat—but the lid\nraises up and the rest of it goes down till it’s below my chin, and then\nit ain’t rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up\nthrough a jint o’ stove-pipe. Look at it, says I—such a hat for me to\nwear—one of the wealthiest men in this town if I could git my rights.\n“Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful.  Why, looky\nhere. There was a free nigger there from Ohio—a mulatter, most as\nwhite as a white man. He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too,\nand the shiniest hat; and there ain’t a man in that town that’s got as\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n28\n\n\nﬁne clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and\na silver-headed cane—the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the\nState. And what do you think? They said he was a p’fessor in a col-\nlege, and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything.\nAnd that ain’t the wust. They said he could vote when he was at\nhome. Well, that let me out. Thinks I, what is the country a-coming\nto? It was ‘lection day, and I was just about to go and vote myself if\nI warn’t too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a\nState in this country where they’d let that nigger vote, I drawed out.\nI says I’ll never vote agin. Them’s the very words I said; they all heard\nme; and the country may rot for all me—\nI’ll never vote agin as long as I live. And to see the cool way of that\nnigger—why, he wouldn’t a give me the road if I hadn’t shoved him\nout o’ the way. I says to the people, why ain’t this nigger put up at\nauction and sold?—that’s what I want to know. And what do you\nreckon they said? Why, they said he couldn’t be sold till he’d been in\nthe State six months, and he hadn’t been there that long yet. There,\nnow—that’s a specimen. They call that a govment that can’t sell a free\nnigger till he’s been in the State six months.\nHere’s a govment that calls itself a govment, and lets on to be a\ngovment, and thinks it is a govment, and yet’s got to set stock-still for\nsix whole months before it can take a hold of a prowling, thieving,\ninfernal, white-shirted free nigger, and—”\nPap was agoing on so he never noticed where his old limber legs\nwas taking him to, so he went head over heels over the tub of salt\npork and barked both shins, and the rest of his speech was all the\nhottest kind of language—mostly hove at the nigger and the gov-\nment, though he give the tub some, too, all along, here and there. He\nhopped around the cabin considerable, ﬁrst on one leg and then on\nthe other, holding ﬁrst one shin and then the other one, and at last\nhe let out with his left foot all of a sudden and fetched the tub a rat-\ntling kick. But it warn’t good judgment, because that was the boot\nthat had a couple of his toes leaking out of the front end of it; so now\nhe raised a howl that fairly made a body’s hair raise, and down he\nwent in the dirt, and rolled there, and held his toes; and the cussing\nhe done then laid over anything he had ever done previous. He said\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n29\n\n\nso his own self afterwards. He had heard old Sowberry Hagan in his\nbest days, and he said it laid over him, too; but I reckon that was sort\nof piling it on, maybe.\nAfter supper pap took the jug, and said he had enough whisky\nthere for two drunks and one delirium tremens. That was always his\nword. I judged he would be blind drunk in about an hour, and then\nI would steal the key, or saw myself out, one or t’other.  He drank\nand drank, and tumbled down on his blankets by and by; but luck\ndidn’t run my way. He didn’t go sound asleep, but was uneasy. He\ngroaned and moaned and thrashed around this way and that for a\nlong time. At last I got so sleepy I couldn’t keep my eyes open all I\ncould do, and so before I knowed what I was about I was sound\nasleep, and the candle burning.\nI don’t know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden there was\nan awful scream and I was up.  There was pap looking wild, and skip-\nping around every which way and yelling about snakes. He said they\nwas crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream,\nand say one had bit him on the cheek—but I couldn’t see no snakes.\nHe started and run round and round the cabin, hollering “Take him\noff! take him off! he’s biting me on the neck!” I never see a man look\nso wild in the eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down\npanting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things\nevery which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with his hands,\nand screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him. He wore\nout by and by, and laid still a while, moaning. Then he laid stiller,\nand didn’t make a sound. I could hear the owls and the wolves away\noff in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. He was laying over by\nthe corner. By and by he raised up part way and listened, with his\nhead to one side. He says, very low:\n“Tramp—tramp—tramp; that’s the dead; tramp—tramp—tramp;\nthey’re coming after me; but I won’t go. Oh, they’re here! don’t touch\nme—don’t!  hands off—they’re cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil alone!”\nThen he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to\nlet him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed\nin under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to cry-\ning. I could hear him through the blanket.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n30\n\n\nBy and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild,\nand he see me and went for me. He chased me round and round the\nplace with a clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying he\nwould kill me, and then I couldn’t come for him no more. I begged,\nand told him I was only Huck; but he laughed SUCH a screechy\nlaugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up. Once\nwhen I turned short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and\ngot me by the jacket between my shoulders, and I thought I was\ngone; but I slid out of the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself.\nPretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back\nagainst the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me.\nHe put his knife under him, and said he would sleep and get strong,\nand then he would see who was who.\nSo he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the old split-bottom\nchair and clumb up as easy as I could, not to make any noise, and got\ndown the gun. I slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was\nloaded, then I laid it across the turnip barrel, pointing towards pap,\nand set down behind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow and still\nthe time did drag along.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n31\n\n\nGit up! What you ‘bout?”\nI opened my eyes and looked around, trying to make out where I\nwas. It was after sun-up, and I had been sound asleep. Pap was stand-\ning over me looking sour--and sick, too. He says:\n“What you doin’ with this gun?”\nI judged he didn’t know nothing about what he had been doing, so\nI says:\n“Somebody tried to get in, so I was laying for him.”\n“Why didn’t you roust me out?”\n“Well, I tried to, but I couldn’t; I couldn’t budge you.”\n“Well, all right. Don’t stand there palavering all day, but out with\nyou and see if there’s a ﬁsh on the lines for breakfast. I’ll be along in\na minute.”\nHe unlocked the door, and I cleared out up the river-bank. I\nnoticed some pieces of limbs and such things ﬂoating down, and a\nsprinkling of bark; so I knowed the river had begun to rise. I reck-\noned I would have great times now if I was over at the town.  The\nJune rise used to be always luck for me; because as soon as that rise\nbegins here comes cordwood ﬂoating down, and pieces of log rafts—\nsometimes a dozen logs together; so all you have to do is to catch\nthem and sell them to the wood-yards and the sawmill.\nI went along up the bank with one eye out for pap and t’other one\nout for what the rise might fetch along. Well, all at once here comes\na canoe; just a beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long, rid-\ning high like a duck. I shot head-first off of the bank like a frog,\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n32\n\n\nclothes and all on, and struck out for the canoe. I just expected\nthere’d be somebody laying down in it, because people often done\nthat to fool folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff out most to it\nthey’d raise up and laugh at him. But it warn’t so this time. It was a\ndrift-canoe sure enough, and I clumb in and paddled her ashore.\nThinks I, the old man will be glad when he sees this—she’s worth ten\ndollars. But when I got to shore pap wasn’t in sight yet, and as I was\nrunning her into a little creek like a gully, all hung over with vines\nand willows, I struck another idea: I judged I’d hide her good, and\nthen, ‘stead of taking to the woods when I run off, I’d go down the\nriver about ﬁfty mile and camp in one place for good, and not have\nsuch a rough time tramping on foot.\nIt was pretty close to the shanty, and I thought I heard the old man\ncoming all the time; but I got her hid; and then I out and looked\naround a bunch of willows, and there was the old man down the path\na piece just drawing a bead on a bird with his gun. So he hadn’t seen\nanything.\nWhen he got along I was hard at it taking up a “trot” line. He\nabused me a little for being so slow; but I told him I fell in the river,\nand that was what made me so long. I knowed he would see I was\nwet, and then he would be asking questions. We got ﬁve catﬁsh off\nthe lines and went home.\nWhile we laid off after breakfast to sleep up, both of us being about\nwore out, I got to thinking that if I could ﬁx up some way to keep\npap and the widow from trying to follow me, it would be a certainer\nthing than trusting to luck to get far enough off before they missed\nme; you see, all kinds of things might happen. Well, I didn’t see no\nway for a while, but by and by pap raised up a minute to drink\nanother barrel of water, and he says:\n“Another time a man comes a-prowling round here you roust me\nout, you hear? That man warn’t here for no good. I’d a shot him.\nNext time you roust me out, you hear?”\nThen he dropped down and went to sleep again; but what he had\nbeen saying give me the very idea I wanted. I says to myself, I can ﬁx\nit now so nobody won’t think of following me.\nAbout twelve o’clock we turned out and went along up the bank.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n33\n\n\nThe river was coming up pretty fast, and lots of driftwood going by\non the rise. By and by along comes part of a log raft—nine logs fast\ntogether. We went out with the skiff and towed it ashore. Then we\nhad dinner. Anybody but pap would a waited and seen the day\nthrough, so as to catch more stuff; but that warn’t pap’s style. Nine\nlogs was enough for one time; he must shove right over to town and\nsell. So he locked me in and took the skiff, and started off towing the\nraft about half-past three. I judged he wouldn’t come back that night.\nI waited till I reckoned he had got a good start; then I out with my\nsaw, and went to work on that log again. Before he was t’other side\nof the river I was out of the hole; him and his raft was just a speck on\nthe water away off yonder.\nI took the sack of corn meal and took it to where the canoe was\nhid, and shoved the vines and branches apart and put it in; then I\ndone the same with the side of bacon; then the whisky-jug. I took all\nthe coffee and sugar there was, and all the ammunition; I took the\nwadding; I took the bucket and gourd; I took a dipper and a tin cup,\nand my old saw and two blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot.\nI took ﬁsh-lines and matches and other things—everything that was\nworth a cent. I cleaned out the place. I wanted an axe, but there was-\nn’t any, only the one out at the woodpile, and I knowed why I was\ngoing to leave that. I fetched out the gun, and now I was done.\nI had wore the ground a good deal crawling out of the hole and\ndragging out so many things. So I fixed that as good as I could\nfrom the outside by scattering dust on the place, which covered up\nthe smoothness and the sawdust. Then I fixed the piece of log back\ninto its place, and put two rocks under it and one against it to hold\nit there, for it was bent up at that place and didn’t quite touch\nground. If you stood four or five foot away and didn’t know it was\nsawed, you wouldn’t never notice it; and besides, this was the back\nof the cabin, and it warn’t likely anybody would go fooling around\nthere.\nIt was all grass clear to the canoe, so I hadn’t left a track. I followed\naround to see. I stood on the bank and looked out over the river. All\nsafe. So I took the gun and went up a piece into the woods, and was\nhunting around for some birds when I see a wild pig; hogs soon went\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n34\n\n\nwild in them bottoms after they had got away from the prairie farms.\nI shot this fellow and took him into camp.\nI took the axe and smashed in the door. I beat it and hacked it con-\nsiderable a-doing it. I fetched the pig in, and took him back nearly to\nthe table and hacked into his throat with the axe, and laid him down\non the ground to bleed; I say ground because it was ground—hard\npacked, and no boards. Well, next I took an old sack and put a lot of\nbig rocks in it—all I could drag—and I started it from the pig, and\ndragged it to the door and through the woods down to the river and\ndumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight.  You could easy see that\nsomething had been dragged over the ground. I did wish Tom Sawyer\nwas there;\nI knowed he would take an interest in this kind of business, and\nthrow in the fancy touches. Nobody could spread himself like Tom\nSawyer in such a thing as that.\nWell, last I pulled out some of my hair, and blooded the axe good,\nand stuck it on the back side, and slung the axe in the corner. Then\nI took up the pig and held him to my breast with my jacket (so he\ncouldn’t drip) till I got a good piece below the house and then\ndumped him into the river. Now I thought of something else. So I\nwent and got the bag of meal and my old saw out of the canoe, and\nfetched them to the house. I took the bag to where it used to stand,\nand ripped a hole in the bottom of it with the saw, for there warn’t\nno knives and forks on the place—pap done everything with his\nclasp-knife about the cooking. Then I carried the sack about a hun-\ndred yards across the grass and through the willows east of the house,\nto a shallow lake that was five mile wide and full of rushes—and\nducks too, you might say, in the season. There was a slough or a creek\nleading out of it on the other side that went miles away, I don’t know\nwhere, but it didn’t go to the river. The meal sifted out and made a\nlittle track all the way to the lake. I dropped pap’s whetstone there\ntoo, so as to look like it had been done by accident. Then I tied up\nthe rip in the meal sack with a string, so it wouldn’t leak no more,\nand took it and my saw to the canoe again.\nIt was about dark now; so I dropped the canoe down the river\nunder some willows that hung over the bank, and waited for the\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n35\n\n\nmoon to rise. I made fast to a willow; then I took a bite to eat, and\nby and by laid down in the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan.\nI says to myself, they’ll follow the track of that sackful of rocks to the\nshore and then drag the river for me. And they’ll follow that meal\ntrack to the lake and go browsing down the creek that leads out of it\nto ﬁnd the robbers that killed me and took the things.  They won’t\never hunt the river for anything but my dead carcass. They’ll soon get\ntired of that, and won’t bother no more about me. All right; I can\nstop anywhere I want to. Jackson’s Island is good enough for me; I\nknow that island pretty well, and nobody ever comes there. And then\nI can paddle over to town nights, and slink around and pick up\nthings I want. Jackson’s Island’s the place.\nI was pretty tired, and the ﬁrst thing I knowed I was asleep. When\nI woke up I didn’t know where I was for a minute. I set up and\nlooked around, a little scared. Then I remembered. The river looked\nmiles and miles across. The moon was so bright I could a counted the\ndrift logs that went a-slipping along, black and still, hundreds of\nyards out from shore. Everything was dead quiet, and it looked late,\nand smelt late. You know what I mean—I don’t know the words to\nput it in.\nI took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch and\nstart when I heard a sound away over the water. I listened. Pretty\nsoon I made it out. It was that dull kind of a regular sound that\ncomes from oars working in rowlocks when it’s a still night. I peeped\nout through the willow branches, and there it was—a skiff, away\nacross the water. I couldn’t tell how many was in it. It kept a-coming,\nand when it was abreast of me I see there warn’t but one man in it.\nThink’s I, maybe it’s pap, though I warn’t expecting him. He dropped\nbelow me with the current, and by and by he came a-swinging up\nshore in the easy water, and he went by so close I could a reached out\nthe gun and touched him. Well, it was pap, sure enough—and sober,\ntoo, by the way he laid his oars.\nI didn’t lose no time. The next minute I was a-spinning down\nstream soft but quick in the shade of the bank. I made two mile and\na half, and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more towards the\nmiddle of the river, because pretty soon I would be passing the ferry\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n36\n\n\nlanding, and people might see me and hail me. I got out amongst the\ndriftwood, and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her\nﬂoat. I laid there, and had a good rest and a smoke out of my pipe,\nlooking away into the sky; not a cloud in it. The sky looks ever so\ndeep when you lay down on your back in the moonshine; I never\nknowed it before. And how far a body can hear on the water such\nnights! I heard people talking at the ferry landing. I heard what they\nsaid, too—every word of it.  One man said it was getting towards the\nlong days and the short nights now. T’other one said this warn’t one\nof the short ones, he reckoned—and then they laughed, and he said\nit over again, and they laughed again; then they waked up another\nfellow and told him, and laughed, but he didn’t laugh; he ripped out\nsomething brisk, and said let him alone. The first fellow said he\n‘lowed to tell it to his old woman—she would think it was pretty\ngood; but he said that warn’t nothing to some things he had said in\nhis time.  I heard one man say it was nearly three o’clock, and he\nhoped daylight wouldn’t wait more than about a week longer. After\nthat the talk got further and further away, and I couldn’t make out\nthe words any more; but I could hear the mumble, and now and then\na laugh, too, but it seemed a long ways off.\nI was away below the ferry now. I rose up, and there was Jackson’s\nIsland, about two mile and a half down stream, heavy timbered and\nstanding up out of the middle of the river, big and dark and solid,\nlike a steamboat without any lights. There warn’t any signs of the bar\nat the head—it was all under water now.\nIt didn’t take me long to get there. I shot past the head at a ripping\nrate, the current was so swift, and then I got into the dead water and\nlanded on the side towards the Illinois shore. I run the canoe into a\ndeep dent in the bank that I knowed about; I had to part the willow\nbranches to get in; and when I made fast nobody could a seen the\ncanoe from the outside.\nI went up and set down on a log at the head of the island, and\nlooked out on the big river and the black driftwood and away over to\nthe town, three mile away, where there was three or four lights twin-\nkling.  A monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile up stream,\ncoming along down, with a lantern in the middle of it. I watched it\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n37\n\n\ncome creeping down, and when it was most abreast of where I stood\nI heard a man say, “Stern oars, there! heave her head to stab-board!”\nI heard that just as plain as if the man was by my side.\nThere was a little gray in the sky now; so I stepped into the woods,\nand laid down for a nap before breakfast.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n38\n\n\nT\nhe sun was up so high when I waked that I judged it was after\neight o’clock. I laid there in the grass and the cool shade thinking\nabout things, and feeling rested and ruther comfortable and satisﬁed.\nI could see the sun out at one or two holes, but mostly it was big\ntrees all about, and gloomy in there amongst them. There was freck-\nled places on the ground where the light sifted down through the\nleaves, and the freckled places swapped about a little, showing there\nwas a little breeze up there. A couple of squirrels set on a limb and\njabbered at me very friendly.\nI was powerful lazy and comfortable—didn’t want to get up and\ncook breakfast. Well, I was dozing off again when I thinks I hears a\ndeep sound of “boom!” away up the river. I rouses up, and rests on\nmy elbow and listens; pretty soon I hears it again. I hopped up, and\nwent and looked out at a hole in the leaves, and I see a bunch of\nsmoke laying on the water a long ways up—about abreast the ferry.\nAnd there was the ferryboat full of people floating along down. I\nknowed what was the matter now. “Boom!” I see the white smoke\nsquirt out of the ferryboat’s side.  You see, they was firing cannon\nover the water, trying to make my carcass come to the top.\nI was pretty hungry, but it warn’t going to do for me to start a ﬁre,\nbecause they might see the smoke.  So I set there and watched the\ncannon-smoke and listened to the boom. The river was a mile wide\nthere, and it always looks pretty on a summer morning—so I was\nhaving a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders if I\nonly had a bite to eat. Well, then I happened to think how they\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n39\n\n\nalways put quicksilver in loaves of bread and ﬂoat them off, because\nthey always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. So, says\nI, I’ll keep a lookout, and if any of them’s ﬂoating around after me I’ll\ngive them a show.  I changed to the Illinois edge of the island to see\nwhat luck I could have, and I warn’t disappointed. A big double loaf\ncome along, and I most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped\nand she ﬂoated out further.  Of course I was where the current set in\nthe closest to the shore—I knowed enough for that. But by and by\nalong comes another one, and this time I won. I took out the plug\nand shook out the little dab of quick-silver, and set my teeth in. It\nwas “baker’s bread”—what the quality eat; none of your low-down\ncorn-pone.\nI got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log,\nmunching the bread and watching the ferry-boat, and very well satis-\nﬁed. And then something struck me. I says, now I reckon the widow\nor the parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find me,\nand here it has gone and done it. So there ain’t no doubt but there is\nsomething in that thing—that is, there’s something in it when a body\nlike the widow or the parson prays, but it don’t work for me, and I\nreckon it don’t work for only just the right kind.\nI lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went on watching. The\nferryboat was floating with the current, and I allowed I’d have a\nchance to see who was aboard when she come along, because she\nwould come in close, where the bread did. When she’d got pretty well\nalong down towards me, I put out my pipe and went to where I\nﬁshed out the bread, and laid down behind a log on the bank in a lit-\ntle open place.  Where the log forked I could peep through.\nBy and by she come along, and she drifted in so close that they\ncould a run out a plank and walked ashore. Most everybody was on\nthe boat. Pap, and Judge Thatcher, and Bessie Thatcher, and Jo\nHarper, and Tom Sawyer, and his old Aunt Polly, and Sid and Mary,\nand plenty more. Everybody was talking about the murder, but the\ncaptain broke in and says:\n“Look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest here, and maybe\nhe’s washed ashore and got tangled amongst the brush at the water’s\nedge. I hope so, anyway.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n40\n\n\n“I didn’t hope so. They all crowded up and leaned over the rails,\nnearly in my face, and kept still, watching with all their might. I\ncould see them ﬁrst-rate, but they couldn’t see me. Then the captain\nsung out:\n“Stand away!” and the cannon let off such a blast right before me\nthat it made me deef with the noise and pretty near blind with the\nsmoke, and I judged I was gone. If they’d a had some bullets in, I\nreckon they’d a got the corpse they was after. Well, I see I warn’t hurt,\nthanks to goodness. The boat floated on and went out of sight\naround the shoulder of the island.  I could hear the booming now\nand then, further and further off, and by and by, after an hour, I did-\nn’t hear it no more. The island was three mile long. I judged they had\ngot to the foot, and was giving it up. But they didn’t yet a while.\nThey turned around the foot of the island and started up the chan-\nnel on the Missouri side, under steam, and booming once in a while\nas they went. I crossed over to that side and watched them. When\nthey got abreast the head of the island they quit shooting and\ndropped over to the Missouri shore and went home to the town.\nI knowed I was all right now. Nobody else would come a-hunting\nafter me. I got my traps out of the canoe and made me a nice camp\nin the thick woods. I made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put\nmy things under so the rain couldn’t get at them. I catched a catﬁsh\nand haggled him open with my saw, and towards sundown I started\nmy camp ﬁre and had supper. Then I set out a line to catch some ﬁsh\nfor breakfast.\nWhen it was dark I set by my camp ﬁre smoking, and feeling pret-\nty well satisﬁed; but by and by it got sort of lonesome, and so I went\nand set on the bank and listened to the current swashing along, and\ncounted the stars and drift logs and rafts that come down, and then\nwent to bed; there ain’t no better way to put in time when you are\nlonesome; you can’t stay so, you soon get over it.\nAnd so for three days and nights. No difference—just the same\nthing. But the next day I went exploring around down through the\nisland. I was boss of it; it all belonged to me, so to say, and I wanted\nto know all about it; but mainly I wanted to put in the time.  I found\nplenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and green summer grapes, and\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n41\n\n\ngreen razberries; and the green blackberries was just beginning to\nshow. They would all come handy by and by, I judged.\nWell, I went fooling along in the deep woods till I judged I warn’t\nfar from the foot of the island. I had my gun along, but I hadn’t shot\nnothing; it was for protection; thought I would kill some game nigh\nhome. About this time I mighty near stepped on a good-sized snake,\nand it went sliding off through the grass and ﬂowers, and I after it,\ntrying to get a shot at it. I clipped along, and all of a sudden I bound-\ned right on to the ashes of a camp ﬁre that was still smoking.\nMy heart jumped up amongst my lungs. I never waited for to look\nfurther, but uncocked my gun and went sneaking back on my tiptoes\nas fast as ever I could. Every now and then I stopped a second\namongst the thick leaves and listened, but my breath come so hard I\ncouldn’t hear nothing else. I slunk along another piece further, then\nlistened again; and so on, and so on. If I see a stump, I took it for a\nman; if I trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a person\nhad cut one of my breaths in two and I only got half, and the short\nhalf, too.\nWhen I got to camp I warn’t feeling very brash, there warn’t much\nsand in my craw; but I says, this ain’t no time to be fooling around.\nSo I got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of\nsight, and I put out the ﬁre and scattered the ashes around to look\nlike an old last year’s camp, and then clumb a tree.\nI reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I didn’t see nothing, I\ndidn’t hear nothing—I only thought I heard and seen as much as a\nthousand things. Well, I couldn’t stay up there forever; so at last I got\ndown, but I kept in the thick woods and on the lookout all the time.\nAll I could get to eat was berries and what was left over from break-\nfast.\nBy the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So when it was good\nand dark I slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled over to\nthe Illinois bank—about a quarter of a mile. I went out in the woods\nand cooked a supper, and I had about made up my mind I would\nstay there all night when I hear a plunkety-plunk, plunkety-punk, and\nsays to myself, horses coming; and next I hear people’s voices. I got\neverything into the canoe as quick as I could, and then went creep-\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n42\n\n\ning through the woods to see what I could ﬁnd out. I hadn’t got far\nwhen I hear a man say:\n“We better camp here if we can find a good place; the horses is\nabout beat out. Let’s look around.”\nI didn’t wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. I tied up in\nthe old place, and reckoned I would sleep in the canoe.\nI didn’t sleep much. I couldn’t, somehow, for thinking. And every\ntime I waked up I thought somebody had me by the neck. So the\nsleep didn’t do me no good. By and by I says to myself, I can’t live\nthis way; I’m a-going to ﬁnd out who it is that’s here on the island\nwith me; I’ll ﬁnd it out or bust.  Well, I felt better right off.\nSo I took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two,\nand then let the canoe drop along down amongst the shadows. The\nmoon was shining, and outside of the shadows it made it most as\nlight as day. I poked along well on to an hour, everything still as\nrocks and sound asleep. Well, by this time I was most down to the\nfoot of the island. A little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that\nwas as good as saying the night was about done. I give her a turn\nwith the paddle and brung her nose to shore; then I got my gun and\nslipped out and into the edge of the woods. I sat down there on a\nlog, and looked out through the leaves. I see the moon go off watch,\nand the darkness begin to blanket the river. But in a little while I see\na pale streak over the treetops, and knowed the day was coming. So\nI took my gun and slipped off towards where I had run across that\ncamp ﬁre, stopping every minute or two to listen. But I hadn’t no\nluck somehow; I couldn’t seem to find the place.  But by and by,\nsure enough, I catched a glimpse of fire away through the trees. I\nwent for it, cautious and slow. By and by I was close enough to have\na look, and there laid a man on the ground. It most give me the fan-\ntods. He had a blanket around his head, and his head was nearly in\nthe fire. I set there behind a clump of bushes in about six foot of\nhim, and kept my eyes on him steady. It was getting gray daylight\nnow. Pretty soon he gapped and stretched himself and hove off the\nblanket, and it was Miss Watson’s Jim! I bet I was glad to see him. I\nsays:\n“Hello, Jim!” and skipped out.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n43\n\n\nHe bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he drops down on his\nknees, and puts his hands together and says:\n“Doan’ hurt me—don’t! I hain’t ever done no harm to a ghos’. I\nalwuz liked dead people, en done all I could for ‘em. You go en git in\nde river agin, whah you b’longs, en doan’ do nuffn to Ole Jim, ‘at ‘uz\nawluz yo’ fren’.”\nWell, I warn’t long making him understand I warn’t dead. I was\never so glad to see Jim. I warn’t lonesome now. I told him I warn’t\nafraid of him telling the people where I was. I talked along, but he\nonly set there and looked at me; never said nothing. Then I says:\n“It’s good daylight. Le’s get breakfast. Make up your camp fire\ngood.”\n“What’s de use er makin’ up de camp ﬁre to cook strawbries en sich\ntruck? But you got a gun, hain’t you? Den we kin git sumfn better\nden strawbries.”\n“Strawberries and such truck,” I says. “Is that what you live on?”\n“I couldn’ git nuffn else,” he says.\n“Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?”\n“I come heah de night arter you’s killed.”\n“What, all that time?”\n“Yes—indeedy.”\n“And ain’t you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?”\n“No, sah—nuffn else.”\n“Well, you must be most starved, ain’t you?”\n“I reck’n I could eat a hoss. I think I could.\nHow long you ben on de islan’?”\n“Since the night I got killed.”\n“No! W’y, what has you lived on? But you got a gun. Oh, yes, you\ngot a gun. Dat’s good. Now you kill sumfn en I’ll make up de ﬁre.”\nSo we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a ﬁre\nin a grassy open place amongst the trees, I fetched meal and bacon\nand coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups,\nand the nigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was\nall done with witchcraft. I catched a good big catﬁsh, too, and Jim\ncleaned him with his knife, and fried him.\nWhen breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n44\n\n\nhot. Jim laid it in with all his might, for he was most about starved.\nThen when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied.\nBy and by Jim says:\n“But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat ‘uz killed in dat shanty ef it\nwarn’t you?”\nThen I told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. He said\nTom Sawyer couldn’t get up no better plan than what I had. Then I\nsays:\n“How do you come to be here, Jim, and how’d you get here?”\nHe looked pretty uneasy, and didn’t say nothing for a minute. Then\nhe says:\n“Maybe I better not tell.”\n“Why, Jim?”\n“Well, dey’s reasons. But you wouldn’ tell on me ef I uz to tell you,\nwould you, Huck?”\n“Blamed if I would, Jim.”\n“Well, I b’lieve you, Huck. I—I run off.”\n“Jim!”\n“But mind, you said you wouldn’ tell—you know you said you\nwouldn’ tell, Huck.”\n“Well, I did. I said I wouldn’t, and I’ll stick to it.  Honest Injun, I\nwill. People would call me a low-down Abolitionist and despise me\nfor keeping mum—but that don’t make no difference. I ain’t a-going\nto tell, and I ain’t a-going back there, anyways. So, now, le’s know all\nabout it.”\n“Well, you see, it ‘uz dis way. Ole missus—dat’s Miss Watson—she\npecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said\nshe wouldn’ sell me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger\ntrader roun’ de place considable lately, en I begin to git oneasy. Well,\none night I creeps to de do’ pooty late, en de do’ warn’t quite shet, en\nI hear old missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to\nOrleans, but she didn’ want to, but she could git eight hund’d dollars\nfor me, en it ‘uz sich a big stack o’ money she couldn’ resis’. De wid-\nder she try to git her to say she wouldn’ do it, but I never waited to\nhear de res’.  I lit out mighty quick, I tell you.\n“I tuck out en shin down de hill, en ‘spec to steal a skift ‘long de\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n45\n\n\nsho’ som’ers ‘bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit, so I hid\nin de ole tumble-down cooper-shop on de bank to wait for every-\nbody to go ‘way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun’\nall de time. ‘Long ‘bout six in de mawnin’ skifts begin to go by, en\n‘bout eight er nine every skift dat went ‘long wuz talkin’ ‘bout how\nyo’ pap come over to de town en say you’s killed. Dese las’ skifts wuz\nfull o’ ladies en genlmen a-goin’ over for to see de place. Sometimes\ndey’d pull up at de sho’ en take a res’ b’fo’ dey started acrost, so by de\ntalk I got to know all ‘bout de killin’. I ‘uz powerful sorry you’s killed,\nHuck, but I ain’t no mo’ now.\n“I laid dah under de shavin’s all day. I ‘uz hungry, but I warn’t\nafeard; bekase I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin’ to start to\nde camp-meet’n’ right arter breakfas’ en be gone all day, en dey\nknows I goes off wid de cattle ‘bout daylight, so dey wouldn’ ‘spec to\nsee me roun’ de place, en so dey wouldn’ miss me tell arter dark in de\nevenin’. De yuther servants wouldn’ miss me, kase dey’d shin out en\ntake holiday soon as de ole folks ‘uz out’n de way.\n“Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went\n‘bout two mile er more to whah dey warn’t no houses. I’d made up\nmy mine ‘bout what I’s agwyne to do. You see, ef I kep’ on tryin’ to\ngit away afoot, de dogs ‘ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over,\ndey’d miss dat skift, you see, en dey’d know ‘bout whah I’d lan’ on de\nyuther side, en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I’s\narter; it doan’ make no track.\n“I see a light a-comin’ roun’ de p’int bymeby, so I wade’ in en\nshove’ a log ahead o’ me en swum more’n half way acrost de river, en\ngot in ‘mongst de drift-wood, en kep’ my head down low, en kinder\nswum agin de current tell de raff come along. Den I swum to de\nstern uv it en tuck a-holt. It clouded up en ‘uz pooty dark for a little\nwhile. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De men ‘uz all ‘way\nyonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz a-risin’, en\ndey wuz a good current; so I reck’n’d ‘at by fo’ in de mawnin’ I’d be\ntwenty-ﬁve mile down de river, en den I’d slip in jis b’fo’ daylight en\nswim asho’, en take to de woods on de Illinois side.\n“But I didn’ have no luck. When we ‘uz mos’ down to de head er\nde islan’ a man begin to come aft wid de lantern, I see it warn’t no use\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n46\n\n\nfer to wait, so I slid overboard en struck out fer de islan’. Well, I had\na notion I could lan’ mos’ anywhers, but I couldn’t—bank too bluff.\nI ‘uz mos’ to de foot er de islan’ b’fo’ I found’ a good place. I went\ninto de woods en jedged I wouldn’ fool wid raffs no mo’, long as dey\nmove de lantern roun’ so. I had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en\nsome matches in my cap, en dey warn’t wet, so I ‘uz all right.”\n“And so you ain’t had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why\ndidn’t you get mud-turkles?”\n“How you gwyne to git ‘m? You can’t slip up on um en grab um;\nen how’s a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do\nit in de night?  En I warn’t gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de\ndaytime.”\n“Well, that’s so. You’ve had to keep in the woods all the time, of\ncourse. Did you hear ‘em shooting the cannon?”\n“Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah—\nwatched um thoo de bushes.”\nSome young birds come along, ﬂying a yard or two at a time and\nlighting. Jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it was a\nsign when young chickens ﬂew that way, and so he reckoned it was\nthe same way when young birds done it. I was going to catch some\nof them, but Jim wouldn’t let me. He said it was death. He said his\nfather laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and\nhis old granny said his father would die, and he did.\nAnd Jim said you mustn’t count the things you are going to cook\nfor dinner, because that would bring bad luck. The same if you shook\nthe table-cloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive\nand that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next\nmorning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and\ndie. Jim said bees wouldn’t sting idiots; but I didn’t believe that, be-\ncause I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn’t sting\nme.\nI had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them.\nJim knowed all kinds of signs. He said he knowed most everything. I\nsaid it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so I\nasked him if there warn’t any good-luck signs. He says:\n“Mighty few—an’ dey ain’t no use to a body.  What you want to\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n47\n\n\nknow when good luck’s a-comin’ for? Want to keep it off?” And he\nsaid: “Ef you’s got hairy arms en a hairy breas’, it’s a sign dat you’s\nagwyne to be rich. Well, dey’s some use in a sign like dat, ‘kase it’s so\nfur ahead. You see, maybe you’s got to be po’ a long time fust, en so\nyou might git discourage’ en kill yo’sef ‘f you didn’ know by de sign\ndat you gwyne to be rich bymeby.”\n“Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?”\n“What’s de use to ax dat question? Don’t you see I has?”\n“Well, are you rich?”\n“No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich agin. Wunst I had\nfoteen dollars, but I tuck to specalat’n’, en got busted out.”\n“What did you speculate in, Jim?”\n“Well, fust I tackled stock.”\n“What kind of stock?”\n“Why, live stock—cattle, you know. I put ten dollars in a cow. But\nI ain’ gwyne to resk no mo’ money in stock. De cow up ‘n’ died on\nmy han’s.”\n“So you lost the ten dollars.”\n“No, I didn’t lose it all. I on’y los’ ‘bout nine of it. I sole de hide en\ntaller for a dollar en ten cents.”\n“You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you speculate any\nmore?”\n“Yes. You know that one-laigged nigger dat b’longs to old Misto\nBradish? Well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar\nwould git fo’ dollars mo’ at de en’ er de year. Well, all de niggers went\nin, but dey didn’t have much. I wuz de on’y one dat had much. So I\nstuck out for mo’ dan fo’ dollars, en I said ‘f I didn’ git it I’d start a\nbank mysef. Well, o’ course dat nigger want’ to keep me out er de\nbusiness, bekase he says dey warn’t business ‘nough for two banks, so\nhe say I could put in my ﬁve dollars en he pay me thirty-ﬁve at de en’\ner de year.\n“So I done it. Den I reck’n’d I’d inves’ de thirty-ﬁve dollars right off\nen keep things a-movin’.  Dey wuz a nigger name’ Bob, dat had\nketched a wood-flat, en his marster didn’ know it; en I bought it\noff’n him en told him to take de thirty-ﬁve dollars when de en’ er de\nyear come; but somebody stole de wood-ﬂat dat night, en nex day de\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n48\n\n\none-laigged nigger say de bank’s busted. So dey didn’ none uv us git\nno money.”\n“What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?”\n“Well, I ‘uz gwyne to spen’ it, but I had a dream, en de dream tole\nme to give it to a nigger name’ Balum—Balum’s Ass dey call him for\nshort; he’s one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he’s lucky, dey\nsay, en I see I warn’t lucky. De dream say let Balum inves’ de ten cents\nen he’d make a raise for me.  Well, Balum he tuck de money, en when\nhe wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de po’\nlen’ to de Lord, en boun’ to git his money back a hund’d times. So\nBalum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po’, en laid low to see what\nwuz gwyne to come of it.”\n“Well, what did come of it, Jim?”\n“Nuffn never come of it. I couldn’ manage to k’leck dat money no\nway; en Balum he couldn’. I ain’ gwyne to len’ no mo’ money ‘dout I\nsee de security. Boun’ to git yo’ money back a hund’d times, de\npreacher says! Ef I could git de ten cents back, I’d call it squah, en be\nglad er de chanst.”\n“Well, it’s all right anyway, Jim, long as you’re going to be rich\nagain some time or other.”\n“Yes; en I’s rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I’s wuth\neight hund’d dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn’ want no\nmo’.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n49\n\n\nI wanted to go and look at a place right about the middle of the\nisland that I’d found when I was exploring; so we started and soon\ngot to it, because the island was only three miles long and a quarter\nof a mile wide.\nThis place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot\nhigh. We had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep\nand the bushes so thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it,\nand by and by found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to the\ntop on the side towards Illinois. The cavern was as big as two or three\nrooms bunched together, and Jim could stand up straight in it. It was\ncool in there. Jim was for putting our traps in there right away, but I\nsaid we didn’t want to be climbing up and down there all the time.\nJim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the\ntraps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to\nthe island, and they would never ﬁnd us without dogs. And, besides,\nhe said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did I want\nthe things to get wet?\nSo we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the\ncavern, and lugged all the traps up there.  Then we hunted up a place\nclose by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took\nsome ﬁsh off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready\nfor dinner.\nThe door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on\none side of the door the ﬂoor stuck out a little bit, and was ﬂat and a\ngood place to build a ﬁre on. So we built it there and cooked dinner.\nCHAPTER NINE\n50\n\n\nWe spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in\nthere. We put all the other things handy at the back of the cavern.\nPretty soon it darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the\nbirds was right about it. Directly it begun to rain, and it rained like\nall fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so.  It was one of these\nregular summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all blue-\nblack outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick\nthat the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby; and here\nwould come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn\nup the pale under-side of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a\ngust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as\nif they was just wild; and next, when it was just about the bluest and\nblackest—fst! it was as bright as glory, and you’d have a little glimpse\nof tree-tops a-plunging about away off yonder in the storm, hundreds\nof yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a sec-\nond, and now you’d hear the thunder let go with an awful crash, and\nthen go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the\nunder side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down stairs—\nwhere it’s long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know.\n“Jim, this is nice,” I says. “I wouldn’t want to be nowhere else but\nhere. Pass me along another hunk of ﬁsh and some hot corn-bread.”\n“Well, you wouldn’t a ben here ‘f it hadn’t a ben for Jim. You’d a\nben down dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittn’ mos’\ndrownded, too; dat you would, honey. Chickens knows when it’s\ngwyne to rain, en so do de birds, chile.”\nThe river went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till at\nlast it was over the banks. The water was three or four foot deep on\nthe island in the low places and on the Illinois bottom. On that side\nit was a good many miles wide, but on the Missouri side it was the\nsame old distance across—a half a mile—because the Missouri shore\nwas just a wall of high bluffs.\nDaytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe, It was mighty\ncool and shady in the deep woods, even if the sun was blazing out-\nside. We went winding in and out amongst the trees, and sometimes\nthe vines hung so thick we had to back away and go some other way.\nWell, on every old broken-down tree you could see rabbits and\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n51\n\n\nsnakes and such things; and when the island had been overﬂowed a\nday or two they got so tame, on account of being hungry, that you\ncould paddle right up and put your hand on them if you wanted to;\nbut not the snakes and turtles—they would slide off in the water.\nThe ridge our cavern was in was full of them. We could a had pets\nenough if we’d wanted them.\nOne night we catched a little section of a lumber raft—nice pine\nplanks. It was twelve foot wide and about ﬁfteen or sixteen foot long,\nand the top stood above water six or seven inches—a solid, level\nﬂoor.  We could see saw-logs go by in the daylight sometimes, but we\nlet them go; we didn’t show ourselves in daylight.\nAnother night when we was up at the head of the island, just\nbefore daylight, here comes a frame-house down, on the west side.\nShe was a two-story, and tilted over considerable. We paddled out\nand got aboard—clumb in at an upstairs window. But it was too dark\nto see yet, so we made the canoe fast and set in her to wait for day-\nlight.\nThe light begun to come before we got to the foot of the island.\nThen we looked in at the window. We could make out a bed, and a\ntable, and two old chairs, and lots of things around about on the\nfloor, and there was clothes hanging against the wall. There was\nsomething laying on the floor in the far corner that looked like a\nman. So Jim says:\n“Hello, you!”\nBut it didn’t budge. So I hollered again, and then Jim says:\n“De man ain’t asleep—he’s dead. You hold still—I’ll go en see.”\nHe went, and bent down and looked, and says:\n“It’s a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too.  He’s ben shot in de\nback. I reck’n he’s ben dead two er three days. Come in, Huck, but\ndoan’ look at his face—it’s too gashly.”\nI didn’t look at him at all. Jim throwed some old rags over him, but\nhe needn’t done it; I didn’t want to see him. There was heaps of old\ngreasy cards scattered around over the ﬂoor, and old whisky bottles,\nand a couple of masks made out of black cloth; and all over the walls\nwas the ignorantest kind of words and pictures made with charcoal.\nThere was two old dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet, and some\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n52\n\n\nwomen’s underclothes hanging against the wall, and some men’s\nclothing, too. We put the lot into the canoe—it might come good.\nThere was a boy’s old speckled straw hat on the ﬂoor; I took that,\ntoo.  And there was a bottle that had had milk in it, and it had a rag\nstopper for a baby to suck. We would a took the bottle, but it was\nbroke. There was a seedy old chest, and an old hair trunk with the\nhinges broke.  They stood open, but there warn’t nothing left in them\nthat was any account. The way things was scattered about we reck-\noned the people left in a hurry, and warn’t ﬁxed so as to carry off\nmost of their stuff.\nWe got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife without any handle,\nand a bran-new Barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot\nof tallow candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup,\nand a ratty old bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles and\npins and beeswax and buttons and thread and all such truck in it,\nand a hatchet and some nails, and a ﬁshline as thick as my little ﬁn-\nger with some monstrous hooks on it, and a roll of buckskin, and a\nleather dog-collar, and a horseshoe, and some vials of medicine that\ndidn’t have no label on them; and just as we was leaving I found a\ntolerable good curry-comb, and Jim he found a ratty old ﬁddle-bow,\nand a wooden leg. The straps was broke off of it, but, barring that, it\nwas a good enough leg, though it was too long for me and not long\nenough for Jim, and we couldn’t ﬁnd the other one, though we hunt-\ned all around.\nAnd so, take it all around, we made a good haul.  When we was\nready to shove off we was a quarter of a mile below the island, and it\nwas pretty broad day; so I made Jim lay down in the canoe and cover\nup with the quilt, because if he set up people could tell he was a nig-\nger a good ways off. I paddled over to the Illinois shore, and drifted\ndown most a half a mile doing it. I crept up the dead water under the\nbank, and hadn’t no accidents and didn’t see nobody. We got home\nall safe.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n53\n\n\nAfter breakfast I wanted to talk about the dead man and guess\nout how he come to be killed, but Jim didn’t want to. He said it\nwould fetch bad luck; and besides, he said, he might come and ha’nt\nus; he said a man that warn’t buried was more likely to go a-ha’nting\naround than one that was planted and comfortable. That sounded\npretty reasonable, so I didn’t say no more; but I couldn’t keep from\nstudying over it and wishing I knowed who shot the man, and what\nthey done it for.\nWe rummaged the clothes we’d got, and found eight dollars in sil-\nver sewed up in the lining of an old blanket overcoat. Jim said he\nreckoned the people in that house stole the coat, because if they’d a\nknowed the money was there they wouldn’t a left it. I said I reckoned\nthey killed him, too; but Jim didn’t want to talk about that. I says:\n“Now you think it’s bad luck; but what did you say when I fetched\nin the snake-skin that I found on the top of the ridge day before yes-\nterday? You said it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch a\nsnake-skin with my hands. Well, here’s your bad luck! We’ve raked in\nall this truck and eight dollars besides. I wish we could have some\nbad luck like this every day, Jim.”\n“Never you mind, honey, never you mind. Don’t you git too peart.\nIt’s a-comin’. Mind I tell you, it’s a-comin’.”\nIt did come, too. It was a Tuesday that we had that talk. Well, after\ndinner Friday we was laying around in the grass at the upper end of\nthe ridge, and got out of tobacco. I went to the cavern to get some,\nand found a rattlesnake in there. I killed him, and curled him up on\nCHAPTER TEN\n54\n\n\nthe foot of Jim’s blanket, ever so natural, thinking there’d be some\nfun when Jim found him there. Well, by night I forgot all about the\nsnake, and when Jim flung himself down on the blanket while I\nstruck a light the snake’s mate was there, and bit him.\nHe jumped up yelling, and the ﬁrst thing the light showed was the\nvarmint curled up and ready for another spring. I laid him out in a\nsecond with a stick, and Jim grabbed pap’s whisky-jug and begun to\npour it down.\nHe was barefooted, and the snake bit him right on the heel. That\nall comes of my being such a fool as to not remember that wherever\nyou leave a dead snake its mate always comes there and curls around\nit. Jim told me to chop off the snake’s head and throw it away, and\nthen skin the body and roast a piece of it.  I done it, and he eat it and\nsaid it would help cure him. He made me take off the rattles and tie\nthem around his wrist, too. He said that that would help.  Then I slid\nout quiet and throwed the snakes clear away amongst the bushes; for\nI warn’t going to let Jim ﬁnd out it was all my fault, not if I could\nhelp it.\nJim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and then he got out of\nhis head and pitched around and yelled; but every time he come to\nhimself he went to sucking at the jug again. His foot swelled up pret-\nty big, and so did his leg; but by and by the drunk begun to come,\nand so I judged he was all right; but I’d druther been bit with a snake\nthan pap’s whisky.\nJim was laid up for four days and nights. Then the swelling was all\ngone and he was around again. I made up my mind I wouldn’t ever\ntake a-holt of a snake-skin again with my hands, now that I see what\nhad come of it. Jim said he reckoned I would believe him next time.\nAnd he said that handling a snake-skin was such awful bad luck that\nmaybe we hadn’t got to the end of it yet. He said he druther see the\nnew moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand times than\ntake up a snake-skin in his hand. Well, I was getting to feel that way\nmyself, though I’ve always reckoned that looking at the new moon\nover your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things\na body can do. Old Hank Bunker done it once, and bragged about it;\nand in less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot-tower,\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n55\n\n\nand spread himself out so that he was just a kind of a layer, as you\nmay say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn doors for a\ncofﬁn, and buried him so, so they say, but I didn’t see it. Pap told me.\nBut anyway it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a fool.\nWell, the days went along, and the river went down between its\nbanks again; and about the ﬁrst thing we done was to bait one of the\nbig hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catﬁsh that was\nas big as a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed over two\nhundred pounds. We couldn’t handle him, of course; he would a\nﬂung us into Illinois. We just set there and watched him rip and tear\naround till he drownded. We found a brass button in his stomach\nand a round ball, and lots of rubbage. We split the ball open with the\nhatchet, and there was a spool in it.  Jim said he’d had it there a long\ntime, to coat it over so and make a ball of it. It was as big a ﬁsh as\nwas ever catched in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he hadn’t ever\nseen a bigger one. He would a been worth a good deal over at the vil-\nlage. They peddle out such a ﬁsh as that by the pound in the market-\nhouse there; everybody buys some of him; his meat’s as white as snow\nand makes a good fry.\nNext morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to\nget a stirring up some way. I said I reckoned I would slip over the\nriver and ﬁnd out what was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he\nsaid I must go in the dark and look sharp. Then he studied it over\nand said, couldn’t I put on some of them old things and dress up like\na girl? That was a good notion, too. So we shortened up one of the\ncalico gowns, and I turned up my trouser-legs to my knees and got\ninto it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair ﬁt. I\nput on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a\nbody to look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of\nstove-pipe. Jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime,\nhardly. I practiced around all day to get the hang of the things, and\nby and by I could do pretty well in them, only Jim said I didn’t walk\nlike a girl; and he said I must quit pulling up my gown to get at my\nbritches-pocket. I took notice, and done better.\nI started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just after dark.\nI started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing,\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n56\n\n\nand the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town.\nI tied up and started along the bank. There was a light burning in a\nlittle shanty that hadn’t been lived in for a long time, and I wondered\nwho had took up quarters there. I slipped up and peeped in at the\nwindow. There was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by\na candle that was on a pine table. I didn’t know her face; she was a\nstranger, for you couldn’t start a face in that town that I didn’t know.\nNow this was lucky, because I was weakening; I was getting afraid I\nhad come; people might know my voice and ﬁnd me out. But if this\nwoman had been in such a little town two days she could tell me all\nI wanted to know; so I knocked at the door, and made up my mind\nI wouldn’t forget I was a girl.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n57\n\n\nCome in,” says the woman, and I did. She says: “Take a cheer.”\nI done it. She looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says:\n“What might your name be?”\n“Sarah Williams.”\n“Where ‘bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?’\n“No’m. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I’ve walked all the way\nand I’m all tired out.”\n“Hungry, too, I reckon. I’ll ﬁnd you something.”\n“No’m, I ain’t hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles\nbelow here at a farm; so I ain’t hungry no more. It’s what makes me\nso late. My mother’s down sick, and out of money and everything,\nand I come to tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end\nof the town, she says. I hain’t ever been here before. Do you know\nhim?”\n“No; but I don’t know everybody yet. I haven’t lived here quite two\nweeks. It’s a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. You bet-\nter stay here all night. Take off your bonnet.”\n“No,” I says; “I’ll rest a while, I reckon, and go on. I ain’t afeared\nof the dark.”\nShe said she wouldn’t let me go by myself, but her husband would\nbe in by and by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she’d send him\nalong with me. Then she got to talking about her husband, and\nabout her relations up the river, and her relations down the river, and\nabout how much better off they used to was, and how they didn’t\nknow but they’d made a mistake coming to our town, instead of let-\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\n58\n\n\nting well alone—and so on and so on, till I was afeard I had made a\nmistake coming to her to ﬁnd out what was going on in the town;\nbut by and by she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then I was\npretty willing to let her clatter right along. She told about me and\nTom Sawyer ﬁnding the six thousand dollars (only she got it ten) and\nall about pap and what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot I was,\nand at last she got down to where I was murdered. I says:\n“Who done it? We’ve heard considerable about these goings on\ndown in Hookerville, but we don’t know who ‘twas that killed Huck\nFinn.”\n“Well, I reckon there’s a right smart chance of people HERE that’d\nlike to know who killed him. Some think old Finn done it himself.”\n“No—is that so?”\n“Most everybody thought it at ﬁrst. He’ll never know how nigh he\ncome to getting lynched. But before night they changed around and\njudged it was done by a runaway nigger named Jim.”\n“Why he—”\nI stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run on, and never\nnoticed I had put in at all:\n“The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was killed. So there’s\na reward out for him—three hundred dollars. And there’s a reward\nout for old Finn, too—two hundred dollars. You see, he come to\ntown the morning after the murder, and told about it, and was out\nwith ‘em on the ferryboat hunt, and right away after he up and left.\nBefore night they wanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see.\nWell, next day they found out the nigger was gone; they found out\nhe hadn’t ben seen sence ten o’clock the night the murder was done.\nSo then they put it on him, you see; and while they was full of it,\nnext day, back comes old Finn, and went boo-hooing to Judge\nThatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all over Illinois with.\nThe judge gave him some, and that evening he got drunk, and was\naround till after midnight with a couple of mighty hard-looking\nstrangers, and then went off with them. Well, he hain’t come back\nsence, and they ain’t looking for him back till this thing blows over a\nlittle, for people thinks now that he killed his boy and ﬁxed things so\nfolks would think robbers done it, and then he’d get Huck’s money\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n59\n\n\nwithout having to bother a long time with a lawsuit.  People do say\nhe warn’t any too good to do it. Oh, he’s sly, I reckon. If he don’t\ncome back for a year he’ll be all right. You can’t prove anything on\nhim, you know; everything will be quieted down then, and he’ll walk\nin Huck’s money as easy as nothing.”\n“Yes, I reckon so, ‘m. I don’t see nothing in the way of it. Has\neverybody guit thinking the nigger done it?”\n“Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done it. But\nthey’ll get the nigger pretty soon now, and maybe they can scare it\nout of him.”\n“Why, are they after him yet?”\n“Well, you’re innocent, ain’t you! Does three hundred dollars lay\naround every day for people to pick up? Some folks think the nigger\nain’t far from here. I’m one of them—but I hain’t talked it around.  A\nfew days ago I was talking with an old couple that lives next door in\nthe log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes to\nthat island over yonder that they call Jackson’s Island. Don’t anybody\nlive there? says I. No, nobody, says they. I didn’t say any more, but I\ndone some thinking. I was pretty near certain I’d seen smoke over\nthere, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so I says\nto myself, like as not that nigger’s hiding over there; anyway, says I, it’s\nworth the trouble to give the place a hunt. I hain’t seen any smoke\nsence, so I reckon maybe he’s gone, if it was him; but husband’s going\nover to see—him and another man.  He was gone up the river; but he\ngot back today, and I told him as soon as he got here two hours ago.”\nI had got so uneasy I couldn’t set still. I had to do something with\nmy hands; so I took up a needle off of the table and went to thread-\ning it. My hands shook, and I was making a bad job of it. When the\nwoman stopped talking I looked up, and she was looking at me pret-\nty curious and smiling a little. I put down the needle and thread, and\nlet on to be interested—and I was, too—and says:\n“Three hundred dollars is a power of money. I wish my mother\ncould get it. Is your husband going over there tonight?”\n“Oh, yes. He went up-town with the man I was telling you of, to\nget a boat and see if they could borrow another gun. They’ll go over\nafter midnight.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n60\n\n\n“Couldn’t they see better if they was to wait till daytime?”\n“Yes. And couldn’t the nigger see better, too?  After midnight he’ll\nlikely be asleep, and they can slip around through the woods and\nhunt up his camp ﬁre all the better for the dark, if he’s got one.”\n“I didn’t think of that.”\nThe woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and\nI didn’t feel a bit comfortable. Pretty soon she says”\n“What did you say your name was, honey?”\n“M—Mary Williams.”\nSomehow it didn’t seem to me that I said it was Mary before, so I\ndidn’t look up—seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of cor-\nnered, and was afeared maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the\nwoman would say something more; the longer she set still the uneasi-\ner I was. But now she says:\n“Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you ﬁrst come in?”\n“Oh, yes’m, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah’s my first name.\nSome calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary.”\n“Oh, that’s the way of it?”\n“Yes’m.”\nI was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of there, anyway. I\ncouldn’t look up yet.\nWell, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and\nhow poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they\nowned the place, and so forth and so on, and then I got easy again.\nShe was right about the rats. You’d see one stick his nose out of a hole\nin the corner every little while. She said she had to have things handy\nto throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn’t give her no\npeace. She showed me a bar of lead twisted up into a knot, and said\nshe was a good shot with it generly, but she’d wrenched her arm a day\nor two ago, and didn’t know whether she could throw true now. But\nshe watched for a chance, and directly banged away at a rat; but she\nmissed him wide, and said “Ouch!” it hurt her arm so. Then she told\nme to try for the next one. I wanted to be getting away before the old\nman got back, but of course I didn’t let on. I got the thing, and the\nﬁrst rat that showed his nose I let drive, and if he’d a stayed where he\nwas he’d a been a tolerable sick rat. She said that was ﬁrst-rate, and\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n61\n\n\nshe reckoned I would hive the next one. She went and got the lump\nof lead and fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn which\nshe wanted me to help her with.  I held up my two hands and she\nput the hank over them, and went on talking about her and her hus-\nband’s matters. But she broke off to say:\n“Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the lead in your lap,\nhandy.”\nSo she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and I\nclapped my legs together on it and she went on talking. But only\nabout a minute. Then she took off the hank and looked me straight\nin the face, and very pleasant, and says:\n“Come, now, what’s your real name?”\n“Wh—what, mum?”\n“What’s your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?—or what is it?”\nI reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn’t know hardly what to do.\nBut I says:\n“Please to don’t poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. If I’m in the\nway here, I’ll—”\n“No, you won’t. Set down and stay where you are. I ain’t going to\nhurt you, and I ain’t going to tell on you, nuther. You just tell me\nyour secret, and trust me. I’ll keep it; and, what’s more, I’ll help you.\nSo’ll my old man if you want him to. You see, you’re a runaway ‘pren-\ntice, that’s all. It ain’t anything. There ain’t no harm in it. You’ve been\ntreated bad, and you made up your mind to cut.  Bless you, child, I\nwouldn’t tell on you. Tell me all about it now, that’s a good boy.”\nSo I said it wouldn’t be no use to try to play it any longer, and I\nwould just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she mus-\nn’t go back on her promise.  Then I told her my father and mother\nwas dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the\ncountry thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me so bad I\ncouldn’t stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days,\nand so I took my chance and stole some of his daughter’s old clothes\nand cleared out, and I had been three nights coming the thirty miles.\nI traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag of bread\nand meat I carried from home lasted me all the way, and I had a-\nplenty. I said I believed my uncle Abner Moore would take care of\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n62\n\n\nme, and so that was why I struck out for this town of Goshen.\n“Goshen, child? This ain’t Goshen. This is St. Petersburg. Goshen’s\nten mile further up the river. Who told you this was Goshen?”\n“Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning, just as I was going to\nturn into the woods for my regular sleep. He told me when the roads\nforked I must take the right hand, and ﬁve mile would fetch me to\nGoshen.”\n“He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just exactly wrong.”\n“Well,,he did act like he was drunk, but it ain’t no matter now. I\ngot to be moving along. I’ll fetch Goshen before daylight.”\n“Hold on a minute. I’ll put you up a snack to eat.\nYou might want it.”\nSo she put me up a snack, and says:\n“Say, when a cow’s laying down, which end of her gets up first?\nAnswer up prompt now—don’t stop to study over it. Which end gets\nup ﬁrst?”\n“The hind end, mum.”\n“Well, then, a horse?”\n“The for’rard end, mum.”\n“Which side of a tree does the moss grow on?”\n“North side.”\n“If ﬁfteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats\nwith their heads pointed the same direction?”\n“The whole ﬁfteen, mum.”\n“Well, I reckon you have lived in the country. I thought maybe you\nwas trying to hocus me again.  What’s your real name, now?”\n“George Peters, mum.”\n“Well, try to remember it, George. Don’t forget and tell me it’s\nElexander before you go, and then get out by saying it’s George\nElexander when I catch you.  And don’t go about women in that old\ncalico. You do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men, maybe.\nBless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle don’t hold the\nthread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and\npoke the thread at it; that’s the way a woman most always does, but\na man always does t’other way. And when you throw at a rat or any-\nthing, hitch yourself up a tiptoe and fetch your hand up over your\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n63\n\n\nhead as awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven\nfoot. Throw stiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a pivot\nthere for it to turn on, like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with\nyour arm out to one side, like a boy.  And, mind you, when a girl\ntries to catch anything in her lap she throws her knees apart; she\ndon’t clap them together, the way you did when you catched the\nlump of lead. Why, I spotted you for a boy when you was threading\nthe needle; and I contrived the other things just to make certain.\nNow trot along to your uncle, Sarah Mary Williams George\nElexander Peters, and if you get into trouble you send word to Mrs.\nJudith Loftus, which is me, and I’ll do what I can to get you out of\nit. Keep the river road all the way, and next time you tramp take\nshoes and socks with you. The river road’s a rocky one, and your\nfeet’ll be in a condition when you get to Goshen, I reckon.”\nI went up the bank about ﬁfty yards, and then I doubled on my\ntracks and slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below\nthe house. I jumped in, and was off in a hurry. I went up-stream far\nenough to make the head of the island, and then started across. I\ntook off the sun-bonnet, for I didn’t want no blinders on then. When\nI was about the middle I heard the clock begin to strike, so I stops\nand listens; the sound come faint over the water but clear—eleven.\nWhen I struck the head of the island I never waited to blow, though\nI was most winded, but I shoved right into the timber where my old\ncamp used to be, and started a good ﬁre there on a high and dry spot.\nThen I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place, a mile and\na half below, as hard as I could go.  I landed, and slopped through the\ntimber and up the ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, sound\nasleep on the ground. I roused him out and says:\n“Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain’t a minute to lose.\nThey’re after us!”\nJim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he\nworked for the next half an hour showed about how he was scared.\nBy that time everything we had in the world was on our raft, and she\nwas ready to be shoved out from the willow cove where she was hid.\nWe put out the camp fire at the cavern the first thing, and didn’t\nshow a candle outside after that.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n64\n\n\nI took the canoe out from the shore a little piece, and took a look;\nbut if there was a boat around I couldn’t see it, for stars and shadows\nain’t good to see by. Then we got out the raft and slipped along down\nin the shade, past the foot of the island dead still—never saying \na word.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n65\n\n\nIt must a been close on to one o’clock when we got below the\nisland at last, and the raft did seem to go mighty slow. If a boat was\nto come along we was going to take to the canoe and break for the\nIllinois shore; and it was well a boat didn’t come, for we hadn’t ever\nthought to put the gun in the canoe, or a ﬁshing-line, or anything to\neat. We was in ruther too much of a sweat to think of so many\nthings.  It warn’t good judgment to put everything on the raft.\nIf the men went to the island I just expect they found the camp ﬁre\nI built, and watched it all night for Jim to come. Anyways, they\nstayed away from us, and if my building the ﬁre never fooled them it\nwarn’t no fault of mine. I played it as low down on them as I could.\nWhen the ﬁrst streak of day began to show we tied up to a towhead\nin a big bend on the Illinois side, and hacked off cottonwood branch-\nes with the hatchet, and covered up the raft with them so she looked\nlike there had been a cave-in in the bank there. A tow-head is a sand-\nbar that has cottonwoods on it as thick as harrow-teeth.\nWe had mountains on the Missouri shore and heavy timber on the\nIllinois side, and the channel was down the Missouri shore at that\nplace, so we warn’t afraid of anybody running across us. We laid there\nall day, and watched the rafts and steamboats spin down the Missouri\nshore, and up-bound steamboats ﬁght the big river in the middle. I\ntold Jim all about the time I had jabbering with that woman; and Jim\nsaid she was a smart one, and if she was to start after us herself she\nwouldn’t set down and watch a camp ﬁre—no, sir, she’d fetch a dog.\nWell, then, I said, why couldn’t she tell her husband to fetch a dog?\nCHAPTER TWELVE\n66\n\n\nJim said he bet she did think of it by the time the men was ready to\nstart, and he believed they must a gone up-town to get a dog and so\nthey lost all that time, or else we wouldn’t be here on a towhead six-\nteen or seventeen mile below the village—no, indeedy, we would be\nin that same old town again. So I said I didn’t care what was the rea-\nson they didn’t get us as long as they didn’t.\nWhen it was beginning to come on dark we poked our heads out\nof the cottonwood thicket, and looked up and down and across;\nnothing in sight; so Jim took up some of the top planks of the raft\nand built a snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and rainy,\nand to keep the things dry. Jim made a ﬂoor for the wigwam, and\nraised it a foot or more above the level of the raft, so now the blan-\nkets and all the traps was out of reach of steamboat waves. Right in\nthe middle of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about ﬁve or six\ninches deep with a frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was\nto build a ﬁre on in sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep\nit from being seen. We made an extra steering-oar, too, because one\nof the others might get broke on a snag or something. We ﬁxed up a\nshort forked stick to hang the old lantern on, because we must always\nlight the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down-stream,\nto keep from getting run over; but we wouldn’t have to light it for\nup-stream boats unless we see we was in what they call a “crossing”;\nfor the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a little\nunder water; so up-bound boats didn’t always run the channel, but\nhunted easy water.\nThis second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a\ncurrent that was making over four mile an hour. We catched ﬁsh and\ntalked, and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It\nwas kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, lay-ing on our\nbacks looking up at the stars, and we didn’t ever feel like talking loud,\nand it warn’t often that we laughed—only a little kind of a low\nchuckle. We had mighty good weather as a general thing, and noth-\ning ever happened to us at all—that night, nor the next, nor the next.\nEvery night we passed towns, some of them away up on black hill-\nsides, nothing but just a shiny bed of lights; not a house could you\nsee. The ﬁfth night we passed St. Louis, and it was like the whole\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n67\n\n\nworld lit up. In St. Petersburg they used to say there was twenty or\nthirty thousand people in St. Louis, but I never believed it till I see\nthat wonderful spread of lights at two o’clock that still night. There\nwarn’t a sound there; everybody was asleep.\nEvery night now I used to slip ashore towards ten o’clock at some\nlittle village, and buy ten or ﬁfteen cents’ worth of meal or bacon or\nother stuff to eat; and sometimes I lifted a chicken that warn’t roost-\ning comfortable, and took him along. Pap always said, take a chick-\nen when you get a chance, because if you don’t want him yourself\nyou can easy ﬁnd somebody that does, and a good deed ain’t ever for-\ngot. I never see pap when he didn’t want the chicken himself, but\nthat is what he used to say, anyway.\nMornings before daylight I slipped into cornfields and borrowed\na watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new corn,\nor things of that kind.  Pap always said it warn’t no harm to bor-\nrow things if you was meaning to pay them back some time; but\nthe widow said it warn’t anything but a soft name for stealing, and\nno decent body would do it. Jim said he reckoned the widow was\npartly right and pap was partly right; so the best way would be for\nus to pick out two or three things from the list and say we would-\nn’t borrow them any more—then he reckoned it wouldn’t be no\nharm to borrow the others. So we talked it over all one night,\ndrifting along down the river, trying to make up our minds\nwhether to drop the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or the mush-\nmelons, or what. But towards daylight we got it all settled satis-\nfactory, and concluded to drop crabapples and p’simmons. We\nwarn’t feeling just right before that, but it was all comfortable\nnow. I was glad the way it come out, too, because crabapples ain’t\never good, and the p’simmons wouldn’t be ripe for two or three\nmonths yet.\nWe shot a water-fowl now and then that got up too early in the\nmorning or didn’t go to bed early enough in the evening. Take it all\nround, we lived pretty high.\nThe ﬁfth night below St. Louis we had a big storm after midnight,\nwith a power of thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in\na solid sheet. We stayed in the wigwam and let the raft take care of\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n68\n\n\nitself.  When the lightning glared out we could see a big straight river\nahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. By and by says I, “Hel-\nLO, Jim, looky yonder!” It was a steamboat that had killed herself on\na rock. We was drifting straight down for her. The lightning showed\nher very distinct. She was leaning over, with part of her upper deck\nabove water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy clean and\nclear, and a chair by the big bell, with an old slouch hat hanging on\nthe back of it, when the ﬂashes come.\nWell, it being away in the night and stormy, and all so mysterious-\nlike, I felt just the way any other boy would a felt when I see that\nwreck laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle of the\nriver. I wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a little, and see\nwhat there was there. So I says:\n“Le’s land on her, Jim.”\nBut Jim was dead against it at ﬁrst. He says:\n“I doan’ want to go fool’n ‘long er no wrack.  We’s doin’ blame’\nwell, en we better let blame’ well alone, as de good book says. Like as\nnot dey’s a watchman on dat wrack.”\n“Watchman your grandmother,” I says; “there ain’t nothing to\nwatch but the texas and the pilot-house; and do you reckon any-\nbody’s going to resk his life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night\nas this, when it’s likely to break up and wash off down the river any\nminute?” Jim couldn’t say nothing to that, so he didn’t try. “And\nbesides,” I says, “we might borrow something worth having out of\nthe captain’s stateroom. Seegars, I bet you—and cost five cents\napiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty\ndollars a month, and they don’t care a cent what a thing costs, you\nknow, long as they want it. Stick a candle in your pocket; I can’t rest,\nJim, till we give her a rummaging. Do you reckon Tom Sawyer would\never go by this thing? Not for pie, he wouldn’t. He’d call it an adven-\nture—that’s what he’d call it; and he’d land on that wreck if it was his\nlast act. And wouldn’t he throw style into it?—wouldn’t he spread\nhimself, nor nothing? Why, you’d think it was Christopher C’lumbus\ndiscovering Kingdom-Come. I wish Tom Sawyer was here.”\nJim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we mustn’t talk any\nmore than we could help, and then talk mighty low. The lightning\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n69\n\n\nshowed us the wreck again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard\nderrick, and made fast there.\nThe deck was high out here. We went sneaking down the slope of\nit to labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow\nwith our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for\nit was so dark we couldn’t see no sign of them. Pretty soon we struck\nthe forward end of the skylight, and clumb on to it; and the next step\nfetched us in front of the captain’s door, which was open, and by\nJimminy, away down through the texas-hall we see a light! and all in\nthe same second we seem to hear low voices in yonder!\nJim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me\nto come along. I says, all right, and was going to start for the raft; but\njust then I heard a voice wail out and say:\n“Oh, please don’t, boys; I swear I won’t ever tell!”\nAnother voice said, pretty loud:\n“It’s a lie, Jim Turner. You’ve acted this way before. You always want\nmore’n your share of the truck, and you’ve always got it, too, because\nyou’ve swore ‘t if you didn’t you’d tell. But this time you’ve said it jest\none time too many. You’re the meanest, treacherousest hound in this\ncountry.”\nBy this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was just a-biling with\ncuriosity; and I says to myself, Tom Sawyer wouldn’t back out now,\nand so I won’t either;\nI’m a-going to see what’s going on here. So I dropped on my hands\nand knees in the little passage, and crept aft in the dark till there\nwarn’t but one stateroom betwixt me and the cross-hall of the texas.\nThen in there I see a man stretched on the ﬂoor and tied hand and\nfoot, and two men standing over him, and one of them had a dim\nlantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol. This one kept\npointing the pistol at the man’s head on the ﬂoor, and saying:\n“I’d like to! And I orter, too—a mean skunk!”\nThe man on the ﬂoor would shrivel up and say, “Oh, please don’t,\nBill; I hain’t ever goin’ to tell.”\nAnd every time he said that the man with the lantern would laugh\nand say:\n“’Deed you ain’t! You never said no truer thing ‘n that, you bet\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n70\n\n\nyou.” And once he said: “Hear him beg! and yit if we hadn’t got the\nbest of him and tied him he’d a killed us both. And what for? Jist for\nnoth’n. Jist because we stood on our rights—that’s what for. But I lay\nyou ain’t a-goin’ to threaten nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put UP\nthat pistol, Bill.”\nBill says:\n“I don’t want to, Jake Packard. I’m for killin’ him—and didn’t he\nkill old Hatﬁeld jist the same way—and don’t he deserve it?”\n“But I don’t want him killed, and I’ve got my reasons for it.”\n“Bless yo’ heart for them words, Jake Packard!  I’ll never forgit you\nlong’s I live!” says the man on the ﬂoor, sort of blubbering.\nPackard didn’t take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a\nnail and started towards where I was there in the dark, and motioned\nBill to come. I crawﬁshed as fast as I could about two yards, but the\nboat slanted so that I couldn’t make very good time; so to keep from\ngetting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom on the upper\nside. The man came a-pawing along in the dark, and when Packard\ngot to my stateroom, he says:\n“Here—come in here.”\nAnd in he come, and Bill after him. But before they got in I was up\nin the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come. Then they stood\nthere, with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. I could-\nn’t see them, but I could tell where they was by the whisky they’d\nbeen having. I was glad I didn’t drink whisky; but it wouldn’t made\nmuch difference anyway, because most of the time they couldn’t a\ntreed me because I didn’t breathe. I was too scared. And, besides, a\nbody couldn’t breathe and hear such talk. They talked low and\nearnest. Bill wanted to kill Turner.\nHe says:\n“He’s said he’ll tell, and he will. If we was to give both our shares\nto him now it wouldn’t make no difference after the row and the way\nwe’ve served him.  Shore’s you’re born, he’ll turn State’s evidence; now\nyou hear me. I’m for putting him out of his troubles.”\n“So’m I,” says Packard, very quiet.\n“Blame it, I’d sorter begun to think you wasn't.\nWell, then, that’s all right. Le’s go and do it.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n71\n\n\n“Hold on a minute; I hain’t had my say yit. You listen to me.\nShooting’s good, but there’s quieter ways if the thing’s got to be done.\nBut what I say is this: it ain’t good sense to go court’n around after a\nhalter if you can git at what you’re up to in some way that’s jist as\ngood and at the same time don’t bring you into no resks. Ain’t that\nso?”\n“You bet it is. But how you goin’ to manage it this time?”\n“Well, my idea is this: we’ll rustle around and gather up whatever\npickins we’ve overlooked in the state-rooms, and shove for shore and\nhide the truck. Then we’ll wait. Now I say it ain’t a-goin’ to be\nmore’n two hours befo’ this wrack breaks up and washes off down the\nriver. See? He’ll be drownded, and won’t have nobody to blame for it\nbut his own self. I reckon that’s a considerble sight better ‘n killin’ of\nhim. I’m unfavorable to killin’ a man as long as you can git aroun’ it;\nit ain’t good sense, it ain’t good morals. Ain’t I right?”\n“Yes, I reck’n you are. But s’pose she don’t break up and wash off?”\n“Well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see, can’t we?”\n“All right, then; come along.”\nSo they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled for-\nward. It was dark as pitch there; but I said, in a kind of a coarse whis-\nper, “Jim !” and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a\nmoan, and I says:\n“Quick, Jim, it ain’t no time for fooling around and moaning;\nthere’s a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don’t hunt up their\nboat and set her drifting down the river so these fellows can’t get\naway from the wreck there’s one of ‘em going to be in a bad ﬁx.  But\nif we ﬁnd their boat we can put all of ‘em in a bad ﬁx—for the sher-\niff ‘ll get ‘em. Quick—hurry!  I’ll hunt the labboard side, you hunt\nthe stabboard.\nYou start at the raft, and—”\n“Oh, my lordy, lordy! Raf’? Dey ain’ no raf’ no mo’; she done\nbroke loose en gone I—en here we is!”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n72\n\n\nW\nell I catched my breath and most fainted.\nShut up on a wreck with such a gang as that!  But it warn’t no time\nto be sentimentering. We’d got to ﬁnd that boat now—had to have it\nfor ourselves.  So we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard\nside, and slow work it was, too—seemed a week before we got to the\nstern. No sign of a boat. Jim said he didn’t believe he could go any\nfurther—so scared he hadn’t hardly any strength left, he said.  But I\nsaid, come on, if we get left on this wreck we are in a ﬁx, sure. So on\nwe prowled again. We struck for the stern of the texas, and found it,\nand then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from\nshutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. When\nwe got pretty close to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure\nenough! I could just barely see her. I felt ever so thankful. In another\nsecond I would a been aboard of her, but just then the door opened.\nOne of the men stuck his head out only about a couple of foot from\nme, and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says:\n“Heave that blame lantern out o’ sight, Bill!”\nHe ﬂung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself\nand set down. It was Packard. Then Bill he come out and got in.\nPackard says, in a low voice:\n“All ready—shove off!”\nI couldn’t hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill says:\n“Hold on—‘d you go through him?”\n“No. Didn’t you?”\n“No. So he’s got his share o’ the cash yet.”\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\n73\n\n\n“Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money.”\n“Say, won’t he suspicion what we’re up to?”\n“Maybe he won’t. But we got to have it anyway. Come along.”\nSo they got out and went in.\nThe door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a\nhalf second I was in the boat, and Jim come tumbling after me. I out\nwith my knife and cut the rope, and away we went!\nWe didn’t touch an oar, and we didn’t speak nor whisper, nor hard-\nly even breathe. We went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip\nof the paddle-box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more\nwe was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked\nher up, every last sign of her, and we was safe, and knowed it.\nWhen we was three or four hundred yards down-stream we see the\nlantern show like a little spark at the texas door for a second, and we\nknowed by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was begin-\nning to understand that they was in just as much trouble now as Jim\nTurner was.\nThen Jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. Now\nwas the ﬁrst time that I begun to worry about the men—I reckon I\nhadn’t had time to before.  I begun to think how dreadful it was, even\nfor murderers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself, there ain’t no\ntelling but I might come to be a murderer myself yet, and then how\nwould I like it? So says I to Jim:\n“The ﬁrst light we see we’ll land a hundred yards below it or above\nit, in a place where it’s a good hiding-place for you and the skiff, and\nthen I’ll go and ﬁx up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody to go\nfor that gang and get them out of their scrape, so they can be hung\nwhen their time comes.”\nBut that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun to storm\nagain, and this time worse than ever. The rain poured down, and\nnever a light showed; everybody in bed, I reckon. We boomed\nalong down the river, watching for lights and watching for our\nraft.  After a long time the rain let up, but the clouds stayed, and\nthe lightning kept whimpering, and by and by a flash showed us\na black thing ahead, floating, and we made for it.\nIt was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n74\n\n\nWe seen a light now away down to the right, on shore. So I said I\nwould go for it.  The skiff was half full of plunder which that gang\nhad stole there on the wreck. We hustled it on to the raft in a pile,\nand I told Jim to float along down, and show a light when he\njudged he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning till I\ncome; then I manned my oars and shoved for the light. As I got\ndown towards it three or four more showed—up on a hillside. It\nwas a village. I closed in above the shore light, and laid on my oars\nand floated. As I went by I see it was a lantern hanging on the jack-\nstaff of a double-hull ferryboat. I skimmed around for the watch-\nman, a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and by and by I found\nhim roosting on the bitts forward, with his head down between his\nknees. I gave his shoulder two or three little shoves, and begun to\ncry.\nHe stirred up in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it was\nonly me he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says:\n“Hello, what’s up? Don’t cry, bub. What’s the trouble?”\nI says:\n“Pap, and mam, and sis, and—”\nThen I broke down. He says:\n“Oh, dang it now, don’t take on so; we all has to have our troubles,\nand this ‘n ‘ll come out all right.  What’s the matter with ‘em?”\n“They’re—they’re—are you the watchman of the boat?”\n“Yes,” he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. “I’m the captain\nand the owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman and head\ndeck-hand; and sometimes I’m the freight and passengers. I ain’t as\nrich as old Jim Hornback, and I can’t be so blame’ generous and good\nto Tom, Dick, and Harry as what he is, and slam around money the\nway he does; but I’ve told him a many a time ‘t I wouldn’t trade\nplaces with him; for, says I, a sailor’s life’s the life for me, and I’m\nderned if I’D live two mile out o’ town, where there ain’t nothing\never goin’ on, not for all his spondulicks and as much more on top of\nit. Says I—”\nI broke in and says:\n“They’re in an awful peck of trouble, and—”\n“Who is?”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n75\n\n\n“Why, pap and mam and sis and Miss Hooker;and if you’d take\nyour ferryboat and go up there—”\n“Up where? Where are they?”\n“On the wreck.”\n“What wreck?”\n“Why, there ain’t but one.”\n“What, you don’t mean the Walter Scott?”\n“Yes.”\n“Good land! what are they doin’ there, for gracious sakes?”\n“Well, they didn’t go there a-purpose.”\n“I bet they didn’t! Why, great goodness, there ain’t no chance for\n‘em if they don’t git off mighty quick! Why, how in the nation did\nthey ever git into such a scrape?”\n“Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting up there to the town—”\n“Yes, Booth’s Landing—go on.”\n“She was a-visiting there at Booth’s Landing, and just in the edge of\nthe evening she started over with her nigger woman in the horse-ferry\nto stay all night at her friend’s house, Miss What-you-may-call-her, I\ndisremember her name—and they lost their steering-oar, and swung\naround and went a-ﬂoating down, stern ﬁrst, about two mile, and\nsaddle-baggsed on the wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger\nwoman and the horses was all lost, but Miss Hooker she made a grab\nand got aboard the wreck. Well, about an hour after dark we come\nalong down in our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn’t notice\nthe wreck till we was right on it; and so we saddle-baggsed; but all of\nus was saved but Bill Whipple—and oh, he was the best cretur !—I\nmost wish ‘t it had been me, I do.”\n“My George! It’s the beatenest thing I ever struck. And then what\ndid you all do?”\n“Well, we hollered and took on, but it’s so wide there we couldn’t\nmake nobody hear. So pap said somebody got to get ashore and get\nhelp somehow. I was the only one that could swim, so I made a dash\nfor it, and Miss Hooker she said if I didn’t strike help sooner, come\nhere and hunt up her uncle, and he’d ﬁx the thing. I made the land\nabout a mile below, and been fooling along ever since, trying to get\npeople to do something, but they said, ‘What, in such a night and\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n76\n\n\nsuch a current? There ain’t no sense in it; go for the steam ferry.’ Now\nif you’ll go and—”\n“By Jackson, I’d like to, and, blame it, I don’t know but I will; but\nwho in the dingnation’s a-going’ to pay for it? Do you reckon your\npap—”\n“Why that’s all right. Miss Hooker she tole me, particular, that her\nuncle Hornback—”\n“Great guns! is he her uncle? Looky here, you break for that light\nover yonder-way, and turn out west when you git there, and about a\nquarter of a mile out you’ll come to the tavern; tell ‘em to dart you\nout to Jim Hornback’s, and he’ll foot the bill. And don’t you fool\naround any, because he’ll want to know the news. Tell him I’ll have\nhis niece all safe before he can get to town. Hump yourself, now; I’m\na-going up around the corner here to roust out my engineer.”\nI struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the corner I went\nback and got into my skiff and bailed her out, and then pulled up\nshore in the easy water about six hundred yards, and tucked myself in\namong some woodboats; for I couldn’t rest easy till I could see the\nferryboat start. But take it all around, I was feeling ruther comfort-\nable on accounts of taking all this trouble for that gang, for not many\nwould a done it.  I wished the widow knowed about it. I judged she\nwould be proud of me for helping these rapscallions, because rapscal-\nlions and dead beats is the kind the widow and good people takes the\nmost interest in.\nWell, before long here comes the wreck, dim and dusky, sliding\nalong down! A kind of cold shiver went through me, and then I\nstruck out for her. She was very deep, and I see in a minute there\nwarn’t much chance for anybody being alive in her. I pulled all\naround her and hollered a little, but there wasn’t any answer; all dead\nstill. I felt a little bit heavy-hearted about the gang, but not much, for\nI reckoned if they could stand it I could.\nThen here comes the ferryboat; so I shoved for the middle of the\nriver on a long down-stream slant; and when I judged I was out of\neye-reach I laid on my oars, and looked back and see her go and\nsmell around the wreck for Miss Hooker’s remainders, because the\ncaptain would know her uncle Hornback would want them; and\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n77\n\n\nthen pretty soon the ferryboat give it up and went for the shore, and\nI laid into my work and went a-booming down the river.\nIt did seem a powerful long time before Jim’s light showed up; and\nwhen it did show it looked like it was a thousand mile off. By the\ntime I got there the sky was beginning to get a little gray in the east;\nso we struck for an island, and hid the raft, and sunk the skiff, and\nturned in and slept like dead people.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n78\n\n\nBy and by, when we got up, we turned over the truck the gang\nhad stole off of the wreck, and found boots, and blankets, and\nclothes, and all sorts of other things, and a lot of books, and a spy-\nglass, and three boxes of seegars. We hadn’t ever been this rich before\nin neither of our lives. The seegars was prime.  We laid off all the\nafternoon in the woods talking, and me reading the books, and hav-\ning a general good time.  I told Jim all about what happened inside\nthe wreck and at the ferryboat, and I said these kinds of things was\nadventures; but he said he didn’t want no more adventures. He said\nthat when I went in the texas and he crawled back to get on the raft\nand found her gone he nearly died, because he judged it was all up\nwith him anyway it could be ﬁxed; for if he didn’t get saved he would\nget drownded; and if he did get saved, whoever saved him would\nsend him back home so as to get the reward, and then Miss Watson\nwould sell him South, sure. Well, he was right; he was most always\nright; he had an uncommon level head for a nigger.\nI read considerable to Jim about kings and dukes and earls and\nsuch, and how gaudy they dressed, and how much style they put on,\nand called each other your majesty, and your grace, and your lord-\nship, and so on, ‘stead of mister; and Jim’s eyes bugged out, and he\nwas interested. He says:\n“I didn’ know dey was so many un um. I hain’t hearn ‘bout none\nun um, skasely, but ole King Sollermun, onless you counts dem kings\ndat’s in a pack er k’yards. How much do a king git?”\n“Get?” I says; “why, they get a thousand dollars a month if they\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN\n79\n\n\nwant it; they can have just as much as they want; everything belongs\nto them.”\n“Ain’ dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?”\n“They don’t do nothing! Why, how you talk! They just set around.”\n“No; is dat so?”\n“Of course it is. They just set around—except, maybe, when there’s\na war; then they go to the war.  But other times they just lazy around;\nor go hawking—just hawking and sp—Sh!—d’ you hear a noise?”\nWe skipped out and looked; but it warn’t nothing but the ﬂutter of\na steamboat’s wheel away down, coming around the point; so we\ncome back.\n“Yes,” says I, “and other times, when things is dull, they fuss with\nthe parlyment; and if everybody don’t go just so he whacks their\nheads off. But mostly they hang round the harem.”\n“Roun’ de which?”\n“Harem.”\n“What’s de harem?”\n“The place where he keeps his wives. Don’t you know about the\nharem? Solomon had one; he had about a million wives.”\n“Why, yes, dat’s so; I—I’d done forgot it. A harem’s a bo’d’n-house,\nI reck’n. Mos’ likely dey has rackety times in de nussery. En I reck’n\nde wives quarrels considable; en dat ‘crease de racket. Yit dey say\nSollermun de wises’ man dat ever live’. I doan’ take no stock in dat.\nBekase why: would a wise man want to live in de mids’ er sich a\nblim-blammin’ all de time? No—‘deed he wouldn’t. A wise man ‘ud\ntake en buil’ a biler-factry; en den he could shet down de biler-factry\nwhen he want to res’.”\n“Well, but he WAS the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she\ntold me so, her own self.”\n“I doan k’yer what de widder say, he warn’t no wise man nuther.\nHe had some er de dad-fetchedes’ ways I ever see. Does you know\n‘bout dat chile dat he ‘uz gwyne to chop in two?”\n“Yes, the widow told me all about it.”\n“Well, den! Warn’ dat de beatenes’ notion in de worl’? You jes’ take\nen look at it a minute. Dah’s de stump, dah—dat’s one er de women;\nheah’s you—dat’s de yuther one; I’s Sollermun; en dish yer dollar\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n80\n\n\nbill’s de chile. Bofe un you claims it. What does I do? Does I shin\naroun’ mongs’ de neighbors en fine out which un you de bill do\nb’long to, en han’ it over to de right one, all safe en soun’, de way dat\nanybody dat had any gumption would? No; I take en whack de bill\nin two, en give half un it to you, en de yuther half to de yuther\nwoman. Dat’s de way Sollermun was gwyne to do wid de chile. Now\nI want to ast you: what’s de use er dat half a bill?—can’t buy noth’n\nwid it. En what use is a half a chile? I wouldn’ give a dern for a mil-\nlion un um.”\n“But hang it, Jim, you’ve clean missed the point—blame it, you’ve\nmissed it a thousand mile.”\n“Who? Me? Go ‘long. Doan’ talk to me ‘bout yo’ pints. I reck’n I\nknows sense when I sees it; en dey ain’ no sense in sich doin’s as dat.\nDe ‘spute warn’t ‘bout a half a chile, de ‘spute was ‘bout a whole\nchile; en de man dat think he kin settle a ‘spute ‘bout a whole chile\nwid a half a chile doan’ know enough to come in out’n de rain. Doan’\ntalk to me ‘bout Sollermun, Huck, I knows him by de back.”\n“But I tell you you don’t get the point.”\n“Blame de point! I reck’n I knows what I knows.  En mine you,\nde real pint is down furder—it’s down deeper. It lays in de way\nSollermun was raised.  You take a man dat’s got on’y one or two\nchillen; is dat man gwyne to be waseful o’ chillen? No, he ain’t; he\ncan’t ‘ford it. He know how to value ‘em.  But you take a man dat’s\ngot ‘bout five million chillen runnin’ roun’ de house, en it’s dif-\nfunt. He as soon chop a chile in two as a cat. Dey’s plenty mo’. A\nchile er two, mo’ er less, warn’t no consekens to Sollermun, dad\nfatch him!”\nI never see such a nigger. If he got a notion in his head once, there\nwarn’t no getting it out again. He was the most down on Solomon of\nany nigger I ever see. So I went to talking about other kings, and let\nSolomon slide. I told about Louis Sixteenth that got his head cut off\nin France long time ago; and about his little boy the dolphin, that\nwould a been a king, but they took and shut him up in jail, and some\nsay he died there.\n“Po’ little chap.”\n“But some says he got out and got away, and come to America.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n81\n\n\n“Dat’s good! But he’ll be pooty lonesome—dey ain’ no kings here,\nis dey, Huck?”\n“No.”\n“Den he cain’t git no situation. What he gwyne to do?”\n“Well, I don’t know. Some of them gets on the police, and some of\nthem learns people how to talk French.”\n“Why, Huck, doan’ de French people talk de same way we does?”\n“No, Jim; you couldn’t understand a word they said—not a single\nword.”\n“Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat come?”\n“I don’t know; but it’s so. I got some of their jabber out of a book.\nS’pose a man was to come to you and say Polly-voo-franzy—what\nwould you think?”\n“I wouldn’ think nuff’n; I’d take en bust him over de head—dat is,\nif he warn’t white. I wouldn’t ‘low no nigger to call me dat.”\n“Shucks, it ain’t calling you anything. It’s only saying, do you know\nhow to talk French?”\n“Well, den, why couldn’t he say it?”\n“Why, he is a-saying it. That’s a Frenchman’s way of saying it.”\n“Well, it’s a blame ridicklous way, en I doan’ want to hear no mo’\n‘bout it. Dey ain’ no sense in it.”\n“Looky here, Jim; does a cat talk like we do?”\n“No, a cat don’t.”\n“Well, does a cow?”\n“No, a cow don’t, nuther.”\n“Does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a cat?”\n“No, dey don’t.”\n“It’s natural and right for ‘em to talk different from each other, ain’t it?”\n“Course.”\n“And ain’t it natural and right for a cat and a cow to talk different\nfrom us?”\n“Why, mos’ sholy it is.”\n“Well, then, why ain’t it natural and right for a Frenchman to talk\ndifferent from us? You answer me that.”\n“Is a cat a man, Huck?”\n“No.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n82\n\n\n“Well, den, dey ain’t no sense in a cat talkin’ like a man. Is a cow a\nman?—er is a cow a cat?”\n“No, she ain’t either of them.”\n“Well, den, she ain’t got no business to talk like either one er the\nyuther of ‘em. Is a Frenchman a man?”\n“Yes.”\n“Well, den! Dad blame it, why doan’ he talk like a man? You answer\nme dat!”\nI see it warn’t no use wasting words—you can’t learn a nigger to\nargue. So I quit.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n83\n\n\nW\ne judged that three nights more would fetch us to Cairo, at\nthe bottom of Illinois, where the Ohio River comes in, and that was\nwhat we was after. We would sell the raft and get on a steamboat and\ngo way up the Ohio amongst the free States, and then be out of\ntrouble.\nWell, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for a\ntowhead to tie to, for it wouldn’t do to try to run in a fog; but when\nI paddled ahead in the canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn’t\nanything but little saplings to tie to. I passed the line around one of\nthem right on the edge of the cut bank, but there was a stiff current,\nand the raft come booming down so lively she tore it out by the roots\nand away she went. I see the fog closing down, and it made me so\nsick and scared I couldn’t budge for most a half a minute it seemed\nto me—and then there warn’t no raft in sight; you couldn’t see twen-\nty yards. I jumped into the canoe and run back to the stern, and\ngrabbed the paddle and set her back a stroke. But she didn’t come. I\nwas in such a hurry I hadn’t untied her. I got up and tried to untie\nher, but I was so excited my hands shook so I couldn’t hardly do any-\nthing with them.\nAs soon as I got started I took out after the raft, hot and heavy,\nright down the towhead. That was all right as far as it went, but the\ntowhead warn’t sixty yards long, and the minute I ﬂew by the foot of\nit I shot out into the solid white fog, and hadn’t no more idea which\nway I was going than a dead man.\nThinks I, it won’t do to paddle; ﬁrst I know I’ll run into the bank\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN\n84\n\n\nor a towhead or something; I got to set still and ﬂoat, and yet it’s\nmighty fidgety business to have to hold your hands still at such a\ntime. I whooped and listened. Away down there somewheres I hears\na small whoop, and up comes my spirits. I went tearing after it, lis-\ntening sharp to hear it again.  The next time it come I see I warn’t\nheading for it, but heading away to the right of it. And the next time\nI was heading away to the left of it—and not gaining on it much\neither, for I was ﬂying around, this way and that and t’other, but it\nwas going straight ahead all the time.\nI did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it all the\ntime, but he never did, and it was the still places between the whoops\nthat was making the trouble for me. Well, I fought along, and direct-\nly I hears the whoop behind me. I was tangled good now. That was\nsomebody else’s whoop, or else I was turned around.\nI throwed the paddle down. I heard the whoop again; it was behind\nme yet, but in a different place; it kept coming, and kept changing its\nplace, and I kept answering, till by and by it was in front of me again,\nand I knowed the current had swung the canoe’s head down-stream,\nand I was all right if that was Jim and not some other raftsman hol-\nlering. I couldn’t tell nothing about voices in a fog, for nothing don’t\nlook natural nor sound natural in a fog.\nThe whooping went on, and in about a minute I come a-booming\ndown on a cut bank with smoky ghosts of big trees on it, and the\ncurrent throwed me off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags\nthat fairly roared, the current was tearing by them so swift.\nIn another second or two it was solid white and still again. I set\nperfectly still then, listening to my heart thump, and I reckon I did-\nn’t draw a breath while it thumped a hundred.\nI just give up then. I knowed what the matter was.  That cut bank\nwas an island, and Jim had gone down t’other side of it. It warn’t no\ntowhead that you could ﬂoat by in ten minutes. It had the big tim-\nber of a regular island; it might be ﬁve or six miles long and more\nthan half a mile wide.\nI kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about ﬁfteen minutes, I reckon.\nI was ﬂoating along, of course, four or ﬁve miles an hour; but you\ndon’t ever think of that. No, you feel like you are laying dead still on\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n85\n\n\nthe water; and if a little glimpse of a snag slips by you don’t think to\nyourself how fast you’re going, but you catch your breath and think,\nmy! how that snag’s tearing along. If you think it ain’t dismal and\nlonesome out in a fog that way by yourself in the night, you try it\nonce—you’ll see.\nNext, for about a half an hour, I whoops now and then; at last I\nhears the answer a long ways off, and tries to follow it, but I couldn’t\ndo it, and directly I judged I’d got into a nest of towheads, for I had\nlittle dim glimpses of them on both sides of me—sometimes just a\nnarrow channel between, and some that I couldn’t see I knowed was\nthere because I’d hear the wash of the current against the old dead\nbrush and trash that hung over the banks. Well, I warn’t long loosing\nthe whoops down amongst the towheads; and I only tried to chase\nthem a little while, anyway, because it was worse than chasing a Jack-\no’-lantern.  You never knowed a sound dodge around so, and swap\nplaces so quick and so much.\nI had to claw away from the bank pretty lively four or ﬁve times, to\nkeep from knocking the islands out of the river; and so I judged the\nraft must be butting into the bank every now and then, or else it\nwould get further ahead and clear out of hearing—it was ﬂoating a\nlittle faster than what I was.\nWell, I seemed to be in the open river again by and by, but I could-\nn’t hear no sign of a whoop nowheres.  I reckoned Jim had fetched up\non a snag, maybe, and it was all up with him. I was good and tired,\nso I laid down in the canoe and said I wouldn’t bother no more. I\ndidn’t want to go to sleep, of course; but I was so sleepy I couldn’t\nhelp it; so I thought I would take jest one little cat-nap.\nBut I reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when I waked up the\nstars was shining bright, the fog was all gone, and I was spinning\ndown a big bend stern first.  First I didn’t know where I was; I\nthought I was dreaming; and when things began to come back to me\nthey seemed to come up dim out of last week.\nIt was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest and the thickest\nkind of timber on both banks; just a solid wall, as well as I could see\nby the stars. I looked away down-stream, and seen a black speck on\nthe water. I took after it; but when I got to it it warn’t nothing but a\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n86\n\n\ncouple of sawlogs made fast together.  Then I see another speck, and\nchased that; then another, and this time I was right. It was the raft.\nWhen I got to it Jim was setting there with his head down between\nhis knees, asleep, with his right arm hanging over the steering-oar.\nThe other oar was smashed off, and the raft was littered up with\nleaves and branches and dirt. So she’d had a rough time.\nI made fast and laid down under Jim’s nose on the raft, and began\nto gap, and stretch my ﬁsts out against Jim, and says:\n“Hello, Jim, have I been asleep? Why didn’t you stir me up?”\n“Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you ain’ dead—you ain’\ndrownded—you’s back agin?  It’s too good for true, honey, it’s too\ngood for true.  Lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o’ you. No, you\nain’ dead! you’s back agin, ‘live en soun’, jis de same ole Huck—de\nsame ole Huck, thanks to goodness!”\n“What’s the matter with you, Jim? You been a-drinking?”\n“Drinkin’? Has I ben a-drinkin’? Has I had a chance to be a-\ndrinkin’?”\n“Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?”\n“How does I talk wild?”\n“How? Why, hain’t you been talking about my coming back, and all\nthat stuff, as if I’d been gone away?”\n“Huck—Huck Finn, you look me in de eye; look me in de eye.\nhain’t you ben gone away?”\n“Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you mean? I hain’t been\ngone anywheres. Where would I go to?”\n“Well, looky here, boss, dey’s sumf’n wrong, dey is. Is I me, or who\nis I? Is I heah, or whah is I?  Now dat’s what I wants to know.”\n“Well, I think you’re here, plain enough, but I think you’re a tan-\ngle-headed old fool, Jim.”\n“I is, is I? Well, you answer me dis: Didn’t you tote out de line in\nde canoe fer to make fas’ to de tow-head?”\n“No, I didn’t. What tow-head? I hain’t see no tow-head.”\n“You hain’t seen no towhead? Looky here, didn’t de line pull loose\nen de raf’ go a-hummin’ down de river, en leave you en de canoe\nbehine in de fog?”\n“What fog?”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n87\n\n\n“Why, de fog!—de fog dat’s been aroun’ all night.  En didn’t you\nwhoop, en didn’t I whoop, tell we got mix’ up in de islands en one\nun us got los’ en t’other one was jis’ as good as los’, ‘kase he didn’\nknow whah he wuz? En didn’t I bust up agin a lot er dem islands en\nhave a turrible time en mos’ git drownded? Now ain’ dat so, boss—\nain’t it so? You answer me dat.”\n“Well, this is too many for me, Jim. I hain’t seen no fog, nor no\nislands, nor no troubles, nor nothing.  I been setting here talking\nwith you all night till you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and\nI reckon I done the same. You couldn’t a got drunk in that time, so\nof course you’ve been dreaming.”\n“Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?”\n“Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn’t any of it\nhappen.”\n“But, Huck, it’s all jis’ as plain to me as—”\n“It don’t make no difference how plain it is; there ain’t nothing in\nit. I know, because I’ve been here all the time.”\nJim didn’t say nothing for about ﬁve minutes, but set there study-\ning over it. Then he says:\n“Well, den, I reck’n I did dream it, Huck; but dog my cats ef it ain’t\nde powerfullest dream I ever see. En I hain’t ever had no dream b’fo’\ndat’s tired me like dis one.”\n“Oh, well, that’s all right, because a dream does tire a body like\neverything sometimes. But this one was a staving dream; tell me all\nabout it, Jim.”\nSo Jim went to work and told me the whole thing right through,\njust as it happened, only he painted it up considerable. Then he said\nhe must start in and “’terpret” it, because it was sent for a warning.\nHe said the ﬁrst towhead stood for a man that would try to do us\nsome good, but the current was another man that would get us away\nfrom him. The whoops was warnings that would come to us every\nnow and then, and if we didn’t try hard to make out to understand\nthem they’d just take us into bad luck, ‘stead of keeping us out of it.\nThe lot of towheads was troubles we was going to get into with quar-\nrelsome people and all kinds of mean folks, but if we minded our\nbusiness and didn’t talk back and aggravate them, we would pull\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n88\n\n\nthrough and get out of the fog and into the big clear river, which was\nthe free States, and wouldn’t have no more trouble.\nIt had clouded up pretty dark just after I got on to the raft, but it\nwas clearing up again now.\n“Oh, well, that’s all interpreted well enough as far as it goes, Jim,”\nI says; “but what does these things stand for?”\nIt was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the smashed oar. You\ncould see them ﬁrst-rate now.\nJim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the\ntrash again. He had got the dream ﬁxed so strong in his head that he\ncouldn’t seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its place\nagain right away. But when he did get the thing straightened around\nhe looked at me steady without ever smiling, and says:\n“What do dey stan’ for? I’se gwyne to tell you.  When I got all wore\nout wid work, en wid de callin’ for you, en went to sleep, my heart\nwuz mos’ broke bekase you wuz los’, en I didn’ k’yer no’ mo’ what\nbecome er me en de raf’. En when I wake up en ﬁne you back agin,\nall safe en soun’, de tears come, en I could a got down on my knees\nen kiss yo’ foot, I’s so thankful. En all you wuz thinkin’ ‘bout wuz\nhow you could make a fool uv ole Jim wid a lie. Dat truck dah is\ntrash; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren’s\nen makes ‘em ashamed.”\nThen he got up slow and walked to the wigwam, and went in there\nwithout saying anything but that.  But that was enough. It made me\nfeel so mean I could almost kissed his foot to get him to take it back.\nIt was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go and\nhumble myself to a nigger; but I done it, and I warn’t ever sorry for\nit afterwards, neither. I didn’t do him no more mean tricks, and I\nwouldn’t done that one if I’d a knowed it would make him feel that\nway.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n89\n\n\nW\ne slept most all day, and started out at night, a little ways\nbehind a monstrous long raft that was as long going by as a proces-\nsion. She had four long sweeps at each end, so we judged she carried\nas many as thirty men, likely. She had ﬁve big wigwams aboard, wide\napart, and an open camp ﬁre in the middle, and a tall ﬂag-pole at\neach end. There was a power of style about her. It amounted to some-\nthing being a raftsman on such a craft as that.\nWe went drifting down into a big bend, and the night clouded up\nand got hot. The river was very wide, and was walled with solid tim-\nber on both sides; you couldn’t see a break in it hardly ever, or a light.\nWe talked about Cairo, and wondered whether we would know it\nwhen we got to it. I said likely we wouldn’t, because I had heard say\nthere warn’t but about a dozen houses there, and if they didn’t hap-\npen to have them lit up, how was we going to know we was passing\na town? Jim said if the two big rivers joined together there, that\nwould show. But I said maybe we might think we was passing the\nfoot of an island and coming into the same old river again. That dis-\nturbed Jim—and me too. So the question was, what to do? I said,\npaddle ashore the ﬁrst time a light showed, and tell them pap was\nbehind, coming along with a trading-scow, and was a green hand at\nthe business, and wanted to know how far it was to Cairo. Jim\nthought it was a good idea, so we took a smoke on it and waited.\nThere warn’t nothing to do now but to look out sharp for the\ntown, and not pass it without seeing it.  He said he’d be mighty sure\nto see it, because he’d be a free man the minute he seen it, but if he\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN\n90\n\n\nmissed it he’d be in a slave country again and no more show for free-\ndom. Every little while he jumps up and says:\n“Dah she is?”\nBut it warn’t. It was Jack-o’-lanterns, or lightning bugs; so he set\ndown again, and went to watching, same as before. Jim said it made\nhim all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom. Well, I\ncan tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear\nhim, because I begun to get it through my head that he was most\nfree—and who was to blame for it? Why, me. I couldn’t get that out\nof my conscience, no how nor no way. It got to troubling me so I\ncouldn’t rest; I couldn’t stay still in one place.  It hadn’t ever come\nhome to me before, what this thing was that I was doing. But now it\ndid; and it stayed with me, and scorched me more and more. I tried\nto make out to myself that I warn’t to blame, because I didn’t run Jim\noff from his rightful owner; but it warn’t no use, conscience up and\nsays, every time, “But you knowed he was running for his freedom,\nand you could a paddled ashore and told somebody.” That was so—\nI couldn’t get around that noway. That was where it pinched.\nConscience says to me, “What had poor Miss Watson done to you\nthat you could see her nigger go off right under your eyes and never\nsay one single word? What did that poor old woman do to you that\nyou could treat her so mean? Why, she tried to learn you your book,\nshe tried to learn you your manners, she tried to be good to you\nevery way she knowed how. That’s what she done.”\nI got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished I was dead.\nI ﬁdgeted up and down the raft, abusing myself to myself, and Jim\nwas ﬁdgeting up and down past me. We neither of us could keep still.\nEvery time he danced around and says, “Dah’s Cairo!” it went\nthrough me like a shot, and I thought if it was Cairo I reckoned I\nwould die of miserableness.\nJim talked out loud all the time while I was talking to myself.\nHe was saying how the first thing he would do when he got to a\nfree State he would go to saving up money and never spend a sin-\ngle cent, and when he got enough he would buy his wife, which\nwas owned on a farm close to where Miss Watson lived; and then\nthey would both work to buy the two children, and if their mas-\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n91\n\n\nter wouldn’t sell them, they’d get an Ab’litionist to go and steal\nthem.\nIt most froze me to hear such talk. He wouldn’t ever dared to talk\nsuch talk in his life before. Just see what a difference it made in him\nthe minute he judged he was about free. It was according to the old\nsaying, “Give a nigger an inch and he’ll take an ell.” Thinks I, this is\nwhat comes of my not thinking.  Here was this nigger, which I had\nas good as helped to run away, coming right out ﬂat-footed and say-\ning he would steal his children—children that belonged to a man I\ndidn’t even know; a man that hadn’t ever done me no harm.\nI was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a lowering of him. My\nconscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last I says\nto it, “Let up on me—it ain’t too late yet—I’ll paddle ashore at the\nﬁrst light and tell.” I felt easy and happy and light as a feather right\noff. All my troubles was gone. I went to looking out sharp for a light,\nand sort of singing to myself. By and by one showed. Jim sings out:\n“We’s safe, Huck, we’s safe! Jump up and crack yo’ heels! Dat’s de\ngood ole Cairo at las’, I jis knows it!”\nI says:\n“I’ll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It mightn’t be, you know.”\nHe jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the\nbottom for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as I shoved off,\nhe says:\n“Pooty soon I’ll be a-shout’n’ for joy, en I’ll say, it’s all on\naccounts o’ Huck; I’s a free man, en I couldn’t ever ben free ef it\nhadn’ ben for Huck; Huck done it. Jim won’t ever forgit you,\nHuck; you’s de bes’ fren’ Jim’s ever had; en you’s de only fren’ ole\nJim’s got now.”\nI was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he\nsays this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. I went\nalong slow then, and I warn’t right down certain whether I was\nglad I started or whether I warn’t. When I was fifty yards off, Jim\nsays:\n“Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on’y white genlman dat ever\nkep’ his promise to ole Jim.”\nWell, I just felt sick. But I says, I got to do it—I can’t get out of it.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n92\n\n\nRight then along comes a skiff with two men in it with guns, and\nthey stopped and I stopped. One of them says:\n“What’s that yonder?”\n“A piece of a raft,” I says.\n“Do you belong on it?”\n“Yes, sir.”\n“Any men on it?”\n“Only one, sir.”\n“Well, there’s ﬁve niggers run off tonight up yonder, above the head\nof the bend. Is your man white or black?”\nI didn’t answer up prompt. I tried to, but the words wouldn’t come.\nI tried for a second or two to brace up and out with it, but I warn’t\nman enough—hadn’t the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was weakening; so\nI just give up trying, and up and says:\n“He’s white.”\n“I reckon we’ll go and see for ourselves.”\n“I wish you would,” says I, “because it’s pap that’s there, and maybe\nyou’d help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. He’s sick—and\nso is mam and Mary Ann.”\n“Oh, the devil! we’re in a hurry, boy. But I s’pose we’ve got to.\nCome, buckle to your paddle, and let’s get along.”\nI buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars.\nWhen we had made a stroke or two, I says:\n“Pap’ll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can tell you. Everybody\ngoes away when I want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and I\ncan’t do it by myself.”\n“Well, that’s infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy, what’s the matter\nwith your father?”\n“It’s the—a—the—well, it ain’t anything much.”\nThey stopped pulling. It warn’t but a mighty little ways to the raft\nnow. One says:\n“Boy, that’s a lie. What IS the matter with your pap? Answer up\nsquare now, and it’ll be the better for you.”\n“I will, sir, I will, honest—but don’t leave us, please. It’s the—the—\nGentlemen, if you’ll only pull ahead, and let me heave you the head-\nline, you won’t have to come a-near the raft—please do.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n93\n\n\n“Set her back, John, set her back!” says one.  They backed water.\n“Keep away, boy—keep to looard. Confound it, I just expect the\nwind has blowed it to us. Your pap’s got the small-pox, and you know\nit precious well. Why didn’t you come out and say so? Do you want\nto spread it all over?”\n“Well,” says I, a-blubbering, “I’ve told every-body before, and they\njust went away and left us.”\n“Poor devil, there’s something in that. We are right down sorry for\nyou, but we—well, hang it, we don’t want the small-pox, you see.\nLook here, I’ll tell you what to do. Don’t you try to land by yourself,\nor you’ll smash everything to pieces. You float along down about\ntwenty miles, and you’ll come to a town on the left-hand side of the\nriver. It will be long after sun-up then, and when you ask for help\nyou tell them your folks are all down with chills and fever. Don’t be\na fool again, and let people guess what is the matter. Now we’re try-\ning to do you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us,\nthat’s a good boy. It wouldn’t do any good to land yonder where the\nlight is—it’s only a wood-yard.  Say, I reckon your father’s poor, and\nI’m bound to say he’s in pretty hard luck. Here, I’ll put a twenty-dol-\nlar gold piece on this board, and you get it when it ﬂoats by. I feel\nmighty mean to leave you; but my kingdom! it won’t do to fool with\nsmall-pox, don’t you see?”\n“Hold on, Parker,” says the other man, “here’s a twenty to put on\nthe board for me. Good-bye, boy; you do as Mr. Parker told you, and\nyou’ll be all right.”\n“That’s so, my boy—good-bye, good-bye. If you see any runaway\nniggers you get help and nab them, and you can make some money\nby it.”\n“Good-bye, sir,” says I; “I won’t let no runaway niggers get by me\nif I can help it.”\nThey went off and I got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low,\nbecause I knowed very well I had done wrong, and I see it warn’t no\nuse for me to try to learn to do right; a body that don’t get started\nright when he’s little ain’t got no show—when the pinch comes there\nain’t nothing to back him up and keep him to his work, and so he\ngets beat. Then I thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on;\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n94\n\n\ns’pose you’d a done right and give Jim up, would you felt better than\nwhat you do now? No, says I, I’d feel bad—I’d feel just the same way\nI do now. Well, then, says I, what’s the use you learning to do right\nwhen it’s troublesome to do right and ain’t no trouble to do wrong,\nand the wages is just the same? I was stuck.  I couldn’t answer that.\nSo I reckoned I wouldn’t bother no more about it, but after this\nalways do whichever come handiest at the time.\nI went into the wigwam; Jim warn’t there. I looked all around; he\nwarn’t anywhere. I says:\n“Jim!”\n“Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o’ sight yit? Don’t talk loud.”\nHe was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out. I\ntold him they were out of sight, so he come aboard. He says:\n“I was a-listenin’ to all de talk, en I slips into de river en was gwyne\nto shove for sho’ if dey come aboard. Den I was gwyne to swim to de\nraf’ agin when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool ‘em, Huck!\nDat wuz de smartes’ dodge! I tell you, chile, I’spec it save’ ole Jim—\nole Jim ain’t going to forgit you for dat, honey.”\nThen we talked about the money. It was a pretty good raise—twen-\nty dollars apiece. Jim said we could take deck passage on a steamboat\nnow, and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the\nfree States. He said twenty mile more warn’t far for the raft to go, but\nhe wished we was already there.\nTowards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty particular about\nhiding the raft good. Then he worked all day ﬁxing things in bun-\ndles, and getting all ready to quit rafting.\nThat night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away\ndown in a left-hand bend.\nI went off in the canoe to ask about it. Pretty soon I found a man\nout in the river with a skiff, setting a trot-line. I ranged up and says:\n“Mister, is that town Cairo?”\n“Cairo? no. You must be a blame’ fool.”\n“What town is it, mister?”\n“If you want to know, go and ﬁnd out. If you stay here botherin’\naround me for about a half a minute longer you’ll get something you\nwon’t want.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n95\n\n\nI paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed, but I said never\nmind, Cairo would be the next place, I reckoned.\nWe passed another town before daylight, and I was going out\nagain; but it was high ground, so I didn’t go. No high ground about\nCairo, Jim said. I had forgot it. We laid up for the day on a towhead\ntolerable close to the left-hand bank. I begun to suspicion something.\nSo did Jim. I says:\n“Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night.”\nHe says:\n“Doan’ le’s talk about it, Huck. Po’ niggers can’t have no luck. I\nawluz ‘spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn’t done wid its work.”\n“I wish I’d never seen that snake-skin, Jim—I do wish I’d never laid\neyes on it.”\n“It ain’t yo’ fault, Huck; you didn’ know. Don’t you blame yo’self\n‘bout it.”\nWhen it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio water inshore, sure\nenough, and outside was the old regular Muddy! So it was all up with\nCairo.\nWe talked it all over. It wouldn’t do to take to the shore; we could-\nn’t take the raft up the stream, of course. There warn’t no way but to\nwait for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the chances. So we\nslept all day amongst the cottonwood thicket, so as to be fresh for the\nwork, and when we went back to the raft about dark the canoe was\ngone!\nWe didn’t say a word for a good while. There warn’t anything to\nsay. We both knowed well enough it was some more work of the rat-\ntlesnake-skin; so what was the use to talk about it? It would only look\nlike we was ﬁnding fault, and that would be bound to fetch more bad\nluck—and keep on fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep\nstill.\nBy and by we talked about what we better do, and found there\nwarn’t no way but just to go along down with the raft till we got a\nchance to buy a canoe to go back in. We warn’t going to borrow it\nwhen there warn’t anybody around, the way pap would do, for that\nmight set people after us.\nSo we shoved out after dark on the raft.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n96\n\n\nAnybody that don’t believe yet that it’s foolishness to handle a\nsnake-skin, after all that that snake-skin done for us, will believe it\nnow if they read on and see what more it done for us.\nThe place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore. But we\ndidn’t see no rafts laying up; so we went along during three hours and\nmore. Well, the night got gray and ruther thick, which is the next\nmeanest thing to fog. You can’t tell the shape of the river, and you\ncan’t see no distance. It got to be very late and still, and then along\ncomes a steamboat up the river. We lit the lantern, and judged she\nwould see it. Up-stream boats didn’t generly come close to us; they go\nout and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the reefs; but\nnights like this they bull right up the channel against the whole river.\nWe could hear her pounding along, but we didn’t see her good till\nshe was close. She aimed right for us. Often they do that and try to\nsee how close they can come without touching; sometimes the wheel\nbites off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and laughs,\nand thinks he’s mighty smart. Well, here she comes, and we said she\nwas going to try and shave us; but she didn’t seem to be sheering off\na bit. She was a big one, and she was coming in a hurry, too, looking\nlike a black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it; but all of a\nsudden she bulged out, big and scary, with a long row of wide-open\nfurnace doors shining like red-hot teeth, and her monstrous bows\nand guards hanging right over us. There was a yell at us, and a jin-\ngling of bells to stop the engines, a powwow of cussing, and whistling\nof steam—and as Jim went overboard on one side and I on the other,\nshe come smashing straight through the raft.\nI dived—and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot\nwheel had got to go over me, and I wanted it to have plenty of room.\nI could always stay under water a minute; this time I reckon I stayed\nunder a minute and a half. Then I bounced for the top in a hurry, for\nI was nearly busting. I popped out to my armpits and blowed the\nwater out of my nose, and puffed a bit. Of course there was a boom-\ning current; and of course that boat started her engines again ten sec-\nonds after she stopped them, for they never cared much for raftsmen;\nso now she was churning along up the river, out of sight in the thick\nweather, though I could hear her.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n97\n\n\nI sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn’t get any answer;\nso I grabbed a plank that touched me while I was “treading water,”\nand struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. But I made out to\nsee that the drift of the current was towards the left-hand shore, which\nmeant that I was in a crossing; so I changed off and went that way.\nIt was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so I was a\ngood long time in getting over. I made a safe landing, and clumb up\nthe bank. I couldn’t see but a little ways, but I went poking along\nover rough ground for a quarter of a mile or more, and then I run\nacross a big old-fashioned double log-house before I noticed it. I was\ngoing to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and\nwent to howling and barking at me, and I knowed better than to\nmove another peg.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n98\n\n\nIn about half a minute somebody spoke out of a window without\nputting his head out, and says:\n“Be done, boys! Who’s there?”\nI says:\n“It’s me.”\n“Who’s me?”\n“George Jackson, sir.”\n“What do you want?”\n“I don’t want nothing, sir. I only want to go along by, but the dogs\nwon’t let me.”\n“What are you prowling around here this time of night for—\nhey?”\n“I warn’t prowling around, sir, I fell overboard off of the steamboat.”\n“Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, somebody. What did\nyou say your name was?”\n“George Jackson, sir. I’m only a boy.”\n“Look here, if you’re telling the truth you needn’t be afraid—\nnobody’ll hurt you. But don’t try to budge; stand right where you are.\nRouse out Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George\nJackson, is there anybody with you?”\n“No, sir, nobody.”\nI heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light.\nThe man sung out:\n“Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool—ain’t you got any\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n99\n\n\nsense? Put it on the ﬂoor behind the front door. Bob, if you and Tom\nare ready, take your places.”\n“All ready.”\n“Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?”\n“No, sir; I never heard of them.”\n“Well, that may be so, and it mayn’t. Now, all ready. Step forward,\nGeorge Jackson. And mind, don’t you hurry—come mighty slow. If\nthere’s anybody with you, let him keep back—if he shows himself\nhe’ll be shot. Come along now. Come slow; push the door open\nyourself—just enough to squeeze in, d’ you hear?”\nI didn’t hurry; I couldn’t if I’d a wanted to. I took one slow step at a\ntime and there warn’t a sound, only I thought I could hear my heart.\nThe dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behind\nme. When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard them unlocking\nand unbarring and unbolting. I put my hand on the door and pushed\nit a little and a little more till somebody said, “There, that’s enough—\nput your head in.” I done it, but I judged they would take it off.\nThe candle was on the ﬂoor, and there they all was, looking at me,\nand me at them, for about a quarter of a minute: Three big men with\nguns pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest, gray\nand about sixty, the other two thirty or more—all of them ﬁne and\nhandsome—and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her\ntwo young women which I couldn’t see right well. The old gentleman\nsays:\n“There; I reckon it’s all right. Come in.”\nAs soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked the door and\nbarred it and bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their\nguns, and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on\nthe ﬂoor, and got together in a corner that was out of the range of the\nfront windows—there warn’t none on the side.  They held the candle,\nand took a good look at me, and all said, “Why, he ain’t a\nShepherdson—no, there ain’t any Shepherdson about him.” Then the\nold man said he hoped I wouldn’t mind being searched for arms,\nbecause he didn’t mean no harm by it—it was only to make sure. So\nhe didn’t pry into my pockets, but only felt outside with his hands,\nand said it was all right. He told me to make myself easy and at\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n100\n\n\nhome, and tell all about myself; but the old lady says:\n“Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing’s as wet as he can be; and\ndon’t you reckon it may be he’s hungry?”\n“True for you, Rachel—I forgot.”\nSo the old lady says:\n“Betsy” (this was a nigger woman), you fly around and get him\nsomething to eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girls\ngo and wake up Buck and tell him—oh, here he is himself. Buck,\ntake this little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress\nhim up in some of yours that’s dry.”\nBuck looked about as old as me—thirteen or fourteen or along\nthere, though he was a little bigger than me. He hadn’t on anything\nbut a shirt, and he was very frowzy-headed. He came in gaping and\ndigging one ﬁst into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with\nthe other one. He says:\n“Ain’t they no Shepherdsons around?”\nThey said, no, ‘twas a false alarm.\n“Well,” he says, “if they’d a ben some, I reckon I’d a got one.”\nThey all laughed, and Bob says:\n“Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you’ve been so slow in\ncoming.”\n“Well, nobody come after me, and it ain’t right I’m always kept\ndown; I don’t get no show.”\n“Never mind, Buck, my boy,” says the old man, “you’ll have show\nenough, all in good time, don’t you fret about that. Go ‘long with\nyou now, and do as your mother told you.”\nWhen we got upstairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a\nroundabout and pants of his, and I put them on. While I was at it he\nasked me what my name was, but before I could tell him he started\nto tell me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in the\nwoods day before yesterday, and he asked me where Moses was when\nthe candle went out. I said I didn’t know; I hadn’t heard about it\nbefore, no way.\n“Well, guess,” he says.\n“How’m I going to guess,” says I, “when I never heard tell of it\nbefore?”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n101\n\n\n“But you can guess, can’t you? It’s just as easy.”\n“Which candle?” I says.\n“Why, any candle,” he says.\n“I don’t know where he was,” says I; “where was he?”\n“Why, he was in the dark! That’s where he was!”\n“Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?”\n“Why, blame it, it’s a riddle, don’t you see? Say, how long are you\ngoing to stay here? You got to stay always. We can just have booming\ntimes—they don’t have no school now. Do you own a dog?  I’ve got\na dog—and he’ll go in the river and bring out chips that you throw\nin. Do you like to comb up Sundays, and all that kind of foolishness?\nYou bet I don’t, but ma she makes me. Confound these ole britches!\nI reckon I’d better put ‘em on, but I’d ruther not, it’s so warm. Are\nyou all ready? All right. Come along, old hoss.”\nCold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and butter-milk—that is\nwhat they had for me down there, and there ain’t nothing better that\never I’ve come across yet. Buck and his ma and all of them smoked\ncob pipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two\nyoung women. They all smoked and talked, and I eat and talked. The\nyoung women had quilts around them, and their hair down their\nbacks. They all asked me questions, and I told them how pap and me\nand all the family was living on a little farm down at the bottom of\nArkansaw, and my sister Mary Ann run off and got married and\nnever was heard of no more, and Bill went to hunt them and he\nwarn’t heard of no more, and Tom and Mort died, and then there\nwarn’t nobody but just me and pap left, and he was just trimmed\ndown to nothing, on account of his troubles; so when he died I took\nwhat there was left, because the farm didn’t belong to us, and started\nup the river, deck passage, and fell overboard; and that was how I\ncome to be here. So they said I could have a home there as long as I\nwanted it. Then it was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and\nI went to bed with Buck, and when I waked up in the morning, drat\nit all, I had forgot what my name was.  So I laid there about an hour\ntrying to think, and when Buck waked up I says:\n“Can you spell, Buck?”\n“Yes,” he says.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n102\n\n\n“I bet you can’t spell my name,” says I.\n“I bet you what you dare I can,” says he.\n“All right,” says I, “go ahead.”\n“G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n—there now,” he says.\n“Well,” says I, “you done it, but I didn’t think you could. It ain’t no\nslouch of a name to spell—right off without studying.”\nI set it down, private, because somebody might want ME to spell it\nnext, and so I wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like I was\nused to it.\nIt was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. I hadn’t\nseen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so\nmuch style. It didn’t have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wood-\nen one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as\nhouses in town. There warn’t no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed;\nbut heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them. There was a big ﬁre-\nplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean\nand red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another\nbrick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that they\ncall Spanish-brown, same as they do in town.  They had big brass dog-\nirons that could hold up a saw-log. There was a clock on the middle\nof the mantel-piece, with a picture of a town painted on the bottom\nhalf of the glass front, and a round place in the middle of it for the\nsun, and you could see the pendulum swinging behind it. It was beau-\ntiful to hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of these ped-\ndlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in good shape,\nshe would start in and strike a hundred and ﬁfty before she got tuck-\nered out. They wouldn’t took any money for her.\nWell, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock,\nmade out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. By one of\nthe parrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the\nother; and when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but did-\nn’t open their mouths nor look different nor interested. They\nsqueaked through underneath. There was a couple of big wild-\nturkey-wing fans spread out behind those things. On the table in the\nmiddle of the room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that bad\napples and oranges and peaches and grapes piled up in it, which was\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n103\n\n\nmuch redder and yellower and prettier than real ones is, but they\nwarn’t real because you could see where pieces had got chipped off\nand showed the white chalk, or whatever it was, underneath.\nThis table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red\nand blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around.\nIt come all the way from Philadelphia, they said. There was some\nbooks, too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table.  One\nwas a big family Bible full of pictures. One was ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’\nabout a man that left his family, it didn’t say why. I read considerable\nin it now and then. The statements was interesting, but tough.\nAnother was ‘Friendship’s Offering,’ full of beautiful stuff and poet-\nry; but I didn’t read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay’s Speeches,\nand another was Dr. Gunn’s Family Medicine, which told you all\nabout what to do if a body was sick or dead. There was a hymn book,\nand a lot of other books. And there was nice split-bottom chairs, and\nperfectly sound, too—not bagged down in the middle and busted,\nlike an old basket.\nThey had pictures hung on the walls—mainly Washingtons and\nLafayettes, and battles, and Highland Marys, and one called “Signing\nthe Declaration.” There was some that they called crayons, which one\nof the daughters which was dead made her own self when she was\nonly ﬁfteen years old. They was different from any pictures I ever see\nbefore—blacker, mostly, than is common. One was a woman in a\nslim black dress, belted small under the armpits, with bulges like a\ncabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel\nbonnet with a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with\nblack tape, and very wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was\nleaning pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping\nwillow, and her other hand hanging down her side holding a white\nhandkerchief and a reticule, and underneath the picture it said “Shall\nI Never See Thee More Alas.” Another one was a young lady with her\nhair all combed up straight to the top of her head, and knotted there\nin front of a comb like a chair-back, and she was crying into a hand-\nkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other hand\nwith its heels up, and underneath the picture it said “I Shall Never\nHear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas.” There was one where a young\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n104\n\n\nlady was at a window looking up at the moon, and tears running\ndown her cheeks; and she had an open letter in one hand with black\nsealing wax showing on one edge of it, and she was mashing a locket\nwith a chain to it against her mouth, and underneath the picture it\nsaid “And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone Alas.” These was all\nnice pictures, I reckon, but I didn’t somehow seem to take to them,\nbecause if ever I was down a little they always give me the fan-tods.\nEverybody was sorry she died, because she had laid out a lot more of\nthese pictures to do, and a body could see by what she had done what\nthey had lost. But I reckoned that with her disposition she was hav-\ning a better time in the graveyard. She was at work on what they said\nwas her greatest picture when she took sick, and every day and every\nnight it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it done, but\nshe never got the chance. It was a picture of a young woman in a\nlong white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump\noff, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the moon,\nwith the tears running down her face, and she had two arms folded\nacross her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and two more\nreaching up towards the moon—and the idea was to see which pair\nwould look best, and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was\nsaying, she died before she got her mind made up, and now they kept\nthis picture over the head of the bed in her room, and every time her\nbirthday come they hung ﬂowers on it. Other times it was hid with a\nlittle curtain. The young woman in the picture had a kind of a nice\nsweet face, but there was so many arms it made her look too spidery,\nseemed to me.\nThis young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to\npaste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it out\nof the Presbyterian Observer, and write poetry after them out of her\nown head. It was very good poetry. This is what she wrote about a\nboy by the name of Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a well and\nwas drownded:\nODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC’D\nAnd did young Stephen sicken,\nAnd did young Stephen die?\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n105\n\n\nAnd did the sad hearts thicken,\nAnd did the mourners cry?\nNo; such was not the fate of\nYoung Stephen Dowling Bots;\nThough sad hearts round him thickened,\n‘Twas not from sickness’ shots.\nNo whooping-cough did rack his frame,\nNor measles drear with spots;\nNot these impaired the sacred name\nOf Stephen Dowling Bots.\nDespised love struck not with woe\nThat head of curly knots,\nNor stomach troubles laid him low,\nYoung Stephen Dowling Bots.\nO no. Then list with tearful eye,\nWhilst I his fate do tell.\nHis soul did from this cold world ﬂy\nBy falling down a well.\nThey got him out and emptied him;\nAlas it was too late;\nHis spirit was gone for to sport aloft\nIn the realms of the good and great.\nIf Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she was\nfourteen, there ain’t no telling what she could a done by and by. Buck\nsaid she could rattle off poetry like nothing. She didn’t ever have to\nstop to think. He said she would slap down a line, and if she could-\nn’t ﬁnd anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it out and slap\ndown another one, and go ahead. She warn’t particular; she could\nwrite about anything you choose to give her to write about just so it\nwas sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died,\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n106\n\n\nshe would be on hand with her “tribute” before he was cold. She\ncalled them tributes. The neighbors said it was the doctor ﬁrst, then\nEmmeline, then the undertaker—the under-taker never got in ahead\nof Emmeline but once, and then she hung ﬁre on a rhyme for the\ndead person’s name, which was Whistler. She warn’t ever the same\nafter that; she never complained, but she kinder pined away and did\nnot live long. Poor thing, many’s the time I made myself go up to the\nlittle room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book\nand read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and I had\nsoured on her a little. I liked all that family, dead ones and all, and\nwarn’t going to let anything come between us. Poor Emmeline made\npoetry about all the dead people when she was alive, and it didn’t\nseem right that there warn’t nobody to make some about her now she\nwas gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but I couldn’t\nseem to make it go somehow. They kept Emmeline’s room trim and\nnice, and all the things ﬁxed in it just the way she liked to have them\nwhen she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. The old lady took\ncare of the room herself, though there was plenty of niggers, and she\nsewed there a good deal and read her Bible there mostly.\nWell, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains\non the windows: white, with pictures painted on them of castles with\nvines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. There was\na little old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, I reckon, and nothing\nwas ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies sing “The Last Link is\nBroken” and play “The Battle of Prague” on it. The walls of all the\nrooms was plastered, and most had carpets on the floors, and the\nwhole house was whitewashed on the outside.\nIt was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them was\nroofed and floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the\nmiddle of the day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. Nothing\ncouldn’t be better.  And warn’t the cooking good, and just bushels of\nit too!\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n107\n\n\nC\nol. Grangerford was a gentleman, you see.  He was a gentleman\nall over; and so was his family. He was well born, as the saying is, and\nthat’s worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the Widow\nDouglas said, and nobody ever denied that she was of the ﬁrst aris-\ntocracy in our town; and pap he always said it, too, though he warn’t\nno more quality than a mudcat himself. Col. Grangerford was very\ntall and very slim, and had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of\nred in it anywheres; he was clean shaved every morning all over his\nthin face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind\nof nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest\nkind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was look-\ning out of caverns at you, as you may say. His forehead was high, and\nhis hair was black and straight and hung to his shoulders. His hands\nwas long and thin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt\nand a full suit from head to foot made out of linen so white it hurt\nyour eyes to look at it; and on Sundays he wore a blue tail-coat with\nbrass buttons on it. He carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to\nit. There warn’t no frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn’t\never loud. He was as kind as he could be—you could feel that, you\nknow, and so you had conﬁdence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was\ngood to see; but when he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole,\nand the lightning begun to ﬂicker out from under his eyebrows, you\nwanted to climb a tree ﬁrst, and ﬁnd out what the matter was after-\nwards. He didn’t ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners—\neverybody was always good-mannered where he was. Everybody\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n108\n\n\nloved to have him around, too; he was sunshine most always—I\nmean he made it seem like good weather. When he turned into a\ncloudbank it was awful dark for half a minute, and that was enough;\nthere wouldn’t nothing go wrong again for a week.\nWhen him and the old lady come down in the morning all the\nfamily got up out of their chairs and give them good-day, and didn’t\nset down again till they had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to\nthe sideboard where the decanter was, and mixed a glass of bitters\nand handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till Tom’s\nand Bob’s was mixed, and then they bowed and said, “Our duty to\nyou, sir, and madam;” and they bowed the least bit in the world and\nsaid thank you, and so they drank, all three, and Bob and Tom\npoured a spoonful of water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or\napple brandy in the bottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and\nBuck, and we drank to the old people too.\nBob was the oldest and Tom next—tall, beautiful men with very\nbroad shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black eyes.\nThey dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentle-\nman, and wore broad Panama hats.\nThen there was Miss Charlotte; she was twenty-ﬁve, and tall and\nproud and grand, but as good as she could be when she warn’t stirred\nup; but when she was she had a look that would make you wilt in\nyour tracks, like her father. She was beautiful.\nSo was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different kind. She was\ngentle and sweet like a dove, and she was only twenty.\nEach person had their own nigger to wait on them—\nBuck too. My nigger had a monstrous easy time, because I warn’t\nused to having anybody do anything for me, but Buck’s was on the\njump most of the time.\nThis was all there was of the family now, but there used to be\nmore—three sons; they got killed; and Emmeline that died.\nThe old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over a hundred nig-\ngers. Sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, from\nten or ﬁfteen mile around, and stay ﬁve or six days, and have such\njunketings round about and on the river, and dances and picnics in\nthe woods daytimes, and balls at the house nights.  These people was\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n109\n\n\nmostly kinfolks of the family. The men brought their guns with\nthem. It was a handsome lot of quality, I tell you.\nThere was another clan of aristocracy around there—five or six\nfamilies—mostly of the name of Shepherdson. They was as high-\ntoned and well born and rich and grand as the tribe of Grangerfords.\nThe Shepherdsons and Grangerfords used the same steam-boat land-\ning, which was about two mile above our house; so sometimes when\nI went up there with a lot of our folks I used to see a lot of the\nShepherdsons there on their ﬁne horses.\nOne day Buck and me was away out in the woods hunting, and\nheard a horse coming. We was crossing the road. Buck says:\n“Quick! Jump for the woods!”\nWe done it, and then peeped down the woods through the leaves.\nPretty soon a splendid young man come galloping down the road,\nsetting his horse easy and looking like a soldier. He had his gun\nacross his pommel. I had seen him before. It was young Harney\nShepherdson. I heard Buck’s gun go off at my ear, and Harney’s hat\ntumbled off from his head.  He grabbed his gun and rode straight to\nthe place where we was hid. But we didn’t wait. We started through\nthe woods on a run. The woods warn’t thick, so I looked over my\nshoulder to dodge the bullet, and twice I seen Harney cover Buck\nwith his gun; and then he rode away the way he come—to get his\nhat, I reckon, but I couldn’t see. We never stopped running till we\ngot home. The old gentleman’s eyes blazed a minute—‘twas pleasure,\nmainly, I judged—then his face sort of smoothed down, and he says,\nkind of gentle:\n“I don’t like that shooting from behind a bush. Why didn’t you step\ninto the road, my boy?”\n“The Shepherdsons don’t, father. They always take advantage.”\nMiss Charlotte she held her head up like a queen while Buck was\ntelling his tale, and her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped. The two\nyoung men looked dark, but never said nothing. Miss Sophia she\nturned pale, but the color come back when she found the man warn’t\nhurt.\nSoon as I could get Buck down by the corn-cribs under the trees by\nourselves, I says:\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n110\n\n\n“Did you want to kill him, Buck?”\n“Well, I bet I did.”\n“What did he do to you?”\n“Him? He never done nothing to me.”\n“Well, then, what did you want to kill him for?”\n“Why, nothing—only it’s on account of the feud.”\n“What’s a feud?”\n“Why, where was you raised? Don’t you know what a feud is?”\n“Never heard of it before—tell me about it.”\n“Well,” says Buck, “a feud is this way: A man has a quarrel with\nanother man, and kills him; then that other man’s brother kills him;\nthen the other brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then the\ncousins chip in—and by and by everybody’s killed off, and there ain’t\nno more feud. But it’s kind of slow, and takes a long time.”\n“Has this one been going on long, Buck?”\n“Well, I should reckon! It started thirty year ago, or som’ers along\nthere. There was trouble ‘bout something, and then a lawsuit to set-\ntle it; and the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot\nthe man that won the suit—which he would naturally do, of course.\nAnybody would.”\n“What was the trouble about, Buck?—land?”\n“I reckon maybe—I don’t know.”\n“Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Grangerford or a\nShepherdson?”\n“Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago.”\n“Don’t anybody know?”\n“Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old people;\nbut they don’t know now what the row was about in the ﬁrst place.”\n“Has there been many killed, Buck?”\n“Yes; right smart chance of funerals. But they don’t always kill. Pa’s\ngot a few buckshot in him; but he don’t mind it ‘cuz he don’t weigh\nmuch, anyway. Bob’s been carved up some with a bowie, and Tom’s\nbeen hurt once or twice.”\n“Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?”\n“Yes; we got one and they got one. ‘Bout three months ago my\ncousin Bud, fourteen year old, was riding through the woods on\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n111\n\n\nt’other side of the river, and didn’t have no weapon with him, which\nwas blame’ foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse a-\ncoming behind him, and sees old Baldy Shepherdson a-linkin’ after\nhim with his gun in his hand and his white hair a-ﬂying in the wind;\nand ‘stead of jumping off and taking to the brush, Bud ‘lowed he\ncould out-run him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or\nmore, the old man a-gaining all the time; so at last Bud seen it warn’t\nany use, so he stopped and faced around so as to have the bullet holes\nin front, you know, and the old man he rode up and shot him down.\nBut he didn’t git much chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week\nour folks laid him out.”\n“I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck.”\n“I reckon he warn’t a coward. Not by a blame’ sight. There ain’t a\ncoward amongst them Shepherdsons—not a one. And there ain’t no\ncowards amongst the Grangerfords either. Why, that old man kep’ up\nhis end in a ﬁght one day for half an hour against three Grangerfords,\nand come out winner. They was all a-horseback; he lit off of his horse\nand got behind a little woodpile, and kep’ his horse before him to\nstop the bullets; but the Grangerfords stayed on their horses and\ncapered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and he pep-\npered away at them. Him and his horse both went home pretty leaky\nand crippled, but the Grangerfords had to be fetched home—and one\nof ‘em was dead, and another died the next day. No, sir; if a body’s\nout hunting for cowards he don’t want to fool away any time\namongst them Shepherdsons, becuz they don’t breed any of that\nkind.”\nNext Sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-\nhorseback. The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept\nthem between their knees or stood them handy against the wall. The\nShepherdsons done the same. It was pretty ornery preaching—all\nabout brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said\nit was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and\nhad such a powerful lot to say about faith and good works and free\ngrace and preforeordestination, and I don’t know what all, that it did\nseem to me to be one of the roughest Sundays I had run across yet.\nAbout an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n112\n\n\ntheir chairs and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull.\nBuck and a dog was stretched out on the grass in the sun sound\nasleep. I went up to our room, and judged I would take a nap myself.\nI found that sweet Miss Sophia standing in her door, which was next\nto ours, and she took me in her room and shut the door very soft,\nand asked me if I liked her, and I said I did; and she asked me if I\nwould do something for her and not tell anybody, and I said I would.\nThen she said she’d forgot her Testament, and left it in the seat at\nchurch between two other books, and would I slip out quiet and go\nthere and fetch it to her, and not say nothing to nobody. I said I\nwould. So I slid out and slipped off up the road, and there warn’t\nanybody at the church, except maybe a hog or two, for there warn’t\nany lock on the door, and hogs likes a puncheon ﬂoor in summer-\ntime because it’s cool. If you notice, most folks don’t go to church\nonly when they’ve got to; but a hog is different.\nSays I to myself, something’s up; it ain’t natural for a girl to be in\nsuch a sweat about a Testament.  So I give it a shake, and out drops\na little piece of paper with “Half-past two” wrote on it with a pencil.\nI ransacked it, but couldn’t ﬁnd anything else. I couldn’t make any-\nthing out of that, so I put the paper in the book again, and when I\ngot home and upstairs there was Miss Sophia in her door waiting for\nme.  She pulled me in and shut the door; then she looked in the\nTestament till she found the paper, and as soon as she read it she\nlooked glad; and before a body could think she grabbed me and give\nme a squeeze, and said I was the best boy in the world, and not to tell\nanybody. She was mighty red in the face for a minute, and her eyes\nlighted up, and it made her powerful pretty. I was a good deal aston-\nished, but when I got my breath I asked her what the paper was\nabout, and she asked me if I had read it, and I said no, and she asked\nme if I could read writing, and I told her “no, only coarse-hand,” and\nthen she said the paper warn’t anything but a book-mark to keep her\nplace, and I might go and play now.\nI went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty\nsoon I noticed that my nigger was following along behind. When we\nwas out of sight of the house he looked back and around a second,\nand then comes a-running, and says:\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n113\n\n\n“Mars Jawge, if you’ll come down into de swamp I’ll show you a\nwhole stack o’ water-moccasins.”\nThinks I, that’s mighty curious; he said that yesterday. He oughter\nknow a body don’t love water-moccasins enough to go around hunt-\ning for them.\nWhat is he up to, anyway? So I says:\n“All right; trot ahead.”\nI followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the swamp, and\nwaded ankle deep as much as another half-mile. We come to a little\nﬂat piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bush-\nes and vines, and he says:\n“You shove right in dah jist a few steps, Mars Jawge; dah’s whah dey\nis. I’s seed ‘m befo’; I don’t k’yer to see ‘em no mo’.”\nThen he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the\ntrees hid him. I poked into the place a-ways and come to a little\nopen patch as big as a bedroom all hung around with vines, and\nfound a man laying there asleep—and, by jings, it was my old\nJim!\nI waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be a grand sur-\nprise to him to see me again, but it warn’t.  He nearly cried he was\nso glad, but he warn’t surprised. Said he swum along behind me that\nnight, and heard me yell every time, but dasn’t answer, because he\ndidn’t want nobody to pick him up and take him into slavery again.\nSays he:\n“I got hurt a little, en couldn’t swim fas’, so I wuz a considable\nways behine you towards de las’; when you landed I reck’ned I\ncould ketch up wid you on de lan’ ‘dout havin’ to shout at you,\nbut when I see dat house I begin to go slow. I ‘uz off too fur to\nhear what dey say to you—I wuz ‘fraid o’ de dogs; but when it\n‘uz all quiet agin I knowed you’s in de house, so I struck out for\nde woods to wait for day. Early in de mawnin’ some er de niggers\ncome along, gwyne to de fields, en dey tuk me en showed me dis\nplace, whah de dogs can’t track me on accounts o’ de water, en\ndey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me how you’s a-\ngitt’n along.”\n“Why didn’t you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim?”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n114\n\n\n“Well, ‘twarn’t no use to ‘sturb you, Huck, tell we could do\nsumfn—but we’s all right now. I ben a- buyin’ pots en pans en vittles,\nas I got a chanst, en a-patchin’ up de raf’ nights when—”\n“What raft, Jim?”\n“Our ole raf’.”\n“You mean to say our old raft warn’t smashed all to ﬂinders?”\n“No, she warn’t. She was tore up a good deal—one en’ of her was;\nbut dey warn’t no great harm done, on’y our traps was mos’ all los’.\nEf we hadn’ dive’ so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night\nhadn’ ben so dark, en we warn’t so sk’yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads,\nas de sayin’ is, we’d a seed de raf’.  But it’s jis’ as well we didn’t, ‘kase\nnow she’s all ﬁxed up agin mos’ as good as new, en we’s got a new lot\no’ stuff, in de place o’ what ‘uz los’.”\n“Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim—did you catch her?”\n“How I gwyne to ketch her en I out in de woods?  No; some er de\nniggers foun’ her ketched on a snag along heah in de ben’, en dey\nhid her in a crick ‘mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin’\n‘bout which un ‘um she b’long to de mos’ dat I come to heah ‘bout\nit pooty soon, so I ups en settles de trouble by tellin’ ‘um she don’t\nb’long to none uv um, but to you en me; en I ast ‘m if dey gwyne to\ngrab a young white genlman’s propaty, en git a hid’n for it? Den I\ngin ‘m ten cents apiece, en dey ‘uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht\nsome mo’ raf’s ‘ud come along en make ‘m rich agin. Dey’s mighty\ngood to me, dese niggers is, en whatever I wants ‘m to do fur me I\ndoan’ have to ast ‘m twice, honey. Dat Jack’s a good nigger, en pooty\nsmart.”\n“Yes, he is. He ain’t ever told me you was here; told me to come,\nand he’d show me a lot of water-moccasins. If anything happens HE\nain’t mixed up in it. He can say he never seen us together, and it ‘ll\nbe the truth.”\nI don’t want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I’ll cut it\npretty short. I waked up about dawn, and was a-going to turn over\nand go to sleep again when I noticed how still it was—didn’t seem to\nbe anybody stirring. That warn’t usual. Next I noticed that Buck was\nup and gone. Well, I gets up, a-wondering, and goes down stairs—\nnobody around; everything as still as a mouse. Just the same outside.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n115\n\n\nThinks I, what does it mean? Down by the wood-pile I comes across\nmy Jack, and says:\n“What’s it all about?”\nSays he:\n“Don’t you know, Mars Jawge?”\n“No,” says I, “I don’t.”\n“Well, den, Miss Sophia’s run off! ‘deed she has.  She run off in de\nnight some time—nobody don’t know jis’ when; run off to get mar-\nried to dat young Harney Shepherdson, you know—leastways, so dey\n‘spec. De fambly foun’ it out ‘bout half an hour ago—maybe a little\nmo’—en’ I tell you dey warn’t no time los’. Sich another hurryin’ up\nguns en hosses you never see! De women folks has gone for to stir up\nde relations, en ole Mars Saul en de boys tuck dey guns en rode up\nde river road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him ‘fo’ he kin\ngit acrost de river wid Miss Sophia. I reck’n dey’s gwyne to be mighty\nrough times.”\n“Buck went off ‘thout waking me up.”\n“Well, I reck’n he did! Dey warn’t gwyne to mix you up in it. Mars\nBuck he loaded up his gun en ‘lowed he’s gwyne to fetch home a\nShepherdson or bust. Well, dey’ll be plenty un ‘m dah, I reck’n, en\nyou bet you he’ll fetch one ef he gits a chanst.”\nI took up the river road as hard as I could put. By and by I begin\nto hear guns a good ways off. When I came in sight of the log store\nand the woodpile where the steamboats lands I worked along under\nthe trees and brush till I got to a good place, and then I clumb up\ninto the forks of a cottonwood that was out of reach, and watched.\nThere was a wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front of the\ntree, and ﬁrst I was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was luck-\nier I didn’t.\nThere was four or ﬁve men cavorting around on their horses in the\nopen place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to get\nat a couple of young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside\nof the steamboat landing; but they couldn’t come it.  Every time one\nof them showed himself on the river side of the woodpile he got shot\nat. The two boys was squatting back to back behind the pile, so they\ncould watch both ways.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n116\n\n\nBy and by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They\nstarted riding towards the store; then up gets one of the boys, draws\na steady bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his\nsaddle.  All the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed the hurt\none and started to carry him to the store; and that minute the two\nboys started on the run. They got half way to the tree I was in before\nthe men noticed. Then the men see them, and jumped on their hors-\nes and took out after them. They gained on the boys, but it didn’t do\nno good, the boys had too good a start; they got to the woodpile that\nwas in front of my tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they had the\nbulge on the men again. One of the boys was Buck, and the other\nwas a slim young chap about nineteen years old.\nThe men ripped around awhile, and then rode away.  As soon as\nthey was out of sight I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn’t\nknow what to make of my voice coming out of the tree at ﬁrst. He\nwas awful surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him\nknow when the men come in sight again; said they was up to some\ndevilment or other—wouldn’t be gone long. I wished I was out of\nthat tree, but I dasn’t come down. Buck begun to cry and rip, and\n‘lowed that him and his cousin Joe (that was the other young chap)\nwould make up for this day yet. He said his father and his two broth-\ners was killed, and two or three of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons\nlaid for them in ambush. Buck said his father and brothers ought to\nwaited for their relations—the Shepherdsons was too strong for\nthem. I asked him what was become of young Harney and Miss\nSophia. He said they’d got across the river and was safe. I was glad of\nthat; but the way Buck did take on because he didn’t manage to kill\nHarney that day he shot at him—I hain’t ever heard anything like it.\nAll of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns—the\nmen had slipped around through the woods and come in from\nbehind without their horses!  The boys jumped for the river—both of\nthem hurt—and as they swum down the current the men run along\nthe bank shooting at them and singing out, “Kill them, kill them!” It\nmade me so sick I most fell out of the tree. I ain’t a-going to tell all\nthat happened—it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I\nwished I hadn’t ever come ashore that night to see such things. I ain’t\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n117\n\n\never going to get shut of them—lots of times I dream about them.\nI stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down.\nSometimes I heard guns away off in the woods; and twice I seen lit-\ntle gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so I reckoned\nthe trouble was still a-going on. I was mighty downhearted; so I\nmade up my mind I wouldn’t ever go anear that house again, because\nI reckoned I was to blame, somehow.  I judged that that piece of\npaper meant that Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at\nhalf-past two and run off; and I judged I ought to told her father\nabout that paper and the curious way she acted, and then maybe he\nwould a locked her up, and this awful mess wouldn’t ever happened.\nWhen I got down out of the tree I crept along down the river bank\na piece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water, and\ntugged at them till I got them ashore; then I covered up their faces,\nand got away as quick as I could. I cried a little when I was covering\nup Buck’s face, for he was mighty good to me.\nIt was just dark now. I never went near the house, but struck\nthrough the woods and made for the swamp. Jim warn’t on his\nisland, so I tramped off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through\nthe willows, red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful coun-\ntry. The raft was gone! My souls, but I was scared! I couldn’t get my\nbreath for most a minute.  Then I raised a yell. A voice not twenty-\nﬁve foot from me says:\n“Good lan’! is dat you, honey? Doan’ make no noise.”\nIt was Jim’s voice—nothing ever sounded so good before. I run\nalong the bank a piece and got aboard, and Jim he grabbed me and\nhugged me, he was so glad to see me. He says:\n“Laws bless you, chile, I ‘uz right down sho’ you’s dead agin. Jack’s\nbeen heah; he say he reck’n you’s ben shot, kase you didn’ come\nhome no mo’; so I’s jes’ dis minute a startin’ de raf’ down towards de\nmouf er de crick, so’s to be all ready for to shove out en leave soon as\nJack comes agin en tells me for certain you IS dead. Lawsy, I’s mighty\nglad to git you back again, honey.\nI says:\n“All right—that’s mighty good; they won’t find me, and they’ll\nthink I’ve been killed, and ﬂoated down the river—there’s something\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n118\n\n\nup there that ‘ll help them think so—so don’t you lose no time, Jim,\nbut just shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can.”\nI never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out in the\nmiddle of the Mississippi. Then we hung up our signal lantern, and\njudged that we was free and safe once more. I hadn’t had a bite to eat\nsince yesterday, so Jim he got out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk,\nand pork and cabbage and greens—there ain’t nothing in the world\nso good when it’s cooked right—and whilst I eat my supper we\ntalked and had a good time. I was powerful glad to get away from the\nfeuds, and so was Jim to get away from the swamp. We said there\nwarn’t no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped\nup and smothery, but a raft don’t. You feel mighty free and easy and\ncomfortable on a raft.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n119\n\n\nT\nwo or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they\nswum by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. Here is the\nway we put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down there—\nsometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid\ndaytimes; soon as night was most gone we stopped navigating and\ntied up—nearly always in the dead water under a towhead; and then\ncut young cottonwoods and willows, and hid the raft with them.\nThen we set out the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim,\nso as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bot-\ntom where the water was about knee deep, and watched the day-light\ncome. Not a sound anywheres—perfectly still—just like the whole\nworld was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe.\nThe ﬁrst thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull\nline—that was the woods on t’other side; you couldn’t make nothing\nelse out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness spreading\naround; then the river softened up away off, and warn’t black any\nmore, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along ever so\nfar away—trading scows, and such things; and long black streaks—\nrafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up\nvoices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by you\ncould see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the\nstreak that there’s a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it\nand makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off\nof the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make\nout a log-cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on\nCHAPTER NINETEEN\n120\n\n\nt’other side of the river, being a woodyard, likely, and piled by them\ncheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice\nbreeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool\nand fresh and sweet to smell on account of the woods and the ﬂow-\ners; but sometimes not that way, because they’ve left dead ﬁsh laying\naround, gars and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you’ve\ngot the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-\nbirds just going it!\nA little smoke couldn’t be noticed now, so we would take some ﬁsh\noff of the lines and cook up a hot breakfast. And afterwards we would\nwatch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by\nand by lazy off to sleep. Wake up by and by, and look to see what\ndone it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing along up-stream, so far\noff towards the other side you couldn’t tell nothing about her only\nwhether she was a stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour\nthere wouldn’t be nothing to hear nor nothing to see—just solid lone-\nsomeness. Next you’d see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, and maybe\na galoot on it chopping, because they’re most always doing it on a raft;\nyou’d see the axe ﬂash and come down—you don’t hear nothing; you\nsee that axe go up again, and by the time it’s above the man’s head\nthen you hear the k’chunk!—it had took all that time to come over the\nwater. So we would put in the day, lazying around, listening to the\nstillness. Once there was a thick fog, and the rafts and things that\nwent by was beating tin pans so the steamboats wouldn’t run over\nthem. A scow or a raft went by so close we could hear them talking\nand cussing and laughing—heard them plain; but we couldn’t see no\nsign of them; it made you feel crawly; it was like spirits carrying on\nthat way in the air. Jim said he believed it was spirits; but I says:\n“No; spirits wouldn’t say, ‘Dern the dern fog.’”\nSoon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about\nthe middle we let her alone, and let her ﬂoat wherever the current\nwanted her to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the\nwater, and talked about all kinds of things—we was always naked,\nday and night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us—the new\nclothes Buck’s folks made for me was too good to be comfortable,\nand besides I didn’t go much on clothes, nohow.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n121\n\n\nSometimes we’d have that whole river all to ourselves for the\nlongest time. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water;\nand maybe a spark—which was a candle in a cabin window; and\nsometimes on the water you could see a spark or two—on a raft or a\nscow, you know; and maybe you could hear a ﬁddle or a song com-\ning over from one of them crafts. It’s lovely to live on a raft. We had\nthe sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our\nbacks and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made\nor only just happened. Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed\nthey happened; I judged it would have took too long to make so\nmany. Jim said the moon could a laid them; well, that looked kind of\nreasonable, so I didn’t say nothing against it, because I’ve seen a frog\nlay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch\nthe stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they’d\ngot spoiled and was hove out of the nest.\nOnce or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along\nin the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of\nsparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the\nriver and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her\nlights would wink out and her powwow shut off and leave the river\nstill again; and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after\nshe was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn’t\nhear nothing for you couldn’t tell how long, except maybe frogs or\nsomething.\nAfter midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two\nor three hours the shores was black—no more sparks in the cabin\nwindows. These sparks was our clock—the first one that showed\nagain meant morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and\ntie up right away.\nOne morning about daybreak I found a canoe and crossed over a\nchute to the main shore—it was only two hundred yards—and pad-\ndled about a mile up a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if I\ncouldn’t get some berries. Just as I was passing a place where a kind\nof a cowpath crossed the crick, here comes a couple of men tearing\nup the path as tight as they could foot it. I thought I was a goner, for\nwhenever anybody was after anybody I judged it was me—or maybe\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n122\n\n\nJim. I was about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they was pret-\nty close to me then, and sung out and begged me to save their lives—\nsaid they hadn’t been doing nothing, and was being chased for\nit—said there was men and dogs a-coming. They wanted to jump\nright in, but I says:\n“Don’t you do it. I don’t hear the dogs and horses yet; you’ve got\ntime to crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little ways;\nthen you take to the water and wade down to me and get in—that’ll\nthrow the dogs off the scent.”\nThey done it, and soon as they was aboard I lit out for our tow-\nhead, and in about ﬁve or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the\nmen away off, shouting.  We heard them come along towards the\ncrick, but couldn’t see them; they seemed to stop and fool around a\nwhile; then, as we got further and further away all the time, we\ncouldn’t hardly hear them at all; by the time we had left a mile of\nwoods behind us and struck the river, everything was quiet, and we\npaddled over to the towhead and hid in the cottonwoods and was\nsafe.\nOne of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald\nhead and very gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch hat\non, and a greasy blue woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britch-\nes stuffed into his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses—no, he only\nhad one. He had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass\nbuttons ﬂung over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-look-\ning carpet-bags.\nThe other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery.\nAfter breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that\ncome out was that these chaps didn’t know one another.\n“What got you into trouble?” says the baldhead to t’other chap.\n“Well, I’d been selling an article to take the tartar off the teeth—\nand it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with it—\nbut I stayed about one night longer than I ought to, and was just in\nthe act of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side of\ntown, and you told me they were coming, and begged me to help\nyou to get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble myself, and\nwould scatter out with you.  That’s the whole yarn—what’s yourn?\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n123\n\n\n“Well, I’d ben a-running’ a little temperance revival thar ‘bout a\nweek, and was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for I was\nmakin’ it mighty warm for the rummies, I tell you, and takin’ as\nmuch as ﬁve or six dollars a night—ten cents a head, children and\nniggers free—and business a-growin’ all the time, when somehow or\nanother a little report got around last night that I had a way of\nputtin’ in my time with a private jug on the sly. A nigger rousted me\nout this mornin’, and told me the people was getherin’ on the quiet\nwith their dogs and horses, and they’d be along pretty soon and give\nme ‘bout half an hour’s start, and then run me down if they could;\nand if they got me they’d tar and feather me and ride me on a rail,\nsure. I didn’t wait for no breakfast—I warn’t hungry.”\n“Old man,” said the young one, “I reckon we might double-team it\ntogether; what do you think?”\n“I ain’t undisposed. What’s your line—mainly?”\n“Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-\nactor—tragedy, you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology\nwhen there’s a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change;\nsling a lecture sometimes—oh, I do lots of things—most anything\nthat comes handy, so it ain’t work. What’s your lay?”\n“I’ve done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin’ on\no’ hands is my best holt—for cancer and paralysis, and sich things;\nand I k’n tell a fortune pretty good when I’ve got somebody along to\nﬁnd out the facts for me. Preachin’s my line, too, and workin’ camp-\nmeetin’s, and missionaryin’ around.”\nNobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove\na sigh and says:\n“Alas!”\n“What ‘re you alassin’ about?” says the bald-head.\n“To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be\ndegraded down into such company.” And he begun to wipe the cor-\nner of his eye with a rag.\n“Dern your skin, ain’t the company good enough for you?” says the\nbaldhead, pretty pert and uppish.\n“ Yes, it IS good enough for me; it’s as good as I deserve; for who\nfetched me so low when I was so high? I did myself. I don’t blame\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n124\n\n\nyou, gentlemen—far from it; I don’t blame anybody. I deserve it all.\nLet the cold world do its worst; one thing I know—there’s a grave\nsomewhere for me. The world may go on just as it’s always done, and\ntake everything from me—loved ones, property, everything; but it\ncan’t take that. Some day I’ll lie down in it and forget it all, and my\npoor broken heart will be at rest.” He went on a-wiping.\n“Drot your pore broken heart,” says the baldhead;\n“what are you heaving your pore broken heart at us f’r? We hain’t\ndone nothing.”\n“No, I know you haven’t. I ain’t blaming you, gentlemen. I brought\nmyself down—yes, I did it myself. It’s right I should suffer—perfect-\nly right—\nI don’t make any moan.”\n“Brought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down\nfrom?”\n“Ah, you would not believe me; the world never\nbelieves—let it pass—‘tis no matter. The secret of\nmy birth—”\n“The secret of your birth! Do you mean to say—”\n“Gentlemen,” says the young man, very solemn, “I will reveal it to\nyou, for I feel I may have conﬁdence in you. By rights I am a duke!”\nJim’s eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did,\ntoo. Then the baldhead says:\n“No! you can’t mean it?”\n“Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater,\nﬂed to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the\npure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own\nfather dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke\nseized the titles and estates—the infant real duke was ignored. I am\nthe lineal descendant of that infant—I am the rightful Duke of\nBridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunt-\ned of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken,\nand degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!”\nJim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort\nhim, but he said it warn’t much use, he couldn’t be much comforted;\nsaid if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n125\n\n\ngood than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell\nus how. He said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say\n“Your Grace,” or “My Lord,” or “Your Lordship”—and he wouldn’t\nmind it if we called him plain “Bridgewater,” which, he said, was a\ntitle anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him at\ndinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done.\nWell, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood\naround and waited on him, and says, “Will yo’ Grace have some o’\ndis or some o’ dat?” and so on, and a body could see it was mighty\npleasing to him.\nBut the old man got pretty silent by and by—didn’t have much to\nsay, and didn’t look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was\ngoing on around that duke. He seemed to have something on his\nmind.\nSo, along in the afternoon, he says:\n“Looky here, Bilgewater,” he says, “I’m nation sorry for you, but\nyou ain’t the only person that’s had troubles like that.”\n“No?”\n“No you ain’t. You ain’t the only person that’s ben snaked down\nwrongfully out’n a high place.”\n“Alas!”\n“No, you ain’t the only person that’s had a secret of his birth.” And,\nby jings, he begins to cry.\n“Hold! What do you mean?”\n“Bilgewater, kin I trust you?” says the old man, still sort of sobbing.\n“To the bitter death!” He took the old man by the hand and\nsqueezed it, and says, “That secret of your being: speak!”\n“Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!”\nYou bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then the duke says:\n“You are what?”\n“Yes, my friend, it is too true—your eyes is lookin’ at this very\nmoment on the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son\nof Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette.”\n“You! At your age! No! You mean you’re the late Charlemagne; you\nmust be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least.”\n“Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n126\n\n\nbrung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen,\nyou see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin’, exiled,\ntrampled-on, and sufferin’ rightful King of France.”\nWell, he cried and took on so that me and Jim didn’t know hardly\nwhat to do, we was so sorry—and so glad and proud we’d got him\nwith us, too. So we set in, like we done before with the duke, and\ntried to comfort him. But he said it warn’t no use, nothing but to be\ndead and done with it all could do him any good; though he said it\noften made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated\nhim according to his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to\nhim, and always called him “Your Majesty,” and waited on him ﬁrst\nat meals, and didn’t set down in his presence till he asked them. So\nJim and me set to majestying him, and doing this and that and\nt’other for him, and standing up till he told us we might set down.\nThis done him heaps of good, and so he got cheerful and comfort-\nable. But the duke kind of soured on him, and didn’t look a bit sat-\nisﬁed with the way things was going; still, the king acted real friendly\ntowards him, and said the duke’s great-grandfather and all the other\nDukes of Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by his father, and\nwas allowed to come to the palace considerable; but the duke stayed\nhuffy a good while, till by and by the king says:\n“Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this hyer\nraft, Bilgewater, and so what’s the use o’ your bein’ sour? It ‘ll only\nmake things oncomfortable. It ain’t my fault I warn’t born a duke, it\nain’t your fault you warn’t born a king—so what’s the use to worry?\nMake the best o’ things the way you find ‘em, says I—that’s my\nmotto. This ain’t no bad thing that we’ve struck here—plenty grub\nand an easy life—come, give us your hand, duke, and le’s all be\nfriends.”\nThe duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It took\naway all the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it,\nbecause it would a been a miserable business to have any unfriendli-\nness on the raft; for what you want, above all things, on a raft, is for\neverybody to be satisﬁed, and feel right and kind towards the others.\nIt didn’t take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn’t\nno kings nor dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n127\n\n\nBut I never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it’s the best\nway; then you don’t have no quarrels, and don’t get into no trouble.\nIf they wanted us to call them kings and dukes, I hadn’t no objec-\ntions, ‘long as it would keep peace in the family; and it warn’t no use\nto tell Jim, so I didn’t tell him. If I never learnt nothing else out of\npap, I learnt that the best way to get along with his kind of people is\nto let them have their own way.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n128\n\n\nThey asked us considerable many questions; wanted to know\nwhat we covered up the raft that way for, and laid by in the daytime\ninstead of running—was Jim a runaway nigger? Says I:\n“Goodness sakes! would a runaway nigger run south?”\nNo, they allowed he wouldn’t. I had to account for things some\nway, so I says:\n“My folks was living in Pike County, in Missouri, where I was\nborn, and they all died off but me and pa and my brother Ike. Pa, he\n‘lowed he’d break up and go down and live with Uncle Ben, who’s got\na little one-horse place on the river, forty-four mile below Orleans. Pa\nwas pretty poor, and had some debts; so when he’d squared up there\nwarn’t nothing left but sixteen dollars and our nigger, Jim. That\nwarn’t enough to take us fourteen hundred mile, deck passage nor no\nother way. Well, when the river rose pa had a streak of luck one day;\nhe ketched this piece of a raft; so we reckoned we’d go down to\nOrleans on it. Pa’s luck didn’t hold out; a steamboat run over the for-\nrard corner of the raft one night, and we all went overboard and dove\nunder the wheel; Jim and me come up all right, but pa was drunk,\nand Ike was only four years old, so they never come up no more.\nWell, for the next day or two we had considerable trouble, because\npeople was always coming out in skiffs and trying to take Jim away\nfrom me, saying they believed he was a runaway nigger. We don’t run\nday-times no more now; nights they don’t bother us.”\nThe duke says:\n“Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the daytime\nCHAPTER TWENTY\n129\n\n\nif we want to. I’ll think the thing over—I’ll invent a plan that’ll ﬁx it.\nWe’ll let it alone for today, because of course we don’t want to go by\nthat town yonder in daylight—it mightn’t be healthy.”\nTowards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the heat\nlightning was squirting around low down in the sky, and the leaves\nwas beginning to shiver—it was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy to\nsee that.  So the duke and the king went to overhauling our wigwam,\nto see what the beds was like. My bed was a straw tick better than\nJim’s, which was a corn-shuck tick; there’s always cobs around about\nin a shuck tick, and they poke into you and hurt; and when you roll\nover the dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of dead\nleaves; it makes such a rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke\nallowed he would take my bed; but the king allowed he wouldn’t.\nHe says:\n“I should a reckoned the difference in rank would a sejested to you\nthat a corn-shuck bed warn’t just fitten for me to sleep on. Your\nGrace ‘ll take the shuck bed yourself.”\nJim and me was in a sweat again for a minute, being afraid there\nwas going to be some more trouble amongst them; so we was pretty\nglad when the duke says:\n“’Tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the iron heel\nof oppression. Misfortune has broken my once haughty spirit; I yield,\nI submit; ‘tis my fate. I am alone in the world—let me suffer; can\nbear it.”\nWe got away as soon as it was good and dark. The king told us to\nstand well out towards the middle of the river, and not show a light\ntill we got a long ways below the town. We come in sight of the lit-\ntle bunch of lights by and by—that was the town, you know—and\nslid by, about a half a mile out, all right. When we was three-quarters\nof a mile below we hoisted up our signal lantern; and about ten\no’clock it come on to rain and blow and thunder and lighten like\neverything; so the king told us to both stay on watch till the weather\ngot better; then him and the duke crawled into the wigwam and\nturned in for the night. It was my watch below till twelve, but I\nwouldn’t a turned in anyway if I’d had a bed, because a body don’t see\nsuch a storm as that every day in the week, not by a long sight. My\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n130\n\n\nsouls, how the wind did scream along!  And every second or two\nthere’d come a glare that lit up the white-caps for a half a mile\naround, and you’d see the islands looking dusty through the rain, and\nthe trees thrashing around in the wind; then comes a h-whack!—\nbum! bum! bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum—and the thun-\nder would go rumbling and grumbling away, and quit—and then rip\ncomes another flash and another sockdolager. The waves most\nwashed me off the raft sometimes, but I hadn’t any clothes on, and\ndidn’t mind. We didn’t have no trouble about snags; the lightning\nwas glaring and ﬂittering around so constant that we could see them\nplenty soon enough to throw her head this way or that and miss\nthem.\nI had the middle watch, you know, but I was pretty sleepy by that\ntime, so Jim he said he would stand the ﬁrst half of it for me; he was\nalways mighty good that way, Jim was. I crawled into the wigwam,\nbut the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around so there\nwarn’t no show for me; so I laid outside—I didn’t mind the rain,\nbecause it was warm, and the waves warn’t running so high now.\nAbout two they come up again, though, and Jim was going to call\nme; but he changed his mind, because he reckoned they warn’t high\nenough yet to do any harm; but he was mistaken about that, for pret-\nty soon all of a sudden along comes a regular ripper and washed me\nover-board. It most killed Jim a-laughing. He was the easiest nigger\nto laugh that ever was, anyway.\nI took the watch, and Jim he laid down and snored away; and by\nand by the storm let up for good and all; and the ﬁrst cabin-light that\nshowed I rousted him out, and we slid the raft into hiding quarters\nfor the day.\nThe king got out an old ratty deck of cards after breakfast, and him\nand the duke played seven-up a while, ﬁve cents a game. Then they\ngot tired of it, and allowed they would “lay out a campaign,” as they\ncalled it. The duke went down into his carpet-bag, and fetched up a\nlot of little printed bills and read them out loud. One bill said, “The\ncelebrated Dr. Armand de Montalban, of Paris,” would “lecture on\nthe Science of Phrenology” at such and such a place, on the blank\nday of blank, at ten cents admission, and “furnish charts of character\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n131\n\n\nat twenty-ﬁve cents apiece.” The duke said that was him. In an-other\nbill he was the “world-renowned Shakespearian tragedian, Garrick\nthe Younger, of Drury Lane, London.” In other bills he had a lot of\nother names and done other wonderful things, like ﬁnding water and\ngold with a “divining-rod,” “dissipating witch spells,” and so on. By\nand by he says:\n“But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you ever trod the\nboards, Royalty?”\n“No,” says the king.\n“You shall, then, before you’re three days older, Fallen Grandeur,”\nsays the duke. “The ﬁrst good town we come to we’ll hire a hall and\ndo the sword ﬁght in Richard III. and the balcony scene in Romeo\nand Juliet. How does that strike you?”\n“I’m in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, Bilgewater; but,\nyou see, I don’t know nothing about play-actin’, and hain’t ever seen\nmuch of it. I was too small when pap used to have ‘em at the palace.\nDo you reckon you can learn me?”\n“Easy!”\n“All right. I’m jist a-freezn’ for something fresh, anyway. Le’s com-\nmence right away.”\nSo the duke he told him all about who Romeo was and who Juliet\nwas, and said he was used to being Romeo, so the king could be\nJuliet.\n“But if Juliet’s such a young gal, duke, my peeled head and my\nwhite whiskers is goin’ to look oncommon odd on her, maybe.”\n“No, don’t you worry; these country jakes won’t ever think of that.\nBesides, you know, you’ll be in costume, and that makes all the dif-\nference in the world; Juliet’s in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight\nbefore she goes to bed, and she’s got on her night-gown and her ruf-\nﬂed nightcap. Here are the costumes for the parts.”\nHe got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which he said was\nmeedyevil armor for Richard III. and t’other chap, and a long\nwhite cotton nightshirt and a ruffled nightcap to match. The king\nwas satisfied; so the duke got out his book and read the parts over\nin the most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around and acting\nat the same time, to show how it had got to be done; then he give\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n132\n\n\nthe book to the king and told him to get his part by heart.\nThere was a little one-horse town about three mile down the bend,\nand after dinner the duke said he had ciphered out his idea about\nhow to run in daylight without it being dangersome for Jim; so he\nallowed he would go down to the town and ﬁx that thing.  The king\nallowed he would go, too, and see if he couldn’t strike something. We\nwas out of coffee, so Jim said I better go along with them in the\ncanoe and get some.\nWhen we got there there warn’t nobody stirring; streets empty, and\nperfectly dead and still, like Sunday. We found a sick nigger sunning\nhimself in a back yard, and he said everybody that warn’t too young\nor too sick or too old was gone to camp-meeting, about two mile\nback in the woods. The king got the directions, and allowed he’d go\nand work that camp-meeting for all it was worth, and I might go,\ntoo.\nThe duke said what he was after was a printing-ofﬁce. We found it;\na little bit of a concern, up over a carpenter shop—carpenters and\nprinters all gone to the meeting, and no doors locked. It was a dirty,\nlittered-up place, and had ink marks, and handbills with pictures of\nhorses and runaway niggers on them, all over the walls. The duke\nshed his coat and said he was all right now. So me and the king lit\nout for the camp-meeting.\nWe got there in about a half an hour fairly dripping, for it was a\nmost awful hot day. There was as much as a thousand people there\nfrom twenty mile around.  The woods was full of teams and wagons,\nhitched everywheres, feeding out of the wagon-troughs and stomping\nto keep off the ﬂies. There was sheds made out of poles and roofed\nover with branches, where they had lemonade and gingerbread to\nsell, and piles of watermelons and green corn and such-like truck.\nThe preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only\nthey was bigger and held crowds of people. The benches was made\nout of outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to\ndrive sticks into for legs. They didn’t have no backs.  The preachers\nhad high platforms to stand on at one end of the sheds. The women\nhad on sun-bonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some ging-\nham ones, and a few of the young ones had on calico.  Some of the\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n133\n\n\nyoung men was barefooted, and some of the children didn’t have on\nany clothes but just a tow-linen shirt. Some of the old women was\nknitting, and some of the young folks was courting on the sly.\nThe ﬁrst shed we come to the preacher was lining out a hymn. He\nlined out two lines, everybody sung it, and it was kind of grand to\nhear it, there was so many of them and they done it in such a rous-\ning way; then he lined out two more for them to sing—and so on.\nThe people woke up more and more, and sung louder and louder;\nand towards the end some begun to groan, and some begun to shout.\nThen the preacher begun to preach, and begun in earnest, too; and\nwent weaving ﬁrst to one side of the platform and then the other, and\nthen a-leaning down over the front of it, with his arms and his body\ngoing all the time, and shouting his words out with all his might; and\nevery now and then he would hold up his Bible and spread it open,\nand kind of pass it around this way and that, shouting, “It’s the\nbrazen serpent in the wilderness!  Look upon it and live!” And peo-\nple would shout out, “Glory!—A-a-men!” And so he went on, and\nthe people groaning and crying and saying amen:\n“Oh, come to the mourners’ bench! come, black with sin! (amen!)\ncome, sick and sore! (amen!) come, lame and halt and blind! (amen!)\ncome, pore and needy, sunk in shame! (a-a-amen!) come, all that’s\nworn and soiled and suffering!—come with a broken spirit! come\nwith a contrite heart! come in your rags and sin and dirt! the waters\nthat cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open—oh, enter in and\nbe at rest!” (A-a-amen! Glory, glory hallelujah!)\nAnd so on. You couldn’t make out what the preacher said any\nmore, on account of the shouting and crying. Folks got up every-\nwheres in the crowd, and worked their way just by main strength to\nthe mourners’ bench, with the tears running down their faces; and\nwhen all the mourners had got up there to the front benches in a\ncrowd, they sung and shouted and flung themselves down on the\nstraw, just crazy and wild.\nWell, the ﬁrst I knowed the king got a-going, and you could hear\nhim over everybody; and next he went a-charging up on to the plat-\nform, and the preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and he\ndone it. He told them he was a pirate—been a pirate for thirty years\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n134\n\n\nout in the Indian Ocean—and his crew was thinned out considerable\nlast spring in a ﬁght, and he was home now to take out some fresh\nmen, and thanks to goodness he’d been robbed last night and put\nashore off of a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad of it; it was\nthe blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he was a\nchanged man now, and happy for the ﬁrst time in his life; and, poor\nas he was, he was going to start right off and work his way back to\nthe Indian Ocean, and put in the rest of his life trying to turn the\npirates into the true path; for he could do it better than anybody else,\nbeing acquainted with all pirate crews in that ocean; and though it\nwould take him a long time to get there without money, he would\nget there anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he would say\nto him, “Don’t you thank me, don’t you give me no credit; it all\nbelongs to them dear people in Pokeville camp-meeting, natural\nbrothers and benefactors of the race, and that dear preacher there, the\ntruest friend a pirate ever had!”\nAnd then he busted into tears, and so did everybody.  Then some-\nbody sings out, “Take up a collection for him, take up a collection!”\nWell, a half a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out,\n“Let him pass the hat around!” Then everybody said it, the preacher\ntoo.\nSo the king went all through the crowd with his hat swabbing his\neyes, and blessing the people and praising them and thanking them\nfor being so good to the poor pirates away off there; and every little\nwhile the prettiest kind of girls, with the tears running down their\ncheeks, would up and ask him would he let them kiss him for to\nremember him by; and he always done it; and some of them he\nhugged and kissed as many as ﬁve or six times—and he was invited\nto stay a week; and everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and\nsaid they’d think it was an honor; but he said as this was the last day\nof the camp-meeting he couldn’t do no good, and besides he was in\na sweat to get to the Indian Ocean right off and go to work on the\npirates.\nWhen we got back to the raft and he come to count up he found\nhe had collected eighty-seven dollars and seventy-ﬁve cents. And then\nhe had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he found\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n135\n\n\nunder a wagon when he was starting home through the woods.  The\nking said, take it all around, it laid over any day he’d ever put in in\nthe missionarying line. He said it warn’t no use talking, heathens\ndon’t amount to shucks alongside of pirates to work a camp-meeting\nwith.\nThe duke was thinking he’d been doing pretty well till the king\ncome to show up, but after that he didn’t think so so much. He had\nset up and printed off two little jobs for farmers in that printing-\nofﬁce—horse bills—and took the money, four dollars. And he had\ngot in ten dollars’ worth of advertisements for the paper, which he\nsaid he would put in for four dollars if they would pay in advance—\nso they done it. The price of the paper was two dollars a year, but he\ntook in three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on condition of\nthem paying him in advance; they were going to pay in cordwood\nand onions as usual, but he said he had just bought the concern and\nknocked down the price as low as he could afford it, and was going\nto run it for cash. He set up a little piece of poetry, which he made,\nhimself, out of his own head—three verses—kind of sweet and sad-\ndish—the name of it was, “Yes, crush, cold world, this breaking\nheart”—and he left that all set up and ready to print in the paper,\nand didn’t charge nothing for it. Well, he took in nine dollars and a\nhalf, and said he’d done a pretty square day’s work for it.\nThen he showed us another little job he’d printed and hadn’t\ncharged for, because it was for us. It had a picture of a runaway nig-\nger with a bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and “$200 reward”\nunder it. The reading was all about Jim, and just described him to a\ndot. It said he run away from St. Jacques’ plantation, forty mile\nbelow New Orleans, last winter, and likely went north, and whoever\nwould catch him and send him back he could have the reward and\nexpenses.\n“Now,” says the duke, “after tonight we can run in the daytime if\nwe want to. Whenever we see anybody coming we can tie Jim hand\nand foot with a rope, and lay him in the wigwam and show this\nhandbill and say we captured him up the river, and were too poor to\ntravel on a steamboat, so we got this little raft on credit from our\nfriends and are going down to get the reward. Handcuffs and chains\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n136\n\n\nwould look still better on Jim, but it wouldn’t go well with the story\nof us being so poor. Too much like jewelry. Ropes are the correct\nthing—we must preserve the unities, as we say on the boards.”\nWe all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn’t be no\ntrouble about running daytimes. We judged we could make miles\nenough that night to get out of the reach of the powwow we reck-\noned the duke’s work in the printing ofﬁce was going to make in that\nlittle town; then we could boom right along if we wanted to.\nWe laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten\no’clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn’t\nhoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it.\nWhen Jim called me to take the watch at four in the morning, he\nsays:\n“Huck, does you reck’n we gwyne to run acrost any mo’ kings on\ndis trip?”\n“No,” I says, “I reckon not.”\n“Well,” says he, “dat’s all right, den. I doan’ mine one er two kings,\nbut dat’s enough. Dis one’s powerful drunk, en de duke ain’ much\nbetter.”\nI found Jim had been trying to get him to talk French, so he could\nhear what it was like; but he said he had been in this country so long,\nand had so much trouble, he’d forgot it.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n137\n\n\nIt was after sun-up now, but we went right on and didn’t tie up.\nThe king and the duke turned out by and by looking pretty rusty;\nbut after they’d jumped overboard and took a swim it chippered\nthem up a good deal. After breakfast the king he took a seat on the\ncorner of the raft, and pulled off his boots and rolled up his britches,\nand let his legs dangle in the water, so as to be comfortable, and lit\nhis pipe, and went to getting his Romeo and Juliet by heart. When\nhe had got it pretty good him and the duke begun to practice it\ntogether. The duke had to learn him over and over again how to say\nevery speech; and he made him sigh, and put his hand on his heart,\nand after a while he said he done it pretty well; “only,” he says, “you\nmustn’t bellow out Romeo! that way, like a bull—you must say it soft\nand sick and languishy, so—R-o-o-meo! that is the idea; for Juliet’s a\ndear sweet mere child of a girl, you know, and she doesn’t bray like a\njackass.”\nWell, next they got out a couple of long swords that the duke\nmade out of oak laths, and begun to practice the sword ﬁght—the\nduke called himself Richard III.; and the way they laid on and\npranced around the raft was grand to see. But by and by the king\ntripped and fell overboard, and after that they took a rest, and had a\ntalk about all kinds of adventures they’d had in other times along the\nriver.\nAfter dinner the duke says:\n“Well, Capet, we’ll want to make this a first-class show, you\nknow, so I guess we’ll add a little more to it. We want a little\nCHAPTER TWENTY-0NE\n138\n\n\nsomething to answer encores with, anyway.”\n“What’s onkores, Bilgewater?”\nThe duke told him, and then says:\n“I’ll answer by doing the Highland ﬂing or the sailor’s hornpipe;\nand you—well, let me see—oh, I’ve got it—you can do Hamlet’s\nsoliloquy.”\n“Hamlet’s which?”\n“Hamlet’s soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated thing in\nShakespeare. Ah, it’s sublime, sublime! Always fetches the house. I\nhaven’t got it in the book—I’ve only got one volume—but I reckon I\ncan piece it out from memory. I’ll just walk up and down a minute,\nand see if I can call it back from recollection’s vaults.”\nSo he went to marching up and down, thinking, and frowning hor-\nrible every now and then; then he would hoist up his eyebrows; next\nhe would squeeze his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind\nof moan; next he would sigh, and next he’d let on to drop a tear. It\nwas beautiful to see him. By and by he got it. He told us to give\nattention. Then he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved\nforwards, and his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted back,\nlooking up at the sky; and then he begins to rip and rave and grit his\nteeth; and after that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread\naround, and swelled up his chest, and just knocked the spots out of\nany acting ever I see before. This is the speech—I learned it, easy\nenough, while he was learning it to the king:\nTo be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin \nThat makes calamity of so long life;\nFor who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to \nDunsinane,\nBut that the fear of something after death\nMurders the innocent sleep,\nGreat nature’s second course,\nAnd makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune\nThan ﬂy to others that we know not of.\nThere’s the respect must give us pause:\nWake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst;\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n139\n\n\nFor who would bear the whips and scorns of time,\nThe oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,\nThe law’s delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take,\nIn the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn\nIn customary suits of solemn black,\nBut that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler   \nreturns,\nBreathes forth contagion on the world,\nAnd thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i’ the adage, \nIs sicklied o’er with care, And all the clouds that lowered o’er our \nhousetops, \nWith this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of \naction.\n‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.\nBut soft you, the fair Ophelia:\nOpe not thy ponderous and marble jaws, But get thee to a nun\nnery—go!\nWell, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so\nhe could do it ﬁrst-rate. It seemed like he was just born for it; and\nwhen he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the\nway he would rip and tear and rair up behind when he was getting it\noff.\nThe ﬁrst chance we got the duke he had some show-bills printed;\nand after that, for two or three days as we ﬂoated along, the raft was\na most uncommon lively place, for there warn’t nothing but sword\nﬁghting and rehearsing—as the duke called it—going on all the time.\nOne morning, when we was pretty well down the State of Arkansaw,\nwe come in sight of a little one-horse town in a big bend; so we tied\nup about three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth of a crick\nwhich was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of us but\nJim took the canoe and went down there to see if there was any\nchance in that place for our show.\nWe struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a circus there that\nafternoon, and the country people was already beginning to come in,\nin all kinds of old shackly wagons, and on horses. The circus would\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n140\n\n\nleave before night, so our show would have a pretty good chance.\nThe duke he hired the courthouse, and we went around and stuck up\nour bills. They read like this:\nShaksperean Revival ! ! !\nWonderful Attraction!\nFor One Night Only!\nThe world renowned tragedians,\nDavid Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane Theatre London,\nand\nEdmund Kean the elder, of the Royal Haymarket Theatre,\nWhitechapel, Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the\nRoyal Continental Theatres, in their sublime\nShaksperean Spectacle entitled\nThe Balcony Scene\nin\nRomeo and Juliet ! ! !\nRomeo...................Mr. Garrick\nJuliet..................Mr. Kean\nAssisted by the whole strength of the company!\nNew costumes, new scenes, new appointments!\nAlso:\nThe thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling\nBroad-sword conﬂict In Richard III. ! ! !\nRichard III.............Mr. Garrick\nRichmond................Mr. Kean\nAlso:\n(by special request)\nHamlet’s Immortal Soliloquy ! !\nBy The Illustrious Kean!\nDone by him 300 consecutive nights in Paris!\nFor One Night Only, On account of imperative European engage-\nments!  Admission 25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents.\nThen we went loaﬁng around town. The stores and houses was most\nall old, shackly, dried up frame concerns that hadn’t ever been paint-\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n141\n\n\ned; they was set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to\nbe out of reach of the water when the river was over-flowed. The\nhouses had little gardens around them, but they didn’t seem to raise\nhardly anything in them but jimpson-weeds, and sunﬂowers, and ash\npiles, and old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces of bottles, and\nrags, and played-out tinware. The fences was made of different kinds\nof boards, nailed on at different times; and they leaned every which\nway, and had gates that didn’t generly have but one hinge—a leather\none. Some of the fences had been white-washed some time or anoth-\ner, but the duke said it was in Clumbus’ time, like enough. There was\ngenerly hogs in the garden, and people driving them out.\nAll the stores was along one street. They had white domestic\nawnings in front, and the country people hitched their horses to the\nawning-posts. There was empty drygoods boxes under the awnings,\nand loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them with their\nBarlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping and yawning and\nstretching—a mighty ornery lot. They generly had on yellow straw\nhats most as wide as an umbrella, but didn’t wear no coats nor waist-\ncoats, they called one another Bill, and Buck, and Hank, and Joe,\nand Andy, and talked lazy and drawly, and used considerable many\ncuss words.  There was as many as one loafer leaning up against every\nawning-post, and he most always had his hands in his britches-pock-\nets, except when he fetched them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or\nscratch. What a body was hearing amongst them all the time was:\n“Gimme a chaw ‘v tobacker, Hank “\n“Cain’t; I hain’t got but one chaw left. Ask Bill.”\nMaybe Bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain’t got\nnone. Some of them kinds of loafers never has a cent in the world,\nnor a chaw of tobacco of their own. They get all their chawing by\nborrowing; they say to a fellow, “I wisht you’d len’ me a chaw, Jack, I\njist this minute give Ben Thompson the last chaw I had”—which is a\nlie pretty much everytime; it don’t fool nobody but a stranger; but\nJack ain’t no stranger, so he says:\n“You give him a chaw, did you? So did your sister’s cat’s grand-\nmother. You pay me back the chaws you’ve awready borry’d off’n me,\nLafe Buckner, then I’ll loan you one or two ton of it, and won’t\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n142\n\n\ncharge you no back intrust, nuther.”\n“Well, I did pay you back some of it wunst.”\n“Yes, you did—‘bout six chaws. You borry’d store tobacker and\npaid back nigger-head.”\nStore tobacco is ﬂat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the\nnatural leaf twisted. When they borrow a chaw they don’t generly cut\nit off with a knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw\nwith their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they get it in\ntwo; then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks mournful\nat it when it’s handed back, and says, sarcastic:\n“Here, gimme the chaw, and you take the plug.”\nAll the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn’t nothing else but\nmud—mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some\nplaces, and two or three inches deep in ALL the places. The hogs\nloafed and grunted around everywheres. You’d see a muddy sow and\na litter of pigs come lazying along the street and whollop herself right\ndown in the way, where folks had to walk around her, and she’d\nstretch out and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs was\nmilking her, and look as happy as if she was on salary. And pretty\nsoon you’d hear a loafer sing out, “Hi! So boy! sick him, Tige!” and\naway the sow would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog or two\nswinging to each ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and\nthen you would see all the loafers get up and watch the thing out of\nsight, and laugh at the fun and look grateful for the noise. Then\nthey’d settle back again till there was a dog ﬁght. There couldn’t any-\nthing wake them up all over, and make them happy all over, like a\ndog ﬁght—unless it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and\nsetting ﬁre to him, or tying a tin pan to his tail and see him run him-\nself to death.\nOn the river front some of the houses was sticking out over the\nbank, and they was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in,\nThe people had moved out of them. The bank was caved away under\none corner of some others, and that corner was hanging over.  People\nlived in them yet, but it was dangersome, because sometimes a strip\nof land as wide as a house caves in at a time. Sometimes a belt of land\na quarter of a mile deep will start in and cave along and cave along\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n143\n\n\ntill it all caves into the river in one summer.  Such a town as that has\nto be always moving back, and back, and back, because the river’s\nalways gnawing at it.\nThe nearer it got to noon that day the thicker and thicker was the\nwagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time.\nFamilies fetched their dinners with them from the country, and eat\nthem in the wagons. There was considerable whisky drinking going\non, and I seen three ﬁghts. By and by somebody sings out:\n“Here comes old Boggs!—in from the country for his little old\nmonthly drunk; here he comes, boys!”\nAll the loafers looked glad; I reckoned they was used to having fun\nout of Boggs. One of them says:\n“Wonder who he’s a-gwyne to chaw up this time.  If he’d a-chawed\nup all the men he’s ben a-gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty year\nhe’d have considerable ruputation now.”\nAnother one says, “I wisht old Boggs ‘d threaten me, ‘cuz then I’d\nknow I warn’t gwyne to die for a thousan’ year.”\nBoggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling\nlike an Injun, and singing out:\n“Cler the track, thar. I’m on the waw-path, and the price uv cofﬁns\nis a-gwyne to raise.”\nHe was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over ﬁfty\nyear old, and had a very red face.  Everybody yelled at him and\nlaughed at him and sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he’d\nattend to them and lay them out in their regular turns, but he could-\nn’t wait now because he’d come to town to kill old Colonel Sherburn,\nand his motto was, “Meat ﬁrst, and spoon vittles to top off on.”\nHe see me, and rode up and says:\n“Whar’d you come f’m, boy? You prepared to die?”\nThen he rode on. I was scared, but a man says:\n“He don’t mean nothing; he’s always a-carryin’ on like that when\nhe’s drunk. He’s the best natured-est old fool in Arkansaw—never\nhurt nobody, drunk nor sober.”\nBoggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and bent his head\ndown so he could see under the curtain of the awning and yells:\n“Come out here, Sherburn! Come out and meet the man you’ve\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n144\n\n\nswindled. You’re the houn’ I’m after, and I’m a-gwyne to have you,\ntoo!”\nAnd so he went on, calling Sherburn everything he could lay his\ntongue to, and the whole street packed with people listening and\nlaughing and going on. By and by a proud-looking man about ﬁfty-\nﬁve—and he was a heap the best dressed man in that town, too—\nsteps out of the store, and the crowd drops back on each side to let\nhim come. He says to Boggs, mighty ca’m and slow—he says:\n“I’m tired of this, but I’ll endure it till one o’clock.  Till one o’clock,\nmind—no longer. If you open your mouth against me only once\nafter that time you can’t travel so far but I will ﬁnd you.”\nThen he turns and goes in. The crowd looked mighty sober;\nnobody stirred, and there warn’t no more laughing. Boggs rode off\nblackguarding Sherburn as loud as he could yell, all down the street;\nand pretty soon back he comes and stops before the store, still keep-\ning it up. Some men crowded around him and tried to get him to\nshut up, but he wouldn’t; they told him it would be one o’clock in\nabout ﬁfteen minutes, and so he must go home—he must go right\naway. But it didn’t do no good. He cussed away with all his might,\nand throwed his hat down in the mud and rode over it, and pretty\nsoon away he went a-raging down the street again, with his gray hair\na-ﬂying. Everybody that could get a chance at him tried their best to\ncoax him off of his horse so they could lock him up and get him\nsober; but it warn’t no use—up the street he would tear again, and\ngive Sherburn another cussing. By and by somebody says:\n“Go for his daughter!—quick, go for his daughter; sometimes he’ll\nlisten to her. If anybody can persuade him, she can.”\nSo somebody started on a run. I walked down street a ways and\nstopped. In about ﬁve or ten minutes here comes Boggs again, but\nnot on his horse.  He was a-reeling across the street towards me, bare-\nheaded, with a friend on both sides of him a-holt of his arms and\nhurrying him along. He was quiet, and looked uneasy; and he warn’t\nhanging back any, but was doing some of the hurrying himself.\nSomebody sings out:\n“Boggs!”\nI looked over there to see who said it, and it was that Colonel\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n145\n\n\nSherburn. He was standing perfectly still in the street, and had a\npistol raised in his right hand—not aiming it, but holding it out\nwith the barrel tilted up towards the sky. The same second I see a\nyoung girl coming on the run, and two men with her.  Boggs and\nthe men turned round to see who called him, and when they see\nthe pistol the men jumped to one side, and the pistol-barrel come\ndown slow and steady to a level—both barrels cocked. Boggs\nthrows up both of his hands and says, “O Lord, don’t shoot!” Bang!\ngoes the first shot, and he staggers back, clawing at the air—bang!\ngoes the second one, and he tumbles backwards on to the ground,\nheavy and solid, with his arms spread out. That young girl\nscreamed out and comes rushing, and down she throws herself on\nher father, crying, and saying, “Oh, he’s killed him, he’s killed him!”\nThe crowd closed up around them, and shouldered and jammed\none another, with their necks stretched, trying to see, and people\non the inside trying to shove them back and shouting, “Back, back!\ngive him air, give him air!”\nColonel Sherburn he tossed his pistol on to the ground, and turned\naround on his heels and walked off.\nThey took Boggs to a little drug store, the crowd pressing around\njust the same, and the whole town following, and I rushed and got a\ngood place at the window, where I was close to him and could see in.\nThey laid him on the ﬂoor and put one large Bible under his head,\nand opened another one and spread it on his breast; but they tore\nopen his shirt ﬁrst, and I seen where one of the bullets went in. He\nmade about a dozen long gasps, his breast lifting the Bible up when\nhe drawed in his breath, and letting it down again when he breathed\nit out—and after that he laid still; he was dead. Then they pulled his\ndaughter away from him, screaming and crying, and took her off.\nShe was about sixteen, and very sweet and gentle looking, but awful\npale and scared.\nWell, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming and scroug-\ning and pushing and shoving to get at the window and have a look,\nbut people that had the places wouldn’t give them up, and folks\nbehind them was saying all the time, “Say, now, you’ve looked\nenough, you fellows; ‘tain’t right and ‘tain’t fair for you to stay thar all\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n146\n\n\nthe time, and never give nobody a chance; other folks has their rights\nas well as you.”\nThere was considerable jawing back, so I slid out, thinking maybe\nthere was going to be trouble. The streets was full, and everybody was\nexcited. Everybody that seen the shooting was telling how it hap-\npened, and there was a big crowd packed around each one of these\nfellows, stretching their necks and listening. One long, lanky man,\nwith long hair and a big white fur stovepipe hat on the back of his\nhead, and a crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the\nground where Boggs stood and where Sherburn stood, and the peo-\nple following him around from one place to t’other and watching\neverything he done, and bobbing their heads to show they under-\nstood, and stooping a little and resting their hands on their thighs to\nwatch him mark the places on the ground with his cane; and then he\nstood up straight and stiff where Sherburn had stood, frowning and\nhaving his hat-brim down over his eyes, and sung out, “Boggs!” and\nthen fetched his cane down slow to a level, and says “Bang!” stag-\ngered backwards, says “Bang!” again, and fell down ﬂat on his back.\nThe people that had seen the thing said he done it perfect; said it was\njust exactly the way it all happened. Then as much as a dozen people\ngot out their bottles and treated him.\nWell, by and by somebody said Sherburn ought to be lynched. In\nabout a minute everybody was saying it; so away they went, mad and\nyelling, and snatching down every clothes-line they come to to do the\nhanging with.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n147\n\n\nT\nhey swarmed up towards Sherburn’s house, a-whooping and\nraging like Injuns, and everything had to clear the way or get run\nover and tromped to mush, and it was awful to see. Children was\nheeling it ahead of the mob, screaming and trying to get out of the\nway; and every window along the road was full of women’s heads,\nand there was nigger boys in every tree, and bucks and wenches\nlooking over every fence; and as soon as the mob would get nearly\nto them they would break and skaddle back out of reach. Lots of\nthe women and girls was crying and taking on, scared most to\ndeath.\nThey swarmed up in front of Sherburn’s palings as thick as they\ncould jam together, and you couldn’t hear yourself think for the\nnoise. It was a little twenty-foot yard. Some sung out “Tear down the\nfence! tear down the fence!” Then there was a racket of ripping and\ntearing and smashing, and down she goes, and the front wall of the\ncrowd begins to roll in like a wave.\nJust then Sherburn steps out on to the roof of his little front porch,\nwith a double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand, perfectly\nca’m and deliberate, not saying a word. The racket stopped, and the\nwave sucked back.\nSherburn never said a word—just stood there, looking down. The\nstillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable. Sherburn run his eye\nslow along the crowd; and wherever it struck the people tried a little\nto out-gaze him, but they couldn’t; they dropped their eyes and\nlooked sneaky. Then pretty soon Sherburn sort of laughed; not the\nCHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n148\n\n\npleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you are eat-\ning bread that’s got sand in it.\nThen he says, slow and scornful:\n“The idea of you lynching anybody! It’s amusing.  The idea of you\nthinking you had pluck enough to lynch a man! Because you’re brave\nenough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women that come\nalong here, did that make you think you had grit enough to lay your\nhands on a man? Why, a man’s safe in the hands of ten thousand of\nyour kind—as long as it’s daytime and you’re not behind him.\n“Do I know you? I know you clear through was born and raised in\nthe South, and I’ve lived in the North; so I know the average all\naround. The average man’s a coward. In the North he lets anybody\nwalk over him that wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble\nspirit to bear it. In the South one man all by himself, has stopped a\nstage full of men in the daytime, and robbed the lot. Your newspa-\npers call you a brave people so much that you think you are braver\nthan any other people—whereas you’re just as brave, and no braver.\nWhy don’t your juries hang murderers? Because they’re afraid the\nman’s friends will shoot them in the back, in the dark—and it’s just\nwhat they would do.\n“So they always acquit; and then a man goes in the night, with a\nhundred masked cowards at his back and lynches the rascal. Your\nmistake is, that you didn’t bring a man with you; that’s one mistake,\nand the other is that you didn’t come in the dark and fetch your\nmasks. You brought part of a man—Buck Harkness, there—and if\nyou hadn’t had him to start you, you’d a taken it out in blowing.\n“You didn’t want to come. The average man don’t like trouble and\ndanger. you don’t like trouble and danger. But if only half a man—\nlike Buck Harkness, there—shouts ‘Lynch him! lynch him!’ you’re\nafraid to back down—afraid you’ll be found out to be what you\nare—cowards—and so you raise a yell, and hang yourselves on to that\nhalf-a-man’s coat-tail, and come raging up here, swearing what big\nthings you’re going to do. The pitifulest thing out is a mob; that’s\nwhat an army is—a mob; they don’t ﬁght with courage that’s born in\nthem, but with courage that’s borrowed from their mass, and from\ntheir ofﬁcers. But a mob without any man at the head of it is beneath\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n149\n\n\npitifulness. Now the thing for you to do is to droop your tails and go\nhome and crawl in a hole. If any real lynching’s going to be done it\nwill be done in the dark, Southern fashion; and when they come\nthey’ll bring their masks, and fetch a man along.  Now leavve—and\ntake your half-a-man with you”—tossing his gun up across his left\narm and cocking it when he says this.\nThe crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart, and\nwent tearing off every which way, and Buck Harkness he heeled it\nafter them, looking tolerable cheap.  I could a stayed if I wanted to,\nbut I didn’t want to.\nI went to the circus and loafed around the back side till the watch-\nman went by, and then dived in under the tent. I had my twenty-dol-\nlar gold piece and some other money, but I reckoned I better save it,\nbecause there ain’t no telling how soon you are going to need it, away\nfrom home and amongst strangers that way.  You can’t be too careful.\nI ain’t opposed to spending money on circuses when there ain’t no\nother way, but there ain’t no use in wasting it on them.\nIt was a real bully circus. It was the splendidest sight that ever was\nwhen they all come riding in, two and two, a gentleman and lady,\nside by side, the men just in their drawers and undershirts, and no\nshoes nor stirrups, and resting their hands on their thighs easy and\ncomfortable—there must a been twenty of them—and every lady\nwith a lovely complexion, and perfectly beautiful, and looking just\nlike a gang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed in clothes that\ncost millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. It was a\npowerful ﬁne sight; I never see anything so lovely. And then one by\none they got up and stood, and went a-weaving around the ring so\ngentle and wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy\nand straight, with their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up\nthere under the tent-roof, and every lady’s rose-leafy dress ﬂapping\nsoft and silky around her hips, and she looking like the most loveli-\nest parasol.\nAnd then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing, ﬁrst one\nfoot out in the air and then the other, the horses leaning more and\nmore, and the ringmaster going round and round the center-pole,\ncracking his whip and shouting “Hi!—hi!” and the clown cracking\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n150\n\n\njokes behind him; and by and by all hands dropped the reins, and\nevery lady put her knuckles on her hips and every gentleman folded\nhis arms, and then how the horses did lean over and hump them-\nselves! And so one after the other they all skipped off into the ring,\nand made the sweetest bow I ever see, and then scampered out, and\neverybody clapped their hands and went just about wild.\nWell, all through the circus they done the most astonishing things;\nand all the time that clown carried on so it most killed the people.\nThe ringmaster couldn’t ever say a word to him but he was back at\nhim quick as a wink with the funniest things a body ever said; and\nhow he ever could think of so many of them, and so sudden and so\npat, was what I couldn’t noway understand. Why, I couldn’t a\nthought of them in a year. And by and by a drunk man tried to get\ninto the ring—said he wanted to ride; said he could ride as well as\nanybody that ever was. They argued and tried to keep him out, but\nhe wouldn’t listen, and the whole show come to a standstill. Then the\npeople begun to holler at him and make fun of him, and that made\nhim mad, and he begun to rip and tear; so that stirred up the people,\nand a lot of men begun to pile down off of the benches and swarm\ntowards the ring, saying, “Knock him down! throw him out!” and\none or two women begun to scream.  So, then, the ringmaster he\nmade a little speech, and said he hoped there wouldn’t be no distur-\nbance, and if the man would promise he wouldn’t make no more\ntrouble he would let him ride if he thought he could stay on the\nhorse. So everybody laughed and said all right, and the man got on.\nThe minute he was on, the horse begun to rip and tear and jump and\ncavort around, with two circus men hanging on to his bridle trying\nto hold him, and the drunk man hanging on to his neck, and his\nheels flying in the air every jump, and the whole crowd of people\nstanding up shouting and laughing till tears rolled down. And at last,\nsure enough, all the circus men could do, the horse broke loose, and\naway he went like the very nation, round and round the ring, with\nthat sot laying down on him and hanging to his neck, with ﬁrst one\nleg hanging most to the ground on one side, and then t’other one on\nt’other side, and the people just crazy. It warn’t funny to me, though;\nI was all of a tremble to see his danger. But pretty soon he struggled\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n151\n\n\nup astraddle and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that; and\nthe next minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle and stood! and\nthe horse a-going like a house aﬁre too. He just stood up there, a-sail-\ning around as easy and comfortable as if he warn’t ever drunk in his\nlife—and then he begun to pull off his clothes and sling them. He\nshed them so thick they kind of clogged up the air, and altogether he\nshed seventeen suits.  And, then, there he was, slim and handsome,\nand dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you ever saw, and he lit into\nthat horse with his whip and made him fairly hum—and finally\nskipped off, and made his bow and danced off to the dressing-room,\nand everybody just a-howling with pleasure and astonishment.\nThen the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled, and he was the\nsickest ringmaster you ever see, I reckon. Why, it was one of his own\nmen! He had got up that joke all out of his own head, and never let on\nto nobody. Well, I felt sheepish enough to be took in so, but I would-\nn’t a been in that ringmaster’s place, not for a thousand dollars. I don’t\nknow; there may be bullier circuses than what that one was, but I never\nstruck them yet. Anyways, it was plenty good enough for me; and\nwherever I run across it, it can have all of my custom every time.\nWell, that night we had our show; but there warn’t only about\ntwelve people there—just enough to pay expenses. And they laughed\nall the time, and that made the duke mad; and everybody left, any-\nway, before the show was over, but one boy which was asleep. So the\nduke said these Arkansaw lunkheads couldn’t come up to\nShakespeare; what they wanted was low comedy—and maybe some-\nthing ruther worse than low comedy, he reckoned. He said he could\nsize their style. So next morning he got some big sheets of wrapping\npaper and some black paint, and drawed off some handbills, and\nstuck them up all over the village. The bills said:\nAT THE COURT HOUSE!\nFOR 3 NIGHTS ONLY!\nThe World-Renowned Tragedians\nDAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER!\nAND\nEDMUND KEAN THE ELDER!\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n152\n\n\nOf the London and Continental\nTheatres,\nIn their Thrilling Tragedy of\nTHE KING’S CAMELEOPARD,\nor\nTHE ROYAL NONESUCH ! ! !\nAdmission 50 cents.\nThen at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which said:\nLADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED.\n“There,” says he, “if that line don’t fetch them, I don’t know Arkansaw!”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n153\n\n\nW\nell, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a\nstage and a curtain and a row of candles for footlights; and that\nnight the house was jam full of men in no time. When the place\ncouldn’t hold no more, the duke he quit tending door and went\naround the back way and come on to the stage and stood up before\nthe curtain and made a little speech, and praised up this tragedy,\nand said it was the most thrillingest one that ever was; and so he\nwent on a-bragging about the tragedy, and about Edmund Kean\nthe Elder, which was to play the main principal part in it; and at\nlast when he’d got everybody’s expectations up high enough, he\nrolled up the curtain, and the next minute the king come a-pranc-\ning out on all fours, naked; and he was painted all over, ring-\nstreaked-and-striped, all sorts of colors, as splendid as a rainbow.\nAnd—but never mind the rest of his outfit; it was just wild, but it\nwas awful funny. The people most killed themselves laughing; and\nwhen the king got done capering and capered off behind the\nscenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and haw-hawed till\nhe come back and done it over again, and after that they made him\ndo it another time. Well, it would make a cow laugh to see the\nshines that old idiot cut.\nThen the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the peo-\nple, and says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights\nmore, on accounts of pressing London engagements, where the\nseats is all sold already for it in Drury Lane; and then he makes\nthem another bow, and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them\nCHAPTER TWENTY-THREE\n154\n\n\nand instructing them, he will be deeply obleeged if they will men-\ntion it to their friends and get them to come and see it.\nTwenty people sings out:\n“What, is it over? Is that all?”\nThe duke says yes. Then there was a ﬁne time.  Everybody sings\nout, “Sold!” and rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and\nthem tragedians. But a big, ﬁne looking man jumps up on a bench\nand shouts:\n“Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen.” They stopped to listen. “We\nare sold—mighty badly sold. But we don’t want to be the laughing\nstock of this whole town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this\nthing as long as we live. No. What we want is to go out of here quiet,\nand talk this show up, and sell the rest of the town! Then we’ll all be\nin the same boat. Ain’t that sensible?” (“You bet it is!—the jedge is\nright!” everybody sings out.) “All right, then—not a word about any\nsell. Go along home, and advise everybody to come and see the\ntragedy.”\nNext day you couldn’t hear nothing around that town but how\nsplendid that show was. House was jammed again that night, and we\nsold this crowd the same way. When me and the king and the duke\ngot home to the raft we all had a supper; and by and by, about mid-\nnight, they made Jim and me back her out and ﬂoat her down the\nmiddle of the river, and fetch her in and hide her about two mile\nbelow town.\nThe third night the house was crammed again—and they warn’t\nnewcomers this time, but people that was at the show the other\ntwo nights. I stood by the duke at the door, and I see that every\nman that went in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled\nup under his coat—and I see it warn’t no perfumery, neither, not\nby a long sight. I smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cab-\nbages, and such things; and if I know the signs of a dead cat being\naround, and I bet I do, there was sixty-four of them went in. I\nshoved in there for a minute, but it was too various for me; I\ncouldn’t stand it. Well, when the place couldn’t hold no more peo-\nple the duke he give a fellow a quarter and told him to tend door\nfor him a minute, and then he started around for the stage door, I\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n155\n\n\nafter him; but the minute we turned the corner and was in the\ndark he says:\n“Walk fast now till you get away from the houses, and then shin for\nthe raft like the dickens was after you!”\nI done it, and he done the same. We struck the raft at the same\ntime, and in less than two seconds we was gliding down stream, all\ndark and still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody\nsaying a word.  I reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of\nit with the audience, but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he crawls\nout from under the wigwam, and says:\n“Well, how’d the old thing pan out this time, duke?” He hadn’t\nbeen up-town at all.\nWe never showed a light till we was about ten mile below the vil-\nlage. Then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke\nfairly laughed their bones loose over the way they’d served them peo-\nple. The duke says:\n“Greenhorns, flatheads! I knew the first house would keep mum\nand let the rest of the town get roped in; and I knew they’d lay for us\nthe third night, and consider it was their turn now. Well, it IS their\nturn, and I’d give something to know how much they’d take for it. I\nwould just like to know how they’re putting in their opportunity.\nThey can turn it into a picnic if they want to—they brought plenty\nprovisions.”\nThem rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-ﬁve dollars in\nthat three nights. I never see money hauled in by the wagon-load like\nthat before.  By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says:\n“Don’t it s’prise you de way dem kings carries on, Huck?”\n“No,” I says, “it don’t.”\n“Why don’t it, Huck?”\n“Well, it don’t, because it’s in the breed. I reckon\nthey’re all alike,”\n“But, Huck, dese kings o’ ourn is reglar rapscallions; dat’s jist what\ndey is; dey’s reglar rapscallions.”\n“Well, that’s what I’m a-saying; all kings is mostly rapscallions, as\nfur as I can make out.”\n“Is dat so?”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n156\n\n\n“You read about them once—you’ll see. Look at Henry the Eight;\nthis ‘n ‘s a Sunday-school Superintendent to him. And look at\nCharles Second, and Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James\nSecond, and Edward Second, and Richard Third, and forty more;\nbesides all them Saxon heptarchies that used to rip around so in old\ntimes and raise Cain. My, you ought to seen old Henry the Eight\nwhen he was in bloom. He was a blossom. He used to marry a new\nwife every day, and chop off her head next morning. And he would\ndo it just as indifferent as if he was ordering up eggs. ‘Fetch up Nell\nGwynn,’ he says. They fetch her up. Next morning, ‘Chop off her\nhead!’ And they chop it off. ‘Fetch up Jane Shore,’ he says; and up\nshe comes, Next morning, ‘Chop off her head’—and they chop it off.\n‘Ring up Fair Rosamun.’ Fair Rosamun answers the bell.  Next morn-\ning, ‘Chop off her head.’ And he made every one of them tell him a\ntale every night; and he kept that up till he had hogged a thousand\nand one tales that way, and then he put them all in a book, and called\nit Domesday Book—which was a good name and stated the case. You\ndon’t know kings, Jim, but I know them; and this old rip of ourn is\none of the cleanest I’ve struck in history. Well, Henry he takes a\nnotion he wants to get up some trouble with this country. How does\nhe go at it—give notice?—give the country a show? No. All of a sud-\nden he heaves all the tea in Boston Harbor overboard, and whacks\nout a declaration of independence, and dares them to come on. That\nwas HIS style—he never give anybody a chance. He had suspicions\nof his father, the Duke of Wellington. Well, what did he do? Ask him\nto show up? No—drownded him in a butt of mamsey, like a cat.\nS’pose people left money laying around where he was—what did he\ndo? He collared it. S’pose he contracted to do a thing, and you paid\nhim, and didn’t set down there and see that he done it—what did he\ndo? He always done the other thing.  S’pose he opened his mouth—\nwhat then? If he didn’t shut it up powerful quick he’d lose a lie every\ntime. That’s the kind of a bug Henry was; and if we’d a had him\nalong ‘stead of our kings he’d a fooled that town a heap worse than\nourn done. I don’t say that ourn is lambs, because they ain’t, when\nyou come right down to the cold facts; but they ain’t nothing to that\nold ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is kings, and you got to make\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n157\n\n\nallowances. Take them all around, they’re a mighty ornery lot. It’s the\nway they’re raised.”\n“But dis one do smell so like de nation, Huck.”\n“Well, they all do, Jim. We can’t help the way a king smells; histo-\nry don’t tell no way.”\n“Now de duke, he’s a tolerble likely man in some ways.”\n“Yes, a duke’s different. But not very different.  This one’s a mid-\ndling hard lot for a duke. When he’s drunk there ain’t no near-sight-\ned man could tell him from a king.”\n“Well, anyways, I doan’ hanker for no mo’ un um, Huck. Dese is\nall I kin stan’.”\n“It’s the way I feel, too, Jim. But we’ve got them on our hands, and\nwe got to remember what they are, and make allowances. Sometimes\nI wish we could hear of a country that’s out of kings.”\nWhat was the use to tell Jim these warn’t real kings and dukes? It\nwouldn’t a done no good; and, besides, it was just as I said: you\ncouldn’t tell them from the real kind.\nI went to sleep, and Jim didn’t call me when it was my turn. He\noften done that. When I waked up just at daybreak he was sitting\nthere with his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning\nto himself. I didn’t take notice nor let on. I knowed what it was\nabout. He was thinking about his wife and his children, away up\nyonder, and he was low and homesick; because he hadn’t ever been\naway from home before in his life; and I do believe he cared just as\nmuch for his people as white folks does for their’n.  It don’t seem\nnatural, but I reckon it’s so. He was often moaning and mourning\nthat way nights, when he judged I was asleep, and saying, “Po’ little\n‘Liza-beth! po’ little Johnny! it’s mighty hard; I spec’ I ain’t ever\ngwyne to see you no mo’, no mo’!” He was a mighty good nigger,\nJim was.\nBut this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and\nyoung ones; and by and by he says:\n“What makes me feel so bad dis time ‘uz bekase I hear sumpn over\nyonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me\ner de time I treat my little ‘Lizabeth so ornery. She warn’t on’y ‘bout\nfo’ year ole, en she tuck de sk’yarlet fever, en had a powful rough\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n158\n\n\nspell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin’ aroun’, en I says\nto her, I says:\n“’Shet de do’.’\n“She never done it; jis’ stood dah, kiner smilin’ up at me. It make\nme mad; en I says agin, mighty loud, I says:\n“’Doan’ you hear me? Shet de do’!’\n“She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin’ up. I was a-bilin’! I says:\n“’I lay I make you mine!’\n“En wid dat I fetch’ her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawl-\nin’. Den I went into de yuther room, en ‘uz gone ‘bout ten minutes;\nen when I come back dah was dat do’ a-stannin’ open yit, en dat chile\nstannin’ mos’ right in it, a-lookin’ down and mournin’, en de tears\nrunnin’ down. My, but I wuz mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis’\nden—it was a do’ dat open innerds—jis’ den, ‘long come de wind en\nslam it to, behine de chile, ker-blam!—en my lan’, de chile never\nmove’! My breff mos’ hop outer me; en I feel so—so—I doan’ know\nhow I feel. I crope out, all a-tremblin’, en crope aroun’ en open de do’\neasy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile, sof’ en still, en all\nuv a sudden I says pow! jis’ as loud as I could yell. She never budge!\nOh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin’ en grab her up in my arms, en say,\n‘Oh, de po’ little thing! De Lord God Amighty fogive po’ ole Jim,\nkaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long’s he live!’ Oh, she was\nplumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb—en I’d ben a-\ntreat’n her so!”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n159\n\n\nNext day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow towhead\nout in the middle, where there was a village on each side of the river,\nand the duke and the king begun to lay out a plan for working them\ntowns. Jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it wouldn’t take\nbut a few hours, because it got mighty heavy and tiresome to him\nwhen he had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with the rope. You see,\nwhen we left him all alone we had to tie him, because if anybody\nhappened on to him all by himself and not tied it wouldn’t look\nmuch like he was a runaway nigger, you know. So the duke said it\nwas kind of hard to have to lay roped all day, and he’d cipher out\nsome way to get around it.\nHe was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it. He\ndressed Jim up in King Lear’s outfit—it was a long curtain-calico\ngown, and a white horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his\ntheater paint and painted Jim’s face and hands and ears and neck all\nover a dead, dull, solid blue, like a man that’s been drownded nine\ndays. Blamed if he warn’t the horriblest looking outrage I ever see.\nThen the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so:\nSick Arab—but harmless when not out of his head.\nAnd he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four or\nﬁve foot in front of the wigwam. Jim was satisﬁed. He said it was a\nsight better than lying tied a couple of years every day, and trembling\nall over every time there was a sound. The duke told him to make\nhimself free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling around, he\nmust hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR\n160\n\n\nor two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light out and\nleave him alone. Which was sound enough judgment; but you take\nthe average man, and he wouldn’t wait for him to howl. Why, he did-\nn’t only look like he was dead, he looked considerable more than\nthat.\nThese rapscallions wanted to try the Nonesuch again, because\nthere was so much money in it, but they judged it wouldn’t be safe,\nbecause maybe the news might a worked along down by this time.\nThey couldn’t hit no project that suited exactly; so at last the duke\nsaid he reckoned he’d lay off and work his brains an hour or two\nand see if he couldn’t put up something on the Arkansaw village;\nand the king he allowed he would drop over to t’other village with-\nout any plan, but just trust in Providence to lead him the profitable\nway—meaning the devil, I reckon. We had all bought store clothes\nwhere we stopped last; and now the king put his’n on, and he told\nme to put mine on. I done it, of course. The king’s duds was all\nblack, and he did look real swell and starchy. I never knowed how\nclothes could change a body before. Why, before, he looked like the\norneriest old rip that ever was; but now, when he’d take off his new\nwhite beaver and make a bow and do a smile, he looked that grand\nand good and pious that you’d say he had walked right out of the\nark, and maybe was old Leviticus himself. Jim cleaned up the\ncanoe, and I got my paddle ready. There was a big steamboat laying\nat the shore away up under the point, about three mile above the\ntown—been there a couple of hours, taking on freight. Says the\nking:\n“Seein’ how I’m dressed, I reckon maybe I better arrive down\nfrom St. Louis or Cincinnati, or some other big place. Go for\nthe steamboat, Huckleberry; we’ll come down to the village on\nher.”\nI didn’t have to be ordered twice to go and take a steamboat ride. I\nfetched the shore a half a mile above the village, and then went scoot-\ning along the bluff bank in the easy water. Pretty soon we come to a\nnice innocent-looking young country jake setting on a log swabbing\nthe sweat off of his face, for it was powerful warm weather; and he\nhad a couple of big carpet-bags by him.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n161\n\n\n“Run her nose in shore,” says the king. I done it. “Wher’ you\nbound for, young man?”\n“For the steamboat; going to Orleans.”\n“Git aboard,” says the king. “Hold on a minute, my servant ‘ll he’p\nyou with them bags. Jump out and he’p the gentleman, Adolphus”—\nmeaning me, I see.\nI done so, and then we all three started on again.  The young chap\nwas mighty thankful; said it was tough work toting his baggage such\nweather. He asked the king where he was going, and the king told\nhim he’d come down the river and landed at the other village this\nmorning, and now he was going up a few mile to see an old friend\non a farm up there. The young fellow says:\n“When I ﬁrst see you I says to myself, ‘It’s Mr.  Wilks, sure, and he\ncome mighty near getting here in time.’ But then I says again, ‘No, I\nreckon it ain’t him, or else he wouldn’t be paddling up the river.’ You\nain’t him, are you?”\n“No, my name’s Blodgett—Elexander Blodgett—\nReverend Elexander Blodgett, I s’pose I must say, as I’m one o’ the\nLord’s poor servants. But still I’m jist as able to be sorry for Mr.\nWilks for not arriving in time, all the same, if he’s missed anything by\nit—which I hope he hasn’t.”\n“Well, he don’t miss any property by it, because he’ll get that all\nright; but he’s missed seeing his brother Peter die—which he mayn’t\nmind, nobody can tell as to that—but his brother would a give any-\nthing in this world to see him before he died; never talked about\nnothing else all these three weeks; hadn’t seen him since they was\nboys together—and hadn’t ever seen his brother William at all—that’s\nthe deef and dumb one—William ain’t more than thirty or thirty-\nﬁve. Peter and George were the only ones that come out here; George\nwas the married brother; him and his wife both died last year. Harvey\nand William’s the only ones that’s left now; and, as I was saying, they\nhaven’t got here in time.”\n“Did anybody send ‘em word?”\n“Oh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was ﬁrst took; because\nPeter said then that he sorter felt like he warn’t going to get well this\ntime. You see, he was pretty old, and George’s g’yirls was too young\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n162\n\n\nto be much company for him, except Mary Jane, the red-headed one;\nand so he was kinder lonesome after George and his wife died, and\ndidn’t seem to care much to live. He most desperately wanted to see\nHarvey—and William, too, for that matter—because he was one of\nthem kind that can’t bear to make a will. He left a letter behind for\nHarvey, and said he’d told in it where his money was hid, and how he\nwanted the rest of the property divided up so George’s g’yirls would\nbe all right—for George didn’t leave nothing. And that letter was all\nthey could get him to put a pen to.”\n“Why do you reckon Harvey don’t come? Wher’ does he live?”\n“Oh, he lives in England—Shefﬁeld—preaches there—hasn’t ever\nbeen in this country. He hasn’t had any too much time—and besides\nhe mightn’t a got the letter at all, you know.”\n“Too bad, too bad he couldn’t a lived to see his brothers, poor soul.\nYou going to Orleans, you say?”\n“Yes, but that ain’t only a part of it. I’m going in a ship, next\nWednesday, for Ryo Janeero, where my uncle lives.”\n“It’s a pretty long journey. But it’ll be lovely; wisht I was a-going. Is\nMary Jane the oldest? How old is the others?”\n“Mary Jane’s nineteen, Susan’s ﬁfteen, and Joanna’s about fourteen—\nthat’s the one that gives herself to good works and has a hare-lip.”\n“Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so.”\n“Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had friends, and they\nain’t going to let them come to no harm. There’s Hobson, the Babtis’\npreacher; and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner\nShackleford, and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr. Robinson, and their\nwives, and the widow Bartley, and—well, there’s a lot of them; but\nthese are the ones that Peter was thickest with, and used to write\nabout sometimes, when he wrote home; so Harvey ‘ll know where to\nlook for friends when he gets here.”\nWell, the old man went on asking questions till he just fairly emp-\ntied that young fellow. Blamed if he didn’t inquire about everybody\nand everything in that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and\nabout Peter’s business—which was a tanner; and about George’s—\nwhich was a carpenter; and about Harvey’s—which was a dissenter-\ning minister; and so on, and so on. Then he says:\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n163\n\n\n“What did you want to walk all the way up to the steamboat for?”\n“Because she’s a big Orleans boat, and I was afeard she mightn’t\nstop there. When they’re deep they won’t stop for a hail. A Cincinnati\nboat will, but this is a St. Louis one.”\n“Was Peter Wilks well off?”\n“Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses and land, and it’s reckoned\nhe left three or four thousand in cash hid up som’ers.”\n“When did you say he died?”\n“I didn’t say, but it was last night.”\n“Funeral tomorrow, likely?”\n“Yes, ‘bout the middle of the day.”\n“Well, it’s all terrible sad; but we’ve all got to go, one time or\nanother. So what we want to do is to be prepared; then we’re all\nright.”\n“Yes, sir, it’s the best way. Ma used to always say that.”\nWhen we struck the boat she was about done loading, and pretty\nsoon she got off. The king never said nothing about going aboard, so\nI lost my ride, after all. When the boat was gone the king made me\npaddle up another mile to a lonesome place, and then he got ashore\nand says:\n“Now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up here, and the\nnew carpet-bags. And if he’s gone over to t’other side, go over there\nand git him. And tell him to git himself up regardless. Shove along,\nnow.”\nI see what HE was up to; but I never said nothing, of course. When\nI got back with the duke we hid the canoe, and then they set down\non a log, and the king told him everything, just like the young fellow\nhad said it—every last word of it. And all the time he was a-doing it\nhe tried to talk like an Englishman; and he done it pretty well, too,\nfor a slouch. I can’t imitate him, and so I ain’t a-going to try to; but\nhe really done it pretty good. Then he says:\n“How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?”\nThe duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a deef\nand dumb person on the histronic boards.  So then they waited for a\nsteamboat.\nAbout the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats come\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n164\n\n\nalong, but they didn’t come from high enough up the river; but at\nlast there was a big one, and they hailed her. She sent out her yawl,\nand we went aboard, and she was from Cincinnati; and when they\nfound we only wanted to go four or ﬁve mile they was booming mad,\nand gave us a cussing, and said they wouldn’t land us. But the king\nwas ca’m.\nHe says:\n“If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece to be took on\nand put off in a yawl, a steamboat kin afford to carry ‘em, can’t it?”\nSo they softened down and said it was all right; and when we got\nto the village they yawled us ashore.  About two dozen men ﬂocked\ndown when they see the yawl a-coming, and when the king says:\n“Kin any of you gentlemen tell me wher’ Mr. Peter Wilks lives?”\nthey give a glance at one another, and nodded their heads, as much\nas to say, “What d’ I tell you?” Then one of them says, kind of soft\nand gentle:\n“I’m sorry. sir, but the best we can do is to tell you where he did live\nyesterday evening.”\nSudden as winking the ornery old cretur went an to smash, and fell\nup against the man, and put his chin on his shoulder, and cried down\nhis back, and says:\n“Alas, alas, our poor brother—gone, and we never got to see him;\noh, it’s too, too hard!”\nThen he turns around, blubbering, and makes a lot of idiotic signs\nto the duke on his hands, and blamed if he didn’t drop a carpet-bag\nand bust out a-crying.  If they warn’t the beatenest lot, them two\nfrauds, that ever I struck.\nWell, the men gathered around and sympathized with them, and\nsaid all sorts of kind things to them, and carried their carpet-bags up\nthe hill for them, and let them lean on them and cry, and told the\nking all about his brother’s last moments, and the king he told it all\nover again on his hands to the duke, and both of them took on about\nthat dead tanner like they’d lost the twelve disciples. Well, if ever I\nstruck anything like it, I’m a nigger. It was enough to make a body\nashamed of the human race.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n165\n\n\nT\nhe news was all over town in two minutes, and you could see\nthe people tearing down on the run from every which way, some of\nthem putting on their coats as they come. Pretty soon we was in the\nmiddle of a crowd, and the noise of the tramping was like a soldier\nmarch. The windows and dooryards was full; and every minute\nsomebody would say, over a fence:\n“Is it them?”\nAnd somebody trotting along with the gang would answer back\nand say:\n“You bet it is.”\nWhen we got to the house the street in front of it was packed, and\nthe three girls was standing in the door. Mary Jane was red-headed,\nbut that don’t make no difference, she was most awful beautiful, and\nher face and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she was so glad her\nuncles was come. The king he spread his arms, and Marsy Jane she\njumped for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the duke, and there\nthey had it!  Everybody most, leastways women, cried for joy to see\nthem meet again at last and have such good times.\nThen the king he hunched the duke private—I see him do it—and\nthen he looked around and see the cofﬁn, over in the corner on two\nchairs; so then him and the duke, with a hand across each other’s\nshoulder, and t’other hand to their eyes, walked slow and solemn over\nthere, everybody dropping back to give them room, and all the talk\nand noise stopping, people saying “Sh!” and all the men taking their\nhats off and drooping their heads, so you could a heard a pin fall.\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE\n166\n\n\nAnd when they got there they bent over and looked in the cofﬁn, and\ntook one sight, and then they bust out a-crying so you could a heard\nthem to Orleans, most; and then they put their arms around each\nother’s necks, and hung their chins over each other’s shoulders; and\nthen for three minutes, or maybe four, I never see two men leak the\nway they done. And, mind you, everybody was doing the same; and\nthe place was that damp I never see anything like it.  Then one of\nthem got on one side of the cofﬁn, and t’other on t’other side, and\nthey kneeled down and rested their foreheads on the cofﬁn, and let\non to pray all to themselves. Well, when it come to that it worked the\ncrowd like you never see anything like it, and everybody broke down\nand went to sobbing right out loud—the poor girls, too; and every\nwoman, nearly, went up to the girls, without saying a word, and\nkissed them, solemn, on the forehead, and then put their hand on\ntheir head, and looked up towards the sky, with the tears running\ndown, and then busted out and went off sobbing and swabbing, and\ngive the next woman a show. I never see anything so disgusting.\nWell, by and by the king he gets up and comes forward a little, and\nworks himself up and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears and ﬂap-\ndoodle about its being a sore trial for him and his poor brother to\nlose the diseased, and to miss seeing diseased alive after the long jour-\nney of four thousand mile, but it’s a trial that’s sweetened and sancti-\nfied to us by this dear sympathy and these holy tears, and so he\nthanks them out of his heart and out of his brother’s heart, because\nout of their mouths they can’t, words being too weak and cold, and\nall that kind of rot and slush, till it was just sickening; and then he\nblubbers out a pious goody-goody Amen, and turns himself loose\nand goes to crying ﬁt to bust.\nAnd the minute the words were out of his mouth somebody over\nin the crowd struck up the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with\nall their might, and it just warmed you up and made you feel as good\nas church letting out. Music is a good thing; and after all that soul-\nbutter and hogwash I never see it freshen up things so, and sound so\nhonest and bully.\nThen the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him and\nhis nieces would be glad if a few of the main principal friends of the\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n167\n\n\nfamily would take supper here with them this evening, and help set\nup with the ashes of the diseased; and says if his poor brother laying\nyonder could speak he knows who he would name, for they was\nnames that was very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters;\nand so he will name the same, to wit, as follows, vizz.:—Rev. Mr.\nHobson, and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Mr. Ben Rucker, and Abner\nShackleford, and Levi Bell, and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and\nthe widow Bartley.\nRev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down to the end of the town\na-hunting together—that is, I mean the doctor was shipping a sick\nman to t’other world, and the preacher was pinting him right.\nLawyer Bell was away up to Louisville on business. But the rest was\non hand, and so they all come and shook hands with the king and\nthanked him and talked to him; and then they shook hands with the\nduke and didn’t say nothing, but just kept a-smiling and bobbing\ntheir heads like a passel of sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs\nwith his hands and said “Goo-goo—goo-goo-goo” all the time, like a\nbaby that can’t talk.\nSo the king he blattered along, and managed to inquire about pret-\nty much everybody and dog in town, by his name, and mentioned all\nsorts of little things that happened one time or another in the town,\nor to George’s family, or to Peter. And he always let on that Peter\nwrote him the things; but that was a lie: he got every blessed one of\nthem out of that young ﬂathead that we canoed up to the steamboat.\nThen Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father left behind, and\nthe king he read it out loud and cried over it. It give the dwelling-\nhouse and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the\ntanyard (which was doing a good business), along with some other\nhouses and land (worth about seven thousand), and three thousand\ndollars in gold to Harvey and William, and told where the six thou-\nsand cash was hid down cellar. So these two frauds said they’d go and\nfetch it up, and have everything square and above-board; and told me\nto come with a candle. We shut the cellar door behind us, and when\nthey found the bag they spilt it out on the ﬂoor, and it was a lovely\nsight, all them yaller-boys. My, the way the king’s eyes did shine! He\nslaps the duke on the shoulder and says:\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n168\n\n\n“Oh, this ain’t bully nor noth’n! Oh, no, I reckon not! Why, Biljy,\nit beats the Nonesuch, don’t it?”\nThe duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted\nthem through their ﬁngers and let them jingle down on the ﬂoor;\nand the king says:\n“It ain’t no use talkin’; bein’ brothers to a rich dead man and repre-\nsentatives of furrin heirs that’s got left is the line for you and me,\nBilge. Thish yer comes of trust’n to Providence. It’s the best way, in\nthe long run. I’ve tried ‘em all, and ther’ ain’t no better way.”\nMost everybody would a been satisﬁed with the pile, and took it on\ntrust; but no, they must count it. So they counts it, and it comes out\nfour hundred and ﬁfteen dollars short. Says the king:\n“Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four hundred and ﬁf-\nteen dollars?”\nThey worried over that awhile, and ransacked all around for it.\nThen the duke says:\n“Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake—I\nreckon that’s the way of it. The best way’s to let it go, and keep still\nabout it. We can spare it.”\n“Oh, shucks, yes, we can spare it. I don’t k’yer noth’n ‘bout that—\nit’s the count I’m thinkin’ about. We want to be awful square and\nopen and above-board here, you know. We want to lug this h-yer\nmoney up stairs and count it before everybody—then ther’ ain’t\nnoth’n suspicious. But when the dead man says ther’s six thous’n dol-\nlars, you know, we don’t want to—”\n“Hold on,” says the duke. “Le’s make up the defﬁsit,” and he begun\nto haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket.\n“It’s a most amaz’n’ good idea, duke—you have got a rattlin’ clever\nhead on you,” says the king.  “Blest if the old Nonesuch ain’t a hep-\npin’ us out agin,” and he begun to haul out yaller-jackets and stack\nthem up.\nIt most busted them, but they made up the six thousand clean and\nclear.\n“Say,” says the duke, “I got another idea. Le’s go up stairs and\ncount this money, and then take and give to the girls.”\n“Good land, duke, lemme hug you! It’s the most dazzling idea ‘at\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n169\n\n\never a man struck. You have cert’nly got the most astonishin’ head I\never see. Oh, this is the boss dodge, ther’ ain’t no mistake ‘bout it. Let\n‘em fetch along their suspicions now if they want to—this ‘ll lay ‘em\nout.”\nWhen we got upstairs everybody gethered around the table, and\nthe king he counted it and stacked it up, three hundred dollars in a\npile—twenty elegant little piles. Everybody looked hungry at it, and\nlicked their chops. Then they raked it into the bag again, and I see\nthe king begin to swell himself up for another speech. He says:\n“Friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has done generous\nby them that’s left behind in the vale of sorrers. He has done gener-\nous by these yer poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and\nthat’s left fatherless and motherless. Yes, and we that knowed him\nknows that he would a done more generous by ‘em if he hadn’t ben\nafeard o’ woundin’ his dear William and me. Now, wouldn’t he? Ther’\nain’t no question ‘bout it in my mind. Well, then, what kind o’ broth-\ners would it be that ‘d stand in his way at sech a time?  And what\nkind o’ uncles would it be that ‘d rob—yes, rob—sech poor sweet\nlambs as these ‘at he loved so at sech a time? If I know William—and\nI think I do—he—well, I’ll jest ask him.” He turns around and\nbegins to make a lot of signs to the duke with his hands, and the\nduke he looks at him stupid and leather-headed a while; then all of a\nsudden he seems to catch his meaning, and jumps for the king, goo-\ngooing with all his might for joy, and hugs him about ﬁfteen times\nbefore he lets up. Then the king says, “I knowed it; I reckon that ‘ll\nconvince anybody the way he feels about it. Here, Mary Jane, Susan,\nJoanner, take the money—take it all. It’s the gift of him that lays\nyonder, cold but joyful.”\nMary Jane she went for him, Susan and the hare-lip went for the\nduke, and then such another hugging and kissing I never see yet. And\neverybody crowded up with the tears in their eyes, and most shook\nthe hands off of them frauds, saying all the time:\n“You dear good souls!—how lovely!—how could you!”\nWell, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking about the diseased\nagain, and how good he was, and what a loss he was, and all that; and\nbefore long a big iron-jawed man worked himself in there from out-\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n170\n\n\nside, and stood a-listening and looking, and not saying anything; and\nnobody saying anything to him either, because the king was talking\nand they was all busy listening. The king was saying—in the middle\nof something he’d started in on—\n“—they bein’ partickler friends o’ the diseased.  That’s why they’re\ninvited here this evenin’; but tomorrow we want ALL to come—\neverybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody, and so it’s\nﬁtten that his funeral orgies sh’d be public.”\nAnd so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk,\nand every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies again, till the\nduke he couldn’t stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap of\npaper, “obsequies, you old fool,” and folds it up, and goes to goo-goo-\ning and reaching it over people’s heads to him. The king he reads it\nand puts it in his pocket, and says:\n“Poor William, afﬂicted as he is, his heart’s aluz right. Asks me to\ninvite everybody to come to the funeral—wants me to make ‘em all\nwelcome. But he needn’t a worried—it was jest what I was at.”\nThen he weaves along again, perfectly ca’m, and goes to dropping\nin his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like he done\nbefore. And when he done it the third time he says:\n“I say orgies, not because it’s the common term, because it ain’t—\nobsequies bein’ the common term—but because orgies is the right\nterm. Obsequies ain’t used in England no more now—it’s gone out.\nWe say orgies now in England. Orgies is better, because it means the\nthing you’re after more exact. It’s a word that’s made up out’n the\nGreek orgo, outside, open, abroad; and the Hebrew jeesum, to plant,\ncover up; hence inter. So, you see, funeral orgies is an open er public\nfuneral.”\nHe was the worst I ever struck. Well, the iron-jawed man he\nlaughed right in his face. Everybody was shocked. Everybody says,\n“Why, doctor!” and Abner Shackleford says:\n“Why, Robinson, hain’t you heard the news? This is Harvey\nWilks.”\nThe king he smiled eager, and shoved out his ﬂapper, and says:\n“Is it my poor brother’s dear good friend and physician? I—”\n“Keep your hands off of me!” says the doctor.  “You talk like an\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n171\n\n\nEnglishman, don’t you? It’s the worst imitation I ever heard. You\nPeter Wilks’s brother! You’re a fraud, that’s what you are!”\nWell, how they all took on! They crowded around the doctor and\ntried to quiet him down, and tried to explain to him and tell him\nhow Harvey ‘d showed in forty ways that he was Harvey, and knowed\neverybody by name, and the names of the very dogs, and begged and\nbegged him not to hurt Harvey’s feelings and the poor girl’s feelings,\nand all that. But it warn’t no use; he stormed right along, and said\nany man that pretended to be an Englishman and couldn’t imitate\nthe lingo no better than what he did was a fraud and a liar. The poor\ngirls was hanging to the king and crying; and all of a sudden the doc-\ntor ups and turns on them. He says:\n“I was your father’s friend, and I’m your friend; and I warn you as\na friend, and an honest one that wants to protect you and keep you\nout of harm and trouble, to turn your backs on that scoundrel and\nhave nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp, with his idiotic\nGreek and Hebrew, as he calls it. He is the thinnest kind of an\nimpostor—has come here with a lot of empty names and facts which\nhe picked up somewheres, and you take them for proofs, and are\nhelped to fool yourselves by these foolish friends here, who ought to\nknow better. Mary Jane Wilks, you know me for your friend, and for\nyour unselﬁsh friend, too. Now listen to me; turn this pitiful rascal\nout—\nI beg you to do it. Will you?”\nMary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was handsome!\nShe says:\n“Here is my answer.” She hove up the bag of money and put it in\nthe king’s hands, and says, “Take this six thousand dollars, and invest\nfor me and my sisters any way you want to, and don’t give us no\nreceipt for it.”\nThen she put her arm around the king on one side, and Susan and\nthe hare-lip done the same on the other. Everybody clapped their\nhands and stomped on the ﬂoor like a perfect storm, whilst the king\nheld up his head and smiled proud. The doctor says:\n“All right; I wash my hands of the matter. But I warn you all that a\ntime ‘s coming when you’re going to feel sick whenever you think of\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n172\n\n\nthis day.” And away he went.\n“All right, doctor,” says the king, kinder mocking him; “we’ll try\nand get ‘em to send for you;” which made them all laugh, and they\nsaid it was a prime good hit.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n173\n\n\nW\nell, when they was all gone the king he asks Mary Jane how\nthey was off for spare rooms, and she said she had one spare room,\nwhich would do for Uncle William, and she’d give her own room to\nUncle Harvey, which was a little bigger, and she would turn into the\nroom with her sisters and sleep on a cot; and up garret was a little\ncubby, with a pallet in it.  The king said the cubby would do for his\nvalley—meaning me.\nSo Mary Jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which\nwas plain but nice. She said she’d have her frocks and a lot of other\ntraps took out of her room if they was in Uncle Harvey’s way, but he\nsaid they warn’t. The frocks was hung along the wall, and before\nthem was a curtain made out of calico that hung down to the ﬂoor.\nThere was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box in\nanother, and all sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks around, like\ngirls brisken up a room with. The king said it was all the more home-\nly and more pleasanter for these ﬁxings, and so don’t disturb them.\nThe duke’s room was pretty small, but plenty good enough, and so\nwas my cubby.\nThat night they had a big supper, and all them men and women\nwas there, and I stood behind the king and the duke’s chairs and\nwaited on them, and the niggers waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set\nat the head of the table, with Susan alongside of her, and said how\nbad the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was, and how\nornery and tough the fried chickens was—and all that kind of rot,\nthe way women always do for to force out compliments; and the peo-\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SIX\n174\n\n\nple all knowed everything was tiptop, and said so—said “How do you\nget biscuits to brown so nice?” and “Where, for the land’s sake, did\nyou get these amaz’n pickles?” and all that kind of humbug talky-\ntalk, just the way people always does at a supper, you know.\nAnd when it was all done me and the hare-lip had\nsupper in the kitchen off of the leavings, whilst the others\nwas helping the niggers clean up the things. The hare-lip she got to\npumping me about England, and blest if I didn’t think the ice was\ngetting mighty thin sometimes. She says:\n“Did you ever see the king?”\n“Who? William Fourth? Well, I bet I have—he goes to our\nchurch.” I knowed he was dead years ago, but I never let on. So when\nI says he goes to our church, she says:\n“What—regular?”\n“Yes—regular. His pew’s right over opposite ourn—on t’other side\nthe pulpit.”\n“I thought he lived in London?”\n“Well, he does. Where would he live?”\n“But I thought you lived in Shefﬁeld?”\nI see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get choked with a chick-\nen bone, so as to get time to think how to get down again. Then I\nsays:\n“I mean he goes to our church regular when he’s in Shefﬁeld. That’s\nonly in the summer time, when he comes there to take the sea\nbaths.”\n“Why, how you talk—Shefﬁeld ain’t on the sea.”\n“Well, who said it was?”\n“Why, you did.”\n“I didn’t nuther.”\n“You did!”\n“I didn’t.”\n“You did.”\n“I never said nothing of the kind.”\n“Well, what did you say, then?”\n“Said he come to take the sea baths—that’s what I said.”\n“Well, then, how’s he going to take the sea baths if it ain’t on the sea?”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n175\n\n\n“Looky here,” I says; “did you ever see any Congress-water?”\n“Yes.”\n“Well, did you have to go to Congress to get it?”\n“Why, no.”\n“Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to the sea to get a\nsea bath.”\n“How does he get it, then?”\n“Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-water—in barrels.\nThere in the palace at Shefﬁeld they’ve got furnaces, and he wants his\nwater hot.  They can’t bile that amount of water away off there at the\nsea. They haven’t got no conveniences for it.”\n“Oh, I see, now. You might a said that in the ﬁrst place and saved\ntime.”\nWhen she said that I see I was out of the woods again, and so I was\ncomfortable and glad. Next, she says:\n“Do you go to church, too?”\n“Yes—regular.”\n“Where do you set?”\n“Why, in our pew.”\n“Whose pew?”\n“Why, ourn—your Uncle Harvey’s.”\n“His’n? What does he want with a pew?”\n“Wants it to set in. What did you reckon he wanted with it?”\n“Why, I thought he’d be in the pulpit.”\nRot him, I forgot he was a preacher. I see I was up a stump again,\nso I played another chicken bone and got another think. Then I says:\n“Blame it, do you suppose there ain’t but one preacher to a\nchurch?”\n“Why, what do they want with more?”\n“What!—to preach before a king? I never did see such a girl as you.\nThey don’t have no less than seventeen.”\n“Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn’t set out such a string as that,\nnot if I never got to glory. It must take ‘em a week.”\n“Shucks, they don’t ALL of ‘em preach the same day—only one of ‘em.”\n“Well, then, what does the rest of ‘em do?”\n“Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n176\n\n\n—and one thing or another. But mainly they don’t do nothing.”\n“Well, then, what are they for?”\n“Why, they’re for style. Don’t you know nothing?”\n“Well, I don’t want to know no such foolishness as that. How is\nservants treated in England? Do they treat ‘em better ‘n we treat our\nniggers?”\n“No! A servant ain’t nobody there. They treat them worse than dogs.”\n“Don’t they give ‘em holidays, the way we do, Christmas and New\nYear’s week, and Fourth of July?”\n“Oh, just listen! A body could tell you hain’t ever been to England\nby that. Why, Harel—why, Joanna, they never see a holiday from\nyear’s end to year’s end; never go to the circus, nor theater, nor nig-\nger shows, nor nowheres.”\n“Nor church?”\n“Nor church.”\n“But you always went to church.”\nWell, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old man’s servant. But\nnext minute I whirled in on a kind of an explanation how a valley\nwas different from a common servant and had to go to church\nwhether he wanted to or not, and set with the family, on account of\nits being the law. But I didn’t do it pretty good, and when I got done\nI see she warn’t satisﬁed.\nShe says:\n“Honest injun, now, hain’t you been telling me a lot of lies?”\n“Honest injun,” says I.\n“None of it at all?”\n“None of it at all. Not a lie in it,” says I.\n“Lay your hand on this book and say it.”\nI see it warn’t nothing but a dictionary, so I laid my hand on it and\nsaid it. So then she looked a little better satisﬁed, and says:\n“Well, then, I’ll believe some of it; but I hope to gracious if I’ll\nbelieve the rest.”\n“What is it you won’t believe, Joe?” says Mary Jane, stepping in\nwith Susan behind her. “It ain’t right nor kind for you to talk so to\nhim, and him a stranger and so far from his people. How would you\nlike to be treated so?”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n177\n\n\n“That’s always your way, Maim—always sailing in to help some-\nbody before they’re hurt. I hain’t done nothing to him. He’s told\nsome stretchers, I reckon, and I said I wouldn’t swallow it all; and\nthat’s every bit and grain I did say. I reckon he can stand a little thing\nlike that, can’t he?”\n“I don’t care whether ‘twas little or whether ‘twas big; he’s here in\nour house and a stranger, and it wasn’t good of you to say it. If you\nwas in his place it would make you feel ashamed; and so you ought-\nn’t to say a thing to another person that will make them feel\nashamed.”\n“Why, Maim, he said—”\n“It don’t make no difference what he said—that ain’t the thing. The\nthing is for you to treat him kind, and not be saying things to make\nhim remember he ain’t in his own country and amongst his own\nfolks.”\nI says to myself, this is a girl that I’m letting that old reptle rob her\nof her money!\nThen Susan she waltzed in; and if you’ll believe me, she did give\nHare-lip hark from the tomb!\nSays I to myself, and this is another one that I’m letting him rob her\nof her money!\nThen Mary Jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and\nlovely again—which was her way; but when she got done there warn’t\nhardly anything left o’ poor Hare-lip. So she hollered.\n“All right, then,” says the other girls; “you just ask his pardon.”\nShe done it, too; and she done it beautiful. She done it so beauti-\nful it was good to hear; and I wished I could tell her a thousand lies,\nso she could do it again.\nI says to myself, this is another one that I’m letting him rob her of\nher money. And when she got through they all jest laid theirselves\nout to make me feel at home and know I was amongst friends. I felt\nso ornery and low down and mean that I says to myself, my mind’s\nmade up; I’ll hive that money for them or bust.\nSo then I lit out—for bed, I said, meaning some time or another.\nWhen I got by myself I went to thinking the thing over. I says to\nmyself, shall I go to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds?\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n178\n\n\nNo—that won’t do. He might tell who told him; then the king and\nthe duke would make it warm for me. Shall I go, private, and tell\nMary Jane? No—\nI dasn’t do it. Her face would give them a hint, sure; they’ve got the\nmoney, and they’d slide right out and get away with it. If she was to\nfetch in help I’d get mixed up in the business before it was done with,\nI judge. No; there ain’t no good way but one.  I got to steal that\nmoney, somehow; and I got to steal it some way that they won’t sus-\npicion that I done it. They’ve got a good thing here, and they ain’t a-\ngoing to leave till they’ve played this family and this town for all\nthey’re worth, so I’ll ﬁnd a chance time enough. I’ll steal it and hide\nit; and by and by, when I’m away down the river, I’ll write a letter\nand tell Mary Jane where it’s hid. But I better hive it tonight if I can,\nbecause the doctor maybe hasn’t let up as much as he lets on he has;\nhe might scare them out of here yet.\nSo, thinks I, I’ll go and search them rooms. Upstairs the hall was\ndark, but I found the duke’s room, and started to paw around it with\nmy hands; but I recollected it wouldn’t be much like the king to let\nanybody else take care of that money but his own self; so then I went\nto his room and begun to paw around there. But I see I couldn’t do\nnothing without a candle, and I dasn’t light one, of course. So I\njudged I’d got to do the other thing—lay for them and eavesdrop.\nAbout that time I hears their footsteps coming, and was going to skip\nunder the bed; I reached for it, but it wasn’t where I thought it would\nbe; but I touched the curtain that hid Mary Jane’s frocks, so I jumped\nin behind that and snuggled in amongst the gowns, and stood there\nperfectly still.\nThey come in and shut the door; and the ﬁrst thing the duke done\nwas to get down and look under the bed. Then I was glad I hadn’t\nfound the bed when I wanted it. And yet, you know, it’s kind of nat-\nural to hide under the bed when you are up to anything private. They\nsets down then, and the king says:\n“Well, what is it? And cut it middlin’ short, because it’s better for\nus to be down there a-whoopin’ up the mournin’ than up here givin’\n‘em a chance to talk us over.”\n“Well, this is it, Capet. I ain’t easy; I ain’t comfortable. That doctor\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n179\n\n\nlays on my mind. I wanted to know your plans. I’ve got a notion, and\nI think it’s a sound one.”\n“What is it, duke?”\n“That we better glide out of this before three in the morning, and\nclip it down the river with what we’ve got. Specially, seeing we got it\nso easy—given back to us, ﬂung at our heads, as you may say, when\nof course we allowed to have to steal it back. I’m for knocking off and\nlighting out.”\nThat made me feel pretty bad. About an hour or two ago it would\na been a little different, but now it made me feel bad and disap-\npointed, The king rips out and says:\n“What! And not sell out the rest o’ the property?  March off like a\npassel of fools and leave eight or nine thous’n’ dollars’ worth o’ proper-\nty layin’ around jest sufferin’ to be scooped in?—and all good, salable\nstuff, too.”\nThe duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and he\ndidn’t want to go no deeper—didn’t want to rob a lot of orphans of\neverything they had.\n“Why, how you talk!” says the king. “We sha’n’t rob ‘em of nothing\nat all but jest this money.  The people that buys the property is the\nsuff’rers; because as soon ‘s it’s found out ‘at we didn’t own it—which\nwon’t be long after we’ve slid—the sale won’t be valid, and it ‘ll all go\nback to the estate.  These yer orphans ‘ll git their house back agin,\nand that’s enough for them; they’re young and spry, and k’n easy earn\na livin’. They ain’t a-goin to suffer.  Why, jest think—there’s thous’n’s\nand thous’n’s that ain’t nigh so well off. Bless you, they ain’t got\nnoth’n’ to complain of.”\nWell, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and said all\nright, but said he believed it was blamed foolishness to stay, and that\ndoctor hanging over them. But the king says:\n“Cuss the doctor! What do we k’yer for him? Hain’t we got all the\nfools in town on our side? And ain’t that a big enough majority in\nany town?”\nSo they got ready to go down stairs again. The duke says:\n“I don’t think we put that money in a good place.”\nThat cheered me up. I’d begun to think I warn’t going to get\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n180\n\n\na hint of no kind to help me. The king says:\n“Why?”\n“Because Mary Jane ‘ll be in mourning from this out; and ﬁrst you\nknow the nigger that does up the rooms will get an order to box these\nduds up and put ‘em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run\nacross money and not borrow some of it?”\n“Your head’s level agin, duke,” says the king; and he comes a-fum-\nbling under the curtain two or three foot from where I was. I stuck\ntight to the wall and kept mighty still, though quivery; and I won-\ndered what them fellows would say to me if they catched me; and I\ntried to think what I’d better do if they did catch me. But the king\nhe got the bag before I could think more than about a half a thought,\nand he never suspicioned I was around. They took and shoved the\nbag through a rip in the straw tick that was under the feather-bed,\nand crammed it in a foot or two amongst the straw and said it was all\nright now, because a nigger only makes up the feather-bed, and don’t\nturn over the straw tick only about twice a year, and so it warn’t in no\ndanger of getting stole now.\nBut I knowed better. I had it out of there before they was half-way\ndown stairs. I groped along up to my cubby, and hid it there till I\ncould get a chance to do better. I judged I better hide it outside of\nthe house somewheres, because if they missed it they would give the\nhouse a good ransacking: I knowed that very well. Then I turned in,\nwith my clothes all on; but I couldn’t a gone to sleep if I’d a wanted\nto, I was in such a sweat to get through with the business. By and by\nI heard the king and the duke come up; so I rolled off my pallet and\nlaid with my chin at the top of my ladder, and waited to see if any-\nthing was going to happen. But nothing did.\nSo I held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones had-\nn’t begun yet; and then I slipped down the ladder.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n181\n\n\nI crept to their doors and listened; they was snoring. So I tiptoed\nalong, and got down stairs all right. There warn’t a sound anywheres.\nI peeped through a crack of the dining-room door, and see the men\nthat was watching the corpse all sound asleep on their chairs. The\ndoor was open into the parlor, where the corpse was laying, and there\nwas a candle in both rooms. I passed along, and the parlor door was\nopen; but I see there warn’t nobody in there but the remainders of\nPeter; so I shoved on by; but the front door was locked, and the key\nwasn’t there. Just then I heard somebody coming down the stairs,\nback behind me. I run in the parlor and took a swift look around,\nand the only place I see to hide the bag was in the cofﬁn. The lid was\nshoved along about a foot, showing the dead man’s face down in\nthere, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on. I tucked the\nmoney-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his hands was\ncrossed, which made me creep, they was so cold, and then I run back\nacross the room and in behind the door.\nThe person coming was Mary Jane. She went to the cofﬁn, very\nsoft, and kneeled down and looked in; then she put up her handker-\nchief, and I see she begun to cry, though I couldn’t hear her, and her\nback was to me. I slid out, and as I passed the dining-room I thought\nI’d make sure them watchers hadn’t seen me; so I looked through the\ncrack, and everything was all right. They hadn’t stirred.\nI slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts of the thing\nplaying out that way after I had took so much trouble and run so\nmuch resk about it. Says I, if it could stay where it is, all right;\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN\n182\n\n\nbecause when we get down the river a hundred mile or two I could\nwrite back to Mary Jane, and she could dig him up again and get it;\nbut that ain’t the thing that’s going to happen; the thing that’s going\nto happen is, the money ‘ll be found when they come to screw on the\nlid. Then the king ‘ll get it again, and it ‘ll be a long day before he\ngives anybody another chance to smouch it from him. Of course I\nwanted to slide down and get it out of there, but I dasn’t try it. Every\nminute it was getting earlier now, and pretty soon some of them\nwatchers would begin to stir, and I might get catched—catched with\nsix thousand dollars in my hands that nobody hadn’t hired me to take\ncare of. I don’t wish to be mixed up in no such business as that, I says\nto myself.\nWhen I got down stairs in the morning the parlor was shut up, and\nthe watchers was gone. There warn’t nobody around but the family\nand the widow Bartley and our tribe. I watched their faces to see if\nanything had been happening, but I couldn’t tell.\nTowards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man,\nand they set the coffin in the middle of the room on a couple of\nchairs, and then set all our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from\nthe neighbors till the hall and the parlor and the dining-room was\nfull. I see the cofﬁn lid was the way it was before, but I dasn’t go to\nlook in under it, with folks around.\nThen the people begun to ﬂock in, and the beats and the girls took\nseats in the front row at the head of the cofﬁn, and for a half an hour\nthe people ﬁled around slow, in single rank, and looked down at the\ndead man’s face a minute, and some dropped in a tear, and it was all\nvery still and solemn, only the girls and the beats holding handker-\nchiefs to their eyes and keeping their heads bent, and sobbing a little.\nThere warn’t no other sound but the scraping of the feet on the ﬂoor\nand blowing noses—because people always blows them more at a\nfuneral than they do at other places except church.\nWhen the place was packed full the undertaker he slid around in\nhis black gloves with his softy soothering ways, putting on the last\ntouches, and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfort-\nable, and making no more sound than a cat. He never spoke; he\nmoved people around, he squeezed in late ones, he opened up pas-\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n183\n\n\nsageways, and done it with nods, and signs with his hands. Then he\ntook his place over against the wall. He was the softest, glidingest,\nstealthiest man I ever see; and there warn’t no more smile to him than\nthere is to a ham.\nThey had borrowed a melodeum—a sick one; and when everything\nwas ready a young woman set down and worked it, and it was pretty\nskreeky and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and Peter was\nthe only one that had a good thing, according to my notion. Then\nthe Reverend Hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and begun to\ntalk; and straight off the most outrageous row busted out in the cel-\nlar a body ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made a most pow-\nerful racket, and he kept it up right along; the parson he had to stand\nthere, over the cofﬁn, and wait—you couldn’t hear yourself think. It\nwas right down awkward, and nobody didn’t seem to know what to\ndo. But pretty soon they see that long-legged undertaker make a sign\nto the preacher as much as to say, “Don’t you worry—just depend on\nme.” Then he stooped down and begun to glide along the wall, just\nhis shoulders showing over the people’s heads.\nSo he glided along, and the powwow and racket getting more and\nmore outrageous all the time; and at last, when he had gone around\ntwo sides of the room, he disappears down cellar. Then in about two\nsecond we heard a whack, and the dog he ﬁnished up with a most\namazing howl or two, and then everything was dead still, and the\nparson begun his solemn talk where he left off. In a minute or two\nhere comes this under taker’s back and shoulders gliding along the\nwall again; and so he glided and glided around three sides of the\nroom, and then rose up, and shaded his mouth with his hands, and\nstretched his neck out towards the preacher, over the people’s heads,\nand says, in a kind of a coarse whisper, “He had a rat!” Then he\ndrooped down and glided along the wall again to his place. You could\nsee it was a great satisfaction to the people, because naturally they\nwanted to know. A little thing like that don’t cost nothing, and it’s\njust the little things that makes a man to be looked up to and liked.\nThere warn’t no more popular man in town than what that under-\ntaker was.\nWell, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and tire-\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n184\n\n\nsome; and then the king he shoved in and got off some of his usual\nrubbage, and at last the job was through, and the undertaker begun\nto sneak up on the coffin with his screw-driver. I was in a sweat\nthen, and watched him pretty keen. But he never meddled at all;\njust slid the lid along as soft as mush, and screwed it down tight\nand fast. So there I was!  I didn’t know whether the money was in\nthere or not.  So, says I, s’pose somebody has hogged that bag on\nthe sly?—now how do I know whether to write to Mary Jane or\nnot? S’pose she dug him up and didn’t find nothing, what would\nshe think of me? Blame it, I says, I might get hunted up and jailed;\nI’d better lay low and keep dark, and not write at all; the thing’s\nawful mixed now; trying to better it, I’ve worsened it a hundred\ntimes, and I wish to goodness I’d just let it alone, dad fetch the\nwhole business!\nThey buried him, and we come back home, and I went to watch-\ning faces again—I couldn’t help it, and I couldn’t rest easy. But noth-\ning come of it; the faces didn’t tell me nothing.\nThe king he visited around in the evening, and sweetened every-\nbody up, and made himself ever so friendly; and he give out the idea\nthat his congregation over in England would be in a sweat about\nhim, so he must hurry and settle up the estate right away and leave\nfor home. He was very sorry he was so pushed, and so was every-\nbody; they wished he could stay longer, but they said they could see\nit couldn’t be done. And he said of course him and William would\ntake the girls home with them; and that pleased everybody too,\nbecause then the girls would be well fixed and amongst their own\nrelations; and it pleased the girls, too—tickled them so they clean\nforgot they ever had a trouble in the world; and told him to sell out\nas quick as he wanted to, they would be ready. Them poor things was\nthat glad and happy it made my heart ache to see them getting fooled\nand lied to so, but I didn’t see no safe way for me to chip in and\nchange the general tune.\nWell, blamed if the king didn’t bill the house and the niggers and\nall the property for auction straight off—sale two days after the\nfuneral; but anybody could buy private beforehand if they wanted to.\nSo the next day after the funeral, along about noontime, the girls’\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n185\n\n\njoy got the ﬁrst jolt. A couple of nigger traders come along, and the\nking sold them the niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as they\ncalled it, and away they went, the two sons up the river to Memphis,\nand their mother down the river to Orleans.  I thought them poor\ngirls and them niggers would break their hearts for grief; they cried\naround each other, and took on so it most made me down sick to see\nit. The girls said they hadn’t ever dreamed of seeing the family sepa-\nrated or sold away from the town. I can’t ever get it out of my mem-\nory, the sight of them poor miserable girls and niggers hanging\naround each other’s necks and crying; and I reckon I couldn’t a stood\nit all, but would a had to bust out and tell on our gang if I hadn’t\nknowed the sale warn’t no account and the niggers would be back\nhome in a week or two.\nThe thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a good many come\nout ﬂatfooted and said it was scandalous to separate the mother and\nthe children that way.  It injured the frauds some; but the old fool he\nbulled right along, spite of all the duke could say or do, and I tell you\nthe duke was powerful uneasy.\nNext day was auction day. About broad day in the morning the\nking and the duke come up in the garret and woke me up, and I see\nby their look that there was trouble. The king says:\n“Was you in my room night before last?”\n“No, your majesty”—which was the way I always called him when\nnobody but our gang warn’t around.\n“Was you in there yisterday er last night?”\n“No, your majesty.”\n“Honor bright, now—no lies.”\n“Honor bright, your majesty, I’m telling you the truth. I hain’t been\na-near your room since Miss Mary Jane took you and the duke and\nshowed it to you.”\nThe duke says:\n“Have you seen anybody else go in there?”\n“No, your grace, not as I remember, I believe.”\n“Stop and think.”\nI studied awhile and see my chance; then I says:\n“Well, I see the niggers go in there several times.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n186\n\n\nBoth of them gave a little jump, and looked like they hadn’t ever\nexpected it, and then like they had.\nThen the duke says:\n“What, all of them?”\n“No—leastways, not all at once—that is, I don’t think I ever see\nthem all come out at once but just one time.”\n“Hello! When was that?”\n“It was the day we had the funeral. In the morning. It warn’t early,\nbecause I overslept. I was just starting down the ladder, and I see\nthem.”\n“Well, go on, go on! What did they do? How’d they act?”\n“They didn’t do nothing. And they didn’t act anyway much, as fur\nas I see. They tiptoed away; so I seen, easy enough, that they’d shoved\nin there to do up your majesty’s room, or something, s’posing you\nwas up; and found you warn’t up, and so they was hoping to slide out\nof the way of trouble without waking you up, if they hadn’t already\nwaked you up.”\n“Great guns, this is a go!” says the king; and both of them looked\npretty sick and tolerable silly.  They stood there a-thinking and\nscratching their heads a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind of\na little raspy chuckle, and says:\n“It does beat all how neat the niggers played their hand. They let\non to be sorry they was going out of this region! And I believed they\nwas sorry, and so did you, and so did everybody. Don’t ever tell me\nany more that a nigger ain’t got any histrionic talent.  Why, the way\nthey played that thing it would fool anybody. In my opinion, there’s\na fortune in ‘em. If I had capital and a theater, I wouldn’t want a bet-\nter layout than that—and here we’ve gone and sold ‘em for a song.\nYes, and ain’t privileged to sing the song yet. Say, where IS that\nsong—that draft?”\n“In the bank for to be collected. Where would it be?”\n“Well, that’s all right then, thank goodness.”\nSays I, kind of timid-like:\n“Is something gone wrong?”\nThe king whirls on me and rips out:\n“None o’ your business! You keep your head shet, and mind y’r own\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n187\n\n\naffairs—if you got any.  Long as you’re in this town don’t you forgit\nthat—you hear?” Then he says to the duke, “We got to jest swaller it\nand say noth’n’: mum’s the word for us.”\nAs they was starting down the ladder the duke he chuckles again,\nand says:\n“Quick sales and small proﬁts! It’s a good business—yes.”\nThe king snarls around on him and says:\n“I was trying to do for the best in sellin’ ‘em out so quick. If the\nprofits has turned out to be none, lackin’ considable, and none to\ncarry, is it my fault any more’n it’s yourn?”\n“Well, they’d be in this house yet and we wouldn’t if I could a got\nmy advice listened to.”\nThe king sassed back as much as was safe for him, and then\nswapped around and lit into me again. He give me down the banks\nfor not coming and telling him I see the niggers come out of his room\nacting that way—said any fool would a knowed something was up.\nAnd then waltzed in and cussed himself awhile, and said it all come\nof him not laying late and taking his natural rest that morning, and\nhe’d be blamed if he’d ever do it again. So they went off a-jawing; and\nI felt dreadful glad I’d worked it all off on to the niggers, and yet\nhadn’t done the niggers no harm by it.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n188\n\n\nBy and by it was getting-up time. So I come down the ladder\nand started for downstairs; but as I come to the girls’ room the door\nwas open, and I see Mary Jane setting by her old hair trunk, which\nwas open and she’d been packing things in it—getting ready to go to\nEngland. But she had stopped now with a folded gown in her lap,\nand had her face in her hands, crying. I felt awful bad to see it; of\ncourse anybody would. I went in there and says:\n“Miss Mary Jane, you can’t a-bear to see people in trouble, and I\ncan’t—most always. Tell me about it.”\nSo she done it. And it was the niggers—I just expected it. She said\nthe beautiful trip to England was most about spoiled for her; she \ndidn’t know how she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the\nmother and the children warn’t ever going to see each other no\nmore—and then busted out bitterer than ever, and flung up her\nhands, and says:\n“Oh, dear, dear, to think they ain’t ever going to see each other any\nmore!”\n“But they will—and inside of two weeks—and I know it!” says I.\nLaws, it was out before I could think! And before I could budge she\nthrows her arms around my neck and told me to say it again, say it\nagain, say it again!\nI see I had spoke too sudden and said too much, and was in a close\nplace. I asked her to let me think a minute; and she set there, very\nimpatient and excited and handsome, but looking kind of happy and\neased-up, like a person that’s had a tooth pulled out.  So I went to\nCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT\n189\n\n\nstudying it out. I says to myself, I reckon a body that ups and tells\nthe truth when he is in a tight place is taking considerable many\nresks, though I ain’t had no experience, and can’t say for certain; but\nit looks so to me, anyway; and yet here’s a case where I’m blest if it\ndon’t look to me like the truth is better and actuly safer than a lie. I\nmust lay it by in my mind, and think it over some time or other, it’s\nso kind of strange and unregular. I never see nothing like it. Well, I\nsays to myself at last, I’m a-going to chance it; I’ll up and tell the\ntruth this time, though it does seem most like setting down on a kag\nof powder and touching it off just to see where you’ll go to. Then I\nsays:\n“Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a little ways where\nyou could go and stay three or four days?”\n“Yes; Mr. Lothrop’s. Why?”\n“Never mind why yet. If I’ll tell you how I know the niggers will\nsee each other again inside of two weeks—here in this house—and\nprove how I know it—will you go to Mr. Lothrop’s and stay four\ndays?”\n“Four days!” she says; “I’ll stay a year!”\n“All right,” I says, “I don’t want nothing more out of you than just\nyour word—I druther have it than another man’s kiss-the-Bible.” She\nsmiled and reddened up very sweet, and I says, “If you don’t mind it,\nI’ll shut the door—and bolt it.”\nThen I come back and set down again, and says:\n“Don’t you holler. Just set still and take it like a man. I got to tell\nthe truth, and you want to brace up, Miss Mary, because it’s a bad\nkind, and going to be hard to take, but there ain’t no help for it.\nThese uncles of yourn ain’t no uncles at all; they’re a couple of\nfrauds—regular dead-beats. There, now we’re over the worst of it,\nyou can stand the rest middling easy.”\nIt jolted her up like everything, of course; but I was over the\nshoal water now, so I went right along, her eyes a-blazing higher\nand higher all the time, and told her every blame thing, from\nwhere we first struck that young fool going up to the steamboat,\nclear through to where she flung herself on to the king’s breast at\nthe front door and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times—and\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n190\n\n\nthen up she jumps, with her face afire like sunset, and says:\n“The brute! Come, don’t waste a minute—not a second—we’ll have\nthem tarred and feathered, and ﬂung in the river!”\nSays I:\n“Cert’nly. But do you mean before you go to Mr. Lothrop’s, or—”\n“Oh,” she says, “what am I thinking about!” she says, and set right\ndown again. “Don’t mind what I said—please don’t—you won’t, now,\nwill you?” Laying her silky hand on mine in that kind of a way that\nI said I would die ﬁrst. “I never thought, I was so stirred up,” she\nsays; “now go on, and I won’t do so any more. You tell me what to\ndo, and whatever you say I’ll do it.”\n“Well,” I says, “it’s a rough gang, them two frauds, and I’m ﬁxed so\nI got to travel with them a while longer, whether I want to or not—\nI druther not tell you why; and if you was to blow on them this town\nwould get me out of their claws, and I’d be all right; but there’d be\nanother person that you don’t know about who’d be in big trouble.\nWell, we got to save him, hain’t we? Of course. Well, then, we won’t\nblow on them.”\nSaying them words put a good idea in my head. I see how maybe I\ncould get me and Jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed here, and then\nleave. But I didn’t want to run the raft in the daytime without any-\nbody aboard to answer questions but me; so I didn’t want the plan to\nbegin working till pretty late tonight.\nI says: “Miss Mary Jane, I’ll tell you what we’ll do, and you won’t\nhave to stay at Mr. Lothrop’s so long, nuther. How fur is it?”\n“A little short of four miles—right out in the country, back here.”\n“Well, that ‘ll answer. Now you go along out there, and lay low till\nnine or half-past tonight, and then get them to fetch you home\nagain—tell them you’ve thought of something. If you get here before\neleven put a candle in this window, and if I don’t turn up wait till\neleven, and then if I don’t turn up it means I’m gone, and out of the\nway, and safe. Then you come out and spread the news around, and\nget these beats jailed.”\n“Good,” she says, “I’ll do it.”\n“And if it just happens so that I don’t get away, but get took\nup along with them, you must up and say I told you the whole\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n191\n\n\nthing beforehand, and you must stand by me all you can.”\n“Stand by you! indeed I will. They sha’n’t touch a hair of your\nhead!” she says, and I see her nostrils spread and her eyes snap when\nshe said it, too.\n“If I get away I sha’n’t be here,” I says, “to prove these rapscallions\nain’t your uncles, and I couldn’t do it if I was here. I could swear they\nwas beats and bummers, that’s all, though that’s worth something.\nWell, there’s others can do that better than what I can, and they’re\npeople that ain’t going to be doubted as quick as I’d be. I’ll tell you\nhow to ﬁnd them. Gimme a pencil and a piece of paper. There—\n‘Royal Nonesuch, Bricksville.’ Put it away, and don’t lose it. When\nthe court wants to ﬁnd out something about these two, let them send\nup to Bricksville and say they’ve got the men that played the Royal\nNonesuch, and ask for some witnesses—why, you’ll have that entire\ntown down here before you can hardly wink, Miss Mary. And they’ll\ncome a-biling, too.”\nI judged we had got everything ﬁxed about right now. So I says:\n“Just let the auction go right along, and don’t worry. Nobody don’t\nhave to pay for the things they buy till a whole day after the auction\non accounts of the short notice, and they ain’t going out of this till\nthey get that money; and the way we’ve ﬁxed it the sale ain’t going to\ncount, and they ain’t going to get no money. It’s just like the way it\nwas with the niggers—it warn’t no sale, and the niggers will be back\nbefore long. Why, they can’t collect the money for the niggers yet—\nthey’re in the worst kind of a ﬁx, Miss Mary.”\n“Well,” she says, “I’ll run down to breakfast now, and then I’ll start\nstraight for Mr. Lothrop’s.”\n“’Deed, that ain’t the ticket, Miss Mary Jane,” I says, “by no man-\nner of means; go before breakfast.”\n“Why?”\n“What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all for, Miss Mary?”\n“Well, I never thought—and come to think, I don’t know. What\nwas it?”\n“Why, it’s because you ain’t one of these leatherface people. I don’t\nwant no better book than what your face is. A body can set down and\nread it off like coarse print. Do you reckon you can go and face your\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n192\n\n\nuncles when they come to kiss you good-morning, and never—”\n“There, there, don’t! Yes, I’ll go before breakfast—I’ll be glad to.\nAnd leave my sisters with them?”\n“Yes; never mind about them. They’ve got to stand it yet a while.\nThey might suspicion something if all of you was to go. I don’t want\nyou to see them, nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town; if a neigh-\nbor was to ask how is your uncles this morning your face would tell\nsomething. No, you go right along, Miss Mary Jane, and I’ll ﬁx it\nwith all of them. I’ll tell Miss Susan to give your love to your uncles\nand say you’ve went away for a few hours for to get a little rest and\nchange, or to see a friend, and you’ll be back tonight or early in the\nmorning.”\n“Gone to see a friend is all right, but I won’t have my love given to\nthem.”\n“Well, then, it sha’n’t be.” It was well enough to tell her so—no\nharm in it. It was only a little thing to do, and no trouble; and it’s the\nlittle things that smooths people’s roads the most, down here below;\nit would make Mary Jane comfortable, and it wouldn’t cost nothing.\nThen I says: “There’s one more thing—that bag of money.”\n“Well, they’ve got that; and it makes me feel pretty silly to think\nHOW they got it.”\n“No, you’re out, there. They hain’t got it.”\n“Why, who’s got it?”\n“I wish I knowed, but I don’t. I had it, because I stole it from them;\nand I stole it to give to you; and I know where I hid it, but I’m afraid\nit ain’t there no more. I’m awful sorry, Miss Mary Jane, I’m just as\nsorry as I can be; but I done the best I could; I did honest. I come\nnigh getting caught, and I had to shove it into the ﬁrst place I come\nto, and run—and it warn’t a good place.”\n“Oh, stop blaming yourself—it’s too bad to do it, and I won’t allow\nit—you couldn’t help it; it wasn’t your fault. Where did you hide it?”\nI didn’t want to set her to thinking about her troubles again; and I\ncouldn’t seem to get my mouth to tell her what would make her see\nthat corpse laying in the cofﬁn with that bag of money on his stomach.\nSo for a minute I didn’t say nothing; then I says:\n“I’d ruther not tell you where I put it, Miss Mary Jane, if you don’t\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n193\n\n\nmind letting me off; but I’ll write it for you on a piece of paper, and\nyou can read it along the road to Mr. Lothrop’s, if you want to. Do\nyou reckon that ‘ll do?”\n“Oh, yes.”\nSo I wrote: “I put it in the cofﬁn. It was in there when you was cry-\ning there, away in the night.  I was behind the door, and I was\nmighty sorry for you, Miss Mary Jane.”\nIt made my eyes water a little to remember her crying there all by\nherself in the night, and them devils laying there right under her own\nroof, shaming her and robbing her; and when I folded it up and give\nit to her I see the water come into her eyes, too; and she shook me by\nthe hand, hard, and says:\n“Good-bye. I’m going to do everything just as you’ve told me; and\nif I don’t ever see you again, I sha’n’t ever forget you. and I’ll think of\nyou a many and a many a time, and I’ll pray for you, too!”—and she\nwas gone.\nPray for me! I reckoned if she knowed me she’d take a job that was\nmore nearer her size. But I bet she done it, just the same—she was\njust that kind.  She had the grit to pray for Judus if she took the\nnotion—there warn’t no back-down to her, I judge.  You may say\nwhat you want to, but in my opinion she had more sand in her than\nany girl I ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand. It sounds\nlike ﬂattery, but it ain’t no ﬂattery. And when it comes to beauty—\nand goodness, too—she lays over them all. I hain’t ever seen her since\nthat time that I see her go out of that door; no, I hain’t ever seen her\nsince, but I reckon I’ve thought of her a many and a many a million\ntimes, and of her saying she would pray for me; and if ever I’d a\nthought it would do any good for me to pray for her, blamed if I\nwouldn’t a done it or bust.\nWell, Mary Jane she lit out the back way, I reckon; because nobody\nsee her go. When I struck Susan and the hare-lip, I says:\n“What’s the name of them people over on t’other side of the river\nthat you all goes to see sometimes?”\nThey says:\n“There’s several; but it’s the Proctors, mainly.”\n“That’s the name,” I says; “I most forgot it.  Well, Miss Mary Jane\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n194\n\n\nshe told me to tell you she’s gone over there in a dreadful hurry—one\nof them’s sick.”\n“Which one?”\n“I don’t know; leastways, I kinder forget; but I thinks it’s—”\n“Sakes alive, I hope it ain’t Hanner?”\n“I’m sorry to say it,” I says, “but Hanner’s the very one.”\n“My goodness, and she so well only last week! Is she took bad?”\n“It ain’t no name for it. They set up with her all night, Miss Mary\nJane said, and they don’t think she’ll last many hours.”\n“Only think of that, now! What’s the matter with her?”\nI couldn’t think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so I says:\n“Mumps.”\n“Mumps your granny! They don’t set up with people that’s got the\nmumps.”\n“They don’t, don’t they? You better bet they do with these mumps.\nThese mumps is different. It’s a new kind, Miss Mary Jane said.”\n“How’s it a new kind?”\n“Because it’s mixed up with other things.”\n“What other things?”\n“Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and consump-\ntion, and yaller janders, and brain-fever, and I don’t know what all.”\n“My land! And they call it the mumps?”\n“That’s what Miss Mary Jane said.”\n“Well, what in the nation do they call it the mumps for?”\n“Why, because it IS the mumps. That’s what it starts with.”\n“Well, ther’ ain’t no sense in it. A body might stump his toe, and\ntake pison, and fall down the well, and break his neck, and bust his\nbrains out, and somebody come along and ask what killed him, and\nsome numskull up and say, ‘Why, he stumped his toe.’ Would ther’\nbe any sense in that? No. And ther’ ain’t no sense in this, nuther. Is it\nketching?”\n“Is it ketching? Why, how you talk. Is a harrow catching—in the\ndark? If you don’t hitch on to one tooth, you’re bound to on\nanother, ain’t you? And you can’t get away with that tooth with-\nout fetching the whole harrow along, can you? Well, these kind of\nmumps is a kind of a harrow, as you may say—and it ain’t no\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n195\n\n\nslouch of a harrow, nuther, you come to get it hitched on good.”\n“Well, it’s awful, I think,” says the hare-lip.\n“I’ll go to Uncle Harvey and—”\n“Oh, yes,” I says, “I would. Of course I would. I wouldn’t lose no\ntime.”\n“Well, why wouldn’t you?”\n“Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see.  Hain’t your\nuncles obleegd to get along home to England as fast as they can? And\ndo you reckon they’d be mean enough to go off and leave you to go\nall that journey by yourselves? You know they’ll wait for you. So fur,\nso good. Your uncle Harvey’s a preacher, ain’t he? Very well, then; is\na preacher going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to deceive\na ship clerk?—so as to get them to let Miss Mary Jane go aboard?\nNow you know he ain’t.\nWhat will he do, then? Why, he’ll say, ‘It’s a greatpity, but my\nchurch matters has got to get along the best way they can; for my\nniece has been exposed to the dreadful pluribus-unum mumps, and\nso it’s my bounden duty to set down here and wait the three months\nit takes to show on her if she’s got it.’ But never mind, if you think\nit’s best to tell your uncle Harvey—”\n“Shucks, and stay fooling around here when we could all be having\ngood times in England whilst we was waiting to find out whether\nMary Jane’s got it or not? Why, you talk like a muggins.”\n“Well, anyway, maybe you’d better tell some of the neighbors.”\n“Listen at that, now. You do beat all for natural stupidness. Can’t\nyou see that they’d go and tell?  Ther’ ain’t no way but just to not tell\nanybody at all.”\n“Well, maybe you’re right—yes, I judge you are right.”\n“But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she’s gone out a while,\nanyway, so he won’t be uneasy about her?”\n“Yes, Miss Mary Jane she wanted you to do that.\nShe says, ‘Tell them to give Uncle Harvey and William my love and\na kiss, and say I’ve run over the river to see Mr.’—Mr.—what IS the\nname of that rich family your uncle Peter used to think so much of?\n—I mean the one that—”\n“Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain’t it?”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n196\n\n\n“Of course; bother them kind of names, a body can’t ever seem to\nremember them, half the time, somehow. Yes, she said, say she has run\nover for to ask the Apthorps to be sure and come to the auction and\nbuy this house, because she allowed her uncle Peter would ruther they\nhad it than anybody else; and she’s going to stick to them till they say\nthey’ll come, and then, if she ain’t too tired, she’s coming home; and\nif she is, she’ll be home in the morning anyway. She said, don’t say\nnothing about the Proctors, but only about the Apthorps—which ‘ll\nbe perfectly true, because she is going there to speak about their buy-\ning the house; I know it, because she told me so herself.”\n“All right,” they said, and cleared out to lay for their uncles, and\ngive them the love and the kisses, and tell them the message.\nEverything was all right now. The girls wouldn’t say nothing\nbecause they wanted to go to England; and the king and the duke\nwould ruther Mary Jane was off working for the auction than around\nin reach of Doctor Robinson. I felt very good; I judged I had done it\npretty neat—I reckoned Tom Sawyer couldn’t a done it no neater\nhimself. Of course he would a throwed more style into it, but I can’t\ndo that very handy, not being brung up to it.\nWell, they held the auction in the public square, along towards the end\nof the afternoon, and it strung along, and strung along, and the old man\nhe was on hand and looking his level piousest, up there longside of the\nauctioneer, and chipping in a little Scripture now and then, or a little\ngoody-goody saying of some kind, and the duke he was around goo-goo-\ning for sympathy all he knowed how, and just spreading himself generly.\nBut by and by the thing dragged through, and everything was\nsold—everything but a little old trifling lot in the graveyard. So\nthey’d got to work that off—I never see such a girafft as the king was\nfor wanting to swallow everything. Well, whilst they was at it a steam-\nboat landed, and in about two minutes up comes a crowd a-whoop-\ning and yelling and laughing and carrying on, and singing out:\n“Here’s your opposition line! here’s your two sets o’ heirs to old\nPeter Wilks—and you pays your money and you takes your choice!”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n197\n\n\nT\nhey was fetching a very nice-looking old gentleman along, and\na nice-looking younger one, with his right arm in a sling. And, my\nsouls, how the people yelled and laughed, and kept it up. But I did-\nn’t see no joke about it, and I judged it would strain the duke and the\nking some to see any. I reckoned they’d turn pale. But no, nary a pale\ndid they turn.  The duke he never let on he suspicioned what was up,\nbut just went a goo-gooing around, happy and satisﬁed, like a jug\nthat’s googling out buttermilk; and as for the king, he just gazed and\ngazed down sorrowful on them newcomers like it give him the stom-\nachache in his very heart to think there could be such frauds and ras-\ncals in the world. Oh, he done it admirable. Lots of the principal\npeople gethered around the king, to let him see they was on his side.\nThat old gentleman that had just come looked all puzzled to death.\nPretty soon he begun to speak, and I see straight off he pronounced\nlike an Englishman—not the king’s way, though the king’s was pretty\ngood for an imitation. I can’t give the old gent’s words, nor I can’t\nimitate him; but he turned around to the crowd, and says, about like\nthis:\n“This is a surprise to me which I wasn’t looking for; and I’ll\nacknowledge, candid and frank, I ain’t very well ﬁxed to meet it and\nanswer it; for my brother and me has had misfortunes; he’s broke his\narm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here last night in\nthe night by a mistake. I am Peter Wilks’ brother Harvey, and this is\nhis brother William, which can’t hear nor speak—and can’t even\nmake signs to amount to much, now’t he’s only got one hand to work\nCHAPTER TWENTY-NINE\n198\n\n\nthem with. We are who we say we are; and in a day or two, when I\nget the baggage, I can prove it. But up till then I won’t say nothing\nmore, but go to the hotel and wait.”\nSo him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs,\nand blethers out:\n“Broke his arm—very likely, ain’t it?—and very convenient, too, for\na fraud that’s got to make signs, and ain’t learnt how. Lost their bag-\ngage! That’s mighty good!—and mighty ingenious—under the cir-\ncumstances!\nSo he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three or\nfour, or maybe half a dozen. One of these was that doctor; another\none was a sharp-looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-\nfashioned kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just come off of the\nsteamboat and was talking to him in a low voice, and glancing\ntowards the king now and then and nodding their heads—it was Levi\nBell, the lawyer that was gone up to Louisville; and another one was\na big rough husky that come along and listened to all the old gentle-\nman said, and was listening to the king now. And when the king got\ndone this husky up and says:\n“Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when’d you come to this town?”\n“The day before the funeral, friend,” says the king.\n“But what time o’ day?”\n“In the evenin’—‘bout an hour er two before sun-down.”\n“How’d you come?”\n“I come down on the Susan Powell from Cincinnati.”\n“Well, then, how’d you come to be up at the Pint in the mornin’—\nin a canoe?”\n“I warn’t up at the Pint in the mornin’.”\n“It’s a lie.”\nSeveral of them jumped for him and begged him not to talk that\nway to an old man and a preacher.\n“Preacher be hanged, he’s a fraud and a liar. He was up at the Pint\nthat mornin’. I live up there, don’t I? Well, I was up there, and he was\nup there. I see him there. He come in a canoe, along with Tim\nCollins and a boy.”\nThe doctor he up and says:\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n199\n\n\n“Would you know the boy again if you was to see him, Hines?”\n“I reckon I would, but I don’t know. Why, yonder he is, now. I\nknow him perfectly easy.”\nIt was me he pointed at. The doctor says:\n“Neighbors, I don’t know whether the new couple is frauds or not;\nbut if these two ain’t frauds, I am an idiot, that’s all. I think it’s our\nduty to see that they don’t get away from here till we’ve looked into\nthis thing. Come along, Hines; come along, the rest of you. We’ll\ntake these fellows to the tavern and affront them with t’other couple,\nand I reckon we’ll ﬁnd out something before we get through.”\nIt was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for the king’s friends;\nso we all started. It was about sundown. The doctor he led me along\nby the hand, and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go my\nhand.\nWe all got in a big room in the hotel, and lit up some candles, and\nfetched in the new couple. First, the doctor says:\n“I don’t wish to be too hard on these two men, but I think they’re\nfrauds, and they may have complices that we don’t know nothing\nabout. If they have, won’t the complices get away with that bag of\ngold Peter Wilks left? It ain’t unlikely. If these men ain’t frauds, they\nwon’t object to sending for that money and letting us keep it till they\nprove they’re all right—ain’t that so?”\nEverybody agreed to that. So I judged they had our gang in a pret-\nty tight place right at the outstart.\nBut the king he only looked sorrowful, and says:\n“Gentlemen, I wish the money was there, for I ain’t got no disposi-\ntion to throw anything in the way of a fair, open, out-and-out inves-\ntigation o’ this misable business; but, alas, the money ain’t there; you\nk’n send and see, if you want to.”\n“Where is it, then?”\n“Well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her I took and hid\nit inside o’ the straw tick o’ my bed, not wishin’ to bank it for the few\ndays we’d be here, and considerin’ the bed a safe place, we not bein’\nused to niggers, and suppos’n’ ‘em honest, like servants in England.\nThe niggers stole it the very next mornin’ after I had went down\nstairs; and when I sold ‘em I hadn’t missed the money yit, so they got\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n200\n\n\nclean away with it. My servant here k’n tell you ‘bout it, gentlemen.”\nThe doctor and several said “Shucks!” and I see nobody didn’t alto-\ngether believe him. One man asked me if I see the niggers steal it. I\nsaid no, but I see them sneaking out of the room and hustling away,\nand I never thought nothing, only I reckoned they was afraid they\nhad waked up my master and was trying to get away before he made\ntrouble with them. That was all they asked me. Then the doctor\nwhirls on me and says:\n“Are you English, too?”\nI says yes; and him and some others laughed, and said, “Stuff!”\nWell, then they sailed in on the general investigation, and there we\nhad it, up and down, hour in, hour out, and nobody never said a\nword about supper, nor ever seemed to think about it—and so they\nkept it up, and kept it up; and it was the worst mixed-up thing you\never see. They made the king tell his yarn, and they made the old\ngentleman tell his’n; and anybody but a lot of prejudiced chuckle-\nheads would a seen that the old gentleman was spinning truth and\nt’other one lies. And by and by they had me up to tell what I\nknowed. The king he give me a left-handed look out of the corner of\nhis eye, and so I knowed enough to talk on the right side. I begun to\ntell about Shefﬁeld, and how we lived there, and all about the English\nWilkses, and so on; but I didn’t get pretty fur till the doctor begun to\nlaugh; and Levi Bell, the lawyer, says:\n“Set down, my boy; I wouldn’t strain myself if I was you. I reckon\nyou ain’t used to lying, it don’t seem to come handy; what you want\nis practice. You do it pretty awkward.”\nI didn’t care nothing for the compliment, but I was glad to be let\noff, anyway.\nThe doctor he started to say something, and turns and says:\n“If you’d been in town at ﬁrst, Levi Bell—”\nThe king broke in and reached out his hand, and says:\n“Why, is this my poor dead brother’s old friend that he’s wrote so\noften about?”\nThe lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and\nlooked pleased, and they talked right along awhile, and then got to\none side and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says:\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n201\n\n\n“That ‘ll fix it. I’ll take the order and send it, along with your\nbrother’s, and then they’ll know it’s all right.”\nSo they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and\ntwisted his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled off\nsomething; and then they give the pen to the duke—and then for the\nﬁrst time the duke looked sick. But he took the pen and wrote.  So\nthen the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says:\n“You and your brother please write a line or two and sign your\nnames.”\nThe old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn’t read it. The lawyer\nlooked powerful astonished, and says:\n“Well, it beats me—and snaked a lot of old letters out of his pock-\net, and examined them, and then examined the old man’s writing,\nand then them again; and then says: “These old letters is from Harvey\nWilks; and here’s these two handwritings, and anybody can see they\ndidn’t write them” (the king and the duke looked sold and foolish, I\ntell you, to see how the lawyer had took them in), “and here’s this old\ngentleman’s hand writing, and anybody can tell, easy enough, he did-\nn’t write them—fact is, the scratches he makes ain’t properly writing\nat all. Now, here’s some letters from—”\nThe new old gentleman says:\n“If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but my\nbrother there—so he copies for me.  It’s his hand you’ve got there,\nnot mine.”\n“Well!” says the lawyer, “this is a state of things. I’ve got some of\nWilliam’s letters, too; so if you’ll get him to write a line or so we can\ncom—”\n“He can’t write with his left hand,” says the old gentleman. “If he\ncould use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his own letters\nand mine too. Look at both, please—they’re by the same hand.”\nThe lawyer done it, and says:\n“I believe it’s so—and if it ain’t so, there’s a heap stronger resem-\nblance than I’d noticed before, anyway.  Well, well, well! I thought we\nwas right on the track of a slution, but it’s gone to grass, partly. But\nanyway, one thing is proved—these two ain’t either of ‘em Wilkses”—\nand he wagged his head towards the king and the duke.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n202\n\n\nWell, what do you think? That muleheaded old fool wouldn’t give\nin then! Indeed he wouldn’t.  Said it warn’t no fair test. Said his\nbrother William was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn’t\ntried to write—he see William was going to play one of his jokes the\nminute he put the pen to paper. And so he warmed up and went war-\nbling right along till he was actuly beginning to believe what he was\nsaying himself; but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and says:\n“I’ve thought of something. Is there anybody here that helped to\nlay out my br—helped to lay out the late Peter Wilks for burying?”\n“Yes,” says somebody, “me and Ab Turner done it. We’re both here.”\nThen the old man turns towards the king, and says:\n“Peraps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his\nbreast?”\nBlamed if the king didn’t have to brace up mighty quick, or\nhe’d a squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut\nunder, it took him so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that\nwas calculated to make most anybody sqush to get fetched such a\nsolid one as that without any notice, because how was he going\nto know what was tattooed on the man? He whitened a little; he\ncouldn’t help it; and it was mighty still in there, and everybody\nbending a little forwards and gazing at him. Says I to myself, now\nhe’ll throw up the sponge—there ain’t no more use. Well, did he?\nA body can’t hardly believe it, but he didn’t. I reckon he thought\nhe’d keep the thing up till he tired them people out, so they’d\nthin out, and him and the duke could break loose and get away.\nAnyway, he set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and\nsays:\n“Mf! It’s a very tough question, ain’t it! Yes, sir, I k’n tell you what’s\ntattooed on his breast. It’s jest a small, thin, blue arrow—that’s what\nit is; and if you don’t look clost, you can’t see it. Now what do you\nsay—hey?”\nWell, I never see anything like that old blister for clean out-and-out\ncheek.\nThe new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and his\npard, and his eye lights up like he judged he’d got the king this time,\nand says:\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n203\n\n\n“There—you’ve heard what he said! Was there any such mark on\nPeter Wilks’ breast?”\nBoth of them spoke up and says:\n“We didn’t see no such mark.”\n“Good!” says the old gentleman. “Now, what you did see on his\nbreast was a small dim P\n, and a B (which is an initial he dropped\nwhen he was young), and a W, with dashes between them, so: P—\nB—\nW”—and he marked them that way on a piece of paper. “Come,\nain’t that what you saw?”\nBoth of them spoke up again, and says:\n“No, we didn’t. We never seen any marks at all.”\nWell, everybody WAS in a state of mind now, and they sings out:\n“The whole bilin’ of ‘m ‘s frauds! Le’s duck ‘em! le’s drown ‘em! le’s\nride ‘em on a rail!” and everybody was whooping at once, and there\nwas a rattling powwow. But the lawyer he jumps on the table and\nyells, and says:\n“Gentlemen—gentlemen! Hear me just a word—just a single\nword—if you please! There’s one way yet—let’s go and dig up the\ncorpse and look.”\nThat took them.\n“Hooray!” they all shouted, and was starting right off; but the\nlawyer and the doctor sung out:\n“Hold on, hold on! Collar all these four men and the boy, and fetch\nthem along, too!”\n“We’ll do it!” they all shouted; “and if we don’t ﬁnd them marks\nwe’ll lynch the whole gang!”\nI WAS scared, now, I tell you. But there warn’t no getting away, you\nknow. They gripped us all, and marched us right along, straight for\nthe graveyard, which was a mile and a half down the river, and the\nwhole town at our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was only\nnine in the evening.\nAs we went by our house I wished I hadn’t sent Mary Jane out of\ntown; because now if I could tip her the wink she’d light out and save\nme, and blow on our dead-beats.\nWell, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying on like\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n204\n\n\nwild-cats; and to make it more scary the sky was darking up, and the\nlightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver\namongst the leaves. This was the most awful trouble and most dan-\ngersome I ever was in; and I was kinder stunned; everything was\ngoing so different from what I had allowed for; stead of being ﬁxed\nso I could take my own time if I wanted to, and see all the fun, and\nhave Mary Jane at my back to save me and set me free when the\nclose-ﬁt come, here was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden\ndeath but just them tattoo-marks. If they didn’t ﬁnd them—\nI couldn’t bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, I couldn’t think\nabout nothing else. It got darker and darker, and it was a beautiful\ntime to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the\nwrist—Hines—and a body might as well try to give Goliar the slip.\nHe dragged me right along, he was so excited, and I had to run to\nkeep up.\nWhen they got there they swarmed into the graveyard and washed\nover it like an overﬂow. And when they got to the grave they found\nthey had about a hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but\nnobody hadn’t thought to fetch a lantern. But they sailed into dig-\nging anyway by the ﬂicker of the lightning, and sent a man to the\nnearest house, a half a mile off, to borrow one.\nSo they dug and dug like everything; and it got awful dark, and the\nrain started, and the wind swished and swushed along, and the light-\nning come brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but them\npeople never took no notice of it, they was so full of this business; and\none minute you could see everything and every face in that big crowd,\nand the shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the next sec-\nond the dark wiped it all out, and you couldn’t see nothing at all.\nAt last they got out the cofﬁn and begun to unscrew the lid, and\nthen such another crowding and shouldering and shoving as there\nwas, to scrouge in and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that\nway, it was awful. Hines he hurt my wrist dreadful pulling and tug-\nging so, and I reckon he clean forgot I was in the world, he was so\nexcited and panting.\nAll of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice of white glare,\nand somebody sings out:\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n205\n\n\n“By the living jingo, here’s the bag of gold on his breast!”\nHines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and dropped my wrist\nand give a big surge to bust his way in and get a look, and the way I\nlit out and shinned for the road in the dark there ain’t nobody can\ntell.\nI had the road all to myself, and I fairly ﬂew—leastways, I had it all\nto myself except the solid dark, and the now-and-then glares, and the\nbuzzing of the rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the splitting\nof the thunder; and sure as you are born I did clip it along!\nWhen I struck the town I see there warn’t nobody out in the storm,\nso I never hunted for no back streets, but humped it straight through\nthe main one; and when I begun to get towards our house I aimed\nmy eye and set it. No light there; the house all dark—which made\nme feel sorry and disappointed, I didn’t know why. But at last, just as\nI was sailing by, ﬂash comes the light in Mary Jane’s window! and my\nheart swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same second the house\nand all was behind me in the dark, and wasn’t ever going to be before\nme no more in this world. She WAS the best girl I ever see, and had\nthe most sand.\nThe minute I was far enough above the town to see I could make\nthe towhead, I begun to look sharp for a boat to borrow, and the ﬁrst\ntime the lightning showed me one that wasn’t chained I snatched it\nand shoved. It was a canoe, and warn’t fastened with nothing but a\nrope. The towhead was a rattling big distance off, away out there in\nthe middle of the river, but I didn’t lose no time; and when I struck\nthe raft at last I was so fagged I would a just laid down to blow and\ngasp if I could afforded it. But I didn’t.\nAs I sprung aboard I sung out:\n“Out with you, Jim, and set her loose! Glory be to goodness, we’re\nshut of them!”\nJim lit out, and was a-coming for me with both arms spread, he\nwas so full of joy; but when I glimpsed him in the lightning my\nheart shot up in my mouth and I went overboard backwards; for I\nforgot he was old King Lear and a drownded A-rab all in one, and\nit most scared the livers and lights out of me. But Jim fished me\nout, and was going to hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n206\n\n\nglad I was back and we was shut of the king and the duke, but I\nsays:\n“Not now; have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast! Cut loose and\nlet her slide!”\nSo in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the river, and it did\nseem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the big river,\nand nobody to bother us. I had to skip around a bit, and jump up\nand crack my heels a few times—I couldn’t help it; but about the\nthird crack I noticed a sound that I knowed mighty well, and held\nmy breath and listened and waited; and sure enough, when the next\nﬂash busted out over the water, here they come!—and just a-laying to\ntheir oars and making their skiff hum! It was the king and the duke.\nSo I wilted right down on to the planks then, and give up; and it\nwas all I could do to keep from crying.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n207\n\n\nW\nhen they got aboard the king went for me, and shook me by\nthe collar, and says:\n“Tryin’ to give us the slip, was ye, you pup!\nTired of our company, hey?”\nI says:\n“No, your majesty, we warn’t—please don’t, your majesty!”\n“Quick, then, and tell us what was your idea, or I’ll shake the\ninsides out o’ you!”\n“Honest, I’ll tell you everything just as it happened, your majesty.\nThe man that had a-holt of me was very good to me, and kept say-\ning he had a boy about as big as me that died last year, and he was\nsorry to see a boy in such a dangerous ﬁx; and when they was all took\nby surprise by ﬁnding the gold, and made a rush for the cofﬁn, he\nlets go of me and whispers, ‘Heel it now, or they’ll hang ye, sure!’ and\nI lit out. It didn’t seem no good for me to stay—I couldn’t do noth-\ning, and I didn’t want to be hung if I could get away. So I never\nstopped running till I found the canoe; and when I got here I told\nJim to hurry, or they’d catch me and hang me yet, and said I was\nafeard you and the duke wasn’t alive now, and I was awful sorry, and\nso was Jim, and was awful glad when we see you coming; you may\nask Jim if I didn’t.”\nJim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up, and said, “Oh,\nyes, it’s mighty likely!” and shook me up again, and said he reckoned\nhe’d drownd me. But the duke says:\n“Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would you a done any different? Did\nCHAPTER THIRTY\n208\n\n\nyou inquire around for him when you got loose? I don’t remember\nit.”\nSo the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and every-\nbody in it. But the duke says:\n“You better a blame’ sight give yourself a good cussing, for you’re\nthe one that’s entitled to it most.  You hain’t done a thing from the\nstart that had any sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky\nwith that imaginary blue-arrow mark. That was bright—it was right\ndown bully; and it was the thing that saved us. For if it hadn’t been\nfor that they’d a jailed us till them Englishmen’s baggage come—and\nthen—the penitentiary, you bet! But that trick took ‘em to the grave-\nyard, and the gold done us a still bigger kindness; for if the excited\nfools hadn’t let go all holts and made that rush to get a look we’d a\nslept in our cravats tonight—cravats warranted to wear, too—longer\nthan we’d need ‘em.”\nThey was still a minute—thinking; then the king says, kind of\nabsent-minded like:\n“Mf! And we reckoned the niggers stole it!”\nThat made me squirm!\n“Yes,” says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate and sarcastic, “We\ndid.”\nAfter about a half a minute the king drawls out:\n“Leastways, I did.”\nThe duke says, the same way:\n“On the contrary, I did.”\nThe king kind of rufﬂes up, and says:\n“Looky here, Bilgewater, what’r you referrin’ to?”\nThe duke says, pretty brisk:\n“When it comes to that, maybe you’ll let me ask, what was you\nreferring to?”\n“Shucks!” says the king, very sarcastic; “but I don’t know—maybe\nyou was asleep, and didn’t know what you was about.”\nThe duke bristles up now, and says:\n“Oh, let up on this cussed nonsense; do you take me for a blame’\nfool? Don’t you reckon I know who hid that money in that cofﬁn?”\n“Yes, sir! I know you do know, because you done it yourself!”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n209\n\n\n“It’s a lie!”—and the duke went for him. The king sings out:\n“Take y’r hands off!—leggo my throat!—I take it all back!”\nThe duke says:\n“Well, you just own up, ﬁrst, that you did hide that money there,\nintending to give me the slip one of these days, and come back and\ndig it up, and have it all to yourself.”\n“Wait jest a minute, duke—answer me this one question, honest\nand fair; if you didn’t put the money there, say it, and I’ll b’lieve you,\nand take back everything I said.”\n“You old scoundrel, I didn’t, and you know I didn’t. There, now!”\n“Well, then, I b’lieve you. But answer me only jest this one more—\nnow don’t git mad; didn’t you have it in your mind to hook the\nmoney and hide it?”\nThe duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says:\n“Well, I don’t care if I did, I didn’t do it, anyway.  But you not only\nhad it in mind to do it, but you done it.”\n“I wisht I never die if I done it, duke, and that’s honest. I won’t say\nI warn’t goin’ to do it, because I was; but you—I mean somebody—\ngot in ahead o’ me.”\n“It’s a lie! You done it, and you got to say you done it, or—”\nThe king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out:\n“’Nough!—I own up!”\nI was very glad to hear him say that; it made me feel much more\neasier than what I was feeling before.\nSo the duke took his hands off and says:\n“If you ever deny it again I’ll drown you. It’s well for you to set\nthere and blubber like a baby—it’s ﬁtten for you, after the way you’ve\nacted. I never see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble every-\nthing—and I a-trusting you all the time, like you was my own father.\nYou ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand by and hear it sad-\ndled on to a lot of poor niggers, and you never say a word for ‘em. It\nmakes me feel ridiculous to think I was soft enough to believe that\nrubbage. Cuss you, I can see now why you was so anxious to make\nup the deffisit—you wanted to get what money I’d got out of the\nNonesuch and one thing or another, and scoop it all!”\nThe king says, timid, and still a-snufﬂing:\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n210\n\n\n“Why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffisit; it warn’t\nme.”\n“Dry up! I don’t want to hear no more out of you!” says the duke.\n“And now you see what you got by it. They’ve got all their own\nmoney back, and all of ourn but a shekel or two besides. G’long to\nbed, and don’t you deffersit me no more deffersits, long ‘s you live!”\nSo the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to his bottle for\ncomfort, and before long the duke tackled his bottle; and so in about\na half an hour they was as thick as thieves again, and the tighter they\ngot the lovinger they got, and went off a-snoring in each other’s arms.\nThey both got powerful mellow, but I noticed the king didn’t get\nmellow enough to forget to remember to not deny about hiding the\nmoney-bag again. That made me feel easy and satisﬁed. Of course\nwhen they got to snoring we had a long gabble, and I told Jim every-\nthing.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n211\n\n\nW\ne dasn’t stop again at any town for days and days; kept right\nalong down the river. We was down south in the warm weather now,\nand a mighty long ways from home. We begun to come to trees with\nSpanish moss on them, hanging down from the limbs like long, gray\nbeards. It was the ﬁrst I ever see it growing, and it made the woods\nlook solemn and dismal. So now the frauds reckoned they was out of\ndanger, and they begun to work the villages again.\nFirst they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn’t make\nenough for them both to get drunk on.  Then in another village they\nstarted a dancing-school; but they didn’t know no more how to dance\nthan a kangaroo does; so the ﬁrst prance they made the general pub-\nlic jumped in and pranced them out of town. Another time they\ntried to go at yellocution; but they didn’t yellocute long till the audi-\nence got up and give them a solid good cussing, and made them skip\nout. They tackled missionarying, and mesmeriz-ing, and doctoring,\nand telling fortunes, and a little of everything; but they couldn’t seem\nto have no luck.  So at last they got just about dead broke, and laid\naround the raft as she ﬂoated along, thinking and thinking, and never\nsaying nothing, by the half a day at a time, and dreadful blue and\ndesperate.\nAnd at last they took a change and begun to lay their heads togeth-\ner in the wigwam and talk low and conﬁdential two or three hours at\na time. Jim and me got uneasy. We didn’t like the look of it. We\njudged they was studying up some kind of worse deviltry than ever.\nWe turned it over and over, and at last we made up our minds they\nCHAPTER THIRTY-ONE\n212\n\n\nwas going to break into somebody’s house or store, or was going into\nthe counterfeit-money business, or something. So then we was pretty\nscared, and made up an agreement that we wouldn’t have nothing in\nthe world to do with such actions, and if we ever got the least show\nwe would give them the cold shake and clear out and leave them\nbehind.  Well, early one morning we hid the raft in a good, safe place\nabout two mile below a little bit of a shabby village named Pikesville,\nand the king he went ashore and told us all to stay hid whilst he went\nup to town and smelt around to see if anybody had got any wind of\nthe Royal Nonesuch there yet. (“House to rob, you mean,” says I to\nmyself; “and when you get through robbing it you’ll come back here\nand wonder what has become of me and Jim and the raft—and you’ll\nhave to take it out in wondering.”) And he said if he warn’t back by\nmidday the duke and me would know it was all right, and we was to\ncome along.\nSo we stayed where we was. The duke he fretted and sweated\naround, and was in a mighty sour way.  He scolded us for everything,\nand we couldn’t seem to do nothing right; he found fault with every\nlittle thing. Something was a-brewing, sure. I was good and glad\nwhen midday come and no king; we could have a change, anyway—\nand maybe a chance for THE chance on top of it. So me and the\nduke went up to the village, and hunted around there for the king,\nand by and by we found him in the back room of a little low dog-\ngery, very tight, and a lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport, and\nhe a-cussing and a-threatening with all his might, and so tight he\ncouldn’t walk, and couldn’t do nothing to them. The duke he begun\nto abuse him for an old fool, and the king begun to sass back, and\nthe minute they was fairly at it I lit out and shook the reefs out of my\nhind legs, and spun down the river road like a deer, for I see our\nchance; and I made up my mind that it would be a long day before\nthey ever see me and Jim again. I got down there all out of breath but\nloaded up with joy, and sung out:\n“Set her loose, Jim! we’re all right now!”\nBut there warn’t no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam.\nJim was gone! I set up a shout—and then another—and then anoth-\ner one; and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n213\n\n\nscreeching; but it warn’t no use—old Jim was gone. Then I set down\nand cried; I couldn’t help it. But I couldn’t set still long. Pretty soon\nI went out on the road, trying to think what I better do, and I run\nacross a boy walking, and asked him if he’d seen a strange nigger\ndressed so and so, and he says:\n“Yes.”\n“Whereabouts?” says I.\n“Down to Silas Phelps’ place, two mile below here. He’s a runaway\nnigger, and they’ve got him.  Was you looking for him?”\n“You bet I ain’t! I run across him in the woods about an hour or\ntwo ago, and he said if I hollered he’d cut my livers out—and told me\nto lay down and stay where I was; and I done it. Been there ever\nsince; afeard to come out.”\n“Well,” he says, “you needn’t be afeard no more, becuz they’ve got\nhim. He run off f’m down South, som’ers.”\n“It’s a good job they got him.”\n“Well, I reckon! There’s two hunderd dollars reward on him. It’s like\npicking up money out’n the road.”\n“Yes, it is—and I could a had it if I’d been big enough; I see him\nﬁrst. Who nailed him?”\n“It was an old fellow—a stranger—and he sold out his chance in\nhim for forty dollars, becuz he’s got to go up the river and can’t wait.\nThink o’ that, now! You bet I’d wait, if it was seven year.”\n“That’s me, every time,” says I. “But maybe his chance ain’t worth\nno more than that, if he’ll sell it so cheap. Maybe there’s something\nain’t straight about it.”\n“But it IS, though—straight as a string. I see the handbill myself. It\ntells all about him, to a dot—paints him like a picture, and tells the\nplantation he’s frum, below Newrleans. No-sirree-bob, they ain’t no\ntrouble ‘bout that speculation, you bet you. Say, gimme a chaw\ntobacker, won’t ye?”\nI didn’t have none, so he left. I went to the raft, and set down in\nthe wigwam to think. But I couldn’t come to nothing. I thought till\nI wore my head sore, but I couldn’t see no way out of the trouble.\nAfter all this long journey, and after all we’d done for them\nscoundrels, here it was all come to nothing, everything all busted up\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n214\n\n\nand ruined, because they could have the heart to serve Jim such a\ntrick as that, and make him a slave again all his life, and amongst\nstrangers, too, for forty dirty dollars.\nOnce I said to myself it would be a thousand times better for Jim\nto be a slave at home where his family was, as long as he’d got to be a\nslave, and so I’d better write a letter to Tom Sawyer and tell him to\ntell Miss Watson where he was. But I soon give up that notion for\ntwo things: she’d be mad and disgusted at his rascality and ungrate-\nfulness for leaving her, and so she’d sell him straight down the river\nagain; and if she didn’t, everybody naturally despises an ungrateful\nnigger, and they’d make Jim feel it all the time, and so he’d feel\nornery and disgraced. And then think of me! It would get all around\nthat Huck Finn helped a nigger to get his freedom; and if I was ever\nto see anybody from that town again I’d be ready to get down and\nlick his boots for shame. That’s just the way: a person does a low-\ndown thing, and then he don’t want to take no consequences of it.\nThinks as long as he can hide, it ain’t no disgrace. That was my ﬁx\nexactly. The more I studied about this the more my conscience went\nto grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and ornery I got\nto feeling. And at last, when it hit me all of a sudden that here was\nthe plain hand of Providence slapping me in the face and letting me\nknow my wickedness was being watched all the time from up there\nin heaven,whilst I was stealing a poor old woman’s nigger that hadn’t\never done me no harm, and now was showing me there’s One that’s\nalways on the lookout, and ain’t a-going to allow no such miserable\ndoings to go only just so fur and no further, I most dropped in my\ntracks I was so scared. Well, I tried the best I could to kinder soften\nit up somehow for myself by saying I was brung up wicked, and so I\nwarn’t so much to blame; but something inside of me kept saying,\n“There was the Sunday-school, you could a gone to it; and if you’d a\ndone it they’d a learnt you there that people that acts as I’d been act-\ning about that nigger goes to everlasting ﬁre.”\nIt made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray, and see\nif I couldn’t try to quit being the kind of a boy I was and be better.\nSo I kneeled down.  But the words wouldn’t come. Why wouldn’t\nthey?  It warn’t no use to try and hide it from Him. Nor from me,\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n215\n\n\nneither. I knowed very well why they wouldn’t come. It was because\nmy heart warn’t right; it was because I warn’t square; it was because I\nwas playing double. I was letting on to give up sin, but away inside of\nme I was holding on to the biggest one of all. I was trying to make\nmy mouth say I would do the right thing and the clean thing, and go\nand write to that nigger’s owner and tell where he was; but deep\ndown in me I knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it.  You can’t pray\na lie—I found that out.\nSo I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and didn’t know what to\ndo. At last I had an idea; and I says, I’ll go and write the letter—and\nthen see if I can pray. Why, it was astonishing, the way I felt as light\nas a feather right straight off, and my troubles all gone. So I got a\npiece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and\nwrote:\nMiss Watson, your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile\nbelow Pikesville, and Mr. Phelps has got him and he will give him up\nfor the reward if you send.\nHUCK FINN.\nI felt good and all washed clean of sin for the ﬁrst time I had ever\nfelt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn’t do it\nstraight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking—think-\ning how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to\nbeing lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to\nthinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me all the\ntime: in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, some-\ntimes storms, and we a-ﬂoating along, talking and singing and laugh-\ning. But somehow I couldn’t seem to strike no places to harden me\nagainst him, but only the other kind. I’d see him standing my watch\non top of his’n, ‘stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and\nsee him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when\nI come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and\nsuch-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me and do\neverything he could think of for me, and how good he always was;\nand at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n216\n\n\nsmall-pox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best\nfriend old Jim ever had in the world, and the only one he’s got now;\nand then I happened to look around and see that paper.\nIt was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-\ntrembling, because I’d got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and\nI knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then\nsays to myself:\n“All right, then, I’ll go to hell”—and tore it up.\nIt was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. And I let\nthem stay said; and never thought no more about reforming. I\nshoved the whole thing out of my head, and said I would take up\nwickedness again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and\nthe other warn’t. And for a starter I would go to work and steal Jim\nout of slavery again; and if I could think up anything worse, I would\ndo that, too; because as long as I was in, and in for good, I might as\nwell go the whole hog.\nThen I set to thinking over how to get at it, and turned over some\nconsiderable many ways in my mind; and at last ﬁxed up a plan that\nsuited me. So then I took the bearings of a woody island that was\ndown the river a piece, and as soon as it was fairly dark I crept out\nwith my raft and went for it, and hid it there, and then turned in. I\nslept the night through, and got up before it was light, and had my\nbreakfast, and put on my store clothes, and tied up some others and\none thing or another in a bundle, and took the canoe and cleared for\nshore. I landed below where I judged was Phelps’s place, and hid my\nbundle in the woods, and then ﬁlled up the canoe with water, and\nloaded rocks into her and sunk her where I could find her again\nwhen I wanted her, about a quarter of a mile below a little steam\nsawmill that was on the bank.\nThen I struck up the road, and when I passed the mill I see a sign\non it, “Phelps’s Sawmill,” and when I come to the farm-houses, two\nor three hundred yards further along, I kept my eyes peeled, but\ndidn’t see nobody around, though it was good daylight now.  But I\ndidn’t mind, because I didn’t want to see nobody just yet—I only\nwanted to get the lay of the land.  According to my plan, I was going\nto turn up there from the village, not from below. So I just took a\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n217\n\n\nlook, and shoved along, straight for town. Well, the very ﬁrst man I\nsee when I got there was the duke.  He was sticking up a bill for the\nRoyal Nonesuch—three-night performance—like that other time.\nThey had the cheek, them frauds! I was right on him before I could\nshirk. He looked astonished, and says:\n“Hel-lo! Where’d you come from?” Then he says, kind of glad and\neager, “Where’s the raft?—got her in a good place?”\nI says:\n“Why, that’s just what I was going to ask your grace.”\nThen he didn’t look so joyful, and says:\n“What was your idea for asking me?” he says.\n“Well,” I says, “when I see the king in that doggery yesterday I says\nto myself, we can’t get him home for hours, till he’s soberer; so I went\na-loaﬁng around town to put in the time and wait. A man up and\noffered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff over the river and back\nto fetch a sheep, and so I went along; but when we was dragging him\nto the boat, and the man left me a-holt of the rope and went behind\nhim to shove him along, he was too strong for me and jerked loose\nand run, and we after him. We didn’t have no dog, and so we had to\nchase him all over the country till we tired him out. We never got\nhim till dark; then we fetched him over, and I started down for the\nraft. When I got there and see it was gone, I says to myself, ‘They’ve\ngot into trouble and had to leave; and they’ve took my nigger, which\nis the only nigger I’ve got in the world, and now I’m in a strange\ncountry, and ain’t got no property no more, nor nothing, and no way\nto make my living;’ so I set down and cried. I slept in the woods all\nnight. But what did become of the raft, then?—and Jim—poor Jim!”\n“Blamed if I know—that is, what’s become of the raft. That old\nfool had made a trade and got forty dollars, and when we found him\nin the doggery the loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got\nevery cent but what he’d spent for whisky; and when I got him home\nlate last night and found the raft gone, we said, ‘That little rascal has\nstole our raft and shook us, and run off down the river.’”\n“I wouldn’t shake my nigger, would I?—the only nigger I had in the\nworld, and the only property.”\n“We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we’d come to consider\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n218\n\n\nhim our nigger; yes, we did consider him so—goodness knows we\nhad trouble enough for him. So when we see the raft was gone and\nwe flat broke, there warn’t anything for it but to try the Royal\nNonesuch another shake. And I’ve pegged along ever since, dry as a\npowder-horn. Where’s that ten cents? Give it here.”\nI had considerable money, so I give him ten cents, but begged him\nto spend it for something to eat, and give me some, because it was all\nthe money I had, and I hadn’t had nothing to eat since yesterday. He\nnever said nothing. The next minute he whirls on me and says:\n“Do you reckon that nigger would blow on us?\nWe’d skin him if he done that!”\n“How can he blow? Hain’t he run off?”\n“No! That old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the\nmoney’s gone.”\n“Sold him?” I says, and begun to cry; “why, he was my nigger, and\nthat was my money. Where is he?—I want my nigger.”\n“Well, you can’t get your nigger, that’s all—so dry up your blubber-\ning. Looky here—do you think you’d venture to blow on us? Blamed\nif I think I’d trust you. Why, if you was to blow on us—”\nHe stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes\nbefore. I went on a-whimpering, and says:\n“I don’t want to blow on nobody; and I ain’t got no time to blow,\nnohow. I got to turn out and ﬁnd my nigger.”\nHe looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills ﬂuttering\non his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his forehead. At last he says:\n“I’ll tell you something. We got to be here three days. If you’ll\npromise you won’t blow, and won’t let the nigger blow, I’ll tell you\nwhere to ﬁnd him.”\nSo I promised, and he says:\n“A farmer by the name of Silas Ph----” and then he stopped. You see,\nhe started to tell me the truth; but when he stopped that way, and\nbegun to study and think again, I reckoned he was changing his mind.\nAnd so he was. He wouldn’t trust me; he wanted to make sure of hav-\ning me out of the way the whole three days. So pretty soon he says:\n“The man that bought him is named Abram Foster—Abram G.\nFoster—and he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n219\n\n\nto Lafayette.”\n“All right,” I says, “I can walk it in three days.\nAnd I’ll start this very afternoon.”\n“No you wont, you’ll start now; and don’t you lose any time about\nit, neither, nor do any gabbling by the way. Just keep a tight tongue\nin your head and move right along, and then you won’t get into trou-\nble with US, d’ye hear?”\nThat was the order I wanted, and that was the one I played for. I\nwanted to be left free to work my plans.\n“So clear out,” he says; “and you can tell Mr.  Foster whatever you\nwant to. Maybe you can get him to believe that Jim is your nigger—\nsome idiots don’t require documents—leastways I’ve heard there’s\nsuch down South here. And when you tell him the handbill and the\nreward’s bogus, maybe he’ll believe you when you explain to him\nwhat the idea was for getting ‘em out. Go ‘long now, and tell him\nanything you want to; but mind you don’t work your jaw any\nbetween here and there.”\nSo I left, and struck for the back country. I didn’t look around, but\nI kinder felt like he was watching me.  But I knowed I could tire him\nout at that. I went straight out in the country as much as a mile\nbefore I stopped; then I doubled back through the woods towards\nPhelps’. I reckoned I better start in on my plan straight off without\nfooling around, because I wanted to stop Jim’s mouth till these fel-\nlows could get away. I didn’t want no trouble with their kind. I’d seen\nall I wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely shut of them.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n220\n\n\nW\nhen I got there it was all still and Sunday-like, and hot and\nsunshiny; the hands was gone to the ﬁelds; and there was them kind\nof faint dronings of bugs and ﬂies in the air that makes it seem so\nlonesome and like everybody’s dead and gone; and if a breeze fans\nalong and quivers the leaves it makes you feel mournful, because you\nfeel like it’s spirits whispering—spirits that’s been dead ever so many\nyears—and you always think they’re talking about you. As a general\nthing it makes a body wish he was dead, too, and done with it all.\nPhelps’ was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations, and\nthey all look alike. A rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile made\nout of logs sawed off and up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different\nlength, to climb over the fence with, and for the women to stand on\nwhen they are going to jump on to a horse; some sickly grass-patch-\nes in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth, like an old hat\nwith the nap rubbed off; big double log-house for the white folks—\nhewed logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar, and\nthese mud-stripes been whitewashed some time or another; round-\nlog kitchen, with a big broad, open but roofed passage joining it to\nthe house; log smoke-house back of the kitchen; three little log nig-\nger-cabins in a row t’other side the smoke-house; one little hut all by\nitself away down against the back fence, and some outbuildings down\na piece the other side; ash-hopper and big kettle to bile soap in by the\nlittle hut; bench by the kitchen door, with bucket of water and a\ngourd; hound asleep there in the sun; more hounds asleep round\nabout; about three shade trees away off in a corner; some currant\nCHAPTER THIRTY-TWO\n221\n\n\nbushes and gooseberry bushes in one place by the fence; outside of\nthe fence a garden and a watermelon patch; then the cotton ﬁelds\nbegins, and after the ﬁelds the woods.\nI went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper,\nand started for the kitchen. When I got a little ways I heard the dim\nhum of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along down\nagain; and then I knowed for certain I wished I was dead—for that\nIS the lonesomest sound in the whole world.\nI went right along, not ﬁxing up any particular plan, but just trust-\ning to Providence to put the right words in my mouth when the time\ncome; for I’d noticed that Providence always did put the right words\nin my mouth if I left it alone.\nWhen I got half-way, ﬁrst one hound and then another got up and\nwent for me, and of course I stopped and faced them, and kept still.\nAnd such another powwow as they made! In a quarter of a minute I\nwas a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may say—spokes made out of\ndogs—circle of fifteen of them packed together around me, with\ntheir necks and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and howl-\ning; and more a-coming; you could see them sailing over fences and\naround corners from everywheres.\nA nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin\nin her hand, singing out, “Begone you Tiege! you Spot! begone sah!”\nand she fetched ﬁrst one and then another of them a clip and sent\nthem howling, and then the rest followed; and the next second half\nof them come back, wagging their tails around me, and making\nfriends with me. There ain’t no harm in a hound, nohow.\nAnd behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little nig-\nger boys without anything on but tow-linen shirts, and they hung on\nto their mother’s gown, and peeped out from behind her at me, bash-\nful, the way they always do. And here comes the white woman run-\nning from the house, about forty-ﬁve or ﬁfty year old, bareheaded,\nand her spinning-stick in her hand; and behind her comes her little\nwhite children, acting the same way the little niggers was going. She\nwas smiling all over so she could hardly stand—and says:\n“It’s you, at last!—ain’t it?”\nI out with a “Yes’m” before I thought.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n222\n\n\nShe grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then gripped me by\nboth hands and shook and shook; and the tears come in her eyes, and\nrun down over; and she couldn’t seem to hug and shake enough, and\nkept saying, “You don’t look as much like your mother as I reckoned\nyou would; but law sakes, I don’t care for that, I’m so glad to see you!\nDear, dear, it does seem like I could eat you up! Children, it’s your\ncousin Tom!—tell him howdy.”\nBut they ducked their heads, and put their ﬁngers in their mouths,\nand hid behind her. So she run on:\n“Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right away—or did you\nget your breakfast on the boat?”\nI said I had got it on the boat. So then she started for the house,\nleading me by the hand, and the children tagging after. When we got\nthere she set me down in a split-bottomed chair, and set herself down\non a little low stool in front of me, holding both of my hands, and\nsays:\n“Now I can have a good look at you; and, laws-a-me, I’ve been hun-\ngry for it a many and a many a time, all these long years, and it’s\ncome at last! We been expecting you a couple of days and more.\nWhat kep’ you?—boat get aground?”\n“Yes’m—she—”\n“Don’t say yes’m—say Aunt Sally. Where’d she get aground?”\nI didn’t rightly know what to say, because I didn’t know whether\nthe boat would be coming up the river or down. But I go a good deal\non instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming up—from\ndown towards Orleans. That didn’t help me much, though; for I did-\nn’t know the names of bars down that way. I see I’d got to invent a\nbar, or forget the name of the one we got aground on—or—Now I\nstruck an idea, and fetched it out:\n“It warn’t the grounding—that didn’t keep us back but a little. We\nblowed out a cylinder-head.”\n“Good gracious! anybody hurt?”\n“No’m. Killed a nigger.”\n“Well, it’s lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. Two years\nago last Christmas your uncle Silas was coming up from Newrleans\non the old Lally Rook, and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crip-\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n223\n\n\npled a man.  And I think he died afterwards. He was a Baptist. Your\nuncle Silas knowed a family in Baton Rouge that knowed his people\nvery well. Yes, I remember now, he did die. Mortiﬁcation set in, and\nthey had to amputate him. But it didn’t save him. Yes, it was morti-\nﬁcation—that was it. He turned blue all over, and died in the hope\nof a glorious resurrection. They say he was a sight to look at. Your\nuncle’s been up to the town every day to fetch you. And he’s gone\nagain, not more’n an hour ago; he’ll be back any minute now. You\nmust a met him on the road, didn’t you? --oldish man, with a—”\n“No, I didn’t see nobody, Aunt Sally. The boat landed just at day-\nlight, and I left my baggage on the wharf-boat and went looking\naround the town and out a piece in the country, to put in the time\nand not get here too soon; and so I come down the back way.”\n“Who’d you give the baggage to?”\n“Nobody.”\n“Why, child, it ‘ll be stole!”\n“Not where I hid it I reckon it won’t,” I says.\n“How’d you get your breakfast so early on the boat?”\nIt was kinder thin ice, but I says:\n“The captain see me standing around, and told me I better have\nsomething to eat before I went ashore; so he took me in the texas to\nthe ofﬁcers’ lunch, and give me all I wanted.”\nI was getting so uneasy I couldn’t listen good. I had my mind\non the children all the time; I wanted to get them out to one side\nand pump them a little, and find out who I was. But I couldn’t\nget no show, Mrs.  Phelps kept it up and run on so. Pretty soon\nshe made the cold chills streak all down my back, because she\nsays:\n“But here we’re a-running on this way, and you hain’t told me a\nword about Sis, nor any of them.  Now I’ll rest my works a little,\nand you start up yourn; just tell me everything—tell me all about ‘m\nall every one of ‘m; and how they are, and what they’re doing, and\nwhat they told you to tell me; and every last thing you can think\nof.”\nWell, I see I was up a stump—and up it good.  Providence had\nstood by me this fur all right, but I was hard and tight aground now.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n224\n\n\nI see it warn’t a bit of use to try to go ahead—I’d got to throw up my\nhand. So I says to myself, here’s another place where I got to resk the\ntruth. I opened my mouth to begin; but she grabbed me and hustled\nme in behind the bed, and says:\n“Here he comes! Stick your head down lower—there, that’ll do;\nyou can’t be seen now. Don’t you let on you’re here. I’ll play a joke on\nhim. Children, don’t you say a word.”\nI see I was in a ﬁx now. But it warn’t no use to worry; there warn’t\nnothing to do but just hold still, and try and be ready to stand from\nunder when the lightning struck.\nI had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he come\nin; then the bed hid him. Mrs. Phelps she jumps for him, and\nsays:\n“Has he come?”\n“No,” says her husband.\n“Good-ness gracious!” she says, “what in the warld can have become\nof him?”\n“I can’t imagine,” says the old gentleman; “and I must say it makes\nme dreadful uneasy.”\n“Uneasy!” she says; “I’m ready to go distracted!  He must a come;\nand you’ve missed him along the road. I know it’s so—something tells\nme so.”\n“Why, Sally, I couldn’t miss him along the road—you know that.”\n“But oh, dear, dear, what will Sis say! He must a come! You must a\nmissed him. He—”\n“Oh, don’t distress me any more’n I’m already distressed. I don’t\nknow what in the world to make of it.  I’m at my wit’s end, and I\ndon’t mind acknowledging ‘t I’m right down scared. But there’s no\nhope that he’s come; for he couldn’t come and me miss him.  Sally, it’s\nterrible—just terrible—something’s happened to the boat, sure!”\n“Why, Silas! Look yonder!—up the road!—ain’t that somebody\ncoming?”\nHe sprung to the window at the head of the bed, and that give\nMrs. Phelps the chance she wanted. She stooped down quick at the\nfoot of the bed and give me a pull, and out I come; and when he\nturned back from the window there she stood, a-beaming and a-smil-\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n225\n\n\ning like a house aﬁre, and I standing pretty meek and sweaty along-\nside. The old gentleman stared, and says:\n“Why, who’s that?”\n“Who do you reckon ‘t is?”\n“I hain’t no idea. Who IS it?”\n“It’s Tom Sawyer!”\nBy jings, I most slumped through the floor! But there warn’t no\ntime to swap knives; the old man grabbed me by the hand and\nshook, and kept on shaking; and all the time how the woman did\ndance around and laugh and cry; and then how they both did ﬁre off\nquestions about Sid, and Mary, and the rest of the tribe.\nBut if they was joyful, it warn’t nothing to what I was; for it was\nlike being born again, I was so glad to ﬁnd out who I was. Well, they\nfroze to me for two hours; and at last, when my chin was so tired it\ncouldn’t hardly go any more, I had told them more about my fami-\nly—I mean the Sawyer family—than ever happened to any six\nSawyer families. And I explained all about how we blowed out a\ncylinder-head at the mouth of White River, and it took us three days\nto ﬁx it. Which was all right, and worked ﬁrst-rate; because they did-\nn’t know but what it would take three days to ﬁx it. If I’d a called it\na bolthead it would a done just as well.\nNow I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pret-\nty uncomfortable all up the other. Being Tom Sawyer was easy and\ncomfortable, and it stayed easy and comfortable till by and by I hear\na steamboat coughing along down the river. Then I says to myself,\ns’pose Tom Sawyer comes down on that boat? And s’pose he steps in\nhere any minute, and sings out my name before I can throw him a\nwink to keep quiet?\nWell, I couldn’t have it that way; it wouldn’t do at all. I must go up\nthe road and waylay him. So I told the folks I reckoned I would go\nup to the town and fetch down my baggage. The old gentleman was\nfor going along with me, but I said no, I could drive the horse\nmyself, and I druther he wouldn’t take no trouble about me.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n226\n\n\nSo I started for town in the wagon, and when I was half-way I\nsee a wagon coming, and sure enough it was Tom Sawyer, and I\nstopped and waited till he come along. I says “Hold on!” and it\nstopped alongside, and his mouth opened up like a trunk, and stayed\nso; and he swallowed two or three times like a person that’s got a dry\nthroat, and then says:\n“I hain’t ever done you no harm. You know that.  So, then, what\nyou want to come back and ha’nt me for?”\nI says:\n“I hain’t come back—I hain’t been gone.”\nWhen he heard my voice it righted him up some, but he warn’t\nquite satisﬁed yet. He says:\n“Don’t you play nothing on me, because I wouldn’t on you. Honest\ninjun, you ain’t a ghost?”\n“Honest injun, I ain’t,” I says.\n“Well—I—I—well, that ought to settle it, of course; but I can’t\nsomehow seem to understand it no way. Looky here, warn’t you ever\nmurdered at all?”\n“No. I warn’t ever murdered at all—I played it on them. You come\nin here and feel of me if you don’t believe me.”\nSo he done it; and it satisﬁed him; and he was that glad to see me\nagain he didn’t know what to do. And he wanted to know all about\nit right off, because it was a grand adventure, and mysterious, and so\nit hit him where he lived. But I said, leave it alone till by and by; and\ntold his driver to wait, and we drove off a little piece, and I told him\nCHAPTER THIRTY-THREE\n227\n\n\nthe kind of a ﬁx I was in, and what did he reckon we better do? He\nsaid, let him alone a minute, and don’t disturb him. So he thought\nand thought, and pretty soon he says:\n“It’s all right; I’ve got it. Take my trunk in your wagon, and let on\nit’s your’n; and you turn back and fool along slow, so as to get to the\nhouse about the time you ought to; and I’ll go towards town a piece,\nand take a fresh start, and get there a quarter or a half an hour after\nyou; and you needn’t let on to know me at ﬁrst.”\nI says:\n“All right; but wait a minute. There’s one more thing—a thing that\nnobody don’t know but me. And that is, there’s a nigger here that I’m\na-trying to steal out of slavery, and his name is Jim—old Miss\nWatson’s Jim.”\nHe says:\n“What! Why, Jim is—”\nHe stopped and went to studying. I says:\n“I know what you’ll say. You’ll say it’s dirty, low-down business; but\nwhat if it is? I’m low down; and I’m a-going to steal him, and I want\nyou keep mum and not let on. Will you?”\nHis eye lit up, and he says:\n“I’ll help you steal him!”\nWell, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It was the most aston-\nishing speech I ever heard—and I’m bound to say Tom Sawyer fell\nconsiderable in my estimation. Only I couldn’t believe it. Tom\nSawyer a nigger-stealer!\n“Oh, shucks!” I says; “you’re joking.”\n“I ain’t joking, either.”\n“Well, then,” I says, “joking or no joking, if you hear anything said\nabout a runaway nigger, don’t forget to remember that you don’t\nknow nothing about him, and I don’t know nothing about him.”\nThen we took the trunk and put it in my wagon, and he drove off\nhis way and I drove mine. But of course I forgot all about driving\nslow on accounts of being glad and full of thinking; so I got home a\nheap too quick for that length of a trip. The old gentleman was at the\ndoor, and he says:\n“Why, this is wonderful! Whoever would a thought it was in that\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n228\n\n\nmare to do it? I wish we’d a timed her. And she hain’t sweated a\nhair—not a hair. It’s wonderful. Why, I wouldn’t take a hundred dol-\nlars for that horse now—I wouldn’t, honest; and yet I’d a sold her for\nﬁfteen before, and thought ‘twas all she was worth.”\nThat’s all he said. He was the innocentest, best old soul I ever see.\nBut it warn’t surprising; because he warn’t only just a farmer, he was\na preacher, too, and had a little one-horse log church down back of\nthe plantation, which he built it himself at his own expense, for a\nchurch and schoolhouse, and never charged nothing for his preach-\ning, and it was worth it, too. There was plenty other farmer-preach-\ners like that, and done the same way, down South.\nIn about half an hour Tom’s wagon drove up to the front stile, and\nAunt Sally she see it through the window, because it was only about\nﬁfty yards, and says:\n“Why, there’s somebody come! I wonder who ‘tis? Why, I do\nbelieve it’s a stranger. Jimmy “ (that’s one of the children)’ “run and\ntell Lize to put on another plate for dinner.”\nEverybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course, a\nstranger don’t come every year, and so he lays over the yaller-fever, for\ninterest, when he does come. Tom was over the stile and starting for\nthe house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the village, and\nwe was all bunched in the front door. Tom had his store clothes on,\nand an audience—and that was always nuts for Tom Sawyer. In them\ncircumstances it warn’t no trouble to him to throw in an amount of\nstyle that was suitable. He warn’t a boy to meeky along up that yard\nlike a sheep; no, he come ca’m and important, like the ram. When he\ngot a-front of us he lifts his hat ever so gracious and dainty, like it was\nthe lid of a box that had butterﬂies asleep in it and he didn’t want to\ndisturb them, and says:\n“Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?”\n“No, my boy,” says the old gentleman, “I’m sorry to say ‘t your\ndriver has deceived you; Nichols’s place is down a matter of three\nmile more. Come in, come in.”\nTom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says, “Too late—\nhe’s out of sight.”\n“Yes, he’s gone, my son, and you must come in and eat your dinner\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n229\n\n\nwith us; and then we’ll hitch up and take you down to Nichols’s.”\n“Oh, I can’t make you so much trouble; I couldn’t think of it. I’ll\nwalk—I don’t mind the distance.”\n“But we won’t let you walk—it wouldn’t be Southern hospitality to\ndo it. Come right in.”\n“Oh, do,” says Aunt Sally; “it ain’t a bit of trouble to us, not a bit\nin the world. You must stay.  It’s a long, dusty three mile, and we\ncan’t let you walk.  And, besides, I’ve already told ‘em to put on\nanother plate when I see you coming; so you mustn’t disappoint us.\nCome right in and make yourself at home.”\nSo Tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome, and let him-\nself be persuaded, and come in; and when he was in he said he was a\nstranger from Hicksville, Ohio, and his name was William\nThompson—and he made another bow.\nWell, he run on, and on, and on, making up stuff about Hicksville\nand everybody in it he could invent, and I getting a little nervous,\nand wondering how this was going to help me out of my scrape; and\nat last, still talking along, he reached over and kissed Aunt Sally right\non the mouth, and then settled back again in his chair comfortable,\nand was going on talking; but she jumped up and wiped it off with\nthe back of her hand, and says:\n“You owdacious puppy!”\nHe looked kind of hurt, and says:\n“I’m surprised at you, m’am.”\n“You’re s’rp—Why, what do you reckon I am?  I’ve a good notion\nto take and—Say, what do you mean by kissing me?”\nHe looked kind of humble, and says:\n“I didn’t mean nothing, m’am. I didn’t mean no harm. I—I—\nthought you’d like it.”\n“Why, you born fool!” She took up the spinning stick, and it\nlooked like it was all she could do to keep from giving him a crack\nwith it. “What made you think I’d like it?”\n“Well, I don’t know. Only, they—they—told me you would.”\n“They told you I would. Whoever told you’s another lunatic. I never\nheard the beat of it. Who’s they?”\n“Why, everybody. They all said so, m’am.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n230\n\n\nIt was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes snapped, and her\nﬁngers worked like she wanted to scratch him; and she says:\n“Who’s ‘everybody’? Out with their names, or ther’ll be an idiot\nshort.”\nHe got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says:\n“I’m sorry, and I warn’t expecting it. They told me to. They all told\nme to. They all said, kiss her; and said she’d like it. They all said it—\nevery one of them. But I’m sorry, m’am, and I won’t do it no more—\nI won’t, honest.”\n“You won’t, won’t you? Well, I sh’d reckon you won’t!”\n“No’m, I’m honest about it; I won’t ever do it again—till you ask\nme.”\n“Till I ask you! Well, I never see the beat of it in my born days! I\nlay you’ll be the Methusalem-numskull of creation before ever I ask\nyou—or the likes of you.”\n“Well,” he says, “it does surprise me so. I can’t make it out, some-\nhow. They said you would, and I thought you would. But—” He\nstopped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across\na friendly eye somewheres, and fetched up on the old gentleman’s,\nand says, “Didn’t you think she’d like me to kiss her, sir?”\n“Why, no; I—I—well, no, I b’lieve I didn’t.”\nThen he looks on around the same way to me, and says:\n“Tom, didn’t you think Aunt Sally ‘d open out her arms and say,\n‘Sid Sawyer—‘“\n“My land!” she says, breaking in and jumping for him, “you impu-\ndent young rascal, to fool a body so—” and was going to hug him,\nbut he fended her off, and says:\n“No, not till you’ve asked me ﬁrst.”\nSo she didn’t lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him and\nkissed him over and over again, and then turned him over to the old\nman, and he took what was left. And after they got a little quiet again\nshe says:\n“Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We warn’t looking for\nyou at all, but only Tom. Sis never wrote to me about anybody com-\ning but him.”\n“It’s because it warn’t intended for any of us to come but Tom,” he\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n231\n\n\nsays; “but I begged and begged, and at the last minute she let me\ncome, too; so, coming down the river, me and Tom thought it would\nbe a ﬁrst-rate surprise for him to come here to the house ﬁrst, and for\nme to by and by tag along and drop in, and let on to be a stranger.\nBut it was a mistake, Aunt Sally. This ain’t no healthy place for a\nstranger to come.”\n“No—not impudent whelps, Sid. You ought to had your jaws\nboxed; I hain’t been so put out since I don’t know when. But I don’t\ncare, I don’t mind the terms—I’d be willing to stand a thousand such\njokes to have you here. Well, to think of that performance! I don’t\ndeny it, I was most putriﬁed with astonishment when you give me\nthat smack.”\nWe had dinner out in that broad open passage be-twixt the house\nand the kitchen; and there was things enough on that table for seven\nfamilies—and all hot, too; none of your ﬂabby, tough meat that’s laid\nin a cupboard in a damp cellar all night and tastes like a hunk of old\ncold cannibal in the morning. Uncle Silas he asked a pretty long\nblessing over it, but it was worth it; and it didn’t cool it a bit, neither,\nthe way I’ve seen them kind of interruptions do lots of times.  There\nwas a considerable good deal of talk all the afternoon, and me and\nTom was on the lookout all the time; but it warn’t no use, they did-\nn’t happen to say nothing about any runaway nigger, and we was\nafraid to try to work up to it. But at supper, at night, one of the lit-\ntle boys says:\n“Pa, mayn’t Tom and Sid and me go to the show?”\n“No,” says the old man, “I reckon there ain’t going to be any; and\nyou couldn’t go if there was; because the runaway nigger told Burton\nand me all about that scandalous show, and Burton said he would tell\nthe people; so I reckon they’ve drove the owdacious loafers out of\ntown before this time.”\nSo there it was!—but I couldn’t help it. Tom and me was to sleep\nin the same room and bed; so, being tired, we bid good-night and\nwent up to bed right after supper, and clumb out of the window and\ndown the lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for I didn’t believe\nanybody was going to give the king and the duke a hint, and so if I\ndidn’t hurry up and give them one they’d get into trouble sure.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n232\n\n\nOn the road Tom he told me all about how it was reckoned I was\nmurdered, and how pap disappeared pretty soon, and didn’t come\nback no more, and what a stir there was when Jim run away; and I\ntold Tom all about our Royal Nonesuch rapscallions, and as much of\nthe raft voyage as I had time to; and as we struck into the town and\nup through the—here comes a raging rush of people with torches,\nand an awful whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blow-\ning horns; and we jumped to one side to let them go by; and as they\nwent by I see they had the king and the duke astraddle of a rail—that\nis, I knowed it WAS the king and the duke, though they was all over\ntar and feathers, and didn’t look like nothing in the world that was\nhuman—just looked like a couple of monstrous big soldier-plumes.\nWell, it made me sick to see it; and I was sorry for them poor pitiful\nrascals, it seemed like I couldn’t ever feel any hardness against them\nany more in the world. It was a dreadful thing to see.  Human beings\ncan be awful cruel to one another.\nWe see we was too late—couldn’t do no good. We asked some\nstragglers about it, and they said everybody went to the show looking\nvery innocent; and laid low and kept dark till the poor old king was\nin the middle of his cavortings on the stage; then somebody give a\nsignal, and the house rose up and went for them.\nSo we poked along back home, and I warn’t feeling so brash as I\nwas before, but kind of ornery, and humble, and to blame, some-\nhow—though I hadn’t done nothing. But that’s always the way; it\ndon’t make no difference whether you do right or wrong, a person’s\nconscience ain’t got no sense, and just goes for him anyway. If I had\na yaller dog that didn’t know no more than a person’s conscience does\nI would pison him. It takes up more room than all the rest of a per-\nson’s insides, and yet ain’t no good, nohow. Tom Sawyer he says the\nsame.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n233\n\n\nW\ne stopped talking, and got to thinking. By and by Tom says:\n“Looky here, Huck, what fools we are to not think of it before! I\nbet I know where Jim is.”\n“No! Where?”\n“In that hut down by the ash-hopper. Why, looky here. When we\nwas at dinner, didn’t you see a nigger man go in there with some vit-\ntles?”\n“Yes.”\n“What did you think the vittles was for?”\n“For a dog.”\n“So ‘d I. Well, it wasn’t for a dog.”\n“Why?”\n“Because part of it was watermelon.”\n“So it was—I noticed it. Well, it does beat all that I never thought\nabout a dog not eating watermelon. It shows how a body can see and\ndon’t see at the same time.”\n“Well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he went in, and he\nlocked it again when he came out. He fetched uncle a key about the\ntime we got up from table—same key, I bet. Watermelon shows man,\nlock shows prisoner; and it ain’t likely there’s two prisoners on such a\nlittle plantation, and where the people’s all so kind and good. Jim’s\nthe prisoner.  All right—I’m glad we found it out detective fashion;\nI wouldn’t give shucks for any other way. Now you work your\nmind, and study out a plan to steal Jim, and I will study out one,\ntoo; and we’ll take the one we like the best.”\nCHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR\n234\n\n\nWhat a head for just a boy to have! If I had Tom Sawyer’s head I\nwouldn’t trade it off to be a duke, nor mate of a steamboat, nor\nclown in a circus, nor nothing I can think of. I went to thinking out\na plan, but only just to be doing something; I knowed very well\nwhere the right plan was going to come from. Pretty soon Tom says:\n“Ready?”\n“Yes,” I says.\n“All right—bring it out.”\n“My plan is this,” I says. “We can easy ﬁnd out if it’s Jim in there.\nThen get up my canoe tomorrow night, and fetch my raft over from\nthe island. Then the ﬁrst dark night that comes steal the key out of\nthe old man’s britches after he goes to bed, and shove off down the\nriver on the raft with Jim, hiding daytimes and running nights, the\nway me and Jim used to do before. Wouldn’t that plan work?”\n“Work? Why, cert’nly it would work, like rats a-ﬁghting. But it’s too\nblame’ simple; there ain’t nothing to it. What’s the good of a plan that\nain’t no more trouble than that? It’s as mild as goose-milk.  Why,\nHuck, it wouldn’t make no more talk than breaking into a soap fac-\ntory.”\nI never said nothing, because I warn’t expecting nothing different;\nbut I knowed mighty well that whenever he got his plan ready it\nwouldn’t have none of them objections to it.\nAnd it didn’t. He told me what it was, and I see in a minute it was\nworth ﬁfteen of mine for style, and would make Jim just as free a\nman as mine would, and maybe get us all killed besides. So I was sat-\nisﬁed, and said we would waltz in on it. I needn’t tell what it was\nhere, because I knowed it wouldn’t stay the way, it was. I knowed he\nwould be changing it around every which way as we went along, and\nheaving in new bullinesses wherever he got a chance. And that is\nwhat he done.\nWell, one thing was dead sure, and that was that Tom Sawyer was\nin earnest, and was actuly going to help steal that nigger out of slav-\nery. That was the thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy\nthat was respectable and well brung up; and had a character to lose;\nand folks at home that had characters; and he was bright and not\nleather-headed; and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n235\n\n\nkind; and yet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or\nfeeling, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame,\nand his family a shame, before everybody. I couldn’t understand it no\nway at all. It was outrageous, and I knowed I ought to just up and tell\nhim so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right\nwhere he was and save himself. And I did start to tell him; but he\nshut me up, and says:\n“Don’t you reckon I know what I’m about? Don’t I generly know\nwhat I’m about?”\n“Yes.”\n“Didn’t I say I was going to help steal the nigger?”\n“Yes.”\n“Well, then.”\nThat’s all he said, and that’s all I said. It warn’t no use to say any\nmore; because when he said he’d do a thing, he always done it. But I\ncouldn’t make out how he was willing to go into this thing; so I just\nlet it go, and never bothered no more about it. If he was bound to\nhave it so, I couldn’t help it.\nWhen we got home the house was all dark and still; so we went on\ndown to the hut by the ash-hopper for to examine it. We went\nthrough the yard so as to see what the hounds would do. They\nknowed us, and didn’t make no more noise than country dogs is\nalways doing when anything comes by in the night. When we got to\nthe cabin we took a look at the front and the two sides; and on the\nside I warn’t acquainted with—which was the north side—we found\na square window-hole, up tolerable high, with just one stout board\nnailed across it. I says:\n“Here’s the ticket. This hole’s big enough for Jim to get through if\nwe wrench off the board.”\nTom says:\n“It’s as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as easy as playing\nhooky. I should hope we can ﬁnd a way that’s a little more compli-\ncated than that, Huck Finn.”\n“Well, then,” I says, “how ‘ll it do to saw him out, the way I done\nbefore I was murdered that time?”\n“That’s more like,” he says. “It’s real mysterious, and troublesome,\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n236\n\n\nand good,” he says; “but I bet we can ﬁnd a way that’s twice as long.\nThere ain’t no hurry; le’s keep on looking around.”\nBetwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to that\njoined the hut at the eaves, and was made out of plank. It was as long\nas the hut, but narrow—only about six foot wide. The door to it was\nat the south end, and was padlocked. Tom he went to the soap-kettle\nand searched around, and fetched back the iron thing they lift the lid\nwith; so he took it and prized out one of the staples. The chain fell\ndown, and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and struck\na match, and see the shed was only built against a cabin and hadn’t\nno connection with it; and there warn’t no floor to the shed, nor\nnothing in it but some old rusty played-out hoes and spades and\npicks and a crippled plow. The match went out, and so did we, and\nshoved in the staple again, and the door was locked as good as ever.\nTom was joyful. He says;\n“Now we’re all right. We’ll dig him out. It ‘ll take about a week!”\nThen we started for the house, and I went in the back door—you\nonly have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don’t fasten the\ndoors—but that warn’t romantical enough for Tom Sawyer; no way\nwould do him but he must climb up the lightning-rod. But after he\ngot up half way about three times, and missed ﬁre and fell every time,\nand the last time most busted his brains out, he thought he’d got to\ngive it up; but after he was rested he allowed he would give her one\nmore turn for luck, and this time he made the trip.\nIn the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger\ncabins to pet the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed\nJim—if it was Jim that was being fed. The niggers was just getting\nthrough breakfast and starting for the ﬁelds; and Jim’s nigger was pil-\ning up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the oth-\ners was leaving, the key come from the house.\nThis nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool\nwas all tied up in little bunches with thread. That was to keep witch-\nes off. He said the witches was pestering him awful these nights, and\nmaking him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds of\nstrange words and noises, and he didn’t believe he was ever witched\nso long before in his life. He got so worked up, and got to running\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n237\n\n\non so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he’d been a-going\nto do. So Tom says:\n“What’s the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?”\nThe nigger kind of smiled around graduly over his face, like when\nyou heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle, and he says:\n“Yes, Mars Sid, A dog. Cur’us dog, too. Does you want to go en\nlook at ‘im?”\n“Yes.”\nI hunched Tom, and whispers:\n“You going, right here in the daybreak? That warn’t the plan.”\n“No, it warn’t; but it’s the plan now.”\nSo, drat him, we went along, but I didn’t like it much. When we\ngot in we couldn’t hardly see anything, it was so dark; but Jim was\nthere, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out:\n“Why, Huck! En good lan’! ain’ dat Misto Tom?”\nI just knowed how it would be; I just expected it.  I didn’t know\nnothing to do; and if I had I couldn’t a done it, because that nigger\nbusted in and says:\n“Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?”\nWe could see pretty well now. Tom he looked at the nigger, steady\nand kind of wondering, and says:\n“Does who know us?”\n“Why, dis-yer runaway nigger.”\n“I don’t reckon he does; but what put that into your head?”\n“What put it dar? Didn’ he jis’ dis minute sing out like he knowed\nyou?”\nTom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way:\n“Well, that’s mighty curious. Who sung out? When did he sing out?\nWhat did he sing out?” And turns to me, perfectly ca’m, and says,\n“Did you hear anybody sing out?”\nOf course there warn’t nothing to be said but the one thing; so I\nsays:\n“No; I ain’t heard nobody say nothing.”\nThen he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he never see him\nbefore, and says:\n“Did you sing out?”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n238\n\n\n“No, sah,” says Jim; “ I hain’t said nothing, sah.”\n“Not a word?”\n“No, sah, I hain’t said a word.”\n“Did you ever see us before?”\n“No, sah; not as I knows on.”\nSo Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and distressed,\nand says, kind of severe:\n“What do you reckon’s the matter with you, anyway? What made\nyou think somebody sung out?”\n“Oh, it’s de dad-blame’ witches, sah, en I wisht I was dead, I do.\nDey’s awluz at it, sah, en dey do mos’ kill me, dey sk’yers me so.\nPlease to don’t tell nobody ‘bout it sah, er ole Mars Silas he’ll scole\nme; ‘kase he say dey ain’t no witches. I jis’ wish to goodness he was\nheah now—den what would he say! I jis’ bet he couldn’ ﬁne no way\nto git aroun’ it dis time.  But it’s awluz jis’ so; people dat’s sot, stays\nsot; dey won’t look into noth’n’en ﬁne it out f’r deyselves, en when\nyou ﬁne it out en tell um ‘bout it, dey doan’ b’lieve you.”\nTom give him a dime, and said we wouldn’t tell nobody; and told\nhim to buy some more thread to tie up his wool with; and then looks\nat Jim, and says:\n“I wonder if Uncle Silas is going to hang this nigger.  If I was to\ncatch a nigger that was ungrateful enough to run away, I wouldn’t\ngive him up, I’d hang him.” And whilst the nigger stepped to the\ndoor to look at the dime and bite it to see if it was good, he whispers\nto Jim and says:\n“Don’t ever let on to know us. And if you hear any digging going\non nights, it’s us; we’re going to set you free.”\nJim only had time to grab us by the hand and squeeze it; then the\nnigger come back, and we said we’d come again some time if the nig-\nger wanted us to; and he said he would, more particular if it was\ndark, because the witches went for him mostly in the dark, and it was\ngood to have folks around then.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n239\n\n\nI\nt would be most an hour yet till breakfast, so we left and struck\ndown into the woods; because Tom said we got to have some light to\nsee how to dig by, and a lantern makes too much, and might get us\ninto trouble; what we must have was a lot of them rotten chunks\nthat’s called fox-ﬁre, and just makes a soft kind of a glow when you\nlay them in a dark place. We fetched an armful and hid it in the\nweeds, and set down to rest, and Tom says, kind of dissatisﬁed:\n“Blame it, this whole thing is just as easy and awkward as it can be.\nAnd so it makes it so rotten difﬁcult to get up a difﬁcult plan. There\nain’t no watchman to be drugged—now there ought to be a watch-\nman. There ain’t even a dog to give a sleeping-mixture to. And there’s\nJim chained by one leg, with a ten-foot chain, to the leg of his bed:\nwhy, all you got to do is to lift up the bedstead and slip off the chain.\nAnd Uncle Silas he trusts everybody; sends the key to the punkin-\nheaded nigger, and don’t send nobody to watch the nigger. Jim could\na got out of that window-hole before this, only there wouldn’t be no\nuse trying to travel with a ten-foot chain on his leg. Why, drat it,\nHuck, it’s the stupidest arrangement I ever see.  You got to invent all\nthe difﬁculties. Well, we can’t help it; we got to do the best we can\nwith the materials we’ve got. Anyhow, there’s one thing—there’s more\nhonor in getting him out through a lot of difﬁculties and dangers,\nwhere there warn’t one of them furnished to you by the people who\nit was their duty to furnish them, and you had to contrive them all\nout of your own head. Now look at just that one thing of the lantern.\nWhen you come down to the cold facts, we simply got to let on that\nCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE\n240\n\n\na lantern’s resky. Why, we could work with a torchlight procession if\nwe wanted to, I believe. Now, whilst I think of it, we got to hunt up\nsomething to make a saw out of the ﬁrst chance we get.”\n“What do we want of a saw?”\n“What do we want of a saw? Hain’t we got to saw the leg of Jim’s\nbed off, so as to get the chain loose?”\n“Why, you just said a body could lift up the bed-stead and slip the\nchain off.”\n“Well, if that ain’t just like you, Huck Finn. You can get up the\ninfant-schooliest ways of going at a thing. Why, hain’t you ever read\nany books at all?—Baron Trenck, nor Casanova, nor Benvenuto\nChelleeny, nor Henri IV., nor none of them heroes? Who ever heard\nof getting a prisoner loose in such an old-maidy way as that? No; the\nway all the best authorities does is to saw the bed-leg in two, and\nleave it just so, and swallow the sawdust, so it can’t be found, and put\nsome dirt and grease around the sawed place so the very keenest\nseneskal can’t see no sign of it’s being sawed, and thinks the bed-leg\nis perfectly sound. Then, the night you’re ready, fetch the leg a kick,\ndown she goes; slip off your chain, and there you are. Nothing to do\nbut hitch your rope ladder to the battlements, shin down it, break\nyour leg in the moat—because a rope ladder is nineteen foot too\nshort, you know—and there’s your horses and your trusty vassles, and\nthey scoop you up and ﬂing you across a saddle, and away you go to\nyour native Langudoc, or Navarre, or wherever it is.  It’s gaudy,\nHuck. I wish there was a moat to this cabin. If we get time, the night\nof the escape, we’ll dig one.”\nI says:\n“What do we want of a moat when we’re going to snake him out\nfrom under the cabin?”\nBut he never heard me. He had forgot me and everything else. He\nhad his chin in his hand, thinking.  Pretty soon he sighs and shakes\nhis head; then sighs again, and says:\n“No, it wouldn’t do—there ain’t necessity enough for it.”\n“For what?” I says.\n“Why, to saw Jim’s leg off,” he says.\n“Good land!” I says; “why, there ain’t no necessity for it. And what\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n241\n\n\nwould you want to saw his leg off for, anyway?”\n“Well, some of the best authorities has done it.  They couldn’t get\nthe chain off, so they just cut their hand off and shoved. And a leg\nwould be better still.  But we got to let that go. There ain’t necessity\nenough in this case; and, besides, Jim’s a nigger, and wouldn’t under-\nstand the reasons for it, and how it’s the custom in Europe; so we’ll\nlet it go. But there’s one thing—he can have a rope ladder; we can\ntear up our sheets and make him a rope ladder easy enough. And we\ncan send it to him in a pie; it’s mostly done that way. And I’ve et\nworse pies.”\n“Why, Tom Sawyer, how you talk,” I says; “Jim ain’t got no use for\na rope ladder.”\n“He has got use for it. How youtalk, you better say; you don’t know\nnothing about it. He’s got to have a rope ladder; they all do.”\n“What in the nation can he do with it?”\n“Do with it? He can hide it in his bed, can’t he?”\nThat’s what they all do; and he’s got to, too.  Huck, you don’t ever\nseem to want to do anything that’s regular; you want to be starting\nsomething fresh all the time. S’pose he don’t do nothing with it? ain’t\nit there in his bed, for a clew, after he’s gone? and don’t you reckon\nthey’ll want clews? Of course they will. And you wouldn’t leave them\nany? That would be a pretty howdy-do, wouldn’t it! I never heard of\nsuch a thing.”\n“Well,” I says, “if it’s in the regulations, and he’s got to have it,\nall right, let him have it; because I don’t wish to go back on no\nregulations; but there’s one thing, Tom Sawyer—if we go to tear-\ning up our sheets to make Jim a rope ladder, we’re going to get\ninto trouble with Aunt Sally, just as sure as you’re born. Now, the\nway I look at it, a hickry-bark ladder don’t cost nothing, and\ndon’t waste nothing, and is just as good to load up a pie with,\nand hide in a straw tick, as any rag ladder you can start; and as\nfor Jim, he ain’t had no experience, and so he don’t care what\nkind of a—”\n“Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant as you I’d keep still—\nthat’s what I’D do. Who ever heard of a state prisoner escaping by a\nhickry-bark ladder? Why, it’s perfectly ridiculous.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n242\n\n\n“Well, all right, Tom, fix it your own way; but if you’ll take my\nadvice, you’ll let me borrow a sheet off of the clothesline.”\nHe said that would do. And that gave him another idea, and he\nsays:\n“Borrow a shirt, too.”\n“What do we want of a shirt, Tom?”\n“Want it for Jim to keep a journal on.”\n“Journal your granny—Jim can’t write.”\n“S’pose he can’t write—he can make marks on the shirt, can’t he, if\nwe make him a pen out of an old pewter spoon or a piece of an old\niron barrel-hoop?”\n“Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him a\nbetter one; and quicker, too.”\n“Prisoners don’t have geese running around the donjon-keep to pull\npens out of, you muggins. They always make their pens out of the\nhardest, toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or\nsomething like that they can get their hands on; and it takes them\nweeks and weeks and months and months to ﬁle it out, too, because\nthey’ve got to do it by rubbing it on the wall. They wouldn’t use a\ngoose-quill if they had it. It ain’t regular.”\n“Well, then, what’ll we make him the ink out of?”\n“Many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but that’s the common\nsort and women; the best authorities uses their own blood. Jim can\ndo that; and when he wants to send any little common ordinary mys-\nterious message to let the world know where he’s captivated, he can\nwrite it on the bottom of a tin plate with a fork and throw it out of\nthe window. The Iron Mask always done that, and it’s a blame’ good\nway, too.”\n“Jim ain’t got no tin plates. They feed him in a pan.”\n“That ain’t nothing; we can get him some.”\n“Can’t nobody read his plates.”\n“That ain’t got anything to do with it, Huck Finn.  All he’s got to\ndo is to write on the plate and throw it out. You don’t have to be able\nto read it. Why, half the time you can’t read anything a prisoner\nwrites on a tin plate, or anywhere else.”\n“Well, then, what’s the sense in wasting the plates?”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n243\n\n\n“Why, blame it all, it ain’t the prisoner’s plates.”\n“But it’s somebody’s plates, ain’t it?”\n“Well, spos’n it is? What does the prisoner care whose—”\nHe broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn blowing.\nSo we cleared out for the house.\nAlong during the morning I borrowed a sheet and a white shirt\noff of the clothes-line; and I found an old sack and put them in\nit, and we went down and got the fox-fire, and put that in too. I\ncalled it borrowing, because that was what pap always called it;\nbut Tom said it warn’t borrowing, it was stealing. He said we was\nrepresenting prisoners; and prisoners don’t care how they get a\nthing so they get it, and nobody don’t blame them for it, either. It\nain’t no crime in a prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get away\nwith, Tom said; it’s his right; and so, as long as we was represent-\ning a prisoner, we had a perfect right to steal anything on this\nplace we had the least use for to get ourselves out of prison with.\nHe said if we warn’t prisoners it would be a very different thing,\nand nobody but a mean, ornery person would steal when he\nwarn’t a prisoner. So we allowed we would steal everything there\nwas that come handy. And yet he made a mighty fuss, one day,\nafter that, when I stole a watermelon out of the nigger-patch and\neat it; and he made me go and give the niggers a dime without\ntelling them what it was for. Tom said that what he meant was, we\ncould steal anything we needed. Well, I says, I needed the water-\nmelon. But he said I didn’t need it to get out of prison with;\nthere’s where the difference was. He said if I’d a wanted it to hide\na knife in, and smuggle it to Jim to kill the seneskal with, it\nwould a been all right. So I let it go at that, though I couldn’t see\nno advantage in my representing a prisoner if I got to set down\nand chaw over a lot of gold-leaf distinctions like that every time I\nsee a chance to hog a watermelon.\nWell, as I was saying, we waited that morning till everybody was\nsettled down to business, and nobody in sight around the yard; then\nTom he carried the sack into the lean-to whilst I stood off a piece to\nkeep watch. By and by he come out, and we went and set down on\nthe woodpile to talk. He says:\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n244\n\n\n“Everything’s all right now except tools; and that’s easy ﬁxed.”\n“Tools?” I says.\n“Yes.”\n“Tools for what?”\n“Why, to dig with. We ain’t a-going to gnaw him out, are we?”\n“Ain’t them old crippled picks and things in there good enough to\ndig a nigger out with?” I says.\nHe turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a body cry, and\nsays:\n“Huck Finn, did you ever hear of a prisoner having picks and shov-\nels, and all the modern conveniences in his wardrobe to dig himself\nout with? Now I want to ask you—if you got any reasonableness in\nyou at all—what kind of a show would that give him to be a hero?\nWhy, they might as well lend him the key and done with it. Picks\nand shovels—why, they wouldn’t furnish ‘em to a king.”\n“Well, then,” I says, “if we don’t want the picks and shovels, what\ndo we want?”\n“A couple of case-knives.”\n“To dig the foundations out from under that cabin with?”\n“Yes.”\n“Confound it, it’s foolish, Tom.”\n“It don’t make no difference how foolish it is, it’s the right way—\nand it’s the regular way. And there ain’t no other way, that ever I heard\nof, and I’ve read all the books that gives any information about these\nthings. They always dig out with a case-knife—and not through dirt,\nmind you; generly it’s through solid rock. And it takes them weeks\nand weeks and weeks, and for ever and ever. Why, look at one of\nthem prisoners in the bottom dungeon of the Castle Deef, in the har-\nbor of Marseilles, that dug himself out that way; how long was he at\nit, you reckon?”\n“I don’t know.”\n“Well, guess.”\n“I don’t know. A month and a half.”\n“Thirty-seven year—and he come out in China.  That’s the kind. I\nwish the bottom of this fortress was solid rock.”\n“Jim don’t know nobody in China.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n245\n\n\n“What’s that got to do with it? Neither did that other fellow. But\nyou’re always a-wandering off on a side issue. Why can’t you stick to\nthe main point?”\n“All right—I don’t care where he comes out, so he comes out; and\nJim don’t, either, I reckon. But there’s one thing, anyway—Jim’s too\nold to be dug out with a case-knife. He won’t last.”\n“Yes he will last, too. You don’t reckon it’s going to take thirty-seven\nyears to dig out through a dirt foundation, do you?”\n“How long will it take, Tom?”\n“Well, we can’t resk being as long as we ought to, because it mayn’t\ntake very long for Uncle Silas to hear from down there by New\nOrleans. He’ll hear Jim ain’t from there. Then his next move will be\nto advertise Jim, or something like that. So we can’t resk being as\nlong digging him out as we ought to. By rights I reckon we ought to\nbe a couple of years; but we can’t.\nThings being so uncertain, what I recommend is this:\nthat we really dig right in, as quick as we can; and after that, we can\nlet on, to ourselves, that we was at it thirty-seven years. Then we can\nsnatch him out and rush him away the ﬁrst time there’s an alarm. Yes,\nI reckon that ‘ll be the best way.”\n“Now, there’s sense in that,” I says. “Letting on don’t cost nothing;\nletting on ain’t no trouble; and if it’s any object, I don’t mind letting\non we was at it a hundred and ﬁfty year. It wouldn’t strain me none,\nafter I got my hand in. So I’ll mosey along now, and smouch a cou-\nple of case-knives.”\n“Smouch three,” he says; “we want one to make a saw out of.”\n“Tom, if it ain’t unregular and irreligious to sejest it,” I says, “there’s\nan old rusty saw-blade around yonder sticking under the weather-\nboarding behind the smoke-house.”\nHe looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and says:\n“It ain’t no use to try to learn you nothing, Huck. Run along and\nsmouch the knives—three of them.”\nSo I done it.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n246\n\n\nAs soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep that night we\nwent down the lightning-rod, and shut ourselves up in the lean-to,\nand got out our pile of fox-fire, and went to work. We cleared\neverything out of the way, about four or five foot along the middle\nof the bottom log. Tom said we was right behind Jim’s bed now,\nand we’d dig in under it, and when we got through there couldn’t\nnobody in the cabin ever know there was any hole there, because\nJim’s counter-pin hung down most to the ground, and you’d have\nto raise it up and look under to see the hole. So we dug and dug\nwith the case-knives till most midnight; and then we was dog-tired,\nand our hands was blistered, and yet you couldn’t see we’d done\nanything hardly.\nAt last I says:\n“This ain’t no thirty-seven year job; this is a thirty-eight year job,\nTom Sawyer.”\nHe never said nothing. But he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped\ndigging, and then for a good little while I knowed that he was think-\ning. Then he says:\n“It ain’t no use, Huck, it ain’t a-going to work. If we was prisoners\nit would, because then we’d have as many years as we wanted, and no\nhurry; and we wouldn’t get but a few minutes to dig, every day, while\nthey was changing watches, and so our hands wouldn’t get blistered,\nand we could keep it up right along, year in and year out, and do it\nright, and the way it ought to be done. But we can’t fool along; we\ngot to rush; we ain’t got no time to spare. If we was to put in anoth-\nCHAPTER THIRTY-SIX\n247\n\n\ner night this way we’d have to knock off for a week to let our hands\nget well—couldn’t touch a case-knife with them sooner.”\n“Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?”\n“I’ll tell you. It ain’t right, and it ain’t moral,  .  and I wouldn’t like\nit to get out; but there ain’t only just the one way: we got to dig him\nout with the picks, and let on it’s case-knives.”\n“Now you’re talking!” I says; “your head gets leveler and leveler all\nthe time, Tom Sawyer,” I says. “Picks is the thing, moral or no moral;\nand as for me, I don’t care shucks for the morality of it, nohow.\nWhen I start in to steal a nigger, or a watermelon, or a Sunday-school\nbook, I ain’t no ways particular how it’s done so it’s done. What I\nwant is my nigger; or what I want is my watermelon; or what I want\nis my Sunday-school book; and if a pick’s the handiest thing, that’s\nthe thing I’m a-going to dig that nigger or that watermelon or that\nSunday-school book out with; and I don’t give a dead rat what the\nauthorities thinks about it nuther.”\n“Well,” he says, “there’s excuse for picks and letting-on in a case\nlike this; if it warn’t so, I wouldn’t approve of it, nor I wouldn’t stand\nby and see the rules broke—because right is right, and wrong is\nwrong, and a body ain’t got no business doing wrong when he ain’t\nignorant and knows better. It might answer for you to dig Jim out\nwith a pick, without any letting on, because you don’t know no bet-\nter; but it wouldn’t for me, because I do know better. Gimme a case-\nknife.”\nHe had his own by him, but I handed him mine.\nHe ﬂung it down, and says:\n“Gimme a case-knife.”\nI didn’t know just what to do—but then I thought.  I scratched\naround amongst the old tools, and got a pickaxe and give it to him,\nand he took it and went to work, and never said a word.\nHe was always just that particular. Full of principle.\nSo then I got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn\nabout, and made the fur fly. We stuck to it about a half an hour,\nwhich was as long as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a\nhole to show for it. When I got up stairs I looked out at the window\nand see Tom doing his level best with the lightning-rod, but he\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n248\n\n\ncouldn’t come it, his hands was so sore. At last he says:\n“It ain’t no use, it can’t be done. What you reckon I better do? Can’t\nyou think of no way?”\n“Yes,” I says, “but I reckon it ain’t regular.\nCome up the stairs, and let on it’s a lightning-rod.”\nSo he done it.\nNext day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the\nhouse, for to make some pens for Jim out of, and six tallow candles;\nand I hung around the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole\nthree tin plates. Tom says it wasn’t enough; but I said nobody would-\nn’t ever see the plates that Jim throwed out, because they’d fall in the\ndog-fennel and jimpson weeds under the window-hole—then we\ncould tote them back and he could use them over again. So Tom was\nsatisﬁed. Then he says:\n“Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to Jim.”\n“Take them in through the hole,” I says, “when we get it done.”\nHe only just looked scornful, and said something about nobody\never heard of such an idiotic idea, and then he went to studying. By\nand by he said he had ciphered out two or three ways, but there\nwarn’t no need to decide on any of them yet. Said we’d got to post\nJim ﬁrst.\nThat night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten, and\ntook one of the candles along, and listened under the window-hole,\nand heard Jim snoring; so we pitched it in, and it didn’t wake him.\nThen we whirled in with the pick and shovel, and in about two hours\nand a half the job was done. We crept in under Jim’s bed and into the\ncabin, and pawed around and found the candle and lit it, and stood\nover Jim awhile, and found him looking hearty and healthy, and then\nwe woke him up gentle and gradual. He was so glad to see us he most\ncried; and called us honey, and all the pet names he could think of;\nand was for having us hunt up a cold-chisel to cut the chain off of his\nleg with right away, and clearing out without losing any time. But\nTom he showed him how unregular it would be, and set down and\ntold him all about our plans, and how we could alter them in a\nminute any time there was an alarm; and not to be the least afraid,\nbecause we would see he got away, sure. So Jim he said it was all\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n249\n\n\nright, and we set there and talked over old times awhile, and then\nTom asked a lot of questions, and when Jim told him Uncle Silas\ncome in every day or two to pray with him, and Aunt Sally come in\nto see if he was comfortable and had plenty to eat, and both of them\nwas kind as they could be, Tom says:\n“Now I know how to ﬁx it. We’ll send you some things by them.”\nI said, “Don’t do nothing of the kind; it’s one of the most jackass\nideas I ever struck;” but he never paid no attention to me; went right\non. It was his way when he’d got his plans set.\nSo he told Jim how we’d have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie and\nother large things by Nat, the nigger that fed him, and he must be on\nthe lookout, and not be surprised, and not let Nat see him open\nthem; and we would put small things in uncle’s coat-pockets and he\nmust steal them out; and we would tie things to aunt’s apron-strings\nor put them in her apron-pocket, if we got a chance; and told him\nwhat they would be and what they was for. And told him how to\nkeep a journal on the shirt with his blood, and all that. He told him\neverything. Jim he couldn’t see no sense in the most of it, but he\nallowed we was white folks and knowed better than him; so he was\nsatisﬁed, and said he would do it all just as Tom said.\nJim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so we had a right down\ngood sociable time; then we crawled out through the hole, and so\nhome to bed, with hands that looked like they’d been chawed. Tom\nwas in high spirits. He said it was the best fun he ever had in his life,\nand the most intellectural; and said if he only could see his way to it\nwe would keep it up all the rest of our lives and leave Jim to our chil-\ndren to get out; for he believed Jim would come to like it better and\nbetter the more he got used to it. He said that in that way it could be\nstrung out to as much as eighty year, and would be the best time on\nrecord.  And he said it would make us all celebrated that had a hand\nin it.\nIn the morning we went out to the woodpile and chopped up the\nbrass candlestick into handy sizes, and Tom put them and the pewter\nspoon in his pocket.  Then we went to the nigger cabins, and while I\ngot Nat’s notice off, Tom shoved a piece of candlestick into the mid-\ndle of a corn-pone that was in Jim’s pan, and we went along with Nat\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n250\n\n\nto see how it would work, and it just worked noble; when Jim bit\ninto it it most mashed all his teeth out; and there warn’t ever any-\nthing could a worked better. Tom said so himself.  Jim he never let\non but what it was only just a piece of rock or something like that\nthat’s always getting into bread, you know; but after that he never bit\ninto nothing but what he jabbed his fork into it in three or four\nplaces ﬁrst.\nAnd whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish light, here\ncomes a couple of the hounds bulging in from under Jim’s bed; and\nthey kept on piling in till there was eleven of them, and there warn’t\nhardly room in there to get your breath. By jings, we forgot to fasten\nthat lean-to door! The nigger Nat he only just hollered “Witches”\nonce, and keeled over on to the ﬂoor amongst the dogs, and begun\nto groan like he was dying. Tom jerked the door open and ﬂung out\na slab of Jim’s meat, and the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he\nwas out himself and back again and shut the door, and I knowed he’d\nﬁxed the other door too. Then he went to work on the nigger, coax-\ning him and petting him, and asking him if he’d been imagining he\nsaw something again. He raised up, and blinked his eyes around, and\nsays:\n“Mars Sid, you’ll say I’s a fool, but if I didn’t b’lieve I see most a\nmillion dogs, er devils, er some’n, I wisht I may die right heah in dese\ntracks. I did, mos’ sholy. Mars Sid, I felt um—I felt um, sah; dey was\nall over me. Dad fetch it, I jis’ wisht I could git my han’s on one er\ndem witches jis’ wunst—on’y jis’ wunst—it’s all I’d ast. But mos’ly I\nwisht dey’d lemme ‘lone, I does.”\nTom says:\n“Well, I tell you what I think. What makes them come here just at\nthis runaway nigger’s breakfast-time?  It’s because they’re hungry;\nthat’s the reason. You make them a witch pie; that’s the thing for you\nto do.”\n“But my lan’, Mars Sid, how’s I gwyne to make ‘m a witch pie? I\ndoan’ know how to make it. I hain’t ever hearn er sich a thing b’fo’.”\n“Well, then, I’ll have to make it myself.”\n“Will you do it, honey?—Qwill you? I’ll wusshup de groun’ und’\nyo’ foot, I will!”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n251\n\n\n“All right, I’ll do it, seeing it’s you, and you’ve been good to us and\nshowed us the runaway nigger.  But you got to be mighty careful.\nWhen we come around, you turn your back; and then whatever we’ve\nput in the pan, don’t you let on you see it at all. And don’t you look\nwhen Jim unloads the pan—something might happen, I don’t know\nwhat. And above all, don’t you handle the witch-things.”\n“Hannel ‘m, Mars Sid? What is you a-talkin’ ‘bout? I wouldn’ lay de\nweight er my ﬁnger on um, not f’r ten hund’d thous’n billion dollars,\nI wouldn’t.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n252\n\n\nT\nhat was all ﬁxed. So then we went away and went to the rubbage-\npile in the back yard, where they keep the old boots, and rags, and\npieces of bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such truck, and\nscratched around and found an old tin washpan, and stopped up the\nholes as well as we could, to bake the pie in, and took it down cellar\nand stole it full of ﬂour and started for breakfast, and found a couple\nof shingle-nails that Tom said would be handy for a prisoner to scrab-\nble his name and sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped one\nof them in Aunt Sally’s apron-pocket which was hanging on a chair,\nand t’other we stuck in the band of Uncle Silas’s hat, which was on the\nbureau, because we heard the children say their pa and ma was going\nto the runaway nigger’s house this morning, and then went to break-\nfast, and Tom dropped the pewter spoon in Uncle Silas’s coat-pocket,\nand Aunt Sally wasn’t come yet, so we had to wait a little while.\nAnd when she come she was hot and red and cross, and couldn’t\nhardly wait for the blessing; and then she went to sluicing out coffee\nwith one hand and cracking the handiest child’s head with her thim-\nble with the other, and says:\n“I’ve hunted high and I’ve hunted low, and it does beat all what has\nbecome of your other shirt.”\nMy heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things, and a\nhard piece of corn-crust started down my throat after it and got met\non the road with a cough, and was shot across the table, and took\none of the children in the eye and curled him up like a ﬁshing-worm,\nand let a cry out of him the size of a warwhoop, and Tom he turned\nCHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN\n253\n\n\nkinder blue around the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable\nstate of things for about a quarter of a minute or as much as that, and\nI would a sold out for half price if there was a bidder. But after that\nwe was all right again—it was the sudden surprise of it that knocked\nus so kind of cold. Uncle Silas he says:\n“It’s most uncommon curious, I can’t understand it. I know per-\nfectly well I took it off, because—”\n“Because you hain’t got but one on. Just listen at the man! I know\nyou took it off, and know it by a better way than your wool-gether-\ning memory, too, because it was on the clo’s-line yesterday—I see it\nthere myself. But it’s gone, that’s the long and the short of it, and\nyou’ll just have to change to a red ﬂann’l one till I can get time to\nmake a new one.  And it ‘ll be the third I’ve made in two years. It just\nkeeps a body on the jump to keep you in shirts; and whatever you do\nmanage to do with ‘m all is more’n I can make out. A body ‘d think\nyou would learn to take some sort of care of ‘em at your time of life.”\n“I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it oughtn’t to be alto-\ngether my fault, because, you know, I don’t see them nor have noth-\ning to do with them except when they’re on me; and I don’t believe\nI’ve ever lost one of them off of me.”\n“Well, it ain’t your fault if you haven’t, Silas; you’d a done it if you\ncould, I reckon. And the shirt ain’t all that’s gone, nuther. Ther’s a\nspoon gone; and that ain’t all. There was ten, and now ther’s only\nnine. The calf got the shirt, I reckon, but the calf never took the\nspoon, that’s certain.”\n“Why, what else is gone, Sally?”\n“Ther’s six candles gone—that’s what. The rats could a got the candles,\nand I reckon they did; I wonder they don’t walk off with the whole\nplace, the way you’re always going to stop their holes and don’t do it;\nand if they warn’t fools they’d sleep in your hair, Silas—you’d never ﬁnd\nit out; but you can’t lay the spoon on the rats, and that I know.”\n“Well, Sally, I’m in fault, and I acknowledge it;\nI’ve been remiss; but I won’t let tomorrow go by without stopping\nup them holes.”\n“Oh, I wouldn’t hurry; next year ‘ll do. Matilda Angelina Araminta\nPhelps!”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n254\n\n\nWhack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out of\nthe sugar-bowl without fooling around any. Just then the nigger\nwoman steps on to the passage, and says:\n“Missus, dey’s a sheet gone.”\n“A sheet gone! Well, for the land’s sake!”\n“I’ll stop up them holes today,” says Uncle Silas, looking sorrowful.\n“Oh, do shet up!—s’pose the rats took the sheet?” Where’s it gone,\nLize?”\n“Clah to goodness I hain’t no notion, Miss’ Sally. She wuz on de\nclo’sline yistiddy, but she done gone:she ain’ dah no mo’ now.”\n“I reckon the world IS coming to an end. I never see the beat of it in\nall my born days. A shirt, and a sheet, and a spoon, and six can—”\n“Missus,” comes a young yaller wench, “dey’s a brass cannelstick\nmiss’n.”\n“Cler out from here, you hussy, er I’ll take a skillet to ye!”\nWell, she was just a-biling. I begun to lay for a chance; I reckoned\nI would sneak out and go for the woods till the weather moderated.\nShe kept a-raging right along, running her insurrection all by herself,\nand everybody else mighty meek and quiet; and at last Uncle Silas,\nlooking kind of foolish, ﬁshes up that spoon out of his pocket. She\nstopped, with her mouth open and her hands up; and as for me, I\nwished I was in Jeruslem or somewheres. But not long, because she\nsays:\n“It’s just as I expected. So you had it in your pocket all the time;\nand like as not you’ve got the other things there, too. How’d it get\nthere?”\n“I reely don’t know, Sally,” he says, kind of apologizing, “or you\nknow I would tell. I was a-studying over my text in Acts Seventeen\nbefore breakfast, and I reckon I put it in there, not noticing, mean-\ning to put my Testament in, and it must be so, because my Testament\nain’t in; but I’ll go and see; and if the Testament is where I had it, I’ll\nknow I didn’t put it in, and that will show that I laid the Testament\ndown and took up the spoon, and—”\n“Oh, for the land’s sake! Give a body a rest!  Go ‘long now, the\nwhole kit and biling of ye; and don’t come nigh me again till I’ve got\nback my peace of mind.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n255\n\n\nI’d a heard her if she’d a said it to herself, let alone speaking it\nout; and I’d a got up and obeyed her if I’d a been dead. As we was\npassing through the setting-room the old man he took up his hat,\nand the shingle-nail fell out on the floor, and he just merely picked\nit up and laid it on the mantel-shelf, and never said nothing, and\nwent out. Tom see him do it, and remembered about the spoon,\nand says:\n“Well, it ain’t no use to send things by him no more, he ain’t reli-\nable.” Then he says: “But he done us a good turn with the spoon,\nanyway, without knowing it, and so we’ll go and do him one without\nhim knowing it—stop up his rat-holes.”\nThere was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and it took us a\nwhole hour, but we done the job tight and good and shipshape. Then\nwe heard steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; and\nhere comes the old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle of\nstuff in t’other, looking as absent-minded as year before last. He went\na mooning around, ﬁrst to one rat-hole and then another, till he’d\nbeen to them all. Then he stood about ﬁve minutes, picking tallow-\ndrip off of his candle and thinking. Then he turns off slow and\ndreamy towards the stairs, saying:\n“Well, for the life of me I can’t remember when I done it. I could\nshow her now that I warn’t to blame on account of the rats. But never\nmind—let it go. I reckon it wouldn’t do no good.”\nAnd so he went on a-mumbling up stairs, and then we left. He was\na mighty nice old man. And always is.\nTom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but\nhe said we’d got to have it; so he took a think. When he had ciphered\nit out he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around\nthe spoon-basket till we see Aunt Sally coming, and then Tom went\nto counting the spoons and laying them out to one side, and I slid\none of them up my sleeve, and Tom says:\n“Why, Aunt Sally, there ain’t but nine spoons yet.”\nShe says:\n“Go ‘long to your play, and don’t bother me. I know better, I\ncounted ‘m myself.”\n“Well, I’ve counted them twice, Aunty, and I can’t make but nine.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n256\n\n\nShe looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count—\nanybody would.\n“I declare to gracious ther’ ain’t but nine!” she says. “Why, what in\nthe world—plague take the things, I’ll count ‘m again.”\nSo I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting,\nshe says:\n“Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther’s ten now!” and she looked\nhuffy and bothered both. But Tom says:\n“Why, Aunty, I don’t think there’s ten.”\n“You numskull, didn’t you see me count ‘m?”\n“I know, but—”\n“Well, I’ll count ‘m again.”\nSo I smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other\ntime. Well, she was in a tearing way—just a-trembling all over, she\nwas so mad. But she counted and counted till she got that addled\nshe’d start to count in the basket for a spoon sometimes; and so, three\ntimes they come out right, and three times they come out wrong.\nThen she grabbed up the basket and slammed it across the house and\nknocked the cat galley-west; and she said cle’r out and let her have\nsome peace, and if we come bothering around her again betwixt that\nand dinner she’d skin us. So we had the odd spoon, and dropped it\nin her apron-pocket whilst she was a-giving us our sailing orders, and\nJim got it all right, along with her shingle nail, before noon. We was\nvery well satisﬁed with this business, and Tom allowed it was worth\ntwice the trouble it took, because he said now she couldn’t ever count\nthem spoons twice alike again to save her life; and wouldn’t believe\nshe’d counted them right if she did; and said that after she’d about\ncounted her head off for the next three days he judged she’d give it\nup and offer to kill anybody that wanted her to ever count them any\nmore.\nSo we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one out\nof her closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it again for a\ncouple of days till she didn’t know how many sheets she had any\nmore, and she didn’t care, and warn’t a-going to bullyrag the rest of\nher soul out about it, and wouldn’t count them again not to save her\nlife; she druther die ﬁrst.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n257\n\n\nSo we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the spoon\nand the candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and the mixed-\nup counting; and as to the candlestick, it warn’t no consequence, it\nwould blow over by and by.\nBut that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie. We\nﬁxed it up away down in the woods, and cooked it there; and we got\nit done at last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one day; and\nwe had to use up three wash-pans full of ﬂour before we got through,\nand we got burnt pretty much all over, in places, and eyes put out\nwith the smoke; because, you see, we didn’t want nothing but a crust,\nand we couldn’t prop it up right, and she would always cave in. But\nof course we thought of the right way at last—which was to cook the\nladder, too, in the pie. So then we laid in with Jim the second night,\nand tore up the sheet all in little strings and twisted them together,\nand long before daylight we had a lovely rope that you could a hung\na person with.  We let on it took nine months to make it.\nAnd in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it would-\nn’t go into the pie. Being made of a whole sheet, that way, there was\nrope enough for forty pies if we’d a wanted them, and plenty left over\nfor soup, or sausage, or anything you choose. We could a had a whole\ndinner.\nBut we didn’t need it. All we needed was just enough for the pie,\nand so we throwed the rest away.  We didn’t cook none of the pies in\nthe wash-pan—afraid the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas he had\na noble brass warming-pan which he thought considerable of,\nbecause it belonged to one of his ancesters with a long wooden han-\ndle that come over from England with William the Conqueror in the\nMayﬂower or one of them early ships and was hid away up garret\nwith a lot of other old pots and things that was valuable, not on\naccount of being any account, because they warn’t, but on account of\nthem being relicts, you know, and we snaked her out, private, and\ntook her down there, but she failed on the ﬁrst pies, because we did-\nn’t know how, but she come up smiling on the last one. We took and\nlined her with dough, and set her in the coals, and loaded her up\nwith rag rope, and put on a dough roof, and shut down the lid, and\nput hot embers on top, and stood off ﬁve foot, with the long handle,\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n258\n\n\ncool and comfortable, and in fifteen minutes she turned out a pie\nthat was a satisfaction to look at. But the person that et it would\nwant to fetch a couple of kags of toothpicks along, for if that rope\nladder wouldn’t cramp him down to business I don’t know nothing\nwhat I’m talking about, and lay him in enough stomach-ache to last\nhim till next time, too.\nNat didn’t look when we put the witch pie in Jim’s pan; and we put\nthe three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the vittles; and so\nJim got everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself he bust-\ned into the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw tick, and\nscratched some marks on a tin plate and throwed it out of the win-\ndow-hole.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n259\n\n\nMaking them pens was a distressid tough job, and so was the\nsaw; and Jim allowed the inscription was going to be the toughest of\nall. That’s the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the wall.\nBut he had to have it; Tom said he’d got to; there warn’t no case of a\nstate prisoner not scrabbling his inscription to leave behind, and his\ncoat of arms.\n“Look at Lady Jane Grey,” he says; “look at Gilford Dudley; look at\nold Northumberland! Why, Huck, s’pose it IS considerble trouble?—\nwhat you going to do?—how you going to get around it?  Jim’s got to\ndo his inscription and coat of arms. They all do.”\nJim says:\n“Why, Mars Tom, I hain’t got no coat o’ arm; I hain’t got nuffn but\ndish yer ole shirt, en you knows I got to keep de journal on dat.”\n“Oh, you don’t understand, Jim; a coat of arms is very different.”\n“Well,” I says, “Jim’s right, anyway, when he says he ain’t got no\ncoat of arms, because he hain’t.”\n“I reckon I knowed that,” Tom says, “but you bet he’ll have one\nbefore he goes out of this—because he’s going out right, and there\nain’t going to be no ﬂaws in his record.”\nSo whilst me and Jim ﬁled away at the pens on a brickbat apiece,\nJim a-making his’n out of the brass and I making mine out of the\nspoon, Tom set to work to think out the coat of arms. By and by he\nsaid he’d struck so many good ones he didn’t hardly know which to\ntake, but there was one which he reckoned he’d decide on. He says:\n“On the scutcheon we’ll have a bend or in the dexter base, a saltire\nCHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT\n260\n\n\nmurrey in the fess, with a dog, couchant, for common charge, and\nunder his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron vert in a\nchief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field azure, with the\nnombril points rampant on a dancette indented; crest, a runaway\nnigger, sable, with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and\na couple of gules for supporters, which is you and me; motto, mag-\ngiore fretta, minore otto. Got it out of a book—means the more haste\nthe less speed.”\n“Geewhillikins,” I says, “but what does the rest of it mean?”\n“We ain’t got no time to bother over that,” he says; “we got to dig\nin like all git-out.”\n“Well, anyway,” I says, “what’s some of it? What’s a fess?”\n“A fess—a fess is—you don’t need to know what a fess is. I’ll show\nhim how to make it when he gets to it.”\n“Shucks, Tom,” I says, “I think you might tell a person. What’s a\nbar sinister?”\n“Oh, I don’t know. But he’s got to have it. All the nobility does.”\nThat was just his way. If it didn’t suit him to explain a thing to you,\nhe wouldn’t do it. You might pump at him a week, it wouldn’t make\nno difference.\nHe’d got all that coat of arms business ﬁxed, so now he started in\nto ﬁnish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan out\na mournful inscription—said Jim got to have one, like they all done.\nHe made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and read them off,\nso:\n1. Here a captive heart busted.\n2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted\nhis sorrowful life.\n3. Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest,\nafter thirty-seven years of solitary captivity.\n4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter\ncaptivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of Louis XIV.\nTom’s voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he most broke\ndown. When he got done he couldn’t no way make up his mind\nwhich one for Jim to scrabble on to the wall, they was all so good;\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n261\n\n\nbut at last he allowed he would let him scrabble them all on. Jim said\nit would take him a year to scrabble such a lot of truck on to the logs\nwith a nail, and he didn’t know how to make letters, besides; but\nTom said he would block them out for him, and then he wouldn’t\nhave nothing to do but just follow the lines.\nThen pretty soon he says:\n“Come to think, the logs ain’t a-going to do; they don’t have log\nwalls in a dungeon: we got to dig the inscriptions into a rock. We’ll\nfetch a rock.”\nJim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would take\nhim such a pison long time to dig them into a rock he wouldn’t ever\nget out. But Tom said he would let me help him do it. Then he took\na look to see how me and Jim was getting along with the pens. It was\nmost pesky tedious hard work and slow, and didn’t give my hands no\nshow to get well of the sores, and we didn’t seem to make no head-\nway, hardly; so Tom says:\n“I know how to ﬁx it. We got to have a rock for the coat of arms\nand mournful inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with that same\nrock. There’s a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we’ll\nsmouch it, and carve the things on it, and ﬁle out the pens and the\nsaw on it, too.”\nIt warn’t no slouch of an idea; and it warn’t no slouch of a grind-\nstone nuther; but we allowed we’d tackle it. It warn’t quite midnight\nyet, so we cleared out for the mill, leaving Jim at work. We smouched\nthe grindstone, and set out to roll her home, but it was a most nation\ntough job. Sometimes, do what we could, we couldn’t keep her from\nfalling over, and she come mighty near mashing us every time. Tom\nsaid she was going to get one of us, sure, before we got through. We\ngot her half way; and then we was plumb played out, and most\ndrownded with sweat.  We see it warn’t no use; we got to go and fetch\nJim So he raised up his bed and slid the chain off of the bed-leg, and\nwrapt it round and round his neck, and we crawled out through our\nhole and down there, and Jim and me laid into that grindstone and\nwalked her along like nothing; and Tom superintended.  He could\nout-superintend any boy I ever see. He knowed how to do everything.\nOur hole was pretty big, but it warn’t big enough to get the grind-\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n262\n\n\nstone through; but Jim he took the pick and soon made it big\nenough. Then Tom marked out them things on it with the nail, and\nset Jim to work on them, with the nail for a chisel and an iron bolt\nfrom the rubbage in the lean-to for a hammer, and told him to work\ntill the rest of his candle quit on him, and then he could go to bed,\nand hide the grindstone under his straw tick and sleep on it. Then we\nhelped him ﬁx his chain back on the bed-leg, and was ready for bed\nourselves. But Tom thought of something, and says:\n“You got any spiders in here, Jim?”\n“No, sah, thanks to goodness I hain’t, Mars Tom.”\n“All right, we’ll get you some.”\n“But bless you, honey, I doan’ want none. I’s afeard un um. I jis’ ‘s\nsoon have rattlesnakes aroun’.”\nTom thought a minute or two, and says:\n“It’s a good idea. And I reckon it’s been done.  It must a been done;\nit stands to reason. Yes, it’s a prime good idea. Where could you keep\nit?”\n“Keep what, Mars Tom?”\n“Why, a rattlesnake.”\n“De goodness gracious alive, Mars Tom! Why, if dey was a rat-\ntlesnake to come in heah I’d take en bust right out thoo dat log wall,\nI would, wid my head.”\nWhy, Jim, you wouldn’t be afraid of it after a little. You could tame it.”\n“Tame it!”\n“Yes—easy enough. Every animal is grateful for kindness and petting,\nand they wouldn’t think of hurting a person that pets them. Any book\nwill tell you that. You try—that’s all I ask; just try for two or three days.\nWhy, you can get him so in a little while that he’ll love you; and sleep\nwith you; and won’t stay away from you a minute; and will let you\nwrap him round your neck and put his head in your mouth.”\n“Please, Mars Tom—doan’ talk so! I can’t stan’ it! He’d let me shove\nhis head in my mouf—fer a favor, hain’t it? I lay he’d wait a pow’ful\nlong time ‘fo’ I ast him. En mo’ en dat, I doan’ want him to sleep wid\nme.”\n“Jim, don’t act so foolish. A prisoner’s got to have some kind of a\ndumb pet, and if a rattlesnake hain’t ever been tried, why, there’s\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n263\n\n\nmore glory to be gained in your being the ﬁrst to ever try it than any\nother way you could ever think of to save your life.”\n“Why, Mars Tom, I doan’ want no sich glory.  Snake take ‘n bite\nJim’s chin off, den whah is de glory? No, sah, I doan’ want no sich\ndoin’s.”\n“Blame it, can’t you try? I only want you to try—you needn’t keep\nit up if it don’t work.”\n“But de trouble all done ef de snake bite me while I’s a tryin’ him.\nMars Tom, I’s willin’ to tackle mos’ anything ‘at ain’t onreasonable,\nbut ef you en Huck fetches a rattlesnake in heah for me to tame, I’s\ngwyne to leave, dat’s shore.”\n“Well, then, let it go, let it go, if you’re so bull-headed about it. We\ncan get you some garter-snakes, and you can tie some buttons on their\ntails, and let on they’re rattlesnakes, and I reckon that ‘ll have to do.”\n“I k’n stan’ dem, Mars Tom, but blame’ ‘f I couldn’ get along wid-\nout um, I tell you dat. I never knowed b’fo’ ‘t was so much bother\nand trouble to be a prisoner.”\n“Well, it always is when it’s done right. You got any rats around\nhere?”\n“No, sah, I hain’t seed none.”\n“Well, we’ll get you some rats.”\n“Why, Mars Tom, I doan’ want no rats. Dey’s de dadblamedest cre-\nturs to ‘sturb a body, en rustle roun’ over ‘im, en bite his feet, when\nhe’s tryin’ to sleep, I ever see. No, sah, gimme g’yarter-snakes, ‘f I’s\ngot to have ‘m, but doan’ gimme no rats; I hain’ got no use f’r um,\nskasely.”\n“But, Jim, you got to have ‘em—they all do. So don’t make no more\nfuss about it. Prisoners ain’t ever without rats. There ain’t no instance\nof it. And they train them, and pet them, and learn them tricks, and\nthey get to be as sociable as ﬂies. But you got to play music to them.\nYou got anything to play music on?”\n“I ain’ got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o’ paper, en a juice-\nharp; but I reck’n dey wouldn’ take no stock in a juice-harp.”\n“Yes they would. they don’t care what kind of music ‘tis. A jews-\nharp’s plenty good enough for a rat. All animals like music—in a\nprison they dote on it. Specially, painful music; and you can’t get no\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n264\n\n\nother kind out of a jews-harp. It always interests them; they come out\nto see what’s the matter with you. Yes, you’re all right; you’re ﬁxed\nvery well.  You want to set on your bed nights before you go to sleep,\nand early in the mornings, and play your jews-harp; play ‘The Last\nLink is Broken’—that’s the thing that ‘ll scoop a rat quicker ‘n any-\nthing else; and when you’ve played about two minutes you’ll see all\nthe rats, and the snakes, and spiders, and things begin to feel worried\nabout you, and come. And they’ll just fairly swarm over you, and\nhave a noble good time.”\n“Yes, dey will, I reck’n, Mars Tom, but what kine er time is JIM\nhavin’? Blest if I kin see de pint. But I’ll do it ef I got to. I reck’n I\nbetter keep de animals satisﬁed, en not have no trouble in de house.”\nTom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn’t nothing else;\nand pretty soon he says:\n“Oh, there’s one thing I forgot. Could you raise a ﬂower here, do\nyou reckon?”\n“I doan know but maybe I could, Mars Tom; but it’s tolable dark\nin heah, en I ain’ got no use f’r no ﬂower, nohow, en she’d be a pow’-\nful sight o’ trouble.”\n“Well, you try it, anyway. Some other prisoners has done it.”\n“One er dem big cat-tail-lookin’ mullen-stalks would grow in heah,\nMars Tom, I reck’n, but she wouldn’t be wuth half de trouble she’d\ncoss.”\n“Don’t you believe it. We’ll fetch you a little one and you plant it\nin the corner over there, and raise it.  And don’t call it mullen, call it\nPitchiola—that’s its right name when it’s in a prison. And you want\nto water it with your tears.”\n“Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom.”\n“You don’t want spring water; you want to water it with your tears.\nIt’s the way they always do.”\n“Why, Mars Tom, I lay I kin raise one er dem mullen-stalks twyste\nwid spring water whiles another man’s a start’n one wid tears.”\n“That ain’t the idea. You got to do it with tears.”\n“She’ll die on my han’s, Mars Tom, she sholy will; kase I doan’\nskasely ever cry.”\nSo Tom was stumped. But he studied it over, and then said Jim\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n265\n\n\nwould have to worry along the best he could with an onion. He\npromised he would go to the nigger cabins and drop one, private, in\nJim’s coffee-pot, in the morning. Jim said he would “jis’ ‘s soon have\ntobacker in his coffee;” and found so much fault with it, and with the\nwork and bother of raising the mullen, and jews-harping the rats, and\npetting and ﬂattering up the snakes and spiders and things, on top of\nall the other work he had to do on pens, and inscriptions, and jour-\nnals, and things, which made it more trouble and worry and respon-\nsibility to be a prisoner than anything he ever undertook, that Tom\nmost lost all patience with him; and said he was just loadened down\nwith more gaudier chances than a prisoner ever had in the world to\nmake a name for himself, and yet he didn’t know enough to appreci-\nate them, and they was just about wasted on him. So Jim he was\nsorry, and said he wouldn’t behave so no more, and then me and Tom\nshoved for bed.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n266\n\n\nIn the morning we went up to the village and bought a wire rat-\ntrap and fetched it down, and unstopped the best rat-hole, and in\nabout an hour we had ﬁfteen of the bulliest kind of ones; and then\nwe took it and put it in a safe place under Aunt Sally’s bed. But while\nwe was gone for spiders little Thomas Franklin Benjamin Jefferson\nElexander Phelps found it there, and opened the door of it to see if\nthe rats would come out, and they did; and Aunt Sally she come in,\nand when we got back she was a-standing on top of the bed raising\nCain, and the rats was doing what they could to keep off the dull\ntimes for her. So she took and dusted us both with the hickry, and we\nwas as much as two hours catching another ﬁfteen or sixteen, drat\nthat meddlesome cub, and they warn’t the likeliest, nuther, because\nthe ﬁrst haul was the pick of the ﬂock.  I never see a likelier lot of rats\nthan what that ﬁrst haul was.\nWe got a splendid stock of sorted spiders, and bugs, and frogs, and\ncaterpillars, and one thing or another; and we like to got a hornet’s\nnest, but we didn’t. The family was at home. We didn’t give it right\nup, but stayed with them as long as we could; because we allowed\nwe’d tire them out or they’d got to tire us out, and they done it. Then\nwe got allycumpain and rubbed on the places, and was pretty near all\nright again, but couldn’t set down convenient. And so we went for\nthe snakes, and grabbed a couple of dozen garters and house-snakes,\nand put them in a bag, and put it in our room, and by that time it\nwas supper-time, and a rattling good honest day’s work: and hun-\ngry?—oh, no, I reckon not! And there warn’t a blessed snake up there\nCHAPTER THIRTY-NINE\n267\n\n\nwhen we went back—we didn’t half tie the sack, and they worked out\nsomehow, and left. But it didn’t matter much, because they was still\non the premises somewheres. So we judged we could get some of\nthem again. No, there warn’t no real scarcity of snakes about the\nhouse for a considerable spell. You’d see them dripping from the\nrafters and places every now and then; and they generly landed in\nyour plate, or down the back of your neck, and most of the time\nwhere you didn’t want them.  Well, they was handsome and striped,\nand there warn’t no harm in a million of them; but that never made\nno difference to Aunt Sally; she despised snakes, be the breed what\nthey might, and she couldn’t stand them no way you could ﬁx it; and\nevery time one of them ﬂopped down on her, it didn’t make no dif-\nference what she was doing, she would just lay that work down and\nlight out. I never see such a woman. And you could hear her whoop\nto Jericho. You couldn’t get her to take a-holt of one of them with the\ntongs. And if she turned over and found one in bed she would scram-\nble out and lift a howl that you would think the house was aﬁre. She\ndisturbed the old man so that he said he could most wish there had-\nn’t ever been no snakes created. Why, after every last snake had been\ngone clear out of the house for as much as a week Aunt Sally warn’t\nover it yet; she warn’t near over it; when she was setting thinking\nabout something you could touch her on the back of her neck with a\nfeather and she would jump right out of her stockings. It was very\ncurious. But Tom said all women was just so.  He said they was made\nthat way for some reason or other.\nWe got a licking every time one of our snakes come in her way, and\nshe allowed these lickings warn’t nothing to what she would do if we\never loaded up the place again with them. I didn’t mind the lickings,\nbecause they didn’t amount to nothing; but I minded the trouble we\nhad to lay in another lot. But we got them laid in, and all the other\nthings; and you never see a cabin as blithesome as Jim’s was when\nthey’d all swarm out for music and go for him. Jim didn’t like the spi-\nders, and the spiders didn’t like Jim; and so they’d lay for him, and\nmake it mighty warm for him.  And he said that between the rats and\nthe snakes and the grindstone there warn’t no room in bed for him,\nskasely; and when there was, a body couldn’t sleep, it was so lively,\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n268\n\n\nand it was always lively, he said, because they never all slept at one\ntime, but took turn about, so when the snakes was asleep the rats was\non deck, and when the rats turned in the snakes come on watch, so\nhe always had one gang under him, in his way, and t’other gang hav-\ning a circus over him, and if he got up to hunt a new place the spi-\nders would take a chance at him as he crossed over. He said if he ever\ngot out this time he wouldn’t ever be a prisoner again, not for a\nsalary.\nWell, by the end of three weeks everything was in pretty good\nshape. The shirt was sent in early, in a pie, and every time a rat bit\nJim he would get up and write a little in his journal whilst the ink\nwas fresh; the pens was made, the inscriptions and so on was all\ncarved on the grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in two, and we had\net up the sawdust, and it give us a most amazing stomach-ache. We\nreckoned we was all going to die, but didn’t. It was the most undi-\ngestible sawdust I ever see; and Tom said the same. But as I was say-\ning, we’d got all the work done now, at last; and we was all pretty\nmuch fagged out, too, but mainly Jim. The old man had wrote a\ncouple of times to the plantation below Orleans to come and get\ntheir run-away nigger, but hadn’t got no answer, because there warn’t\nno such plantation; so he allowed he would advertise Jim in the St.\nLouis and New Orleans papers; and when he mentioned the St.\nLouis ones it give me the cold shivers, and I see we hadn’t no time to\nlose.  So Tom said, now for the nonnamous letters.\n“What’s them?” I says.\n“Warnings to the people that something is up.\nSometimes it’s done one way, sometimes another.  But there’s\nalways somebody spying around that gives notice to the governor of\nthe castle. When Louis XVI. was going to light out of the Tooleries a\nservant-girl done it. It’s a very good way, and so is the nonnamous\nletters. We’ll use them both. And it’s usual for the prisoner’s mother\nto change clothes with him, and she stays in, and he slides out in her\nclothes.  We’ll do that, too.”\n“But looky here, Tom, what do we want to warn anybody for that\nsomething’s up? Let them ﬁnd it out for themselves—it’s their look-\nout.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n269\n\n\n“Yes, I know; but you can’t depend on them.  It’s the way they’ve\nacted from the very start—left us to do everything. They’re so conﬁd-\ning and mullet-headed they don’t take notice of nothing at all. So if\nwe don’t give them notice there won’t be nobody nor nothing to\ninterfere with us, and so after all our hard work and trouble this\nescape ‘ll go off perfectly ﬂat; won’t amount to nothing—won’t be\nnothing to it.”\n“Well, as for me, Tom, that’s the way I’d like.”\n“Shucks!” he says, and looked disgusted. So I says:\n“But I ain’t going to make no complaint. Any way that suits you\nsuits me. What you going to do about the servant-girl?”\n“You’ll be her. You slide in, in the middle of the night, and hook\nthat yaller girl’s frock.”\n“Why, Tom, that ‘ll make trouble next morning; because, of course,\nshe prob’bly hain’t got any but that one.”\n“I know; but you don’t want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the\nnonnamous letter and shove it under the front door.”\n“All right, then, I’ll do it; but I could carry it just as handy in my\nown togs.”\n“You wouldn’t look like a servant-girl then, would you?”\n“No, but there won’t be nobody to see what I look like, anyway.”\n“That ain’t got nothing to do with it. The thing for us to do is just\nto do our duty, and not worry about whether anybody sees us do it or\nnot. Hain’t you got no principle at all?”\n“All right, I ain’t saying nothing; I’m the servant-girl. Who’s Jim’s\nmother?”\n“I’m his mother. I’ll hook a gown from Aunt Sally.”\n“Well, then, you’ll have to stay in the cabin when me and Jim\nleaves.”\n“Not much. I’ll stuff Jim’s clothes full of straw and lay it on his bed\nto represent his mother in disguise, and Jim ‘ll take the nigger\nwoman’s gown off of me and wear it, and we’ll all evade together.\nWhen a prisoner of style escapes it’s called an evasion. It’s always\ncalled so when a king escapes, f’rinstance.  And the same with a\nking’s son; it don’t make no difference whether he’s a natural one or\nan unnatural one.”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n270\n\n\nSo Tom he wrote the nonnamous letter, and I smouched the yaller\nwench’s frock that night, and put it on, and shoved it under the front\ndoor, the way Tom told me to. It said:\nBeware. Trouble is brewing. Keep a sharp lookout.\nUNKNOWN FRIEND\nNext night we stuck a picture, which Tom drawed in blood, of a skull\nand crossbones on the front door; and next night another one of a\ncofﬁn on the back door. I never see a family in such a sweat. They\ncouldn’t a been worse scared if the place had a been full of ghosts lay-\ning for them behind everything and under the beds and shivering\nthrough the air. If a door banged, Aunt Sally she jumped and said\n“ouch!” if anything fell, she jumped and said “ouch!” if you happened\nto touch her, when she warn’t noticing, she done the same; she\ncouldn’t face noway and be satisﬁed, because she allowed there was\nsomething behind her every time—so she was always a-whirling\naround sudden, and saying “ouch,” and before she’d got two-thirds\naround she’d whirl back again, and say it again; and she was afraid to\ngo to bed, but she dasn’t set up. So the thing was working very well,\nTom said; he said he never see a thing work more satisfactory. He\nsaid it showed it was done right.\nSo he said, now for the grand bulge! So the very next morning at\nthe streak of dawn we got another letter ready, and was wondering\nwhat we better do with it, because we heard them say at supper they\nwas going to have a nigger on watch at both doors all night. Tom he\nwent down the lightning-rod to spy around; and the nigger at the\nback door was asleep, and he stuck it in the back of his neck and\ncome back.\nThis letter said:\nDon’t betray me, I wish to be your friend. There is a desprate\ngang of cut-throats from over in the Indian Territory going to\nsteal your runaway nigger tonight, and they have been trying to\nscare you so as you will stay in the house and not bother them. I\nam one of the gang, but have got religgion and wish to quit it\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n271\n\n\nand lead an honest life again, and will betray the helish design.\nThey will sneak down from northards, along the fence, at mid-\nnight exact, with a false key, and go in the nigger’s cabin to get\nhim. I am to be off a piece and blow a tin horn if I see any dan-\nger; but stead of that I will ba like a sheep soon as they get in and\nnot blow at all; then whilst they are getting his chains loose, you\nslip there and lock them in, and can kill them at your leasure.\nDon’t do anything but just the way I am telling you; if you do\nthey will suspicion something and raise whoop-jamboreehoo. I\ndo not wish any reward but to know I have done the right thing.\nUNKNOWN FRIEND.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n272\n\n\nW\ne was feeling pretty good after breakfast, and took my canoe\nand went over the river a-ﬁshing, with a lunch, and had a good time,\nand took a look at the raft and found her all right, and got home late\nto supper, and found them in such a sweat and worry they didn’t\nknow which end they was standing on, and made us go right off to\nbed the minute we was done supper, and wouldn’t tell us what the\ntrouble was, and never let on a word about the new letter, but didn’t\nneed to, because we knowed as much about it as anybody did, and as\nsoon as we was half up stairs and her back was turned we slid for the\ncellar cubboard and loaded up a good lunch and took it up to our\nroom and went to bed, and got up about half-past eleven, and Tom\nput on Aunt Sally’s dress that he stole and was going to start with the\nlunch, but says:\n“Where’s the butter?”\n“I laid out a hunk of it,” I says, “on a piece of a corn-pone.”\n“Well, you left it laid out, then—it ain’t here.”\n“We can get along without it,” I says.\n“We can get along with it, too,” he says; “just you slide down cel-\nlar and fetch it. And then mosey right down the lightning-rod and\ncome along. I’ll go and stuff the straw into Jim’s clothes to represent\nhis mother in disguise, and be ready to ba like a sheep and shove\nsoon as you get there.”\nSo out he went, and down cellar went I. The hunk of butter, big as\na person’s ﬁst, was where I had left it, so I took up the slab of corn-\npone with it on, and blowed out my light, and started up stairs very\nCHAPTER FORTY\n273\n\n\nstealthy, and got up to the main ﬂoor all right, but here comes Aunt\nSally with a candle, and I clapped the truck in my hat, and clapped\nmy hat on my head, and the next second she see me; and she says:\n“You been down cellar?”\n“Yes’m.”\n“What you been doing down there?”\n“Noth’n.”\n“Noth’n!”\n“No’m.”\n“Well, then, what possessed you to go down there this time of\nnight?”\n“I don’t know ‘m.”\n“You don’t know? Don’t answer me that way.  Tom, I want to know\nwhat you been doing down there.”\n“I hain’t been doing a single thing, Aunt Sally, I hope to gracious if\nI have.”\nI reckoned she’d let me go now, and as a generl thing she would;\nbut I s’pose there was so many strange things going on she was just\nin a sweat about every little thing that warn’t yard-stick straight; so\nshe says, very decided:\n“You just march into that setting-room and stay there till I come.\nYou been up to something you no business to, and I lay I’ll ﬁnd out\nwhat it is before I’m done with you.”\nSo she went away as I opened the door and walked into the setting-\nroom. My, but there was a crowd there! Fifteen farmers, and every\none of them had a gun. I was most powerful sick, and slunk to a\nchair and set down. They was setting around, some of them talking a\nlittle, in a low voice, and all of them ﬁdgety and uneasy, but trying to\nlook like they warn’t; but I knowed they was, because they was always\ntaking off their hats, and putting them on, and scratching their\nheads, and changing their seats, and fumbling with their buttons. I\nwarn’t easy myself, but I didn’t take my hat off, all the same.\nI did wish Aunt Sally would come, and get done with me, and lick\nme, if she wanted to, and let me get away and tell Tom how we’d\noverdone this thing, and what a thundering hornet’s-nest we’d got\nourselves into, so we could stop fooling around straight off, and clear\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n274\n\n\nout with Jim before these rips got out of patience and come for us.\nAt last she come and begun to ask me questions, but I couldn’t\nanswer them straight, I didn’t know which end of me was up; because\nthese men was in such a ﬁdget now that some was wanting to start\nright now and lay for them desperadoes, and saying it warn’t but a\nfew minutes to midnight; and others was trying to get them to hold\non and wait for the sheep-signal; and here was Aunty pegging away\nat the questions, and me a-shaking all over and ready to sink down in\nmy tracks I was that scared; and the place getting hotter and hotter,\nand the butter beginning to melt and run down my neck and behind\nmy ears; and pretty soon, when one of them says, “I’m for going and\ngetting in the cabin ﬁrst and right now, and catching them when they\ncome,” I most dropped; and a streak of butter come a-trickling down\nmy forehead, and Aunt Sally she see it, and turns white as a sheet,\nand says:\n“For the land’s sake, what is the matter with the child? He’s got the\nbrain-fever as shore as you’re born, and they’re oozing out!”\nAnd everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my hat, and out\ncomes the bread and what was left of the butter, and she grabbed me,\nand hugged me, and says:\n“Oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad and grateful I am\nit ain’t no worse; for luck’s against us, and it never rains but it pours,\nand when I see that truck I thought we’d lost you, for I knowed by\nthe color and all it was just like your brains would be if—\nDear, dear, whyd’nt you tell me that was what you’d been down\nthere for, I wouldn’t a cared. Now cler out to bed, and don’t lemme\nsee no more of you till morning!”\nI was up stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod in another\none, and shinning through the dark for the lean-to. I couldn’t hardly\nget my words out, I was so anxious; but I told Tom as quick as I\ncould we must jump for it now, and not a minute to lose—the house\nfull of men, yonder, with guns!\nHis eyes just blazed; and he says:\n“No!—is that so? Ain’t it bully! Why, Huck,if it was to do over\nagain, I bet I could fetch two hundred! If we could put it off till—”\n“Hurry! Hurry!” I says. “Where’s Jim?”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n275\n\n\n“Right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm you can touch\nhim. He’s dressed, and everything’s ready. Now we’ll slide out and\ngive the sheep-signal.”\nBut then we heard the tramp of men coming to the door, and\nheard them begin to fumble with the pad-lock, and heard a man say:\n“I told you we’d be too soon; they haven’t come—the door is\nlocked. Here, I’ll lock some of you into the cabin, and you lay for\n‘em in the dark and kill ‘em when they come; and the rest scatter\naround a piece, and listen if you can hear ‘em coming.”\nSo in they come, but couldn’t see us in the dark, and most trod on\nus whilst we was hustling to get under the bed. But we got under all\nright, and out through the hole, swift but soft—Jim ﬁrst, me next,\nand Tom last, which was according to Tom’s orders. Now we was in\nthe lean-to, and heard trampings close by outside. So we crept to the\ndoor, and Tom stopped us there and put his eye to the crack, but\ncouldn’t make out nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and said he\nwould listen for the steps to get further, and when he nudged us Jim\nmust glide out ﬁrst, and him last.  So he set his ear to the crack and\nlistened, and listened, and listened, and the steps a-scraping around\nout there all the time; and at last he nudged us, and we slid out, and\nstooped down, not breathing, and not making the least noise, and\nslipped stealthy towards the fence in Injun ﬁle, and got to it all right,\nand me and Jim over it; but Tom’s britches catched fast on a splinter\non the top rail, and then he hear the steps coming, so he had to pull\nloose, which snapped the splinter and made a noise; and as he\ndropped in our tracks and started somebody sings out:\n“Who’s that? Answer, or I’ll shoot!”\nBut we didn’t answer; we just unfurled our heels and shoved. Then\nthere was a rush, and a bang, bang, bang! and the bullets fairly\nwhizzed around us! We heard them sing out:\n“Here they are! They’ve broke for the river!\nAfter ‘em, boys, and turn loose the dogs!”\nSo here they come, full tilt. We could hear them because they\nwore boots and yelled, but we didn’t wear no boots and didn’t yell.\nWe was in the path to the mill; and when they got pretty close on\nto us we dodged into the bush and let them go by, and then\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n276\n\n\ndropped in behind them. They’d had all the dogs shut up, so they\nwouldn’t scare off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let\nthem loose, and here they come, making powwow enough for a\nmillion; but they was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till they\ncatched up; and when they see it warn’t nobody but us, and no\nexcitement to offer them, they only just said howdy, and tore right\nahead towards the shouting and clattering; and then we up-steam\nagain, and whizzed along after them till we was nearly to the mill,\nand then struck up through the bush to where my canoe was tied,\nand hopped in and pulled for dear life towards the middle of the\nriver, but didn’t make no more noise than we was obleeged to. Then\nwe struck out, easy and comfortable, for the island where my raft\nwas; and we could hear them yelling and barking at each other all\nup and down the bank, till we was so far away the sounds got dim\nand died out.\nAnd when we stepped on to the raft I says:\n“Now, old Jim, you’re a free man again, and I bet you won’t ever\nbe a slave no more.”\n“En a mighty good job it wuz, too, Huck. It ‘uz planned beautiful, en\nit ‘uz done beautiful; en dey ain’t nobody kin git up a plan dat’s mo’\nmixed-up en splendid den what dat one wuz.”\nWe was all glad as we could be, but Tom was the gladdest of all\nbecause he had a bullet in the calf of his leg.\nWhen me and Jim heard that we didn’t feel so brash as what we\ndid before. It was hurting him considerable, and bleeding; so we\nlaid him in the wigwam and tore up one of the duke’s shirts for to\nbandage him, but he says:\n“Gimme the rags; I can do it myself. Don’t stop now; don’t\nfool around here, and the evasion booming along so handsome;\nman the sweeps, and set her loose! Boys, we done it elegant!—\n‘deed we did. I wish we’d a had the handling of Louis XVI.,\nthere wouldn’t a been no ‘Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven!’\nwrote down in his biography; no, sir, we’d a whooped him over\nthe border—that’s what we’d a done with him—and done it just\nas slick as nothing at all, too. Man the sweeps—man the\nsweeps!”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n277\n\n\nBut me and Jim was consulting—and thinking.\nAnd after we’d thought a minute, I says:\n“Say it, Jim.”\nSo he says:\n“Well, den, dis is de way it look to me, Huck. Ef it wuz him dat ‘uz\nbein’ sot free, en one er de boys wuz to git shot, would he say, ‘Go on\nen save me, nemmine ‘bout a doctor f’r to save dis one?’ Is dat like\nMars Tom Sawyer? Would he say dat? You bet he wouldn’t! Well, den,\nis Jim gywne to say it?  No, sah—I doan’ budge a step out’n dis place\n‘dout a doctor, not if it’s forty year!”\nI knowed he was white inside, and I reckoned he’d say what he did\nsay—so it was all right now, and I told Tom I was a-going for a doc-\ntor. He raised considerable row about it, but me and Jim stuck to it\nand wouldn’t budge; so he was for crawling out and setting the raft\nloose himself; but we wouldn’t let him.  Then he give us a piece of his\nmind, but it didn’t do no good.\nSo when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he says:\n“Well, then, if you re bound to go, I’ll tell you the way to do when\nyou get to the village. Shut the door and blindfold the doctor tight\nand fast, and make him swear to be silent as the grave, and put a\npurse full of gold in his hand, and then take and lead him all around\nthe back alleys and everywheres in the dark, and then fetch him here\nin the canoe, in a roundabout way amongst the islands, and search\nhim and take his chalk away from him, and don’t give it back to him\ntill you get him back to the village, or else he will chalk this raft so\nhe can ﬁnd it again. It’s the way they all do.”\nSo I said I would, and left, and Jim was to hide in the woods when\nhe see the doctor coming till he was gone again.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n278\n\n\nT\nhe doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking old man\nwhen I got him up. I told him me and my brother was over on\nSpanish Island hunting yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece\nof a raft we found, and about midnight he must a kicked his gun in\nhis dreams, for it went off and shot him in the leg, and we wanted\nhim to go over there and ﬁx it and not say nothing about it, nor let\nanybody know, because we wanted to come home this evening and\nsurprise the folks.\n“Who is your folks?” he says.\n“The Phelpses, down yonder.”\n“Oh,” he says. And after a minute, he says:\n“How’d you say he got shot?”\n“He had a dream,” I says, “and it shot him.”\n“Singular dream,” he says.\nSo he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started.\nBut when he sees the canoe he didn’t like the look of her—said she\nwas big enough for one, but didn’t look pretty safe for two. I says:\n“Oh, you needn’t be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us easy\nenough.”\n“What three?”\n“Why, me and Sid, and—and—and the guns; that’s what I mean.”\n“Oh,” he says.\nBut he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook his\nhead, and said he reckoned he’d look around for a bigger one. But\nthey was all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for\nCHAPTER FORTY-ONE\n279\n\n\nme to wait till he come back, or I could hunt around further, or\nmaybe I better go down home and get them ready for the surprise if\nI wanted to. But I said I didn’t; so I told him just how to ﬁnd the\nraft, and then he started.\nI struck an idea pretty soon. I says to myself, spos’n he can’t ﬁx that\nleg just in three shakes of a sheep’s tail, as the saying is? spos’n it takes\nhim three or four days? What are we going to do?—lay around there\ntill he lets the cat out of the bag? No, sir; I know what I’ll do. I’ll\nwait, and when he comes back if he says he’s got to go any more I’ll\nget down there, too, if I swim; and we’ll take and tie him, and keep\nhim, and shove out down the river; and when Tom’s done with him\nwe’ll give him what it’s worth, or all we got, and then let him get\nashore.\nSo then I crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and next time\nI waked up the sun was away up over my head! I shot out and went\nfor the doctor’s house, but they told me he’d gone away in the night\nsome time or other, and warn’t back yet. Well, thinks I, that looks\npowerful bad for Tom, and I’ll dig out for the island right off. So\naway I shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly rammed my head\ninto Uncle Silas’s stomach! He says:\n“Why, Tom! Where you been all this time, you rascal?”\n“I hain’t been nowheres,” I says, “only just hunting for the runaway\nnigger—me and Sid.”\n“Why, where ever did you go?” he says. “Your aunt’s been mighty\nuneasy.”\n“She needn’t,” I says, “because we was all right.  We followed the\nmen and the dogs, but they outrun us, and we lost them; but we\nthought we heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and took out\nafter them and crossed over, but couldn’t ﬁnd nothing of them; so we\ncruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired and beat out; and tied\nup the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up till about an\nhour ago; then we paddled over here to hear the news, and Sid’s at\nthe post-ofﬁce to see what he can hear, and I’m a-branching out to\nget something to eat for us, and then we’re going home.”\nSo then we went to the post-ofﬁce to get “Sid”; but just as I suspi-\ncioned, he warn’t there; so the old man he got a letter out of the\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n280\n\n\nofﬁce, and we waited awhile longer, but Sid didn’t come; so the old\nman said, come along, let Sid foot it home, or canoe it, when he got\ndone fooling around—but we would ride. I couldn’t get him to let\nme stay and wait for Sid; and he said there warn’t no use in it, and I\nmust come along, and let Aunt Sally see we was all right.\nWhen we got home Aunt Sally was that glad to see me she laughed\nand cried both, and hugged me, and give me one of them lickings of\nhern that don’t amount to shucks, and said she’d serve Sid the same\nwhen he come.\nAnd the place was plum full of farmers and farmers’ wives, to din-\nner; and such another clack a body never heard. Old Mrs. Hotchkiss\nwas the worst; her tongue was a-going all the time. She says:\n“Well, Sister Phelps, I’ve ransacked that-air cabin over, an’ I b’lieve\nthe nigger was crazy. I says to Sister Damrell—didn’t I, Sister\nDamrell?—s’I, he’s crazy, s’I—them’s the very words I said. You all\nhearn me: he’s crazy, s’I; everything shows it, s’I.  Look at that-air\ngrindstone, s’I; want to tell me’t any cretur ‘t’s in his right mind ‘s a\ngoin’ to scrabble all them crazy things onto a grindstone, s’I? Here\nsich ‘n’ sich a person busted his heart; ‘n’ here so ‘n’ so pegged along\nfor thirty-seven year, ‘n’ all that—natcherl son o’ Louis somebody, ‘n’\nsich everlast’n rubbage. He’s plumb crazy, s’I; it’s what I says in the\nfust place, it’s what I says in the middle, ‘n’ it’s what I says last ‘n’ all\nthe time—the nigger’s crazy—crazy ‘s Nebokoodneezer, s’I.”\n“An’ look at that-air ladder made out’n rags, Sister Hotchkiss,” says\nold Mrs. Damrell; “what in the name o’ goodness could he ever want\nof—”\n“The very words I was a-sayin’ no longer ago th’n this minute to\nSister Utterback, ‘n’ she’ll tell you so herself. Sh-she, look at that-air\nrag ladder, sh-she; ‘n’ s’I, yes, look at it, s’I—what could he a-wanted\nof it, s’I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she—”\n“But how in the nation’d they ever git that grindstone in there, any-\nway? ‘n’ who dug that-air hole? ‘n’ who—”\n“My very words, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin’—pass that-air sasser o’\nm’lasses, won’t ye?—I was a-sayin’ to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute,\nhow did they git that grindstone in there, s’I. Without help, mind\nyou—‘thout help! That’s wher ‘tis. Don’t tell me,s’I; there wuz help,\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n281\n\n\ns’I; ‘n’ ther’ wuz a plenty help, too, s’I; ther’s ben a dozen a-helpin’ that\nnigger, ‘n’ I lay I’d skin every last nigger on this place but I’d ﬁnd out\nwho done it, s’I; ‘n’ moreover, s’I—”\n“A dozen says you!—forty couldn’t a done every thing that’s been\ndone. Look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they’ve\nbeen made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with ‘m, a week’s work for\nsix men; look at that nigger made out’n straw on the bed; and look\nat—” \n“You may well say it, Brer Hightower! It’s jist as I was a-sayin’ to\nBrer Phelps, his own self. S’e, what do you think of it, Sister\nHotchkiss, s’e? Think o’ what, Brer Phelps, s’I? Think o’ that bed-leg\nsawed off that a way, s’e? Think of it, s’I? I lay it never sawed itself off,\ns’I—somebody sawed it, s’I; that’s my opinion, take it or leave it, it\nmayn’t be no ‘count, s’I, but sich as ‘t is, it’s my opinion, s’I, ‘n’ if any\nbody k’n start a better one, s’I, let him do it, s’I, that’s all. I says to\nSister Dunlap, s’I—” “Why, dog my cats, they must a ben a house-\nfull o’ niggers in there every night for four weeks to a done all that\nwork, Sister Phelps. Look at that shirt—every last inch of it kivered\nover with secret African writ’n done with blood! Must a ben a raft uv\n‘m at it right along, all the time, amost. Why, I’d give two dollars to\nhave it read to me; ‘n’ as for the niggers that wrote it, I ‘low I’d take\n‘n’ lash ‘m t’ll—”\n“People to help him, Brother Marples! Well, I reckon you’d think so\nif you’d a been in this house for a while back. Why, they’ve stole\neverything they could lay their hands on—and we a-watching all the\ntime, mind you. They stole that shirt right off o’ the line! and as for\nthat sheet they made the rag ladder out of, ther’ ain’t no telling how\nmany times they didn’t steal that; and ﬂour, and candles, and candle-\nsticks, and spoons, and the old warming-pan, and most a thousand\nthings that I disremember now, and my new calico dress; and me and\nSilas and my Sid and Tom on the constant watch day and night, as I\nwas a-telling you, and not a one of us could catch hide nor hair nor\nsight nor sound of them; and here at the last minute, lo and behold\nyou, they slides right in under our noses and fools us, and not only\nfools US but the Injun Territory robbers too, and actuly gets away\nwith that nigger safe and sound, and that with sixteen men and twen-\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n282\n\n\nty-two dogs right on their very heels at that very time!  I tell you, it\njust bangs anything I ever heard of.  Why, sperits couldn’t a done bet-\nter and been no smarter. And I reckon they must a been sperits—\nbecause, you know our dogs, and ther’ ain’t no better; well, them dogs\nnever even got on the track of ‘m once! You explain that to me if you\ncan!—any of you!”\n“Well, it does beat—”\n“Laws alive, I never—”\n“So help me, I wouldn’t a be—”\n“House-thieves as well as—”\n“Goodnessgracioussakes, I’d a ben afeard to live in sich a—”\n“’Fraid to live!—why, I was that scared I dasn’t hardly go to bed, or\nget up, or lay down, or set down, Sister Ridgeway. Why, they’d steal\nthe very—why, goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of a ﬂuster\nI was in by the time midnight come last night. I hope to gracious if\nI warn’t afraid they’d steal some o’ the family! I was just to that pass I\ndidn’t have no reasoning faculties no more. It looks foolish enough\nnow, in the daytime; but I says to myself, there’s my two poor boys\nasleep, ‘way up stairs in that lonesome room, and I declare to good-\nness I was that uneasy ‘t I crep’ up there and locked ‘em in! I did. And\nanybody would.  Because, you know, when you get scared that way,\nand it keeps running on, and getting worse and worse all the time,\nand your wits gets to addling, and you get to doing all sorts o’ wild\nthings, and by and by you think to yourself, spos’n I was a boy, and\nwas away up there, and the door ain’t locked, and you—” She\nstopped, looking kind of wondering, and then she turned her head\naround slow, and when her eye lit on me—I got up and took a walk.\nSays I to myself, I can explain better how we come to not be in that\nroom this morning if I go out to one side and study over it a little.\nSo I done it. But I dasn’t go fur, or she’d a sent for me. And when it\nwas late in the day the people all went, and then I come in and told\nher the noise and shooting waked up me and “Sid,” and the door was\nlocked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the light-\nning-rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn’t never want\nto try that no more. And then I went on and told her all what I told\nUncle Silas before; and then she said she’d forgive us, and maybe it\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n283\n\n\nwas all right enough anyway, and about what a body might expect of\nboys, for all boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as fur as she could\nsee; and so, as long as no harm hadn’t come of it, she judged she bet-\nter put in her time being grateful we was alive and well and she had\nus still, stead of fretting over what was past and done. So then she\nkissed me, and patted me on the head, and dropped into a kind of a\nbrown study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says:\n“Why, lawsamercy, it’s most night, and Sid not come yet! What has\nbecome of that boy?”\nI see my chance; so I skips up and says:\n“I’ll run right up to town and get him,” I says.\n“No you won’t,” she says. “You’ll stay right wher’ you are; one’s\nenough to be lost at a time. If he ain’t here to supper, your uncle ‘ll\ngo.”\nWell, he warn’t there to supper; so right after supper uncle went.\nHe come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn’t run across Tom’s\ntrack. Aunt Sally was a good deal uneasy; but Uncle Silas he said\nthere warn’t no occasion to be—boys will be boys, he said, and you’ll\nsee this one turn up in the morning all sound and right.  So she had\nto be satisﬁed. But she said she’d set up for him a while anyway, and\nkeep a light burning so he could see it.\nAnd then when I went up to bed she come up with me and fetched\nher candle, and tucked me in, and mothered me so good I felt mean,\nand like I couldn’t look her in the face; and she set down on the bed\nand talked with me a long time, and said what a splendid boy Sid\nwas, and didn’t seem to want to ever stop talking about him; and\nkept asking me every now and then if I reckoned he could a got lost,\nor hurt, or maybe drownded, and might be laying at this minute\nsomewheres suffering or dead, and she not by him to help him, and\nso the tears would drip down silent, and I would tell her that Sid was\nall right, and would be home in the morning, sure; and she would\nsqueeze my hand, or maybe kiss me, and tell me to say it again, and\nkeep on saying it, because it done her good, and she was in so much\ntrouble. And when she was going away she looked down in my eyes\nso steady and gentle, and says:\n“The door ain’t going to be locked, Tom, and there’s the window\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n284\n\n\nand the rod; but you’ll be good, won’t you? And you won’t go? For my\nsake.”\nLaws knows I wanted to go bad enough to see about Tom, and was\nall intending to go; but after that I wouldn’t a went, not for king-\ndoms.\nBut she was on my mind and Tom was on my mind, so I slept very\nrestless. And twice I went down the rod away in the night, and\nslipped around front, and see her setting there by her candle in the\nwindow with her eyes towards the road and the tears in them; and I\nwished I could do something for her, but I couldn’t, only to swear\nthat I wouldn’t never do nothing to grieve her any more. And the\nthird time I waked up at dawn, and slid down, and she was there yet,\nand her candle was most out, and her old gray head was resting on\nher hand, and she was asleep.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n285\n\n\nT\nhe old man was uptown again before breakfast, but couldn’t get\nno track of Tom; and both of them set at the table thinking, and not\nsaying nothing, and looking mournful, and their coffee getting cold,\nand not eating anything. And by and by the old man says:\n“Did I give you the letter?”\n“What letter?”\n“The one I got yesterday out of the post-ofﬁce.”\n“No, you didn’t give me no letter.”\n“Well, I must a forgot it.”\nSo he rummaged his pockets, and then went off somewheres where\nhe had laid it down, and fetched it, and give it to her. She says:\n“Why, it’s from St. Petersburg—it’s from Sis.”\nI allowed another walk would do me good; but I couldn’t stir. But\nbefore she could break it open she dropped it and run—for she see\nsomething. And so did I. It was Tom Sawyer on a mattress; and that\nold doctor; and Jim, in her calico dress, with his hands tied behind\nhim; and a lot of people. I hid the letter behind the ﬁrst thing that\ncome handy, and rushed.\nShe ﬂung herself at Tom, crying, and says:\n“Oh, he’s dead, he’s dead, I know he’s dead!”\nAnd Tom he turned his head a little, and muttered something or\nother, which showed he warn’t in his right mind; then she ﬂung up\nher hands, and says:\n“He’s alive, thank God! And that’s enough!” and she snatched a kiss\nof him, and ﬂew for the house to get the bed ready, and scattering\nCHAPTER FORTY-TWO\n286\n\n\norders right and left at the niggers and everybody else, as fast as her\ntongue could go, every jump of the way.\nI followed the men to see what they was going to do with Jim; and\nthe old doctor and Uncle Silas followed after Tom into the house.\nThe men was very huffy, and some of them wanted to hang Jim for\nan example to all the other niggers around there, so they wouldn’t be\ntrying to run away like Jim done, and making such a raft of trouble,\nand keeping a whole family scared most to death for days and nights.\nBut the others said, don’t do it, it wouldn’t answer at all; he ain’t our\nnigger, and his owner would turn up and make us pay for him, sure.\nSo that cooled them down a little, because the people that’s always\nthe most anxious for to hang a nigger that hain’t done just right is\nalways the very ones that ain’t the most anxious to pay for him when\nthey’ve got their satisfaction out of him.\nThey cussed Jim considerble, though, and give him a cuff or two\nside the head once in a while, but Jim never said nothing, and he\nnever let on to know me, and they took him to the same cabin, and\nput his own clothes on him, and chained him again, and not to no\nbed-leg this time, but to a big staple drove into the bottom log, and\nchained his hands, too, and both legs, and said he warn’t to have\nnothing but bread and water to eat after this till his owner come, or\nhe was sold at auction because he didn’t come in a certain length of\ntime, and ﬁlled up our hole, and said a couple of farmers with guns\nmust stand watch around about the cabin every night, and a bulldog\ntied to the door in the day-time; and about this time they was\nthrough with the job and was tapering off with a kind of generl\ngood-bye cussing, and then the old doctor comes and takes a look,\nand says:\n“Don’t be no rougher on him than you’re obleeged to, because he\nain’t a bad nigger. When I got to where I found the boy I see I could-\nn’t cut the bullet out without some help, and he warn’t in no condi-\ntion for me to leave to go and get help; and he got a little worse and\na little worse, and after a long time he went out of his head, and\nwouldn’t let me come a-nigh him any more, and said if I chalked his\nraft he’d kill me, and no end of wild foolishness like that, and I see I\ncouldn’t do anything at all with him; so I says, I got to have help-\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n287\n\n\nsomehow; and the minute I says it out crawls this nigger from some-\nwheres and says he’ll help, and he done it, too, and done it very well.\nOf course I judged he must be a runaway nigger, and there I was! and\nthere I had to stick right straight along all the rest of the day and all\nnight. It was a ﬁx, I tell you! I had a couple of patients with the chills,\nand of course I’d of liked to run up to town and see them, but I das-\nn’t, because the nigger might get away, and then I’d be to blame; and\nyet never a skiff come close enough for me to hail. So there I had to\nstick plumb until daylight this morning; and I never see a nigger that\nwas a better nuss or faithfuller, and yet he was risking his freedom to\ndo it, and was all tired out, too, and I see plain enough he’d been\nworked main hard lately.  I liked the nigger for that; I tell you, gen-\ntlemen, a nigger like that is worth a thousand dollars—and kind\ntreatment, too. I had everything I needed, and the boy was doing as\nwell there as he would a done at home—better, maybe, because it was\nso quiet; but there I was, with both of ‘m on my hands, and there I\nhad to stick till about dawn this morning; then some men in a skiff\ncome by, and as good luck would have it the nigger was setting by the\npallet with his head propped on his knees sound asleep; so I\nmotioned them in quiet, and they slipped up on him and grabbed\nhim and tied him before he knowed what he was about, and we never\nhad no trouble. And the boy being in a kind of a ﬂighty sleep, too,\nwe mufﬂed the oars and hitched the raft on, and towed her over very\nnice and quiet, and the nigger never made the least row nor said a\nword from the start. He ain’t no bad nigger, gentlemen; that’s what I\nthink about him.”\nSomebody says:\n“Well, it sounds very good, doctor, I’m obleeged to say.”\nThen the others softened up a little, too, and I was mighty thank-\nful to that old doctor for doing Jim that good turn; and I was glad it\nwas according to my judgment of him, too; because I thought he had\na good heart in him and was a good man the ﬁrst time I see him.\nThen they all agreed that Jim had acted very well, and was deserving\nto have some notice took of it, and reward. So every one of them\npromised, right out and hearty, that they wouldn’t cuss him no more.\nThen they come out and locked him up. I hoped they was going to\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n288\n\n\nsay he could have one or two of the chains took off, because they was\nrotten heavy, or could have meat and greens with his bread and\nwater; but they didn’t think of it, and I reckoned it warn’t best for me\nto mix in, but I judged I’d get the doctor’s yarn to Aunt Sally some-\nhow or other as soon as I’d got through the breakers that was laying\njust ahead of me—explanations, I mean, of how I forgot to mention\nabout Sid being shot when I was telling how him and me put in that\ndratted night paddling around hunting the run-away nigger.\nBut I had plenty time. Aunt Sally she stuck to the sick-room all day\nand all night, and every time I see Uncle Silas mooning around I\ndodged him.\nNext morning I heard Tom was a good deal better, and they said\nAunt Sally was gone to get a nap. So I slips to the sick-room, and if I\nfound him awake I reckoned we could put up a yarn for the family\nthat would wash. But he was sleeping, and sleeping very peaceful, too;\nand pale, not ﬁre-faced the way he was when he come. So I set down\nand laid for him to wake. In about half an hour Aunt Sally comes\ngliding in, and there I was, up a stump again! She motioned me to be\nstill, and set down by me, and begun to whisper, and said we could all\nbe joyful now, because all the symptoms was ﬁrst-rate, and he’d been\nsleeping like that for ever so long, and looking better and peace-fuller\nall the time, and ten to one he’d wake up in his right mind.\nSo we set there watching, and by and by he stirs a bit, and opened\nhis eyes very natural, and takes a look, and says:\n“Hello!—why, I’m at home! How’s that?\nWhere’s the raft?”\n“It’s all right,” I says.\n“And Jim?”\n“The same,” I says, but couldn’t say it pretty brash. But he never\nnoticed, but says:\n“Good! Splendid! Now we’re all right and safe!\nDid you tell Aunty?”\nI was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says:\n“About what, Sid?”\n“Why, about the way the whole thing was done.”\n“What whole thing?”\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n289\n\n\n“Why, the whole thing. There ain’t but one; how we set the run-\naway nigger free—me and Tom.”\n“Good land! Set the run—What is the child talking about! Dear,\ndear, out of his head again!”\n“No, I ain’t out of my head; I know all what I’m talking about. We\ndid set him free—me and Tom. We laid out to do it, and we done it.\nAnd we done it elegant, too.” He’d got a start, and she never\nchecked him up, just set and stared and stared, and let him clip\nalong, and I see it warn’t no use for me to put in. “Why, Aunty, it\ncost us a power of work—weeks of it—hours and hours, every\nnight, whilst you was all asleep. And we had to steal candles, and the\nsheet, and the shirt, and your dress, and spoons, and tin plates, and\ncase-knives, and the warming-pan, and the grindstone, and flour,\nand just no end of things, and you can’t think what work it was to\nmake the saws, and pens, and inscriptions, and one thing or anoth-\ner, and you can’t think half the fun it was. And we had to make up\nthe pictures of cofﬁns and things, and nonnamous letters from the\nrobbers, and get up and down the lightning-rod, and dig the hole\ninto the cabin, and made the rope ladder and send it in cooked up\nin a pie, and send in spoons and things to work with in your apron\npocket—”\n“Mercy sakes!”\n“—and load up the cabin with rats and snakes and so on, for com-\npany for Jim; and then you kept Tom here so long with the butter in\nhis hat that you come near spiling the whole business, because the\nmen come before we was out of the cabin, and we had to rush, and\nthey heard us and let drive at us, and I got my share, and we dodged\nout of the path and let them go by, and when the dogs come they\nwarn’t interested in us, but went for the most noise, and we got our\ncanoe, and made for the raft, and was all safe, and Jim was a free\nman, and we done it all by ourselves, and wasn’t it bully, Aunty!”\n“Well, I never heard the likes of it in all my born days! So it was\nyou, you little rapscallions, that’s been making all this trouble, and\nturned everybody’s wits clean inside out and scared us all most to\ndeath. I’ve as good a notion as ever I had in my life to take it out o’\nyou this very minute. To think, here I’ve been, night after night, a—\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n290\n\n\nyou just get well once, you young scamp, and I lay I’ll tan the Old\nHarry out o’ both o’ ye!”\nBut Tom, he was so proud and joyful, he just couldn’t hold in, and\nhis tongue just went it—she a-chipping in, and spitting ﬁre all along,\nand both of them going it at once, like a cat convention; and she\nsays:\n“Well, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it now, for mind I\ntell you if I catch you meddling with him again—”\n“Meddling with who?” Tom says, dropping his smile and looking\nsurprised.\n“With who? Why, the runaway nigger, of course. Who’d you reck-\non?”\nTom looks at me very grave, and says:\n“Tom, didn’t you just tell me he was all right? Hasn’t he got away?”\n“Him?” says Aunt Sally; “the runaway nigger?  ‘Deed he hasn’t.\nThey’ve got him back, safe and sound, and he’s in that cabin again,\non bread and water, and loaded down with chains, till he’s claimed or\nsold!”\nTom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and his nostrils open-\ning and shutting like gills, and sings out to me:\n“They hain’t no right to shut him up! Shove!—and don’t you lose a\nminute. Turn him loose! he ain’t no slave; he’s as free as any cretur\nthat walks this earth!”\n“What does the child mean?”\n“I mean every word I say, Aunt Sally, and if somebody don’t go,\nI’LL go. I’ve knowed him all his life, and so has Tom, there. Old Miss\nWatson died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was\ngoing to sell him down the river, and said so; and she set him free in\nher will.”\n“Then what on earth did you want to set him free for, seeing he was\nalready free?”\n“Well, that is a question, I must say; and just like women! Why, I\nwanted the adventure of it; and I’d a waded neck-deep in blood to—\ngoodness alive, Aunt Polly!”\nIf she warn’t standing right there, just inside the door, looking as\nsweet and contented as an angel half full of pie, I wish I may never!\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n291\n\n\nAunt Sally jumped for her, and most hugged the head off of her,\nand cried over her, and I found a good enough place for me under\nthe bed, for it was getting pretty sultry for us, seemed to me. And I\npeeped out, and in a little while Tom’s Aunt Polly shook herself loose\nand stood there looking across at Tom over her spectacles—kind of\ngrinding him into the earth, you know. And then she says:\n“Yes, you better turn y’r head away—I would if I was you, Tom.”\n“Oh, deary me!” says Aunt Sally; “Is he changed so? Why, that ain’t\nTom, it’s Sid; Tom’s—Tom’s—why, where is Tom? He was here a\nminute ago.”\n“You mean where’s Huck Finn—that’s what you mean! I reckon I\nhain’t raised such a scamp as my Tom all these years not to know him\nwhen I see him.  That would be a pretty howdy-do. Come out from\nunder that bed, Huck Finn.”\nSo I done it. But not feeling brash.\nAunt Sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking persons I ever\nsee—except one, and that was Uncle Silas, when he come in and they\ntold it all to him. It kind of made him drunk, as you may say, and he\ndidn’t know nothing at all the rest of the day, and preached a prayer-\nmeeting sermon that night that gave him a rattling ruputation,\nbecause the oldest man in the world couldn’t a understood it. So\nTom’s Aunt Polly, she told all about who I was, and what; and I had\nto up and tell how I was in such a tight place that when Mrs. Phelps\ntook me for Tom Sawyer—she chipped in and says, “Oh, go on and\ncall me Aunt Sally, I’m used to it now, and ‘tain’t no need to\nchange”—that when Aunt Sally took me for Tom Sawyer I had to\nstand it—there warn’t no other way, and I knowed he wouldn’t mind,\nbecause it would be nuts for him, being a mystery, and he’d make an\nadventure out of it, and be perfectly satisﬁed. And so it turned out,\nand he let on to be Sid, and made things as soft as he could for me.\nAnd his Aunt Polly she said Tom was right about old Miss Watson\nsetting Jim free in her will; and so, sure enough, Tom Sawyer had\ngone and took all that trouble and bother to set a free nigger free! and\nI couldn’t ever understand before, until that minute and that talk,\nhow he could help a body set a nigger free with his bringing-up.\nWell, Aunt Polly she said that when Aunt Sally wrote to her that\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n292\n\n\nTom and Sid had come all right and safe, she says to herself:\n“Look at that, now! I might have expected it, letting him go off\nthat way without anybody to watch him. So now I got to go and\ntrapse all the way down the river, eleven hundred mile, and ﬁnd out\nwhat that creetur’s up to this time, as long as I couldn’t seem to get\nany answer out of you about it.”\n“Why, I never heard nothing from you,” says Aunt Sally.\n“Well, I wonder! Why, I wrote you twice to ask you what you\ncould mean by Sid being here.”\n“Well, I never got ‘em, Sis.”\nAunt Polly she turns around slow and severe, and says:\n“You, Tom!”\n“Well—what?” he says, kind of pettish.\n“Don t you what me, you impudent thing—hand out them letters.”\n“What letters?”\n“Them letters. I be bound, if I have to take a-holt of you I’ll—”\n“They’re in the trunk. There, now. And they’re just the same as\nthey was when I got them out of the ofﬁce. I hain’t looked into them,\nI hain’t touched them. But I knowed they’d make trouble, and I\nthought if you warn’t in no hurry, I’d—”\n“Well, you do need skinning, there ain’t no mistake about it. And I\nwrote another one to tell you I was coming; and I s’pose he—”\n“No, it come yesterday; I hain’t read it yet, but it’s all right, I’ve got\nthat one.”\nI wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn’t, but I reckoned\nmaybe it was just as safe to not to. So I never said nothing.\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n293\n\n\nT\nhe first time I catched Tom private I asked him what was his\nidea, time of the evasion?—what it was he’d planned to do if the\nevasion worked all right and he managed to set a nigger free that\nwas already free before? And he said, what he had planned in his\nhead from the start, if we got Jim out all safe, was for us to run\nhim down the river on the raft, and have adventures plumb to\nthe mouth of the river, and then tell him about his being free,\nand take him back up home on a steamboat, in style, and pay\nhim for his lost time, and write word ahead and get out all the\nniggers around, and have them waltz him into town with a torch-\nlight procession and a brass-band, and then he would be a hero,\nand so would we. But I reckoned it was about as well the way it\nwas.\nWe had Jim out of the chains in no time, and when Aunt Polly and\nUncle Silas and Aunt Sally found out how good he helped the doctor\nnurse Tom, they made a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him up\nprime, and give him all he wanted to eat, and a good time, and noth-\ning to do. And we had him up to the sick-room, and had a high talk;\nand Tom give Jim forty dollars for being prisoner for us so patient,\nand doing it up so good, and Jim was pleased most to death, and\nbusted out, and says:\n“Dah, now, Huck, what I tell you?—what I tell you up dah on\nJackson islan’? I tole you I got a hairy breas’, en what’s de sign un it;\nen I tole you I ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich agin; en it’s\ncome true; en heah she is! dah, now! doan’ talk to me—signs is signs,\nTHE CHAPTER LAST\n294\n\n\nmine I tell you; en I knowed jis’ ‘s well ‘at I ‘uz gwineter be rich agin\nas I’s a-stannin’ heah dis minute!”\nAnd then Tom he talked along and talked along, and says, le’s all\nthree slide out of here one of these nights and get an outﬁt, and go\nfor howling adventures amongst the Injuns, over in the Territory, for\na couple of weeks or two; and I says, all right, that suits me, but I\nain’t got no money for to buy the outﬁt, and I reckon I couldn’t get\nnone from home, because it’s likely pap’s been back before now, and\ngot it all away from Judge Thatcher and drunk it up.\n“No, he hain’t,” Tom says; “it’s all there yet—six thousand dollars\nand more; and your pap hain’t ever been back since. Hadn’t when I\ncome away, anyhow.”\nJim says, kind of solemn:\n“He ain’t a-comin’ back no mo’, Huck.”\nI says:\n“Why, Jim?”\n“Nemmine why, Huck—but he ain’t comin’ back no mo.”\nBut I kept at him; so at last he says:\n“Doan’ you ‘member de house dat was ﬂoat’n down de river, en dey\nwuz a man in dah, kivered up, en I went in en unkivered him and\ndidn’ let you come in?  Well, den, you kin git yo’ money when you\nwants it, kase dat wuz him.”\nTom’s most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on a\nwatch-guard for a watch, and is always seeing what time it is, and so\nthere ain’t nothing more to write about, and I am rotten glad of it,\nbecause if I’d a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I\nwouldn’t a tackled it, and ain’t a-going to no more.  But I reckon I\ngot to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally\nshe’s going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can’t stand it. I been\nthere before.\nTHE END\nYours truly, Huck Finn\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n295\n\n\nH\nU\nC\nK\nL\nE\nB\nE\nR\nR\nY\n \nF\nI\nN\nN\n296","difficulty":"hard","domain":"Single-Document QA","length":"medium","question":"What was NOT something that made Mrs. Judith Loftus realize that Huck wasn't really a girl, but a boy in disguise?","sub_domain":"Literary"}

Source: https://huggingface.co/datasets/zai-org/LongBench-v2

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Posting: /agents

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