1885

THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN

by Mark Twain

NOTICE

Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be

prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished;

persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

By Order of the Author

Per G. G., Chief Ordnance

EXPLANATORY

In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri

negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods South-Western

dialect; the ordinary "Pike-County" dialect; and four modified

varieties of this last. The shadings have not been done in a

hap-hazard fashion, or by guess-work; but painstakingly, and with

the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with

these several forms of speech.

I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers

would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike

and not succeeding.

The Author

CHAPTER ONE

You don't know about me, without you have read a book by the name of

"The Adventures of Tom Sawyer," but that ain't no matter. That book

was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was

things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is

nothing. I never seen anybody but lied, one time or another, without

it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly- Tom's Aunt

Polly, she is- and Mary, and the Widow Douglas, is all told about in

that book- which is mostly a true book; with some stretchers, as I

said before.

Now the way that the book winds up, is this: Tom and me found the

money that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got

six thousand dollars apiece- all gold. It was an awful sight of

money when it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher, he took it and put

it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece, all the

year round- more than a body could tell what to do with. The Widow

Douglas, she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me;

but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how

dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I

couldn't stand it no longer, I lit out. I got into my old rags, and my

sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer, he

hunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers and I

might join if I would go back to the widow and be respectable. So I

went back.

The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she

called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by

it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing

but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old

thing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had

to come to time. When you got to the table you couldn't go right to

eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and

grumble a little over the victuals, though there wasn't really

anything the matter with them. That is, nothing only everything was

cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things

get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go

better.

After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the

Bulrushers; and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but

by-and-by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable

long time; so then I didn't care no more about him; because I don't

take no stock in dead people.

Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But

she wouldn't. She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and

I must try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some

people. They get down on the thing when they don't know nothing

about it. Here she was a bothering about Moses, which was no kin to

her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power

of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And she

took snuff too; of course that was all right, because she done it

herself.

Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on,

had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now, with a

spelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then

the widow made her ease up. I couldn't stood it much longer. Then

for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety. Miss Watson would

say, "Don't put your feet up there, Huckleberry"; and "don't scrunch

up like that, Huckleberry- set up straight"; and pretty soon she would

say, "Don't gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry- why don't you

try to behave?" Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I

wished I was there. She got mad, then, but I didn't mean no harm.

All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn't

particular. She said it was wicked to say what I said; said she

wouldn't say it for the whole world; she was going to live so as to go

to the good place. Well, I couldn't see no advantage in going where

she was going, so I made up my mind I wouldn't try for it. But I never

said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn't do no good.

Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the

good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go

around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I

didn't think much of it. But I never said so. I asked her if she

reckoned Tom Sawyer would go there, and, she said, not by a

considerable sight. I was glad about that, because I wanted him and me

to be together.

Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and

lonesome. By-and-by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers, and

then everybody was off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of

candle and put it on the table. Then I set down in a chair by the

window and tried to think of something cheerful, but it warn't no use.

I felt so lonesome I most wished I was dead. The stars was shining,

and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an

owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a

whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to die;

and the wind was trying to whisper something to me and I couldn't make

out what it was, and so it made the cold shivers run over me. Then

away out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost

makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and

can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave

and has to go about that way every night grieving. I got so

down-hearted and scared, I did wish I had some company. Pretty soon

a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and it lit

in the candle; and before I could budge it was all shriveled up. I

didn't need anybody to tell me that was an awful bad sign and would

fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes off

of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks three times and crossed

my breast every time; and then I tied up a little lock of my hair with

a thread to keep witches away. But I hadn't no confidence. You do that

when you've lost a horse-shoe that you've found, instead of nailing it

up over the door, but I hadn't ever heard anybody say it was any way

to keep off bad luck when you'd killed a spider.

I set down again, a shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a

smoke; for the house was all as still as death, now, and so the

widow wouldn't know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock away

off in the town go boom- boom- boom-twelve licks- and all still again-

stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap, down in the dark

amongst the trees- something was a stirring. I set still and listened.

Directly I could just barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down there. That

was good! Says I, "me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as I could, and then I put

out the light and scrambled out of the window onto the shed. Then I

slipped down to the ground and crawled in amongst the trees, and

sure enough there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.

CHAPTER TWO

We went tip-toeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the

end of the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't

scrape our heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a

root and made a noise. We scrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson's

big nigger, named Jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we could see

him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him. He got up

and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. Then he says:

"Who dah?"

He listened some more; then he come tip-toeing down and stood

right between us; we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it

was minutes and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there so

close together. There was a place on my ankle that got to itching; but

I dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my

back, right between my shoulders. Seemed like I'd die if I couldn't

scratch. Well, I've noticed that thing plenty of times since. If you

are with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when

you ain't sleepy- if you are anywheres where it won't do for you to

scratch, why you will itch all over in upwards of a thousand places.

Pretty soon Jim says:

"Say- who is you? What is you? Dog my cats ef I didn' hear sumf'n.

Well, I knows what I's gwyne to do. I's gwyne to set down here and

listen tell I hears it agin."

So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his

back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them

most touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the

tears come into my eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch

on the inside. Next I got to itching underneath. I didn't know how I

was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six or

seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching

in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it

more'n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to

try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore- and

then I was pretty soon comfortable again.

Tom he made a sign to me- kind of a little noise with his mouth- and

we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot

off, Tom whispered to me and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun;

but I said no; he might wake and make a disturbance, and then they'd

find out I warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't got candles enough,

and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want

him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to

resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid

five cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat

to get away; but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim

was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited,

and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome.

As soon as Tom was back, we cut along the path, around the garden

fence, and by-and-by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other

side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and

hung it on the limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he

didn't wake. Afterwards Jim said the witches bewitched him and put him

in a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him under

the trees again and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And

next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans; and

after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till

by-and-by he said they rode him over the world, and tired him most

to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. Jim was monstrous

proud about it, and he got so he wouldn't hardly notice the other

niggers. Niggers would come miles to hear Jim tell about it, and he

was more looked up to than any nigger in that country. Strange niggers

would stand with their mouths open and look him all over, same as if

he was a wonder. Niggers is always talking about witches in the dark

by the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and letting on to

know all about such things, Jim would happen in and say, "Hm! What you

know 'bout witches?" and that nigger was corked up and had to take a

back seat. Jim always kept that five-center piece around his neck with

a string and said it was a charm the devil give to him with his own

hands and told him he could cure anybody with it and fetch witches

whenever he wanted to, just by saying something to it; but he never

told what it was he said to it. Niggers would come from all around

there and give Jim anything they had, just for a sight of that

five-center piece; but they wouldn't touch it, because the devil had

had his hands on it. Jim was most ruined, for a servant, because he

got so stuck up on account of having seen the devil and been rode by

witches.

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

away down into the village and could see three or four lights

twinkling, where there was sick folks, may be; and the stars over us

was sparkling ever so fine; and down by the village was the river, a

whole mile broad, and awful still and grand. We went down the hill and

found Jo Harper, and Ben Rogers, and two or three more of the boys,

hid in the old tanyard. So we unhitched a skiff and pulled down the

river two mile and a half, to the big scar on the hillside, and went

ashore.

We went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made everybody swear to keep

the secret, and then showed them a hole in the hill, right in the

thickest part of the bushes. Then we lit the candles and crawled in on

our hands and knees. We went about two hundred yards, and then the

cave opened up. Tom poked about amongst the passages and pretty soon

ducked under a wall where you wouldn't a noticed that there was a

hole. We went along a narrow place and got into a kind of room, all

damp and sweaty and cold, and there we stopped. Tom says:

"Now we'll start this band of robbers and call it Tom Sawyer's Gang.

Everybody that wants to join has got to take an oath, and write his

name in blood."

Everybody was willing. So Tom got out a sheet of paper that he had

wrote the oath on, and read it. It swore every boy to stick to the

band, and never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody done

anything to any boy in the band, whichever boy was ordered to kill

that person and his family must do it, and he mustn't eat and he

mustn't sleep till he had killed them and hacked a cross in their

breasts, which was the sign of the band. And nobody that didn't belong

to the band could use that mark, and if he did he must be sued; and if

he done it again he must be killed. And if anybody that belonged to

the band told the secrets, he must have his throat cut, and then

have his carcass burnt up and the ashes scattered all around, and

his name blotted off the list with blood and never mentioned again

by the gang, but have a curse put on it and be forgot, forever.

Everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and asked Tom if he

got it out of his own head. He said, some of it, but the rest was

out of pirate books, and robber books, and every gang that was

high-toned had it.

Some thought it would be good to kill the families of boys that told

the secrets. Tom said it was a good idea, so he took a pencil and

wrote it in. Then Ben Rogers says:

"Here's Huck Finn, he hain't got no family- what you going to do

'bout him?"

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

"Yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find him, these days.

He used to lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard, but he hain't

been seen in these parts for a year or more."

They talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because they

said every boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or else it

wouldn't be fair and square for the others. Well, nobody could think

of anything to do- everybody was stumped, and set still. I was most

ready to cry; but all at once I thought of a way, and so I offered

them Miss Watson- they could kill her. Everybody said:

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

Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign

with, and I made my mark on the paper.

"Now," says Ben Rogers, "what's the line of business of this Gang?"

"Nothing only robbery and murder," Tom said.

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

"Stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't robbery, it's

burglary," says Tom Sawyer. "We ain't burglars. That ain't no sort

of style. We are highwaymen. We stop stages and carriages on the road,

with masks on, and kill the people and take their watches and money."

"Must we always kill the people?"

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

mostly it's considered best to kill them. Except some that you bring

to the cave here and keep them till they're ransomed."

"Ransomed? What's that?"

"I don't know. But that's what they do. I've seen it in books; and

so of course that's what we've got to do."

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

"Why blame it all, we've to do it. Don't I tell you it's in the

books? Do you want to go to doing different from what's in the

books, and get things all muddled up?"

"Oh, that's all very fine to say, Tom Sawyer, but how in the

nation are these fellows going to be ransomed if we don't know how

to do it to them? that's the thing I want to get at. Now what do you

reckon it is?"

"Well I don't know. But per'aps if we keep them till they're

ransomed, it means that we keep them till they're dead."

"Now, that's something like. That'll answer. Why couldn't you said

that before? We'll keep them till they're ransomed to death- and a

bothersome lot they'll be, too, eating up everything and always trying

to get loose."

"How you talk, Ben Rogers. How can they get loose when there's a

guard over them, ready to shoot them down if they move a peg?"

"A guard. Well, that is good. So somebody's got to set up all

night and never get any sleep, just so as to watch them. I think

that's foolishness. Why can't a body take a club and ransom them as

soon as they get here?"

"Because it ain't in the books- that's why. Now, Ben Rogers, do

you want to do things regular, or don't you?- that's the idea. Don't

you reckon that the people that made the books knows what's the

correct thing to do? Do you reckon you can learn 'em anything? Not

by a good deal. No, sir, we'll just go on and ransom them in the

regular way."

"All right. I don't mind; but I say it's a fool way, anyhow. Say- do

we kill the women, too?"

"Well, Ben Rogers, if I was as ignorant as you I wouldn't let on.

Kill the women? No- nobody ever saw anything in the books like that.

You fetch them to the cave, and you're always as polite as pie to

them; and by-and-by they fall in love with you and never want to go

home any more."

"Well, if that's the way, I'm agreed, but I don't take no stock in

it. Mighty soon we'll have the cave so cluttered up with women, and

fellows waiting to be ransomed, that they won't be no place for the

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

Little Tommy Barnes was asleep, now, and when they waked him up he

was scared, and cried, and said he wanted to go home to his ma, and

didn't want to be a robber any more.

So they all made fun of him, and called him cry-baby, and that

made him mad, and he said he would go straight and tell all the

secrets. But Tom give him five cents to keep quiet, and said we

would all go home and meet next week and rob somebody and kill some

people.

Ben Rogers said he couldn't get out much, only Sundays, and so he

wanted to begin next Sunday; but all the boys said it would be

wicked to do it on Sunday, and that settled the thing. They agreed

to get together and fix a day as soon as they could, and then we

elected Tom Sawyer first captain and Jo Harper second captain of the

Gang, and so started home.

I clumb up the shed and crept into my window just before day was

breaking. My new clothes was all greased up and clayey, and I was

dog-tired.

CHAPTER THREE

Well, I got a good going-over in the morning, from old Miss

Watson, on account of my clothes; but the widow she didn't scold,

but only cleaned off the grease and clay and looked so sorry that I

thought I would behave a while if I could. Then Miss Watson she took

me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. She told me to

pray every day, and whatever I asked for I would get it. But it warn't

so. I tried it. Once I got a fish-line, but no hooks. It warn't any

good to me without hooks. I tried for the hooks three or four times,

but somehow I couldn't make it work. By-and-by, one day, I asked

Miss Watson to try for me, but she said I was a fool. She never told

me why, and I couldn't make it out no way.

I set down, one time, back in the woods, and had a long think

about it. I says to myself, if a body can get anything they pray

for, why don't Deacon Winn get back the money he lost on pork? Why

can't the widow get back her silver snuff-box that was stole? Why

can't Miss Watson fat up? No, says I to myself, there ain't nothing in

it. I went and told the widow about it, and she said the thing a

body could get by praying for it was "spiritual gifts." This was too

many for me, but she told me what she meant- I must help other people,

and do everything I could for other people, and look out for them

all the time, and never think about myself. This was including Miss

Watson, as I took it. I went out in the woods and turned it over in my

mind a long time, but I couldn't see no advantage about it- except for

the other people- so at last I reckoned I wouldn't worry about it

any more, but just let it go. Sometimes the widow would take me one

side and talk about Providence in a way to make a body's mouth

water; but maybe next day Miss Watson would take hold and knock it all

down again. I judged I could see that there was two Providences, and a

poor chap would stand considerable show with the widow's Providence,

but if Miss Watson's got him there warn't no help for him any more.

I thought it all out, and reckoned I would belong to the widow's, if

he wanted me, though I couldn't make out how he was agoing to be any

better off then than what he was before, seeing I was so ignorant

and so kind of low-down and ornery.

Pap he hadn't been seen for more than a year, and that was

comfortable for me; I didn't want to see him no more. He used to

always whale me when he was sober and could get his hands on me;

though I used to take to the woods most of the time when he was

around. Well, about this time he was found in the river drowned, about

twelve miles above town, so people said. They judged it was him,

anyway; said this drowned man was just his size, and was ragged, and

had uncommon long hair- which was all like pap- but they couldn't make

nothing out of the face, because it had been in the water so long it

warn't much like a face at all. They said he was floating on his

back in the water. They took him and buried him on the bank. But I

warn't comfortable long, because I happened to think of something. I

knowed mighty well that a drownded man don't float on his back, but on

his face. So I knowed, then, that this warn't pap, but a woman dressed

up in a man's clothes. So I was uncomfortable again. I judged the

old man would turn up again by-and-by, though I wished he wouldn't.

We played robber now and then about a month, and then I resigned.

All the boys did. We hadn't robbed nobody, we hadn't killed any

people, but only just pretended. We used to hop out of the woods and

go charging down on hog-drovers and women in carts taking garden stuff

to market, but we never hived any of them. Tom Sawyer called the

hogs "ingots," and he called the turnips and stuff "julery" and we

would go to the cave and pow-wow over what we had done and how many

people we had killed and marked. But I couldn't see no profit in it.

One time Tom sent a boy to run about town with a blazing stick,

which he called a slogan (which was the sign for the Gang to get

together), and then he said he had got secret news by his spies that

next day a whole parcel of Spanish merchants and rich Arabs was

going to camp in Cave Hollow with two hundred elephants, and six

hundred camels, and over a thousand "sumter" mules, all loaded down

with di'monds, and they didn't have only a guard of four hundred

soldiers, and so we would lay in ambuscade, as he called it, and

kill the lot and scoop the things. He said we must slick up our swords

and guns, and get ready. He never could go after even a turnip-cart

but he must have the swords and guns all scoured up for it; though

they was only lath and broom-sticks, and you might scour at them

till you rotted and then they warn't worth a mouthful of ashes more

than what they was before. I didn't believe we could lick such a crowd

of Spaniards and A-rabs, but I wanted to see the camels and elephants,

so I was on hand next day, Saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got

the word, we rushed out of the woods and down the hill. But there

warn't no Spaniards and Arabs, and there warn't no camels nor no

elephants. It warn't anything but a Sunday-school picnic, and only a

primer-class at that. We busted it up, and chased the children up

the hollow; but we never got anything but some doughnuts and jam,

though Ben Rogers got a rag doll, and Jo Harper got a hymn-book and

a tract; and then the teacher charged in and made us drop everything

and cut. I didn't see no di'monds, and I told Tom Sawyer so. He said

there was loads of them there, anyway; and he said there was Arabs

there, too, and elephants and things. I said, why couldn't we see

them, then? He said if I warn't so ignorant, but had read a book

called "Don Quixote," I would know without asking. He said it was

all done by enchantment. He said there was hundreds of soldiers there,

and elephants and treasure, and so on, but we had enemies which he

called magicians, and they had turned the whole thing into an infant

Sunday school, just out of spite. I said, allright, then the thing for

us to do was to go for the magicians. Tom Sawyer said I was a

numskull.

"Why," says he, "a magician could call up a lot of genies, and

they would hash you up like nothing before you could say Jack

Robinson. They are as tall as a tree and as big around as a church."

"Well," I says, "s'pose we got some genies to help us- can't we lick

the other crowd then?"

"How you going to get them?"

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

"Why they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the genies

come tearing in, with the thunder and lightning a-ripping around and

the smoke a-rolling, and everything they're told to do they up and

do it. They don't think nothing of pulling a shot tower up by the

roots, and belting a Sunday-school superintendent over the head with

it- or any other man."

"Who makes them tear around so?"

"Why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. They belong to whoever rubs

the lamp or the ring, and they've got to do whatever he says. If he

tells them to build a palace forty miles long, out of di'monds, and

fill it full of chewing gum, or whatever you want, and fetch an

emperor's daughter from China for you to marry, they've got to do

it- and they've got to do it before sun-up next morning, too. And

more-they've got to waltz that palace around over the country wherever

you want it, you understand."

"Well," says I, "I think they are a pack of flatheads for not

keeping the palace themselves 'stead of fooling them away like that.

And what's more- if I was one of them I would see a man in Jericho

before I would drop my business and come to him for the rubbing of

an old tin lamp."

"How you talk, Huck Finn. Why, you'd have to come when he rubbed it,

whether you wanted to or not."

"What, and I as high as a tree and as big as a church? All right,

then; I would come; but I lay I'd make that man climb the highest tree

there was in the country."

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

to know anything, somehow- perfect sap-head."

I thought all this over for two or three days, and then I reckoned I

would see if there was anything in it. I got an old tin lamp and an

iron ring and went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till I sweat

like an Injun, calculating to build a palace and sell it; but it

warn't no use, none of the genies come. So then I judged that all that

stuff was only just one of Tom Sawyer's lies. I reckoned he believed

in the A-rabs and the elephants, but as for me I think different. It

had all the marks of a Sunday school.

CHAPTER FOUR

Well, three or four months run along, and it was well into the

winter, now. I had been to school most all the time, and could

spell, and read, and write just a little, and could say the

multiplication table up to six times seven is thirty-five, and I don't

reckon I could ever get any further than that if I was to live

forever. I don't take no stock in mathematics, anyway.

At first I hated the school, but by-and-by I got so I could stand

it. Whenever I got uncommon tired I played hookey, and the hiding I

got next day done me good and cheered me up. So the longer I went to

school the easier it got to be. I was getting sort of used to the

widow's ways, too, and they warn't so raspy on me. Living in a

house, and sleeping in a bed, pulled on me pretty tight, mostly, but

before the cold weather I used to slide out and sleep in the woods,

sometimes, and so that was a rest to me. I liked the old ways best,

but I was getting so I liked the new ones, too, a little bit. The

widow said I was coming along slow but sure, and doing very

satisfactory. She said she warn't ashamed of me.

One morning I happened to turn over the salt-cellar at breakfast.

I reached for some of it as quick as I could, to throw over my left

shoulder and keep off the bad luck, but Miss Watson was in ahead of

me, and crossed me off. She says, "Take your hands away,

Huckleberry- what a mess you are always making." The widow put in a

good word for me, but that warn't going to keep off the bad luck, I

knowed that well enough. I started out, after breakfast, feeling

worried and shaky, and wondering where it was going to fall on me, and

what it was going to be. There is ways to keep off some kinds of bad

luck, but this wasn't one of them kind; so I never tried to do

anything, but just poked along low-spirited and on the watch-out.

I went down the front garden and clumb over the stile, where you

go through the high board fence. There was an inch of new snow on

the ground, and I seen somebody's tracks. They had come up from the

quarry and stood around the stile a while, and then went on around the

garden fence. It was funny they hadn't come in, after standing

around so. I couldn't make it out. It was very curious, somehow. I was

going to follow around, but I stooped down to look at the tracks

first. I didn't notice anything at first, but next I did. There was

a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the

devil.

I was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I looked over my

shoulder every now and then, but I didn't see nobody. I was at Judge

Thatcher's as quick as I could get there. He said:

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

interest?"

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

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

fifty dollars. Quite a fortune for you. You better let me invest it

along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it."

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

nor the six thousand, nuther. I want you to take it; I want to give it

to you- the six thousand and all."

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

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

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

You'll take it- won't you?" He says:

"Well I'm puzzled. I's something the matter?"

"Please take it," says I, "and don't ask me nothing- then I won't

have to tell no lies."

He studied a while, and then he says:

"Oho-o. I think I see. You want to sell all your property to me- not

give it. That's the correct idea."

Then he wrote something on a paper and read it over, and says:

"There- you see it says 'for a consideration.' That means I have

bought it of you and paid you for it. Here's a dollar for you. Now,

you sign it."

So I signed it, and left. Miss Watson's nigger, Jim, had a hair-ball

as big as your fist, which had been took out of the fourth stomach

of an ox, and he used to do magic with it. He said there was a

spirit inside of it, and it knowed everything. So I went to him that

night and told him pap was here again, for I found his tracks in the

snow. What I wanted to know, was, what he was going to do, and was

he going to stay? Jim got out his hair-ball, and said something over

it, and then he held it up and dropped it on the floor. It fell pretty

solid, and only rolled about an inch. Jim tried it again, and then

another time, and it acted just the same. Jim got down on his knees

and put his ear against it and listened. But it warn't no use; he said

it wouldn't talk. He said sometimes it wouldn't talk without money.

I told him I had an old slick counterfeit quarter that warn't no

good because the brass showed through the silver a little, and it

wouldn't pass nohow, even if the brass didn't show, because it was

so slick it felt greasy, and so that would tell on it every time. (I

reckoned I wouldn't say nothing about the dollar I got from the

judge.) I said it was pretty bad money, but maybe the hair-ball

would take it, because maybe it wouldn't know the difference. Jim

smelt it, and bit it, and rubbed it, and said he would manage so the

hair-ball would think it was good. He said he would split open a raw

Irish potato and stick the quarter in between and keep it there all

night, and next morning you couldn't see no brass, and it wouldn't

feel greasy no more, and so anybody in town would take it in a minute,

let alone a hair-ball. Well, I knowed a potato would do that, but I

had forgot it.

Jim put the quarter under the hair-ball and got down and listened

again. This time he said the hair-ball was all right. He said it would

tell my whole fortune if I wanted it to. I says, go on. So the

hair-ball talked to Jim, and Jim told it to me. He says:

"Yo'ole father doan' know, yit, what he's a-gwyne to do. Sometimes

he spec he'll go 'way, en den agin he spec he'll stay. De bes' way

is to res' easy en let de ole man take his own way. Dey's two angels

hoverin' roun' 'bout him. One uv 'em is white en shiny, en 'tother one

is black. De white one gits him to go right, a little while, den de

black one sail in en bust it all up. A body can't tell, yit, which one

gwyne to fetch him at de las'. But you is all right. You gwyne to have

considable trouble in yo' life, en considable joy. Sometimes you gwyne

to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time

you's gwyne to git well agin. Dey's two gals flyin' 'bout you in yo'

life. One uv 'em's light en 'tother one is dark. One is rich en

'tother is po'. You's gwyne to marry de po' one fust en de rich one

by-en-by. You wants to keep 'way fum de water as much as you kin, en

don't run no resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne to

git hung."

When I lit my candle and went up to my room that night, there set

pap, his own self!

CHAPTER FIVE

I had shut the door to. Then I turned around, and there he was. I

used to be scared of him all the time, he tanned me so much. I

reckoned I was scared now, too; but in a minute I see I was

mistaken. That is, after the first jolt, as you may say, when my

breath sort of hitched- he being so unexpected; but right away

after, I see I warn't scared of him worth bothering about.

He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was long and tangled

and greasy, and hung down, and you could see his eyes shining

through like he was behind vines. It was all black, no gray; so was

his long, mixed-up whiskers. There warn't no color in his face,

where his face showed; it was white; not like another man's white, but

a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl- a

tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. As for his clothes- just rags,

that was all. He had one ankle resting on 'tother knee; the boot on

that foot was busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked

them now and then. His hat was laying on the floor; an old black

slouch with the top caved in, like a lid.

I stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with his

chair tilted back a little. I set the candle down. I noticed the

window was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. He kept a-looking me

all over. By-and-by he says:

"Starchy clothes- very. You think you're a good deal of a big-bug,

don't you?"

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

"Don't you give me none o' your lip," says he. "You've put on

considerble many frills since I been away. I'll take you down a peg

before I get done with you. You're educated, too, they say; can read

and write. You think you're better'n your father, now, don't you,

because he can't? I'll take it out of you. Who told you you might

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

"The widow. She told me."

"The widow, hey?- and who told the widow she could put in her shovel

about a thing that ain't none of her business?"

"Nobody never told her."

"Well, I'll learn her how to meddle. And looky here- you drop that

school, you hear? I'll learn people to bring up a boy to put on airs

over his own father and let on to be better'n what he is. You lemme

catch you fooling around that school again, you hear? Your mother

couldn't read, and she couldn't write, nuther, before she died. None

of the family couldn't, before they died. I can't; and here you're

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

hear? Say- lemme hear you read."

I took up a book and begun something about General Washington and

the wars. When I'd read about a half a minute, he fetched the book a

whack with his hand and knocked it across the house. He says:

"It's so. You can do it. I had my doubts when you told me. Now looky

here; you stop that putting on frills. I won't have it. I'll lay for

you, my smarty; and if I catch you about that school I'll tan you

good. First you know you'll get religion, too. I never see such a

son."

He took up a little blue and yaller picture of some cows and a

boy, and says:

"What's this?"

"It's something they give me for learning my lessons good."

He tore it up, and says-

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

He set there a-mumbling and a-growling a minute, and then he says-

"Ain't you a sweet-scented dandy, though? A bed; and bedclothes; and

a look'n-glass; and a piece of carpet on the floor- and your own

father got to sleep with the hogs in the tanyard. I never see such a

son. I bet I'll take some o' these frills out o' you before I'm done

with you. Why there ain't no end to your airs- they say you're rich.

Hey?- how's that?"

"They lie- that's how."

"Looky here- mind how you talk to me; I'm a-standing about all I can

stand, now- so don't gimme no sass. I've been in town two days, and

I hain't heard nothing but about you bein' rich. I heard about it away

down the river, too. That's why I come. You git me that money

to-morrow- I want it."

"I hain't got no money."

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

"I hain't got no money, I tell you. You ask Judge Thatcher; he'll

tell you the same."

"All right. I'll ask him; and I'll make him pungle, too, or I'll

know the reason why. Say- how much you got in your pocket? I want it."

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

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

out."

He took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then he said he was

going down town to get some whisky; said he hadn't had a drink all

day. When he had got out on the shed, he put his head in again, and

cussed me for putting on frills and trying to be better than him;

and when I reckoned he was gone, he come back and put his head in

again, and told me to mind about that school, because he was going

to lay for me and lick me if I didn't drop that.

Next day he was drunk, and he went to Judge Thatcher's and

bullyragged him and tried to make him give up the money, but he

couldn't, and then he swore he'd make the law force him.

The judge and the widow went to law to get the court to take me away

from him and let one of them be my guardian; but it was a new judge

that had just come, and he didn't know the old man; so he said

courts mustn't interfere and separate families if they could help

it; said he'd druther not take a child away from its father. So

Judge Thatcher and the widow had to quit on the business.

That pleased the old man till he couldn't rest. He said he'd cowhide

me till I was black and blue if I didn't raise some money for him. I

borrowed three dollars from Judge Thatcher, and pap took it and got

drunk and went a-blowing around and cussing and whooping and

carrying on; and he kept it up all over town, with a tin pan, till

most midnight; then they jailed him, and next day they had him

before court, and jailed him again for a week. But he said he was

satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make it warm for him.

When he got out the new judge said he was agoing to make a man of

him. So he took him to his own house, and dressed him up clean and

nice, and had him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the

family, and was just old pie to him, so to speak. And after supper

he talked to him about temperance and such things till the old man

cried, and said he'd been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he

was agoing to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn't be

ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not look down on

him. The judge said he could hug him for them words; so he cried,

and his wife she cried again; pap said he'd been a man that had always

been misunderstood before, and the judge said he believed it. The

old man said that what a man wanted that was down, was sympathy; and

the judge said it was so; so they cried again. And when it was

bedtime, the old man rose up and held out his hand, and says:

"Look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take ahold of it; shake it.

There's a hand that was the hand of a hog; but it ain't so no more;

it's the hand of a man that's started in on a new life, and 'll die

before he'll go back. You mark them words- don't forget I said them.

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

So they shook it, one after the other, all around, and cried. The

judge's wife she kissed it. Then the old man he signed a pledge-

made his mark. The judge said it was the holiest time on record, or

something like that. Then they tucked the old man into a beautiful

room, which was the spare room, and in the night sometime he got

powerful thirsty and clumb out onto the porch-roof and slid down a

stanchion and traded his new coat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb

back again and had a good old time; and towards daylight he crawled

out again, drunk as a fiddler, and rolled off the porch and broke

his left arm in two places and was most froze to death when somebody

found him after sun-up. And when they come to look at that spare room,

they had to take soundings before they could navigate it.

The judge he felt kind of sore. He said he reckoned a body could

reform the ole man with a shot-gun, maybe, but he didn't know no other

way.

CHAPTER SIX

Well, pretty soon the old man was up and around again, and then he

went for Judge Thatcher in the courts to make him give up that

money, and he went for me, too, for not stopping school. He catched me

a couple of times and thrashed me, but I went to school just the same,

and dodged him or outrun him most of the time. I didn't want to go

to school much, before, but I reckoned I'd go now to spite pap. That

law trial was a slow business; appeared like they warn't ever going to

get started on it; so every now and then I'd borrow two or three

dollars off of the judge for him, to keep from getting a cowhiding.

Every time he got money he got drunk; and every time he got drunk he

raised Cain around town; and every time he raised Cain he got

jailed. He was just suited- this kind of thing was right in his line.

He got to hanging around the widow's too much, and so she told him

at last, that if he didn't quit using around there she would make

trouble for him. Well, wasn't he mad? He said he would show who was

Huck Finn's boss. So he watched out for me one day in the spring,

and catched me, and took me up the river about three miles, in a

skiff, and crossed over to the Illinois shore where it was woody and

there warn't no houses but an old log hut in a place where the

timber was so thick you couldn't find it if you didn't know where it

was.

He kept me with him all the time, and I never got a chance to run

off. We lived in that old cabin, and he always locked the door and put

the key under his head, nights. He had a gun which he had stole, I

reckon, and we fished and hunted, and that was what we lived on. Every

little while he locked me in and went down to the store, three

miles, to the ferry, and traded fish and game for whisky and fetched

it home and got drunk and had a good time, and licked me. The widow

she found out where I was, by-and-by, and she sent a man over to try

to get hold of me, but pap drove him off with the gun, and it warn't

long after that till I was used to being where I was, and liked it,

all but the cowhide part.

It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day,

smoking and fishing, and no books nor study. Two months or more run

along, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn't see

how I'd ever got to like it so well at the widow's, where you had to

wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up

regular, and be forever bothering over a book and have old Miss Watson

pecking at you all the time. I didn't want to go back no more. I had

stopped cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but now I took to

it again because pap hadn't no objections. It was pretty good times up

in the woods there take it all around.

But by-and-by pap got too handy with his hick'ry, and I couldn't

stand it. I was all over welts. He got to going away so much, too, and

locking me in. Once he locked me in and was gone three days. It was

dreadful lonesome. I judged he had got drowned and I wasn't ever going

to get out any more. I was scared. I made up my mind I would fix up

some way to leave there. I had tried to get out of that cabin many a

time, but I couldn't find no way. There warn't a window to it big

enought for a dog to get through. I couldn't get up the chimbly, it

was too narrow. The door was thick solid oak slabs. Pap was pretty

careful not to leave a knife or anything in the cabin when he was

away; I reckon I had hunted the place over as much as a hundred times;

well, I was most all the time at it, because it was about the only way

to put in the time. But this time I found something at last; I found

an old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid in between a

rafter and the clapboards of the roof. I greased it up and went to

work. There was an old horse-blanket nailed against the logs at the

far end of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind from blowing

through the chinks and putting the candle out. I got under the table

and raised the blanket and went to work to saw a section of the big

bottom log out, big enough to let me through. Well, it was a good long

job, but I was getting towards the end of it when I heard pap's gun in

the woods. I got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the

blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap came in.

Pap warn't in a good humor- so he was his natural self. He said he

was down to town, and everything was going wrong. His lawyer said he

reckoned he would win his lawsuit and get the money, if they ever

got started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it off a long

time, and Judge Thatcher knowed how to do it. And he said people

allowed there'd be another trial to get me away from him and give me

to the widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win, this

time. This shook me up considerable, because I didn't want to go

back to the widow's any more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as

they called it. Then the old man got to cussing, and cussed everything

and everybody he could think of, and then cussed them all over again

to make sure he hadn't skipped any, and after that he polished off

with a kind of a general cuss all round, including a considerable

parcel of people which he didn't know the names of, and so called them

what's-his-name, when he got to them, and went right along with his

cussing.

He said he would like to see the widow get me. He said he would

watch out, and if they tried to come any such game on him he knowed of

a place six or seven mile off, to stow me in, where they might hunt

till they dropped and they couldn't find me. That made me pretty

uneasy again, but only for a minute; I reckoned I wouldn't stay on

hand till he got that chance.

The old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the things he had got.

There was a fifty-pound sack of corn meal, and a side of bacon,

ammunition, and a four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and two

newspapers for wadding, besides some tow. I toted up a load, and

went back and set down on the bow of the skiff to rest. I thought it

all over, and I reckoned I would walk off with the gun and some lines,

and take to the woods when I run away. I guessed I wouldn't stay in

one place, but just tramp right across the country, mostly night

times, and hunt and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away that

the old man nor the widow couldn't ever find me any more. I judged I

would saw out and leave that night if pap got drunk enough, and I

reckoned he would. I got so full of it I didn't notice how long I

was staying, till the old man hollered and asked me whether I was

asleep or drownded.

I got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark.

While I was cooking supper the old man took a swig or two and got sort

of warmed up, and went to ripping again. He had been drunk over in

town, and laid in the gutter all night, and he was a sight to look at.

A body would a thought he was Adam, he was just all mud. Whenever

his liquor begun to work, he most always went for the govment. This

time he says:

"Call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it's like.

Here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's son away from him- a

man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety

and all the expense of raising. Yes, just as that man has got that son

raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin' for

him and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And they call

that govment! That ain't all, nuther. The law backs that old Judge

Thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my property. Here's what

the law does. The law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and

upards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets

him go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. They call that

govment! A man can't get his rights in a govment like this.

Sometimes I've a mighty notion to just leave the country for good

and all. Yes, and I told 'em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face.

Lots of 'em heard me, and can tell what I said. Says I, for two

cents I'd leave the blamed country and never come anear it agin.

Them's the very words. I says, look at my hat- if you call it a hat-

but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it's below

my chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at all, but more like my head

was shoved up through a jint o' stove-pipe. Look at it, says I- such a

hat for me to wear- one of the wealthiest men in this town, if I could

git my rights.

"Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. Why, looky here.

There was a free nigger there, from Ohio; a mulatter, most as white as

a white man. He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the

shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's got as fine

clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a

silver-headed cane- the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the State.

And what do you think? they said he was a p'fessor in a college, and

could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. And that

ain't the wust. They said he could vote, when he was at home. Well,

that let me out. Thinks I, what is the country a-coming to? It was

'lection day, and I was just about to go and vote, myself, if I warn't

too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a State in

this country where they'd let that nigger vote, I drawed out. I says

I'll never vote agin. Them's the very words I said; they all heard me;

and the country may rot for all me- I'll never vote agin as long as

I live. And to see the cool way of that nigger- why, he wouldn't a

give me the road if I hadn't shoved him out o' the way. I says to

the people, why ain't this nigger put up at auction and sold- that's

what I want to know. And what do you reckon they said? Why, they

said he couldn't be sold till he'd been in the State six months, and

he hadn't been there that long yet. There, now- that's a specimen.

They call that a govment that can't sell a free nigger till he's

been in the State six months. Here's a govment that calls itself a

govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment,

and yet's got to set stock-still for six whole months before it can

take ahold of a prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted nigger,

and-"

Pap was agoing on so, he never noticed where his old limber legs was

taking him to, so he went head over heels over the tub of salt pork,

and barked both shins, and the rest of his speech was all the

hottest kind of language- mostly hove at the nigger and the govment,

though he give the tub some, too, all along, here and there. He hopped

around the cabin considerable, first on one leg and then on the other,

holding first one shin and then the other one, and at last he let

out with his left foot all of a sudden and fetched the tub a

rattling kick. But it warn't good judgment, because that was the

boot that had a couple of his toes leaking out of the front end of it;

so now he raised a howl that fairly made a body's hair raise, and down

he went in the dirt, and rolled there, and held his toes; and the

cussing he done then laid over anything he had ever done previous.

He said so his own self, afterwards. He had heard old Sowberry Hagan

in his best days, and he said it laid over him, too; but I reckon that

was sort of piling it on, maybe.

After supper pap took the jug, and said he had enough whisky there

for two drunks and one delirium tremens. That was always his word. I

judged he would be blind drunk in about an hour, and then I would

steal the key, or saw myself out, one or 'tother. He drank, and drank,

and tumbled down on his blankets, by-and-by; but luck didn't run my

way. He didn't go sound asleep, but was uneasy. He groaned, and

moaned, and thrashed around this way and that, for a long time. At

last I got so sleepy I couldn't keep my eyes open, all I could do, and

so before I knowed what I was about I was sound asleep, and the candle

burning.

I don't know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an

awful scream and I was up. There was pap, looking wild and skipping

around every which way and yelling about snakes. He said they was

crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and

say one had bit him on the cheek- but I couldn't see no snakes. He

started and run round and round the cabin, hollering "take him off!

take him off! he's biting me on the neck!" I never see a man look so

wild in the eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down

panting; then he rolled over and over, wonderful fast, kicking

things every which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with

his hands, and screaming, and saying there was devils ahold of him. He

wore out, by-and-by, and laid still a while, moaning. Then he laid

stiller, and didn't make a sound. I could hear the owls and the

wolves, away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. He was

laying over by the corner. By-and-by he raised up, part way, and

listened, with his head to one side. He says very low:

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

they're coming after me; but I won't go- Oh, they're here! don't touch

me- don't! hands off- they're cold; let go- Oh, let a poor devil

alone!"

Then he went down on all fours and crawled off begging them to let

him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed in

under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying.

I could hear him through the blanket.

By-and-by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild,

and he see me and went for me. He chased me round and round the place,

with a clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death and saying he

would kill me and then I couldn't come for him no more. I begged,

and told him I was only Huck, but he laughed such a screechy laugh,

and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up. Once when I turned

short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket

between my shoulders, and I thought I was gone; but I slid out of

the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself. Pretty soon he was

all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and

said he would rest a minute and then kill me. He put his knife under

him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who

was who.

So he dozed off, pretty soon. By-and-by I got the old splitbottom

chair and clumb up, as easy as I could, not to make any noise, and got

down the gun. I slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded,

and then I laid it across the turnip barrel, pointing towards pap, and

set down behind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow and still the

time did drag along.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Git up! what you 'bout!"

I opened my eyes and looked around, trying to make out where I

was. It was after sun-up, and I had been sound asleep. Pap was

standing over me, looking sour- and sick, too. He says-

"What you doin' with this gun?"

I judged he didn't know nothing about what he had been doing, so I

says:

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

"Why didn't you roust me out?"

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

"Well, all right. Don't stand there palavering all day, but out with

you and see if there's a fish on the lines for breakfast. I'll be

along in a minute."

He unlocked the door and I cleared out, up the river bank. I noticed

some pieces of limbs and such things floating down, and a sprinkling

of bark; so I knowed the river had begun to rise. I reckoned I would

have great times now, if I was over at the town. The June rise used to

be always luck for me; because as soon as that rise begins, here comes

cord-wood floating down, and pieces of log rafts- sometimes a dozen

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

the wood yards and the sawmill.

I went along up the bank with one eye out for pap and 'tother one

out for what the rise might fetch along. Well, all at once, here comes

a canoe; just a beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long,

riding high like a duck. I shot head first off of the bank, like a

frog, clothes and all on, and struck out for the canoe. I just

expected there'd be somebody laying down in it, because people often

done that to fool folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff out most

to it they'd raise up and laugh at him. But it warn't so this time. It

was a drift-canoe, sure enough, and I clumb in and paddled her ashore.

Thinks I, the old man will be glad when he sees this- she's worth

ten dollars. But when I got to shore pap wasn't in sight yet, and as I

was running her into a little creek like a gully, all hung over with

vines and willows, I struck another idea; I judged I'd hide her

good, and then, stead of taking to the woods when I run off, I'd go

down the river about fifty mile and camp in one place for good, and

not have such a rough time tramping on foot.

It was pretty close to the shanty, and I thought I heard the old man

coming, all the time; but I got her hid; and then I out and looked

around a bunch of willows, and there was the old man down the path a

piece just drawing a bead on a bird with his gun. So he hadn't seen

anything.

When he got along, I was hard at it taking up a "trot" line. He

abused me a little for being so slow, but I told him I fell in the

river and that was what made me so long. I knowed he would see I was

wet, and then he would be asking questions. We got five cat-fish off

of the lines and went home.

While we laid off, after breakfast, to sleep up, both of us being

about wore out, I got to thinking that if I could fix up some way to

keep pap and the widow from trying to follow me, it would be a

certainer thing than trusting to luck to get far enough off before

they missed me; you see, all kinds of things might happen. Well, I

didn't see no way for a while, but by-and-by pap raised up a minute,

to drink another barrel of water, and he says:

"Another time a man comes a-prowling round here, you roust me out,

you hear? That man warn't here for no good. I'd a shot him. Next time,

you roust me out, you hear?"

Then he dropped down and went to sleep again- but what he had been

saying give me the very idea I wanted. I says to myself, I can fix

it now so nobody won't think of following me.

About twelve o'clock we turned out and went along up the bank. The

river was coming up pretty fast, and lots of driftwood going by on the

rise. By-and-by, along comes part of a log raft- nine logs fast

together. We went out with the skiff and towed it ashore. Then we

had dinner. Anybody but pap would a waited and seen the day through,

so as to catch more stuff; but that warn't pap's style. Nine logs

was enough for one time; he must shove right over to town and sell. So

he locked me in and took the skiff and started off towing the raft

about half-past three. I judged he wouldn't come back that night. I

waited till I reckoned he had got a good start, then I out with my saw

and went to work on that log again. Before he was side of the river

I was out of the hole; him and his raft was just a speck on the

water away off yonder.

I took the sack of corn meal and took it to where the canoe was hid,

and shoved the vines and branches apart and put it in; then I done the

same with the side of bacon; then the whisky jug; I took all the

coffee and sugar there was, and all the ammunition; I took the

wadding; I took the bucket and gourd, I took a dipper and a tin cup,

and my old saw and two blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot. I

took fish-lines and matches and other things- everything that was

worth a cent. I cleaned out the place. I wanted an axe, but there

wasn't any, only the one out at the wood pile, and I knowed why I

was going to leave that. I fetched out the gun, and now I was done.

I had wore the ground a good deal, crawling out of the hole and

dragging out so many things. So I fixed that as good as I could from

the outside by scattering dust on the place, which covered up the

smoothness and the sawdust. Then I fixed the piece of log back in

its place, and put two rocks under it and one against it to hold it

there,- for it was bent up at that place, and didn't quite touch

ground. If you stood four or five foot away and didn't know it was

sawed, you wouldn't ever notice it; and besides, this was the back

of the cabin and it warn't likely anybody would go fooling around

there.

It was all grass clear to the canoe; so I hadn't left a track. I

followed around to see. I stood on the bank and looked out over the

river. All safe. So I took the gun and went up a piece into the

woods and was hunting around for some birds, when I see a wild pig;

hogs soon went wild in them bottoms after they had got away from the

prairie farms. I shot this fellow and took him into camp.

I took the axe and smashed in the door- I beat it and hacked it

considerable, a-doing it. I fetched the pig in and took him back

nearly to the table and hacked into his throat with the axe, and

laid him down on the ground to bleed- I say ground, because it was

ground- hard packed, and no boards. Well, next I took an old sack

and put a lot of big rocks in it,- all I could drag- and I started

it from the pig and dragged it to the door and through the woods

down to the river and dumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight.

You could easy see that something had been dragged over the ground.

I did wish Tom Sawyer was there, I knowed he would take an interest in

this kind of business, and throw in the fancy touches. Nobody could

spread himself like Tom Sawyer in such a thing as that.

Well, last I pulled out some of my hair, and bloodied the axe

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

corner. Then I took the pig and held him to my breast with my jacket

(so he couldn't drip) till I got a good piece below the house and then

dumped him into the river. Now I thought of something else. So I

went and got the bag of meal and my old saw out of the canoe and

fetched them to the house. I took the bag to where it used to stand,

and ripped a hole in the bottom of it with the saw, for there warn't

no knives and forks on the place- pap done everything with his

clasp-knife, about the cooking. Then I carried the sack about a

hundred yards across the grass and through the willows east of the

house, to a shallow lake that was five mile wide and full of rushes-

and ducks too, you might say, in the season. There was a slough or a

creek leading out of it on the other side, that went miles away, I

don't know where, but it didn't go to the river. The meal sifted out

and made a little track all the way to the lake. I dropped pap's

whetstone there too, so as to look like it had been done by

accident. Then I tied up the rip in the meal sack with a string, so it

wouldn't leak no more, and took it and my saw to the canoe again.

It was about dark, now; so I dropped the canoe down the river

under some willows that hung over the bank, and waited for the moon to

rise. I made fast to a willow; then I took a bite to eat, and

by-and-by laid down in the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan. I

says to myself, they'll follow the track of that sackful of rocks to

the shore and then drag the river for me. And they'll follow that meal

track to the lake and go browsing down the creek that leads out of

it to find the robbers that killed me and took the things. They

won't ever hunt the river for anything but my dead carcass. They'll

soon get tired of that, and won't bother no more about me. All

right; I can stop anywhere I want to. Jackson's Island is good

enough for me; I know that island pretty well, and nobody ever comes

there. And then I can paddle over to town, nights, and slink around

and pick up things I want. Jackson's Island's the place.

I was pretty tired, and the first thing I knowed, I was asleep. When

I woke up I didn't know where I was, for a minute. I set up and looked

around, a little scared. Then I remembered. The river looked miles and

miles across. The moon was so bright I could a counted the drift

logs that went a slipping along, black and still, hundreds of yards

out from shore. Everything was dead quiet, and it looked late, and

smelt late. You know what I mean- I don't know the words to put it in.

I took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch and

start, when I heard a sound away over the water. Pretty soon I made it

out. It was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes from oars

working in rowlocks when it's a still night. I peeped out through

the willow branches, and there it was- a skiff, away across the water.

I couldn't tell how many was in it. It kept a-coming, and when it

was abreast of me I see there warn't but one man in it. Thinks I,

maybe it's pap, though I warn't expecting him. He dropped below me,

with the current, and by-and-by he come a-swinging up shore in the

easy water, and he went by so close I could a reached out the gun

and touched him. Well, it was pap, sure enough- and sober, too, by the

way he laid to his oars.

I didn't lose no time. The next minute I was a-spinning down

stream soft but quick in the shade of the bank. I made two mile and

a half, and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more towards the

middle of the river, because soon I would be passing the ferry landing

and people might see me and hail me. I got out amongst the

drift-wood and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her

float. I laid there and had a good rest and a smoke out of my pipe,

looking away into the sky, not a cloud in it. The sky looks ever so

deep when you lay down on your back in the moonshine; I never knowed

it before. And how far a body can hear on the water such nights! I

heard people talking at the ferry landing. I heard what they said,

too, every word of it. One man said it was getting towards the long

days and the short nights, now. 'Tother one said this warn't one of

the short ones, he reckoned- and then they laughed, and he said it

over again and they laughed again; then they waked up another fellow

and told him, and laughed, but he didn't laugh; he ripped out

something brisk and said let him alone. The first fellow said he

'lowed to tell it to his old woman- she would think it was pretty

good; but he said that warn't nothing to some things he had said in

his tune. I heard one man say it was nearly three o'clock, and he

hoped daylight wouldn't wait more than about a week longer. After

that, the talk got further and further away, and I couldn't make out

the words any more, but I could hear the mumble; and now and then a

laugh, too, but it seemed a long ways off.

I was away below the ferry now. I rose up and there was Jackson's

Island, about two mile and a half down stream, heavy-timbered and

standing up out of the middle of the river, big and dark and solid,

like a steamboat without any lights. There warn't any signs of the bar

at the head- it was all under water, now.

It didn't take me long to get there. I shot past the head at a

ripping rate, the current was so swift, and then I got into dead water

and landed on the side towards the Illinois shore. I run the canoe

into a deep dent in the bank that I knowed about; I had to part the

willow branches to get in; and when I made fast nobody could a seen

the canoe from the outside.

I went up and set down on a log at the head of the island and looked

out on the big river and the black driftwood, and away over to the

town, three mile away, where there was three or four lights twinkling.

A monstrous big lumber raft was about a mile up stream, coming along

down, with a lantern in the middle of it. I watched it come creeping

down, and when it was most abreast of where I stood I heard a man say,

"Stern oars, there! heave her head to stabboard!" I heard that just as

plain as if the man was by my side.

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

and laid down for a nap before breakfast.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The sun was up so high when I waked, that I judged it was after

eight o'clock. I laid there in the grass and the cool shade,

thinking about things and feeling rested and ruther comfortable and

satisfied. I could see the sun out at one or two holes, but mostly

it was big trees all about, and gloomy in there amongst them. There

was freckled places on the ground where the light sifted down

through the leaves, and the freckled places swapped about a little,

showing there was a little breeze up there. A couple of squirrels

set on a limb and jabbered at me very friendly.

I was powerful lazy and comfortable- didn't want to get up and

cook breakfast. Well, I was dozing off again, when I think I hears a

deep sound of "boom!" away up the river. I rouses up and rests my

elbow and listens; pretty soon I hears it again. I hopped up and

went and looked out a hole in the leaves, and I see a bunch of smoke

laying on the water a long ways up- about abreast the ferry. And there

was the ferryboat full of people, floating along down. I knowed what

was the matter, now. "Boom!" I see the white smoke squirt out of the

ferry-boat's side. You see, they was firing cannon over the water,

trying to make my carcass come to the top.

I was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for me to start a

fire, because they might see the smoke. So I set there and watched the

cannon-smoke and listened to the boom. The river was a mile wide,

there, and it always looks pretty on a summer morning- so I was having

a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders, if I only had a

bite to eat. Well, then I happened to think how they always put

quicksilver in loaves of bread and float them off because they

always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. So says I,

I'll keep a lookout, and if any of them's floating around after me,

I'll give them a show. I changed to the Illinois edge of the island to

see what luck I could have, and I warn't disappointed. A big double

loaf come along, and I most got it, with a long stick, but my foot

slipped and she floated out further. Of course I was where the current

set in the closest to the shore- I knowed enough for that. But

by-and-by along comes another one, and this time I won. I took out the

plug and shook out the little dab of quicksilver, and set my teeth in.

It was "baker's bread"- what the quality eat- none of your low-down

corn-pone.

I got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log,

munching the bread and watching the ferry-boat, and very well

satisfied. And then something struck me. I says, now I reckon the

widow or the parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find

me, and here it has gone and done it. So there ain't no doubt but

there is something in that thing. That is, there's something in it

when a body like the widow or the parson prays, but it don't work

for me, and I reckon it don't work for only just the right kind.

I lit a pipe and had a good long smoke and went on watching. The

ferry-boat was floating with the current, and I allowed I'd have a

chance to see who was aboard when she come along, because she would

come in close, where the bread did. When she'd got pretty well along

down towards me, I put out my pipe and went to where I fished out

the bread, and laid down behind a log on the bank in a little open

place. Where the log forked I could peep through.

By-and-by she come along, and she drifted in so close that they

could a run out a plank and walked ashore. Most everybody was on the

boat. Pap, and Judge Thatcher, and Bessie Thatcher, and Jo Harper, and

Tom Sawyer, and his old Aunt Polly, and Sid and Mary, and plenty more.

Everybody was talking about the murder, but the captain broke in and

says:

"Look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest here, and maybe

he's washed ashore and got tangled amongst the brush at the water's

edge. I hope so, anyway."

I didn't hope so. They all crowded up and leaned over the rails,

nearly in my face, and kept still, watching with all their might. I

could see them first-rate, but they couldn't see me. Then the

captain sung out:

"Stand away!" and the cannon let off such a blast right before me

that it made me deef with the noise and pretty near blind with the

smoke, and I judged I was gone. If they'd a had some bullets in, I

reckon they'd a got the corpse they was after. Well, I see I warn't

hurt, thanks to goodness. The boat floated on and went out of sight

around the shoulder of the island. I could hear the booming, now and

then, further and further off, and by-and-by after an hour, I didn't

hear it no more. The island was three mile long. I judged they had got

to the foot, and was giving it up. But they didn't yet a while. They

turned around the foot of the island and started up the channel on the

Missouri side, under steam, and booming once in a while as they

went. I crossed over to that side and watched them. When they got

abreast of the head of the island they quit shooting and dropped

over to the Missouri shore and went home to the town.

I knowed I was all right now. Nobody else would come a-hunting after

me. I got my traps out of the canoe and made me a nice camp in the

thick woods. I made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put my

things under so the rain couldn't get at them. I catched a cat-fish

and haggled him open with my saw, and towards sundown I started my

camp fire and had supper. Then I set out a line to catch some fish for

breakfast.

When it was dark I set by my camp fire smoking, and feeling pretty

satisfied; but by-and-by it got sort of lonesome, and so I went and

set on the bank and listened to the currents washing along, and

counted the stars and drift-logs and rafts that come down, and then

went to bed; there ain't no better way to put in time when you are

lonesome; you can't stay so, you soon get over it.

And so for three days and nights. No difference- just the same

thing. But the next day I went exploring around down through the

island. I was boss of it; it all belonged to me, so to say, and I

wanted to know all about it; but mainly I wanted to put in the time. I

found plenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and green summer-grapes,

and green razberries; and the green blackberries was just beginning to

show. They would all come handy by-and-by, I judged.

Well, I went fooling along in the deep woods till I judged I

warn't far from the foot of the island. I had my gun along, but I

hadn't shot nothing, it was for protection; thought I would kill

some game nigh home. About this time I mighty near stepped on a good

sized snake, and it went sliding off through the grass and flowers,

and I after it, trying to get a shot at it. I clipped along, and all

of a sudden I bounded right on to the ashes of a camp fire that was

still smoking.

My heart jumped up amongst my lungs. I never waited for to look

further, but uncocked my gun and went sneaking back on my tip-toes

as fast as ever I could. Every now and then I stopped a second,

amongst the thick leaves, and listened; but my breath come so hard I

couldn't hear nothing else. I slunk along another piece further,

then listened again; and so on, and so on; if I see a stump, I took it

for a man; if I trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a

person had cut one of my breaths in two and I only got half, and the

short half, too.

When I got to camp I warn't feeling very brash, there warn't much

sand in my craw; but I says, this ain't no time to be fooling

around. So I got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have them

out of sight, and I put out the fire and scattered the ashes around to

look like an old last year's camp, and then clumb a tree.

I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I didn't see nothing, I

didn't hear nothing- I only thought I heard and seen as much as a

thousand things. Well, I couldn't stay up there forever; so at last

I got down, but I kept in the thick woods and on the lookout all the

time. All I could get to eat was berries and what was left over from

breakfast.

By the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So when it was good

and dark, I slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled over to

the Illinois bank- about a quarter of a mile. I went out in the

woods and cooked a supper, and I had about made up my mind I would

stay there all night, when I hear a plunkety-plunk, plunkety-plunk,

and says to myself, horses coming; and next I hear people's voices.

I got everything into the canoe as quick as I could, and then went

creeping through the woods to see what I could find out. I hadn't

got far when I hear a man say:

"We better camp here, if we can find a good place; the horses is

about beat out. Let's look around."

I didn't wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. I tied up in

the old place, and reckoned I would sleep in the canoe.

I didn't sleep much. I couldn't, somehow, for thinking. And every

time I waked up I thought somebody had me by the neck. So the sleep

didn't do me no good. By-and-by I says to myself, I can't live this

way; I'm agoing to find out who it is that's here on the island with

me; I'll find it out or bust. Well, I felt better, right off.

So I took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two,

and then let the canoe drop along down amongst the shadows. The moon

was shining, and outside of the shadows it made it most as light as

day. I poked along well onto an hour, everything still as rocks and

sound asleep. Well by this time I was most down to the foot of the

island. A little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as

good as saying the night was about done. I give her a turn with the

paddle and brung her nose to shore; then I got my gun and slipped

out and into the edge of the woods. I set down there on a log and

looked out through the leaves. I see the moon go off watch and the

darkness begin to blanket the river. But in a little while I see a

pale streak over the tree-tops, and knowed the day was coming. So I

took my gun and slipped off towards where I had run across that camp

fire, stopping every minute or two to listen. But I hadn't no luck,

somehow; I couldn't seem to find the place. But by-and-by, sure

enough, I catched a glimpse of fire, away through the trees. I went

for it, cautious and slow. By-and-by I was close enough to have a

look, and there laid a man on the ground. It most give me the

fan-tods. He had a blanket around his head, and his head was nearly in

the fire. I set there behind a clump of bushes, in about six foot of

him, and kept my eyes on him steady. It was getting gray daylight,

now. Pretty soon he gapped, and stretched himself, and hove off the

blanket, and it was Miss Watson's Jim! I bet I was glad to see him.

I says:

"Hello, Jim!" and skipped out.

He bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he drops down on his

knees, and puts his hands together and says:

"Doan' hurt me- don't! I hain't ever done no harm to a ghos'. I

awluz liked dead people, en done all I could for 'em. You go en git in

de river agin, whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to Ole Jim, 'at 'uz

awluz yo' fren'."

Well, I warn't long making him understand I warn't dead. I was

ever so glad to see Jim. I warn't lonesome, now. I told him I warn't

afraid of him telling the people where I was. I talked along, but he

only set there and looked at me; never said nothing. Then I says:

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

good."

"What's de use er makin' up de camp fire to cook strawbries en

sich truck? But you got a gun, hain't you? Den we kin git sumfn better

den strawbries."

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

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

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

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

"Yes- indeedy."

"What, all that time?"

"And ain't you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?"

"No, sah- nuffn else."

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

"I reckon I could eat a hoss. I think I could. How long you ben on

de islan'?"

"Since the night I got killed."

"No! W'y, what has you lived on? But you got a gun. Oh, yes, you got

a gun. Dat's good. Now you kill sumfn en I'll make up de fire."

So we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in

a grassy open place amongst the trees, I fetched meal and bacon and

coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the

nigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was all

done with witchcraft. I catched a good big cat-fish, too, and Jim

cleaned him with his knife, and fried him.

When breakfast was ready, we lolled on the grass and eat it

smoking hot. Jim laid it in with all his might, for he was most

about starved. Then when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off

and lazied.

By-and-by Jim says:

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

it warn't you?"

Then I told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. He said

Tom Sawyer couldn't get up no better plan than what I had. Then I

says:

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

He looked pretty uneasy, and didn't say nothing for a minute. Then

he says:

"Maybe I better not tell."

"Why, Jim?"

"Well, dey's reasons. But you wouldn' tell on me ef I 'uz to tell

you, would you, Huck?"

"Blamed if I would, Jim."

"Well, I b'lieve you, Huck. I- I run off."

"But mind, you said you wouldn't tell- you know you said you

wouldn't tell, Huck."

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

injun I will. People would call me a low down Abolitionist and despise

me for keeping mum- but that don't make no difference. I ain't

agoing to tell, and I ain't agoing back there anyways. So now, le's

know all about it."

"Well, you see, it' uz dis way. Ole Missus- dat's Miss Watson- she

pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz

said she wouldn' sell me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a

nigger trader roun' de place considable, lately, en I begin to git

oneasy. Well, one night I creeps to de do', pooty late, en de do'

warn't quite shet, en I hear ole missus tell de widder she gwyne to

sell me down to Orleans, but she didn' want to, but she could git

eight hund'd dollars for me, en it 'uz sich a big stack of money she

couldn' resis'. De widder she try to git her to say she wouldn' do it,

but I never waited to hear de res'. I lit out mighty quick, I tell

you.

"I tuck out en shin down de hill en 'spec to steal a skit 'long de

sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirrin' yit, so I

hid in de ole tumble-down cooper shop on de bank to wait for everybody

to go 'way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun' all de

time. 'Long 'bout six in de mawnin', skifts begin to go by, en 'bout

eight er nine every skit dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo'

pap come over to de town en say you's killed. Dese las' skifts wuz

full o' ladies en genlmen agoin' over for to see de place. Sometimes

dey'd pull up at de sho' en take a res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so

by de talk I got to know all 'bout de killin'. I 'uz powerful sorry

you's killed, Huck, but I ain't no mo, now.

"I laid dah under de shavins all day. I 'uz hungry, but I warn't

afeared; bekase I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin' to start to

de camp meetn' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey

knows I goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec to

see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de

evenin'. De yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out en

take holiday, soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way.

"Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went

'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no houses. I'd made up my

mine 'bout what I's agwyne to do. You see ef I kep' on tryin' to git

away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over,

dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah I'd lan' on de

yuther side en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I's

arter; it doan' make no track.

"I see a light a-comin'roun'de p'int, bymeby, so I wade' in en

shove' a log ahead o' me, en swum more'n half-way acrost de river,

en got in 'mongst de drift-wood, en kep' my head down low, en kinder

swum agin de current tell de raff come along. Den I swum to de stern

uv it, en tuck aholt. It clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for a little

while. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De men 'uz all 'way

yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz arisin' en

dey wuz a good current; so I reck'n'd 'at by fo' in de mawnin' I'd

be twenty-five mile down de river, en den I'd slip in, jis' b'fo'

daylight, en swim asho' en take to de woods on de Illinoi side.

"But I didn'have no luck. When we 'uz mos' down to de head er de

islan', a man begin to come aft wid de lantern. I see it warn't no use

fer to wait, so I slid overboard, en struck out fer de islan'. Well, I

had a notion I could lan' mos' anywheres, but I couldn't- bank too

bluff. I 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' I foun' a good

place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo',

long as dey move de lantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug er

dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so I 'uz all

right."

"And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why

didn't you get mud-turkles?"

"How you gwyne to git'm? You can't slip up on um en grab um; en

how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it in

de night? en I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime."

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

course. Did you hear 'em shooting the cannon?"

"Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah; watched

um thoo de bushes."

Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and

lighting. Jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it

was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it

was the same way when young birds done it. I was going to catch some

of them, but Jim wouldn't let me. He said it was death. He said his

father laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his

old granny said his father would die, and he did.

And Jim said you musn't count the things you are going to cook for

dinner, because that would bring bad luck. The same if you shook the

table-cloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a bee-hive,

and that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next

morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and die.

Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that,

because I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting

me.

I had heard about some of these things before, but not all of

them. Jim knowed all kinds of signs. He said he knowed most

everything. I said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad

luck, and so I asked him if there warn't any goodluck signs. He says:

"Mighty few- an' dey ain' no use to a body. What you want to know

when good luck's a-comin' for? want to keep it off?" And he said:

"Ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's

agwyne to be rich. Well, dey's some use in a sign like dat, 'kase it's

so fur ahead. You see, maybe you's got to be po' a long time fust,

en so you might git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you didn'know by

de sign dat you gwyne be rich bymeby."

"Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?"

"What's de use to ax dat question? don' see I has?"

"Well, are you rich?"

"No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich agin. Wunst I had

foteen dollars, but I tuck to specalat'n', en got busted out."

"What did you speculate in, Jim?"

"Well, fust I tackled stock."

"What kind of stock?"

"Why, live stock. Cattle, you know. I put ten dollars in a cow.

But I ain't gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. De cow up 'n' died on

my han's."

"So you lost the ten dollars."

"No, I didn'lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of it. I sole de

hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents."

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

more?"

"Yes. You know dat one-laigged nigger dat b'longs to old Misto

Bradish? well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar

would git fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de year. Well, all de niggers

went in, but dey didn'have much. I wuz de on'y one dat had much. So

I stuck out for mo' dan fo' dollars, en I said 'f I didn' git it I'd

start a bank mysef. Well o' course dat nigger want' keep me out er

de business, bekase he say dey warn't business 'nough for two banks,

so he say I could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five at

de en' er de year.

"So I done it. Den I reck'n'd I'd inves' de thirty-five dollars

right off en keep things a-movin'. Dey wuz a nigger name' Bob, dat had

ketched a wood-flat, en his marster didn'know it; en I bought it off'n

him en told him to take de thirty-five dollars when de en' er de

year come; but somebody stole de wood-flat dat night, en nex' day de

one-laigged nigger say de bank's busted. So dey didn' none uv us git

no money."

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

"Well, I 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but I had a dream, en de dream

tole me to give it to a nigger name' Balum- Balum's Ass dey call him

for short, he's one er dem chuckle-heads, you know. But he's lucky,

dey say, en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let Balum inves' de ten

cents en he'd make a raise for me. Well, Balum he tuck de money, en

when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de

po' len' to de Lord, en boun' to git his money back a hund'd times. So

Balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po', en laid low to see

what wuz gwyne to come of it."

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

"Nuffn' never come of it. I couldn' manage to k'leck dat money no

way; en Balum he couldn'. I ain'gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout I see

de security. Boun' to get yo' money back a hund'd times, de preacher

says! Ef I could git de ten cents back, I'd call it squah, en be

glad er de chanst."

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

rich again some time or other."

"Yes- en I's rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I's wuth

eight hundred dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn' want no mo'."

CHAPTER NINE

I wanted to go and look at a place right about the middle of the

island, that I'd found when I was exploring; so we started, and soon

got to it, because the island was only three miles long and a

quarter of a mile wide.

This place was a tolerable long steep hill or ridge, about forty

foot high. We had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so

steep and the bushes so thick. We tramped and clumb around all over

it, and by-and-by found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to

the top on the side towards Illinois. The cavern was as big as two

or three rooms bunched together, and Jim could stand up straight in

it. It was cool in there. Jim was for putting our traps in there,

right away, but I said we didn't want to be climbing up and down there

all the time.

Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the

traps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the

island, and they would never find us without dogs. And besides, he

said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did I want

the things to get wet?

So we went back and got the canoe and paddled up abreast the cavern,

and lugged all the traps up there. Then we hunted up a place close

by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took some

fish off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for

dinner.

The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and

on one side of the door the floor stuck out a little bit and was

flat and a good place to build a fire on. So we built it there and

cooked dinner.

We spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in

there. We put all the other things handy at the back of the cavern.

Pretty soon it darkened up and begun to thunder and lighten; so the

birds was right about it. Directly it begun to rain, and it rained

like all fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of

these regular summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all

blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by

so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby;

and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and

turn up the pale underside of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of

a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms

as if they was just wild; and next, when it was just about the

bluest and blackest- fst! it was as bright as glory and you'd have a

little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about, away off yonder in the

storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as

sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an

awful crash and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling down the sky

towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down

stairs, where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know.

"Jim, this is nice," I says. "I wouldn't want to be nowhere else but

here. Pass me along another hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread."

"Well, you wouldn't a ben here, 'f it hadn't a ben for Jim. You'd

a ben down dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittn' mos' drownded,

too, dat you would, honey. Chickens knows when it's gwyne to rain,

en so do de birds, chile."

The river went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till

at last it was over the banks. The water was three or four foot deep

on the island in the low places and on the Illinois bottom. On that

side it was a good many miles wide; but on the Missouri side it was

the same old distance across- a half a mile- because the Missouri

shore was just a wall of high bluffs.

Daytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe. It was

mighty cool and shady in the deep woods even if the sun was blazing

outside. We went winding in and out amongst the trees; and sometimes

the vines hung so thick we had to back away and go some other way.

Well, on every old broken-down tree, you could see rabbits, and

snakes, and such things; and when the island had been overflowed a day

or two, they got so tame, on account of being hungry, that you could

paddle right up and put your hand on them if you wanted to; but not

the snakes and turtles- they would slide off in the water. The ridge

our cavern was in, was full of them. We could a had pets enough if

we'd wanted them.

One night we catched a little section of a lumber raft- nice pine

planks. It was twelve foot wide and about fifteen or sixteen foot

long, and the top stood above water six or seven inches, a solid level

floor. We could see saw-logs go by in the daylight, sometimes, but

we let them go; we didn't show ourselves in daylight.

Another night, when we was up at the head of the island, just before

daylight, here comes a frame house down, on the west side. She was a

two-story, and tilted over, considerable. We paddled out and got

aboard- clumb in at an up-stairs window. But it was too dark to see

yet, so we made the canoe fast and set in her to wait for daylight.

The light begun to come before we got to the foot of the island.

Then we looked in at the window. We could make out a bed, and a table,

and two old chairs, and lots of things around about on the floor;

and there was clothes hanging against the wall. There was something

laying on the floor in the far corner that looked like a man. So Jim

says:

"Hello, you!"

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

"De man ain't asleep- he's dead. You hold still- I'll go en see."

He went and bent down and looked, and says:

"It's a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too. He's shot in de back.

I reck'n he's ben dead two er three days. Come in, Huck, but doan'

look at his face-it's too gashly."

I didn't look at him at all. Jim throwed some old rags over him, but

he needn't done it; I didn't want to see him. There was heaps of old

greasy cards scattered around over the floor, and old whisky

bottles, and a couple of masks made out of black cloth; and all over

the walls was the ignorantest kind of words and pictures, made with

charcoal. There was two old dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet,

and some women's under-clothes, hanging against the wall, and some

men's clothing, too. We put the lot into the canoe; it might come

good. There was a boy's old speckled straw hat on the floor; I took

that too. And there was a bottle that had milk in it; and it had a rag

stopper for a baby to suck. We would a took the bottle, but it was

broke. There was a seedy old chest, and an old hair trunk with the

hinges broke. They stood open, but there warn't nothing left in them

that was any account. The way things was scattered about, we

reckoned the people left in a hurry and warn't fixed so as to carry

off most of their stuff.

We got an old tin lantern, and a butcher knife without any handle,

and a bran-new Barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot

of tallow candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin

cup, and a ratty old bed-quilt off the bed, and a reticule with

needles and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread and all such truck

in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a fish-line as thick as my

little finger, with some monstrous hooks on it, and a roll of

buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and a horse-shoe, and some vials

of medicine that didn't have no label on them; and just as we was

leaving I found a tolerable good curry-comb, and Jim he found a

ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg. The straps was broke off of

it, but barring that, it was a good enough leg, though it was too long

for me and not long enough for Jim, and we couldn't find the other

one, though we hunted all around.

And so, take it all around, we made a good haul. When we was ready

to shove off, we was a quarter of a mile below the island, and it

was pretty broad day; so I made Jim lay down in the canoe and cover up

with the quilt, because if he set up, people could tell he was a

nigger a good ways off. I paddled over to the Illinois shore, and

drifted down most a half a mile doing it. I crept up the dead water

under the bank, and hadn't no accidents and didn't see nobody. We

got home all safe.

CHAPTER TEN

After breakfast I wanted to talk about the dead man and guess out

how he come to be killed, but Jim didn't want to. He said it would

fetch bad luck; and besides, he said, he might come and ha'nt us;

he said a man that warn't buried was more likely to go a-ha'nting

around than one that was planted and comfortable. That sounded

pretty reasonable, so I didn't say no more; but I couldn't keep from

studying over it and wishing I knowed who shot the man, and what

they done it for.

We rummaged the clothes we'd got, and found eight dollars in

silver sewed up in the lining of an old blanket overcoat. Jim said

he reckoned the people in that house stole the coat, because if they'd

a knowed the money was there they wouldn't a left it. I said I

reckoned they killed him, too; but Jim didn't want to talk about that.

I says:

"Now you think it's bad luck; but what did you say when I fetched in

the snake-skin that I found on the top of the ridge day before

yesterday? You said it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch

a snake-skin with my hands. Well, here's your bad luck! We've raked in

all this truck and eight dollars besides. I wish we could have some

bad luck like this every day, Jim."

"Never you mind, honey, never you mind. Don't you git too peart.

It's a-comin'. Mind I tell you, it's a-comin'."

It did come, too. It was a Tuesday that we had that talk. Well,

after dinner Friday, we was laying around in the grass at the upper

end of the ridge, and got out of tobacco. I went to the cavern to

get some, and found a rattlesnake in there. I killed him, and curled

him up on the foot of Jim's blanket, ever so natural, thinking there'd

be some fun when Jim found him there. Well, by night I forgot all

about the snake, and when Jim flung himself down on the blanket

while I struck a light, the snake's mate was there, and bit him.

He jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light showed was the

varmit curled up and ready for another spring. I laid him out in a

second with a stick, and Jim grabbed pap's whisky jug and begun to

pour it down.

He was barefooted, and the snake bit him on the heel. That all comes

of my being such a fool as to not remember that wherever you leave a

dead snake its mate always comes and curls around it. Jim told me to

chop off the snake's head and throw it away, and then skin the body

and roast a piece of it. I done it, and he eat it and said it would

help cure him. He made me take off the rattles and tie them around his

wrist, too. He said that would help. Then I slid out quiet and throwed

the snakes clear away amongst the bushes; for I warn't going to let

Jim find out it was all my fault, not if I could help it.

Jim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and then he got out of his

head and pitched around and yelled; but every time he come to

himself he went to sucking at the jug again. His foot swelled up

pretty big, and so did his leg; but by-and-by the drunk begun to come,

and so I judged he was all right; but I'd druther been bit with a

snake than pap's whisky.

Jim was laid up for four days and nights. Then the swelling was

all gone and he was around again. I made up my mind I wouldn't ever

take aholt of a snake-skin again with my hands, now that I see what

had come of it. Jim said he reckoned I would believe him next time.

And he said that handling a snake-skin was such awful bad luck that

maybe we hadn't got to the end of it yet. He said he druther see the

new moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand times than

take up a snake-skin in his hand. Well, I was getting to feel that way

myself, though I've always reckoned that looking at the new moon

over your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest

things a body can do. Old Hank Bunker done it once, and bragged

about it; and in less than two years he got drunk and fell off of

the shot tower and spread himself out so that he was just a kind of

a layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn

doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they say, but I didn't see

it. Pap told me. But anyway, it all come of looking at the moon that

way, like a fool.

Well, the days went along, and the river went down between its banks

again; and about the first thing we done was to bait one of the big

hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a cat-fish that was

as big as a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed over

two hundred pounds. We couldn't handle him, of course; he would a

flung us into Illinois. We just set there and watched him rip and tear

around till he drownded. We found a brass button in his stomach, and a

round ball, and lots of rubbage. We split the ball open with the

hatchet, and there was a spool in it. Jim said he'd had it there a

long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of it. It was as big a

fish as was ever catched in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he

hadn't ever seen a bigger one. He would a been worth a good deal

over at the village. They peddle out such a fish as that by the

pound in the market house there; everybody buys some of him; his

meat's as white as snow and makes a good fry.

Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to

get a stirring up, some way. I said I reckoned I would slip over the

river and find out what was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he

said I must go in the dark and look sharp. Then he studied it over and

said, couldn't I put on some of them old things and dress up like a

girl? That was a good notion, too. So we shortened up one of the

calico gowns and I turned up my trowser-legs to my knees and got

into it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair

fit. I put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a

body to look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of

stove-pipe. Jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime,

hardly. I practiced around all day to get the hang of the things,

and by-and-by I could do pretty well in them, only Jim said I didn't

walk like a girl; and he said I must quit pulling up my gown to get at

my britches pocket. I took notice, and done better.

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

I started across to the town from a little below the ferry

landing, and the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of

the town. I tied up and started along the bank. There was a light

burning in a little shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long

time, and I wondered who had took up quarters there. I slipped up

and peeped in at the window. There was a woman about forty year old in

there, knitting by a candle that was on a pine table. I didn't know

her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn't start a face in that

town that I didn't know. Now this was lucky, because I was

weakening; I was getting afraid I had come; people might know my voice

and find me out. But if this woman had been in such a little town

two days she could tell me all I wanted to know; so I knocked at the

door, and made up my mind I wouldn't forget I was a girl.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Come in," says the woman, and I did. She says:

"Take a cheer."

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

says:

"What might your name be?"

"Sarah Williams."

"Where 'bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?"

"No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've walked all the way and

I'm all tired out."

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

"No'm, I ain't hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two mile

below here at a farm; so I ain't hungry no more. It's what makes me so

late. My mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and I

come to tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end of the

town, she says. I hain't ever been here before. Do you know him?"

"No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't lived here quite

two weeks. It's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town.

You better stay here all night. Take off your bonnet."

"No," I says, "I'll rest a while, I reckon, and go on. I ain't

afeard of the dark."

She said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would

be in by-and-by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send him

along with me. Then she got to talking about her husband, and about

her relations up the river, and her relations down the river, and

about how much better off they used to was, and how they didn't know

but they'd made a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting

well alone- and so on and so on, till I was afeard I had made a

mistake coming to her to find out what was going on in this town;

but by-and-by she dropped onto pap and the murder, and then I was

pretty willing to let her clatter right along. She told about me and

Tom Sawyer finding the six thousand dollars (only she got it ten)

and all about pap and what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot I

was, and at last she got down to where I was murdered. I says:

"Who done it? We've heard considerable about these goings on, down

in Hookerville, but we don't know who 'twas that killed Huck Finn."

"Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of people here that'd

like to know who killed him. Some thinks old Finn done it himself."

"No- is that so?"

"Most everybody thought it at first. He'll never know how nigh he

come to getting lynched. But before night they changed around and

judged it was done by a runaway nigger named Jim."

"Why he-"

I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run on, and never

noticed I had put in at all.

"The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was killed. So

there's a reward out for him- three hundred dollars. And there's a

reward out for old Finn too- two hundred dollars. You see, he come

to town the morning after the murder, and told about it, and was out

with 'em on the ferry-boat hunt, and right away after he up and

left. Before night they wanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see.

Well, next day they found out the nigger was gone; they found out he

hadn't ben seen sence ten o'clock the night the murder was done. So

then they put it on him, you see, and while they was full of it,

next day back comes old Finn and went boo-hooing to Judge Thatcher

to get money to hunt for the nigger all over Illinois with. The

judge give him some, and that evening he got drunk and was around till

after midnight with a couple of mighty hard looking strangers, and

then went off with them. Well, he hain't come back sence, and they

ain't looking for him back till this thing blows over a little, for

people thinks now that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks

would think robbers done it, and then he'd get Huck's money without

having to bother a long time with a lawsuit. People do say he warn't

any too good to do it. Oh, he's sly, I reckon. If he don't come back

for a year, he'll be all right. You can't prove anything on him, you

know; everything will be quieted down then, and he'll walk into Huck's

money as easy as nothing."

"Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the way of it. Has

everybody quit thinking the nigger done it?"

"Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done it. But they'll

get the nigger pretty soon, now, and maybe they can scare it out of

him."

"Why, are they after him yet?"

"Well, you're innocent, ain't you! Does three hundred dollars lay

round every day for people to pick up? Some folks thinks the nigger

ain't far from here. I'm one of them- but I hain't talked it around. A

few days ago I was talking with an old couple that lives next door

in the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes

to that island over yonder that they call Jackson's Island. Don't

anybody live there? says I. No, nobody, says they. I didn't say any

more, but I done some thinking. I was pretty near certain I'd seen

smoke over there, about the head of the island, a day or two before

that, so I says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding over

there; anyway, says I, it's worth the trouble to give the place a

hunt. I hain't seen any smoke sence, so I reckon maybe he's gone, if

it was him; but my husband's going over to see- him and another man.

He was gone up the river; but he got back to-day and I told him as

soon as he got here two hours ago."

I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still. I had to do something with

my hands; so I took up a needle off of the table and went to threading

it. My hands shook, and I was making a bad job of it. When the woman

stopped talking, I looked up, and she was looking at me pretty

curious, and smiling a little. I put down the needle and thread and

let on to be interested- and I was, too- and says:

"Three hundred dollars is a power of money. I wish my mother could

get it. Is your husband going over there to-night?"

"Oh, yes. He went up town with the man I was telling you of, to

get a boat and see if they could borrow another gun. They'll go over

after midnight."

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

"Yes. And couldn't the nigger see better, too? After midnight

he'll likely be asleep, and they can slip around through the woods and

hunt up his camp fire all the better for the dark, if he's got one."

"I didn't think of that."

The woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and I didn't feel a bit

comfortable. Pretty soon she says:

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

"M- Mary Williams."

Somehow it didn't seem to me that I said it was Mary before, so I

didn't look up; seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of

cornered, and was afeard maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the

woman would say something more; the longer she set still, the uneasier

I was. But now she says:

"Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?"

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

Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary."

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

"Yes'm."

I was feeling better, then, but I wished I was out of there, anyway.

I couldn't look up yet.

Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how

poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned

the place, and so forth, and so on, and then I got easy again. She was

right about the rats. You'd see one stick his nose out of a hole in

the corner every little while. She said she had to have things handy

to throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her no

peace. She showed me a bar of lead, twisted up into a knot, and said

she was a good shot with it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a

day or two ago, and didn't know whether she could throw true, now. But

she watched for a chance, and directly she banged away at a rat, but

she missed him wide, and said "Ouch!" it hurt her arm so. Then she

told me to try for the next one. I wanted to be getting away before

the old man got back, but of course I didn't let on. I got the

thing, and the first rat that showed his nose I let drive, and if he'd

a stayed where he was he'd a been a tolerable sick rat. She said

that was first-rate, and she reckoned I would hive the next one. She

went and got the lump of lead and fetched it back and brought along

a hank of yarn, which she wanted me to help her with. I held up my two

hands and she put the hank over them and went on talking about her and

her husband's matters. But she broke off to say:

"Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the lead in your lap,

handy."

So she dropped the lump into my lap, just at that moment, and I

clapped my legs together on it and she went on talking. But only about

a minute. Then she took off the hank and looked me straight in the

face, but very pleasant, and says:

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

"Wh- what, mum?"

"What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?- or what is it?"

I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know hardly what to do.

But I says:

"Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. If I'm in the

way, here, I'll-"

"No, you won't. Set down and stay where you are. I ain't going to

hurt you, and I ain't going to tell on you, nuther. You just tell me

your secret, and trust me. I'll keep it; and what's more, I'll help

you. So'll my old man, if you want him to. You see, you're a runaway

'prentice- that's all. It ain't anything. There ain't any harm in

it. You've been treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut. Bless

you, child, I wouldn't tell on you. Tell me all about it, now-

that's a good boy."

So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and

I would just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she

mustn't go back on her promise. Then I told her my father and mother

was dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the

country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me so bad I

couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days,

and so I took my chance and stole some of his daughter's old

clothes, and cleared out, and I had been three nights coming the

thirty miles; I traveled nights, and hid day-times and slept, and

the bag of bread and meat I carried from home lasted me all the way

and I had a plenty. I said I believed my uncle Abner Moore would

take care of me, and so that was why I struck out for this town of

Goshen.

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

Goshen's ten mile further up the river. Who told you this was Goshen?"

"Why, a man I met at day-break this morning, just as I was going

to turn into the woods for my regular sleep. He told me when the roads

forked I must take the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to

Goshen."

"He was drunk I reckon. He told you just exactly wrong."

"Well, he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no matter now. I

got to be moving along. I'll fetch Goshen before day-light."

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

it."

So she put me up a snack, and says:

"Say- when a cow's laying down, which end of her gets up first?

Answer up prompt, now- don't stop to study over it. Which end gets

up first?"

"The hind end, mum."

"Well, then, a horse?"

"The for'rard end, mum."

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

"North side."

"If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats

with their heads pointed the same direction?"

"The whole fifteen, mum."

"Well, I reckon you have lived in the country. I thought maybe you

was trying to hocus me again. What's your real name now?"

"George Peters, mum."

"Well, try to remember it, George. Don't forget and tell me it's

Elexander before you go, and then get out by saying it's

George-Elexander when I catch you. And don't go about women in that

old calico. You do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men,

maybe. Bless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle, don't

hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle

still and poke the thread at it- that's the way a woman most always

does; but a man always does 'tother way. And when you throw at a rat

or anything, hitch yourself up a tip-toe, and fetch your hand up

over your head as awkard as you can, and miss your rat about six or

seven foot. Throw stiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a

pivot there for it to turn on- like a girl; not from the wrist and

elbow, with your arm out to one side like a boy. And mind you, when

a girl tries to catch anything in her lap, she throws her knees apart;

she don't clap them together, the way you did when you catched the

lump of lead. Why, I spotted you for a boy when you was threading

the needle; and I contrived the other things just to make certain. Now

trot along to your uncle, Sarah Mary Williams George Elexander Peters,

and if you get into trouble you send word to Mrs. Judith Lotus,

which is me, and I'll do what I can to get you out of it. Keep the

river road, all the way, and next time you tramp, take shoes and socks

with you. The river road's a rocky one, and your feet 'll be in a

condition when you get to Goshen, I reckon."

I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I doubled on my

tracks and slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below

the house. I jumped in and was off in a hurry. I went up stream far

enough to make the head of the island, and then started across. I took

off the sun-bonnet, for I didn't want no blinders on, then. When I was

about the middle, I hear the clock begin to strike; so I stops and

listens; the sound come faint over the water, but clear- eleven.

When I struck the head of the island I never waited to blow, though

I was most winded, but I shoved right into the timber where my old

camp used to be, and started a good fire there on a high-and-dry spot.

Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place a mile and a

half below, as hard as I could go. I landed, and slopped through the

timber and up the ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, sound

asleep on the ground. I roused him out and says:

"Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a minute to lose.

They're after us!"

Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he

worked for the next half an hour showed about how he was scared. By

that time everything we had in the world was on our raft and she was

ready to be shoved out from the willow cove where she was hid. We

put out the camp fire at the cavern the first thing, and didn't show a

candle outside after that.

I took the canoe out from shore a little piece and took a look,

but if there was a boat around I couldn't see it, for stars and

shadows ain't good to see by. Then we got out the raft and slipped

along down in the shade, past the foot of the island dead still, never

saying a word.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It must a been close onto one o'clock when we got below the island

at last, and the raft did seem to go mighty slow. If a boat was to

come along, we was going to take to the canoe and break for the

Illinois shore; and it was well a boat didn't come, for we hadn't ever

thought to put the gun into the canoe, or a fishing-line or anything

to eat. We was in ruther too much of a sweat to think of so many

things. It warn't good judgment to put everything on the raft.

If the men went to the island, I just expect they found the camp

fire I built, and watched it all night for Jim to come. Anyways,

they stayed away from us, and if my building the fire never fooled

them it warn't no fault of mine. I played it as low-down on them as

I could.

When the first streak of day begun to show, we tied up to a tow-head

in a big bend on the Illinois side, and hacked off cotton-wood

branches with the hatchet and covered up the raft with them so she

looked like there had been a cave-in in the bank there. A tow-head

is a sand-bar that has cottonwoods on it as thick as harrow-teeth.

We had mountains on the Missouri shore and heavy timber on the

Illinois side, and the channel was down the Missouri shore at that

place, so we warn't afraid of anybody running across us. We laid there

all day and watched the rafts and steamboats spin down the Missouri

shore, and upbound steamboats fight the big river in the middle. I

told Jim all about the time I had jabbering with that woman; and Jim

said she was a smart one, and if she was to start after us herself she

wouldn't set down and watch a camp fire- no, sir, she'd fetch a dog.

Well, then, I said, why couldn't she tell her husband to fetch a

dog? Jim said he bet she did think of it by the time the men was ready

to start, and he believed they must a gone up town to get a dog and so

they lost all that time, or else we wouldn't be here on a tow-head

sixteen or seventeen mile below the village- no, indeedy, we would

be in that same old town again. So I said I didn't care what was the

reason they didn't get us, as long as they didn't.

When it was beginning to come on dark, we poked our heads out of the

cottonwood thicket and looked up, and down, and across; nothing in

sight; so Jim took up some of the top planks of the raft and built a

snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and rainy, and to keep the

things dry. Jim made a floor for the wigwam, and raised it a foot or

more above the level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the

traps was out of the reach of steamboat waves. Right in the middle

of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep

with a frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was to

build a fire on in sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep

it from being seen. We made an extra steering oar, too, because one of

the others might get broke, on a snag or something. We fixed up a

short forked stick to hang the old lantern on; because we must

always light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down

stream, to keep from getting run over; but we wouldn't have to light

it for upstream boats unless we see we was in what they call a

"crossing"; for the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being

still a little under water; so up-bound boats didn't always run the

channel, but hunted easy water.

This second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a

current that was making over four mile an hour. We catched fish, and

talked, and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was

kind of solemn, drifting down the big still river, laying on our backs

looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel like talking loud,

and it warn't often that we laughed, only a little kind of a low

chuckle. We had mighty good weather, as a general thing, and nothing

ever happened to us at all, that night, nor the next, nor the next.

Every night we passed towns, some of them away up on black

hillsides, nothing but just a shiny bed of lights, not a house could

you see. The fifth night we passed St. Louis, and it was like the

whole world lit up. In St. Petersburg they used to say there was

twenty or thirty thousand people in St. Louis, but I never believed it

till I see that wonderful spread of lights at two o'clock that still

night. There warn't a sound there; everybody was asleep.

Every night, now, I used to slip ashore, towards ten o'clock, at

some little village, and buy ten or fifteen cents' worth of meal or

bacon or other stuff to eat; and sometimes I lifted a chicken that

warn't roosting comfortable, and took him along. Pap always said, take

a chicken when you get a chance, because if you don't want him

yourself you can easy find somebody that does, and a good deed ain't

ever forgot. I never see pap when he didn't want the chicken

himself, but that is what he used to say, anyway.

Mornings, before daylight, I slipped into corn fields and borrowed a

watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new corn, or things

of that kind. Pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things, if

you was meaning to pay them back, sometime; but the widow said it

warn't anything but a soft name for stealing, and no decent body would

do it. Jim said he reckoned the widow was partly right and pap was

partly right; so the best way would be for us to pick out two or three

things from the list and say we wouldn't borrow them any more- then he

reckoned it wouldn't be no harm to borrow the others. So we talked

it over all one night, drifting along down the river, trying to make

up our minds whether to drop the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or

the mushmelons, or what. But towards daylight we got it all settled

satisfactory, and concluded to drop crabapples and p'simmons. We

warn't feeling just right, before that, but it was all comfortable

now. I was glad the way it come out, too, because crabapples ain't

ever good, and the p'simmons wouldn't be ripe for two or three

months yet.

We shot a water-fowl, now and then, that got up too early in the

morning or didn't go to bed early enough in the evening. Take it all

around, we lived pretty high.

The fifth night below St. Louis we had a big storm after midnight,

with a power of thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in a

solid sheet. We stayed in the wigwam and let the raft take care of

itself. When the lightning glared out we could see a big straight

river ahead, and high rocky bluffs on both sides. By-and-by says I,

"Hel-lo Jim, looky yonder!" It was a steamboat that had killed herself

on a rock. We was drifting straight down for her. The lightning showed

her very distinct. She was leaning over, with part of her upper deck

above water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy clean and

clear, and a chair by the big bell, with an old slouch hat hanging

on the back of it when the flashes come.

Well, it being away in the night, and stormy, and all so

mysterious-like, I felt just the way any other boy would a felt when I

see that wreck laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle

of the river. I wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a little,

and see what there was there. So I says:

"Le's land on her, Jim."

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

"I doan' want to go fool'n 'long er no wrack. We's doin' blame'

well, en we better let blame' well alone, as de good book says. Like

as not dey's a watchman on dat wrack."

"Watchman your grandmother," I says; "there ain't nothing to watch

but the texas and the pilot-house; and do you reckon anybody's going

to resk his life for a texas and a pilothouse such a night as this,

when it's likely to break up and wash off down the river any

minute?" Jim couldn't say nothing to that, so he didn't try. "And

besides," I says, "we might borrow something worth having, out of

the captain's stateroom. Seegars, I bet you- and cost five cents

apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty

dollars a month, and they don't care a cent what a thing costs, you

know, long as they want it. Stick a candle in your pocket; I can't

rest, Jim, till we give her a rummaging. Do you reckon Tom Sawyer

would ever go by this thing? Not for pie, he wouldn't. He'd call it an

adventure- that's what he'd call it; and he'd land on that wreck if it

was his last act. And wouldn't he throw style into it?- wouldn't he

spread himself, nor nothing? Why, you'd think it was Christopher

C'lumbus discovering Kingdom-Come. I wish Tom Sawyer was here."

Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we mustn't talk any

more than we could help, and then talk mighty low. The lightning

showed us the wreck again, just in time, and we fetched the

starboard derrick, and made fast there.

The deck was high out, here. We went sneaking down the slope of it

to labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow with

our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was

so dark we couldn't see no sign of them. Pretty soon we struck the

forward end of the skylight, and clumb onto it; and the next step

fetched us in front of the captain's door, which was open, and by

Jimminy, away down through the texas-hall we see a light! and all in

the same second we seem to hear low voices in yonder!

Jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me

to come along. I says, all right; and was going to start for the raft;

but just then I heard a voice wail out and say:

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

Another voice said, pretty loud:

"It's a lie, Jim Turner. You've acted this way before. You always

want more'n your share of the truck, and you've always got it, too,

because you've swor't if you didn't you'd tell. But this time you've

said it jest one time too many. You're the meanest, treacherousest

hound in this country."

By this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was just a-biling with

curiosity; and I says to myself, Tom Sawyer wouldn't back out now, and

so I won't either; I'm agoing to see what's going on here. So I

dropped on my hands and knees, in the little passage, and crept aft in

the dark, till there warn't but about one stateroom betwixt me and the

cross-hall of the texas. Then, in there I see a man stretched on the

floor and tied hand and foot, and two men standing over him, and one

of them had a dim lantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol.

This one kept pointing the pistol at the man's head on the floor and

saying-

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

The man on the floor would shrivel up, and say: "Oh, please don't,

Bill- I hain't ever goin' to tell."

And every time he said that, the man with the lantern would laugh,

and say:

"'Deed you ain't! You never said no truer thing 'n that, you bet

you." And once he said: "Hear him beg! and yit if we hadn't got the

best of him and tied him, he'd a killed us both. And what for? Jist

for noth'n. Jist because we stood on our rights- that's what for.

But I lay you ain't agoin'to threaten nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put

up that pistol, Bill."

Bill says:

"I don't want to, Jake Packard. I'm for killin' him- and din't he

kill old Hatfield jist the same way- and don't he deserve it?"

"But I don't want him killed, and I've got my reasons for it."

"Bless yo' heart for them words, Jake Packard! I'll never forgit

you, long's I live!" says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering.

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

a nail, and started towards where I was, there in the dark, and

motioned Bill to come. I crawfished as fast as I could, about two

yards, but the boat slanted so that I couldn't make very good tune; so

to keep from getting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom

on the upper side. The man come a-pawing along in the dark, and when

Packard got to my stateroom, he says:

"Here- come in here."

And in he come, and Bill after him. But before they got in, I was up

in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come. Then they stood there,

with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. I couldn't see

them, but I could tell where they was, by the whisky they'd been

having. I was glad I didn't drink whisky; but it wouldn't made much

difference, anyway, because most of the time they couldn't a treed

me because I didn't breathe. I was too scared. And besides, a body

couldn't breathe, and hear such talk. They talked low and earnest.

Bill wanted to kill Turner. He says:

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

shares to him now, it wouldn't make no difference after the row, and

the way we've served him. Shore's you're born, he'll turn State's

evidence; now you hear me. I'm for putting him out of his troubles."

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

"Blame it, I'd sorter begun to think you wasn't. Well, then,

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

"Hold on a minute; I hain't had my say yit. You listen to me.

Shooting's good, but there's quieter ways if the thing's gotto be

done. But what I say, is this; it ain't good sense to go court'n

around after a halter, if you can git at what you're up to in some way

that's jist as good and at the same time don't bring you into no

resks. Ain't that so?"

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

"Well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and gether up whatever

pickins we've overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and

hide the truck. Then we'll wait. Now I say it ain't agoin' to be

more 'n two hours befo' this wrack breaks up and washes off down the

river. See? He'll be drownded, and won't have nobody to blame for it

but his own self. I reckon that's a considerble sight better'n killin'

of him. I'm unfavorable to killin'a man as long as you can git

around it; it ain't good sense, it ain't good morals. Ain't I right?"

"Yes- I reck'n you are. But s'pose she don't break up and wash off?"

"Well, we can wait the two hours, anyway, and see, can't we?"

"All right, then; come along."

So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled

forward. It was dark as pitch there; but I said in a kind of a

coarse whisper, "Jim!" and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a

sort of a moan, and I says:

"Quick, Jim, it ain't no time for fooling around and moaning;

there's a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don't hunt up their

boat and set her drifting down the river so these fellows can't get

away from the wreck, there's one of 'em going to be in a bad fix.

But if we find their boat we can put all of 'em in a bad fix- for

the Sheriff'll get 'em. Quick- hurry! I'll hunt the labboard side, you

hunt the stabboard. You start at the raft, and-"

"Oh, my lordy, lordy! Raf Dey ain' no raf' no mo', she done broke

loose en gone!- 'en here we is!"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Well, I catched my breath and most fainted. Shut up on a wreck

with such a gang as that! But it warn't no time to be

sentimentering. We'd got to find that boat, now- had to have it for

ourselves. So we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard side,

and slow work it was, too- seemed a week before we got to the stern.

No sign of a boat. Jim said he didn't believe he could go any further-

so scared he hadn't hardly any strength left, he said. But I said come

on, if we get left on this wreck, we are in a fix, sure. So on we

prowled, again. We struck for the stern of the texas, and found it,

and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from

shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water.

When we got pretty close to the cross-hall door, there was the

skiff, sure enough! I could just barely see her. I felt ever so

thankful. In another second I would a been aboard of her; but just

then the door opened. One of the men stuck his head out, only about

a couple of foot from me, and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it

in again, and says:

"Heave that blame lantern out o' sight, Bill!"

He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in

himself, and set down. It was Packard. Then Bill he come out and got

in. Packard says, in a low voice:

"All ready- shove off!"

I couldn't hardly hang onto the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill

says:

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

"No. Didn't you?"

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

"Well, then, come along- no use to take truck and leave money."

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

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

So they got out and went in.

The door slammed to, because it was on the careened side; and in a

half second I was in the boat, and Jim come a tumbling after me. I out

with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went!

We didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor

hardly even breathe. We went gliding swift along, dead silent, past

the tip of the paddlebox, and past the stern; then in a second or

two more we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness

soaked her up, every last sign of her, and we was safe, and knowed it.

When we was three or four hundred yards down stream, we see the

lantern show like a little spark at the texas door, for a second,

and we knowed by that the rascals had missed their boat, and was

beginning to understand that they was in just as much trouble, now, as

Jim Turner was.

Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. Now was

the first time I begun to worry about the men- I reckon I hadn't had

time to before. I begun to think how dreadful it was, even for

murderers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself, there ain't no

telling but I might come to be a murderer myself, yet, and then how

would I like it? So says I to Jim:

"The first light we see, we'll land a hundred yards below it or

above it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place for you and the

skiff, and then I'll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get

somebody to go for that gang and get them out of their scrape, so they

can be hung when their time comes."

But that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun to storm

again, and this time worse than ever. The rain poured down, and

never a light showed; everybody in bed, I reckon. We boomed along down

the river, watching for lights and watching for our raft. After a long

time the rain let up, but the clouds staid, and the lightning kept

whimpering, and by-and-by a flash showed us a black thing ahead,

floating, and we made for it.

It was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again.

We seen a light, now, away down to the right, on shore. So I said I

would go for it. The skiff was half full of plunder which that gang

had stole, there on the wreck. We hustled it onto the raft in a

pile, and I told Jim to float along down, and show a light when he

judged he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning till I come;

then I manned my oars and shoved for the light. As I got down

towards it, three or four more showed- up on a hillside. It was a

village. I closed in above the shore-light, and laid on my oars and

floated. As I went by, I see it was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff

of a double-hull ferry-boat. I skimmed around for the watchman,

a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and by-and-by I found him roosting

on the bitts, forward, with his head down between his knees. I give

his shoulder two or three little shoves, and begun to cry.

He stirred up, in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it

was only me, he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says:

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

I says:

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

Then I broke down. He says:

"Oh, dang it, now, don't take on so, we all has to have our troubles

and this'n 'll come out all right. What's the matter with 'em?"

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

"Yes," he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. "I'm the captain

and the owner, and the mate, and the pilot, and watchman, and head

deck-hand; and sometimes I'm the freight and passengers. I ain't as

rich as old Jim Hornback, and I can't be so blame' generous and good

to Tom, Dick and Harry as what he is, and slam around money the way he

does; but I've told him a many a time 't I wouldn't trade places

with him; for, says I, a sailor's life's the life for me, and I'm

derned if I'd live two mile out o' town, where there ain't nothing

ever goin'on, not for all his spondulicks and as much more on top of

it. Says I-"

I broke in and says:

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

"Who is?"

"Why, pap, and mam, and sis, and Miss Hooker; and if you'd take your

ferry-boat and go up there-"

"Up where? Where are they?"

"On the wreck."

"What wreck?"

"Why, there ain't but one."

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

"Yes."

"Good land! What are they doin' there, for gracious sakes?"

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

"I bet they didn't! Why, great goodness, there ain't no chance for

'em if they don't git off mighty quick! Why, how in the nation did

they ever git into such a scrape?"

"Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting, up there to the town-"

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

"She was a-visiting, there at Booth's Landing, and just in the

edge of the evening she started over with her nigger woman in the

horse-ferry, to stay all night at her friend's house, Miss

What-you-may-call-her, I disremember her name, and they lost their

steering-oar, and swung around and went afloating down, stern-first,

about two mile, and saddle-baggsed on the wreck, and the ferry man and

the nigger woman and the horses was all lost, but Miss Hooker she made

a grab and got aboard the wreck. Well, about an hour after dark, we

come along down in our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn't

notice the wreck till we was right on it; and so we saddle-baggsed;

but all of us was saved but Bill Whipple- and oh, he was the best

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

"My George! It's the beatenest thing I ever struck. And then what

did you all do?"

"Well, we hollered and took on, but it's so wide there, we

couldn't make nobody hear. So pap said somebody got to get ashore

and get help somehow. I was the only one that could swim, so I made

a dash for it, and Miss Hooker she said if I didn't strike help

sooner, come here and hunt up her uncle, and he'd fix the thing. I

made the land about a mile below, and been fooling along ever since,

trying to get people to do something, but they said, 'What, in such

a night and such a current? there ain't no sense in it; go for the

steam-ferry.' Now if you'll go, and-"

"By Jackson, I'd like to, and blame it I don't know but I will;

but who in the dingnation's agoin' to pay for it? Do you reckon your

pap-"

"Why that's all right. Miss Hooker she told me, particular, that her

uncle Hornback-"

"Great guns! is he her uncle? Looky here, you break for that light

over yonder-way, and turn out west when you git there, and about a

quarter of a mile out you'll come to the tavern; tell 'em to dart

you out to Jim Hornback's and he'll foot the bill. And don't you

fool around any, because he'll want to know the news. Tell him I'll

have his niece all safe before he can get to town. Hump yourself, now;

I'm agoing up around the corner here, to roust out my engineer."

I struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the corner I went

back and got into my skiff and bailed her out and then pulled up shore

in the easy water about six hundred yards, and tucked myself in

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

ferry-boat start. But take it all around, I was feeling ruther

comfortable on accounts of taking all this trouble for that gang,

for not many would a done it. I wished the widow knowed about it. I

judged she would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions,

because rapscallions and dead beats is the kind the widow and good

people takes the most interest in.

Well, before long, here comes the wreck, dim and dusky, sliding

along down! A kind of cold shiver went through me, and then I struck

out for her. She was very deep, and I see in a minute there warn't

much chance for anybody being alive in her. I pulled all around her

and hollered a little, but there wasn't any answer; all dead still.

I felt a little bit heavyhearted about the gang, but not much, for I

reckoned if they could stand it, I could.

Then here comes the ferry-boat; so I shoved for the middle of the

river on a long down-stream slant; and when I judged I was out of

eye-reach, I laid on my oars, and looked back and see her go and smell

around the wreck for Miss Hooker's remainders, because the captain

would know her uncle Horseback would want them; and then pretty soon

the ferryboat give it up and went for shore, and I laid into my work

and went a-booming down the river.

It did seem a powerful long time before Jim's light showed up; and

when it did show, it looked like it was a thousand mile off. By the

time I got there the sky was beginning to get a little gray in the

east; so we struck for an island, and hid the raft, and sunk the

skiff, and turned in and slept like dead people.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

By-and-by, when we got up, we turned over the truck the gang had

stole off the wreck, and found boots, and blankets, and clothes, and

all sorts of other things, and a lot of books, and a spyglass, and

three boxes of seegars. We hadn't ever been this rich before, in

neither of our lives. The seegars was prime. We laid off all the

afternoon in the woods talking, and me reading the books, and having a

general good time. I told Jim all about what happened inside the

wreck, and at the ferry-boat; and I said these kinds of things was

adventures; but he said he didn't want no more adventures. He said

that when I went in the texas and he crawled back to get on the raft

and found her gone, he nearly died; because he judged it was all up

with him, anyway it could be fixed; for if he didn't get saved he

would get drownded; and if he did get saved, whoever saved him would

send him back home so as to get the reward, and then Miss Watson would

sell him South, sure. Well, he was right; he was most always right; he

had an uncommon level head, for a nigger.

I read considerable to Jim about kings, and dukes, and earls, and

such, and how gaudy they dressed, and how much style they put on,

and called each other your majesty, and your grace, and your lordship,

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

interested. He says:

"I didn' know dey was so many un um. I hain't hearn 'bout none un

um, skasely, but old King Sollermun, onless you counts dem kings dat's

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

"Get?" I says; "why, they get a thousand dollars a month if they

want it; they can have just as much as they want; everything belongs

to them."

"Ain't dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?"

"They don't do nothing! Why how you talk. They just set around."

"No- is dat so?"

"Of course it is. They just set around. Except maybe when there's

a war; then they go to the war. But other times they just lazy around;

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

We skipped out and looked; but it warn't nothing but the flutter

of a steamboat's wheel, away down coming around the point; so we

come back.

"Yes," says I, "and other times, when things is dull, they fuss with

the parlyment; and if everybody don't go just so he whacks their heads

off. But mostly they hang round the harem."

"Roun' de which?"

"What's de harem?"

"The place where he keep his wives. Don't you know about the

harem? Solomon had one; he had about a million wives."

"Why, yes, dat's so; I- I'd done forgot it. A harem's a

bo'd'n-house, I reck'on. Mos' likely dey has rackety times in de

nussery. En I reck'n de wives quarrels considable; en dat 'crease de

racket. Yit dey say Sollermun de wises' man dat ever live'. I doan'

take no stock in dat. Bekase why would a wise man want to live in de

mids'er sich a blimblammin' all de time? No- 'deed he wouldn't. A wise

man 'ud take en buil' a biler-factry; en den he could shet down de

biler-factry when he want to res'."

"Well, but he was the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she told

me so, her own self."

"I doan k'yer what de widder say, he warn't no wise man, nuther.

He had some er de dad-fetchedes' ways I ever see. Does you know

'bout dat chile dat he 'uz gwyne to chop in two?"

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

"Well, den! Warn't dat de beatenes' notion in de worl'? You jes'

take en look at it a minute. Dah's de stump, dah- dat's one er de

women; heah's you- dat's de yuther one; I's Sollermun; en dish-yer

dollar bill's de chile. Bofe un you claims it. What does I do? Does

I shin aroun' mongs' de neighbors en fine out which un you de bill

do b'long to, en han' it over to de right one, all safe en soun', de

way dat anybody dat had any gumption would? No- I take en whack de

bill in two, en give half un it to you, en de yuther half to de yuther

woman. Dat's de way Sollermun was gwyne to do wid de chile. Now I want

to ast you: what's de use er dat half a bill?- can't buy noth'n wid

it. En what use is a half a chile? I would'n give a dern for a million

un um."

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

missed it a thousand mile."

"Who? Me? Go 'long. Doan' talk to me 'bout yo' pints. I reck'n I

knows sense when I sees it; en dey ain' no sense in sich doin's as

dat. De 'spute warn't 'bout a half a chile, de 'spute was 'bout a

whole chile; en de man dat think he kin settle a 'spute 'bout a

whole chile wid a half a chile, doan' know enough to come in out'n

de rain. Doan'talk to me 'bout Sollermun, Huck, I knows him by de

back."

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

"Blame de pint! I reck'n I knows what I knows. En mine you, de

real pint is down furder- it's down deeper. It lays in de way

Sollermun was raised. You take a man dat's got on'y one er two

chillen; is dat man gwyne to be waseful o' chillen? No, he ain't; he

can't'ford it. He know how to value 'em. But you take a man dat's

got 'bout five million chillen runnin' roun' de house, en it's

diffunt. He as soon chop a chile in two as a cat. Dey's plenty mo'.

A chile er two, mo'er less, warn't no consekens to Sollermun, dad

fetch him!"

I never see such a nigger. If he got a notion in his head once,

there warn't no getting it out again. He was the most down on

Solomon of any nigger I ever see. So I went to talking about other

kings, and let Solomon slide. I told about Louis Sixteenth that got

his head cut off in France long time ago; and about his little boy the

dolphin, that would a been a king, but they took and shut him up in

jail, and some say he died there.

"Po' little chap."

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

"Dat's good! But he'll be ooty lonesome- dey ain' no kings here,

is dey, Huck?"

"No."

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

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

them learns people how to talk French."

"Why, Huck, doan' de French people talk de same way we does?"

"No, Jim; you couldn't understand a word they said- not a single

word."

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

"I don't know; but it's so. I got some of their jabber out of a

book. Spose a man was to come to you and say 'Polly-voo-franzy'-

what would you think?"

"I wouldn't think nuff'n; I'd take en bust him over de head. Dat is,

if he warn't white. I wouldn't 'low no nigger to call me dat."

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

how to talk French."

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

"Why, he is a-saying it. That's a Frenchman's way of saying it."

"Well, it's a blame' ridicklous way, en I doan' want to hear no

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

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

"No, a cat don't."

"Well, does a cow?"

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

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

"No, dey don't."

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

ain't it?"

"Course."

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

different from us?"

"Why, mos' sholy it is."

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

talk different from us? You answer me that."

"Is a cat a man, Huck?"

"No."

"Well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a man. Is a cow

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

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

"Well, den, she ain' got no business to talk like either one or

the yuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman a man?"

"Well, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he talk like a man? You answer

me dat!"

I see it warn't no use wasting words- you can't learn a nigger to

argue. So I quit.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

We judged that three nights more would fetch us to Cairo, at the

bottom of Illinois, where the Ohio River comes in, and that was what

we was after. We would sell the raft and get on a steamboat and go way

up the Ohio amongst the free States, and then be out of trouble.

Well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for a

tow-head to tie to, for it wouldn't do to try to run in fog; but

when I paddled ahead in the canoe, with the line, to make fast,

there warn't anything but little saplings to tie to. I passed the line

around one of them right on the edge of the cut bank, but there was

a stiff current, and the raft come booming down so lively she tore

it out by the roots and away she went. I see the fog closing down, and

it made me so sick and scared I couldn't budge for most a half a

minute it seemed to me- and then there warn't no raft in sight; you

couldn't see twenty yards. I jumped into the canoe and run back to the

stern and grabbed the paddle and set her back a stroke. But she didn't

come. I was in such a hurry I hadn't untied her. I got up and tried to

untie her, but I was so excited my hands shook so I couldn't hardly do

anything with them.

As soon as I got started I took out after the raft, hot and heavy,

right down to the tow-head. That was all right as far as it went,

but the tow-head warn't sixty yards long, and the minute I flew by the

foot of it I shot out into the solid white fog, and hadn't no more

idea which way I was going than a dead man.

Thinks I, it won't do to paddle; first I know I'll run into the bank

or a tow-head or something; I got to set still and float, and yet it's

mighty fidgety business to have to hold your hands still at such a

time. I whooped and listened. Away down there, somewheres, I hears a

small whoop, and up comes my spirits. I went tearing after it,

listening sharp to hear it again. The next time it come, I see I

warn't heading for it but heading away to the right of it. And the

next time, I was heading away to the left of it- and not gaining on it

much, either, for I was flying around, this way and that and

'tother, but it was going straight ahead all the time.

I did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it all

the time, but he never did, and it was the still places between the

whoops that was making the trouble for me. Well, I fought along, and

directly I hears the whoop behind me. I was tangled good, now. That

was somebody else's whoop, or else I was turned around.

I throwed the paddle down. I heard the whoop again; it was behind me

yet, but in a different place; it kept coming and kept changing its

place, and I kept answering, till by-and-by it was in front of me

again and I knowed the current had swung the canoe's head down

stream and I was all right, if that was Jim and not some other

raftsman hollering. I couldn't tell nothing about voices in a fog, for

nothing don't look natural nor sound natural in a fog.

The whooping went on, and in about a minute I come a booming down on

a cut bank with smoky ghosts of big trees on it, and the current

throwed me off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags that

fairly roared, the current was tearing by them so swift.

In another second or two it was solid white and still again. I set

perfectly still, then, listening to my heart thump, and I reckon I

didn't draw a breath while it thumped a hundred.

I just give up, then. I knowed what the matter was. That cut bank

was an island, and Jim had gone down 'tother side of it. It warn't

no tow-head, that you could float by in ten minutes. It had the big

timber of a regular island; it might be five or six mile long and more

than a half a mile wide.

I kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, I

reckon. I was floating along, of course, four or five mile an hour;

but you don't ever think of that. No, you feel like you are laying

dead still on the water; and if a little glimpse of a snag slips by,

you don't think to yourself how fast you're going, but you catch

your breath and think, my! how that snag's tearing along. If you think

it ain't dismal and lonesome out in a fog that way, by yourself, in

the night, you try it once- you'll see.

Next, for about a half an hour, I whoops now and then; at last I

hears the answer a long ways off, and tries to follow it, but I

couldn't do it, and directly I judged I'd got into a nest of

tow-heads, for I had little dim glimpses of them on both sides of

me, sometimes just a narrow channel between; and some that I

couldn't see, I knowed was there, because I'd hear the wash of the

current against the old dead brush and trash that hung over the banks.

Well, I warn't long losing the whoops, down amongst the tow-heads; and

I only tried to chase them a little while, anyway, because it was

worse than chasing a Jack-o-lantern. You never knowed a sound dodge

around so, and swap places so quick and so much.

I had to claw away from the bank pretty lively, four or five

times, to keep from knocking the islands out of the river; and so I

judged the raft must be butting into the bank every now and then, or

else it would get further ahead and clear out of hearing- it was

floating a little faster than what I was.

Well, I seemed to be in the open river again, by-and-by, but I

couldn't hear no sign of a whoop nowheres. I reckoned Jim had

fetched up on a snag, maybe, and it was all up with him. I was good

and tired, so I laid down in the canoe and said I wouldn't bother no

more. I didn't want to go to sleep, of course; but I was so sleepy I

couldn't help it; so I thought I would take just one little cat-nap.

But I reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when I waked up the

stars was shining bright, the fog was all gone, and I was spinning

down a big bend stern first. First I didn't know where I was; I

thought I was dreaming; and when things begun to come back to me, they

seemed to come up dim out of last week.

It was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest and the thickest

kind of timber on both banks; just a solid wall, as well as I could

see, by the stars. I looked away down stream, and seen a black speck

on the water. I took out after it; but when I got to it warn't nothing

but a couple of saw-logs made fast together. Then I see another speck,

and chased that; then another, and this time I was right. It was the

raft.

When I got to it Jim was setting there with his head down between

his knees, asleep, with his right arm hanging over the steering oar.

The other oar was smashed off, and the raft was littered up with

leaves and branches and dirt. So she'd had a rough time.

I made fast and laid down under Jim's nose on the raft, and begun to

gap, and stretch my fists out against Jim, and says:

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

"Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you ain' dead- you

ain'drownded- you's back again? It's too good for true, honey, it's

too good for true. Lemme look at you, chile, lemme feel o' you. No,

you ain' dead! you's back again, 'live en soun', jis de same ole Huck-

de same ole Huck, thanks to goodness!"

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

"Drinkin'? Has I ben a drinkin'? Has I had a chance to be a

drinkin'?"

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

"How does I talk wild?"

"How? why, hain't you been talking about my coming back, and all

that stuff, as if I'd been gone away?"

"Huck- Huck Finn, you look me in de eye; look me in de eye. Hain't

you ben gone away?"

"Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you mean? I hain't been

gone anywheres. Where would I go to?"

"Well, looky here, boss, dey's sumf'n wrong, dey is. Is I me, or who

is I? Is I heah, or whah is I? Now dat's what I wants to know?"

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

tangle-headed old fool, Jim."

"I is, is I? Well you answer me dis. Didn't you tote out de line

in de canoe, fer to make fas' to de tow-head?"

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

"You hain't seen no tow-head? Looky here- didn't de line pull

loose en de raf' go a hummin' down de river, en leave you en de

canoe behine in de fog?"

"What fog?"

"Why de fog. De fog dat's ben aroun' all night. En didn't you whoop,

en didn't I whoop, tell we got mix' up in de islands en one un us

got los' en 'tother one was jis' as good as los', 'kase he didn'

know whah he wuz? En didn't I bust up again a lot er dem islands en

have a turrible time en mos' git drownded? Now ain'dat so, boss- ain't

it so? You answer me dat."

"Well, this is too many for me, Jim. I hain't seen no fog, nor no

islands nor no troubles, nor nothing. I been setting here talking with

you all night till you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and I

reckon I done the same. You couldn't a got drunk in that time, so of

course you've been dreaming."

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

"Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn't any of it

happen."

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

"It don't make no difference how plain it is, there ain't nothing in

it. I know, because I've been here all the time."

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

studying over it. Then he says:

"Well, den, I reck'n I did dream it, Huck; but dog my cats ef it

ain't de powerfullest dream I ever see. En I hain't ever had no

dream b'fo' dat's tired me like dis one."

"Oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does tire a body like

everything, sometimes. But this one was a staving dream- tell me all

about it, Jim."

So Jim went to work and told me the whole thing right through,

just as it happened, only he painted it up considerable. Then he

said he must start in and "'terpret" it, because it was sent for a

warning. He said the first tow-head stood for a man that would try

to do us some good, but the current was another man that would get

us away from him. The whoops was warnings that would come to us

every now and then, and if we didn't try hard to make out to

understand them they'd just take us into bad luck, 'stead of keeping

us out of it. The lot of tow-heads was troubles we was going to get

into with quarrelsome people and all kinds of mean folks, but if we

minded our business and didn't talk back and aggravate them, we

would pull through and get out of the fog and into the big clear

river, which was the free States, and wouldn't have no more trouble.

It had clouded up pretty dark just after I got onto the raft, but it

was clearing up again, now.

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

Jim," I says; "but what does these things stand for?"

It was the leaves and rubbish on the raft, and the smashed oar.

You could see them first rate, now.

Jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the

trash again. He had got the dream fixed so strong in his head that

he couldn't seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its

place again, right away. But when he did get the thing straightened

around, he looked at me steady, without ever smiling, and says:

"What do dey stan' for? I's gwyne to tell you. When I got all wore

out wid work, en wid de callin' for you, en went to sleep, my heart

wuz mos' broke bekase you wuz los', en I didn' k'yer no mo' what

become er me en de raf'. En when I wake up en fine you back agin', all

safe en soun', de tears come en I could a got down on my knees en

kiss' yo' foot I's so thankful. En all you wuz thinkin 'bout wuz how

you could make a fool uv ole Jim wid a lie. Dat truck dah is trash; en

trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren's en

makes 'em ashamed."

Then he got up slow, and walked to the wigwam, and went in there,

without saying anything but that. But that was enough. It made me feel

so mean I could almost kissed his foot to get him to take it back.

It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go and

humble myself to a nigger- but I done it, and I warn't ever sorry

for it afterwards, neither. I didn't do him no more mean tricks, and I

wouldn't done that one if I'd a knowed it would make him feel that

way.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

We slept most all day, and started out at night, a little ways

behind a monstrous long raft that was as long going by as a

procession. She had four long sweeps at each end, so we judged she

carried as many as thirty men, likely. She had five big wigwams

aboard, wide apart, and an open camp fire in the middle, and a tall

flag-pole at each end. There was a power of style about her. It

amounted to something being a raftsman on such a craft as that.

We went drifting down into a big bend, and the night clouded up

and got hot. The river was very wide, and was walled with solid timber

on both sides; you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever, or a light.

We talked about Cairo, and wondered whether we would know it when we

got to it. I said likely we wouldn't, because I had heard say there

warn't but about a dozen houses there, and if they didn't happen to

have them lit up, how was we going to know we was passing a town?

Jim said if the two big rivers joined together there, that would show.

But I said maybe we might think we was passing the foot of an island

and coming into the same old river again. That disturbed Jim- and me

too. So the question was, what to do? I said, paddle ashore the

first time a light showed, and tell them pap was behind, coming

along with a trading-scow, and was a green hand at the business, and

wanted to know how far it was to Cairo. Jim thought it was a good

idea, so we took a smoke on it and waited.

There warn't nothing to do, now, but to look out sharp for the town,

and not pass it without seeing it. He said he'd be mighty sure to

see it, because he'd be a free man the minute he seen it, but if he

missed it he'd be in the slave country again and no more show for

freedom. Every little while he jumps up and says:

"Dah she is!"

But it warn't. It was Jack-o-lanterns, or lightning-bugs; so he

set down again, and went to watching, same as before. Jim said it made

him all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom. Well, I

can tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear

him, because I begun to get it through my head that he was most

free- and who was to blame for it? Why, me. I couldn't get that out of

my conscience, no how nor no way. It got to troubling me so I couldn't

rest; I couldn't stay still in one place. It hadn't ever come home

to me before, what this thing was that I was doing. But now it did;

and it staid with me, and scorched me more and more. I tried to make

out to myself that I warn't to blame, because I didn't run Jim off

from his rightful owner; but it warn't no use, conscience up and says,

every time, "But you knowed he was running for his freedom, and you

could a paddled ashore and told somebody." That was so- I couldn't get

around that, no way. That was where it pinched. Conscience says to me,

"What had poor Miss Watson done to you, that you could see her

nigger go off right under your eyes and never say one single word?

What did that poor old woman do to you, that you could treat her so

mean? Why, she tried to learn you your book, she tried to learn you

your manners, she tried to be good to you every way she knowed how.

That's what she done."

I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished I was

dead. I fidgeted up and down the raft, abusing myself to myself, and

Jim was fidgeting up and down past me. We neither of us could keep

still. Every time he danced around and says, "Dah's Cairo!" it went

through me like a shot, and I thought if it was Cairo I reckoned I

would die of miserableness.

Jim talked out loud all the time while I was talking to myself. He

was saying how the first thing he would do when he got to a free State

he would go to saving up money and never spend a single cent, and when

he got enough he would buy his wife, which was owned on a farm close

to where Miss Watson lived; and then they would both work to buy the

two children, and if their master wouldn't sell them, they'd get an

Ab'litionist to go and steal them.

It most froze me to hear such talk. He wouldn't ever dared to talk

such talk in his life before. Just see what a difference it made in

him the minute he judged he was about free. It was according to the

old saying, "give a nigger an inch and he'll take an ell." Thinks I,

this is what comes of my not thinking. Here was this nigger which I

had as good as helped to run away, coming right out flat-footed and

saying he would steal his children- children that belonged to a man

I didn't even know; a man that hadn't ever done me no harm.

I was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a lowering of him.

My conscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last

I says to it, "Let up on me- it ain't too late, yet- I'll paddle

ashore at the first light and tell." I felt easy, and happy, and light

as a feather, right off. All my troubles was gone. I went to looking

out sharp for a light, and sort of singing to myself. By-and-by one

showed. Jim sings out:

"We's safe, Huck, we's safe! Jump up and crack yo' heels, dat's de

good ole Cairo at las', I jis knows it!"

I says:

"I'll take the canoe and go see, Jim. It mightn't be, you know."

He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the

bottom for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as I shoved

off, he says:

"Pooty soon I'll be a-shout'n for joy, en I'll say, it's all on

accounts o' Huck; I's a free man, en I couldn't ever ben free ef it

hadn't ben for Huck; Huck done it. Jim won't ever forgit you, Huck;

you's de bes' fren' Jim's ever had; en you's de only fren' ole Jim's

got now."

I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he

says this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. I went

along slow then, and I warn't right down certain whether I was glad

I started or whether I warn't. When I was fifty yards off, Jim says:

"Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on'y white genlman dat ever kep'

his promise to ole Jim."

Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I got to do it- I can't get

out of it. Right then, along comes a skiff with two men in it, with

guns, and they stopped and I stopped. One of them says:

"What's that, yonder?"

"A piece of a raft," I says.

"So you belong on it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any men on it?"

"Only one, sir."

"Well, there's five niggers run off to-night, up yonder above the

head of the bend. Is your man white or black?"

I didn't answer up prompt. I tried to, but the words wouldn't

come. I tried, for a second or two, to brace up and out with it, but I

warn't man enough- hadn't the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was

weakening; so I just give up trying, and up and says-

"He's white."

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

"I wish you would," says I, "because it's pap that's there, and

maybe you'd help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. He's sick-

and so is mam and Mary Ann."

"Oh, the devil! we're in a hurry, boy. But I s'pose we've got to.

Come- buckle to your paddle, and let's get along."

I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. When we had made

a stroke or two, I says:

"Pap'll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can tell you. Everybody

goes away when I want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and I can't

do it by myself."

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

with your father?"

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

They stopped pulling. It warn't but a mighty little waysto the raft,

now. One says:

"Boy, that's a lie. What is the matter with your pap? Answer up

square, now, and it'll be the better for you."

"I will, sir, I will, honest- but don't leave us, please. It's

the- the- gentlemen, if you'll only pull ahead, and let me heave you

the head-line, you won't have to come a-near the raft- please do."

"Set her back, John, set her back!" says one. They backed water.

"Keep away, boy- keep to looard. Confound it, I just expect the wind

has blowed it to us. Your pap's got the smallpox, and you know it

precious well. Why didn't you come out and say so? Do you want to

spread it all over?"

"Well," says I, a-blubbering, "I've told everybody before, and

then they just went away and left us."

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

for you, but we- well, hang it, we don't want the smallpox, you see.

Look here, I'll tell you what to do. Don't you try to land by

yourself, and you'll smash everything to pieces. You float along

down about twenty miles and you'll come to a town on the left-hand

side of the river. It will be long after sun-up, then, and when you

ask for help, you tell them your folks are all down with chills and

fever. Don't be a fool again, and let people guess what is the matter.

Now we're trying to do you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles

between us, that's a good boy. It wouldn't do any good to land

yonder where the light is- it's only a wood-yard. Say- I reckon your

father's poor, and I'm bound to say he's in pretty hard luck. Here-

I'll put a twenty dollar gold piece on this board, and you get it when

it floats by. I feel mighty mean to leave you, but my kingdom! it

won't do to fool with smallpox, don't you see?"

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

the board for me. Good-bye, boy, you do as Mr. Parker told you, and

you'll be all right."

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

niggers, you get help and nab them, and you can make some money by

it."

"Good-bye, sir," says I, "I won't let no runaway niggers get by me

if I can help it."

They went off, and I got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low,

because I knowed very well I had done wrong, and I see it warn't no

use for me to try to learn to do right; a body that don't get

started right when he's little, ain't got no show- when the pinch

comes there ain't nothing to back him up and keep him to his work, and

so he gets beat. Then I thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on-

s'pose you'd a done right and give Jim up; would you felt better

than what you do now? No, says I, I'd feel bad- I'd feel just the same

way I do now. Well, then, says I, what's the use you learning to do

right, when it's troublesome to do right and ain't no trouble to do

wrong, and the wages is just the same? I was stuck. I couldn't

answer that. So I reckoned I wouldn't bother no more about it, but

after this always do whichever comes handiest at the time.

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

warn't anywhere. I says:

"Jim!"

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

He was in the river, under the stern oar, with just his nose out.

I told him they was out of sight, so he come aboard. He says:

"I was a-listenin' to all de talk, en I slips into de river en was

gwyne to shove for sho' if dey come aboard. Den I was gwyne to swim to

de raf' agin when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool 'em, Huck!

Dat wuz de smartes' dodge! tell you, chile, I 'speck it save' ole Jim-

ole Jim ain' gwyne to forgit you for dat, honey."

Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty good raise, twenty

dollars apiece. Jim said we could take deck passage on a steamboat

now, and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the free

States. He said twenty mile more warn't far for the raft to go, but he

wished we was already there.

Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty particular about

hiding the raft good. Then he worked all day fixing things in bundles,

and getting all ready to quit rafting.

That night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away

down in a left-hand bend.

I went off in the canoe, to ask about it. Pretty soon I found a

man out in the aver with a skiff, setting a trot-line. I ranged up and

says:

"Mister, is that town Cairo?"

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

"What town is it, mister?"

"If you want to know, go and find out. If you stay here botherin'

around me for about a half minute longer, you'll get something you

won't want."

I paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed, but I said

never mind, Cairo would be the next place, I reckoned.

We passed another town before daylight, and I was going out again;

but it was high ground, so I didn't go. No high ground about Cairo,

Jim said. I had forgot it. We laid up for the day, on a tow-head

tolerable close to the left-hand bank. I begun to suspicion something.

So did Jim. I says:

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

He says:

"Doan' less' talk about it, Huck. Po' niggers can't have no luck.

I awluz 'spected dat rattle-snake skin warn't done wid its work."

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

laid eyes on it."

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

'bout it."

When it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio water in shore, sure

enough, and outside was the old regular Muddy! So it was all up with

Cairo.

We talked it all over. It wouldn't do to take to the shore; we

couldn't take the raft up the stream, of course. There warn't no way

but to wait for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the

chances. So we slept all day amongst the cotton-wood thicket, so as to

be fresh for the work, and when we went back to the raft about dark

the canoe was gone!

We didn't say a word for a good while. There warn't anything to say.

We both knowed well enough it was some more work of the rattle-snake

skin; so what was the use to talk about it? It would only look like we

was finding fault, and that would be bound to fetch more bad luck- and

keep on fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep still.

By-and-by we talked about what we better do, and found there

warn't no way but just to go along down with the raft till we got a

chance to buy a canoe to go back in. We warn't going to borrow it when

there warn't anybody around, the way pap would do, for that might

set people after us.

So we shoved out, after dark, on the raft.

Anybody that don't believe yet, that it's foolishness to handle a

snake-skin, after all that snake-skin done for us, will believe it

now, if they read on and see what more it done for us.

The place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying at shore. But we

didn't see no rafts laying up; so we went along during three hours and

more. Well, the night got gray, and ruther thick, which is the next

meanest thing to fog. You can't tell the shape of the river, and you

can't see no distance. It got to be very late and still, and then

along comes a steamboat up the river. We lit the lantern, and judged

she would see it. Up-stream boats didn't generly come close to us;

they go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the

reefs; but nights like this they bull right up the channel against the

whole river.

We could hear her pounding along, but we didn't see her good till

she was close. She aimed right for us. Often they do that and try to

see how close they can come without touching; sometimes the wheel

bites off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and

laughs, and thinks he's mighty smart. Well, here she comes, and we

said she was going to try to shave us; but she didn't seem to be

sheering off a bit. She was a big one, and she was coming in a

hurry, too, looking like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms

around it; but all of a sudden she laughed out, big and scary, with

a long row of wide-open furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth,

and her monstrous bows and guards hanging right over us. There was a

yell at us, and a jingling of bells to stop the engines, a pow-wow

of cussing, and whistling of steam- and as Jim went overboard on one

side and I on the other, she come smashing straight through the raft.

I dived- and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot

wheel had got to go over me, and I wanted it to have plenty of room. I

could always stay under water a minute; this time I reckon I staid

under water a minute and a half. Then I bounced for the top in a

hurry, for I was nearly busting. I popped out to my arm-pits and

blowed the water out of my nose, and puffed a bit. Of course there was

a booming current; and of course that boat started her engines again

ten seconds after she stopped them, for they never cared much for

raftsmen; so now she was churning along up the river, out of sight

in the thick weather, though I could hear her.

I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn't get any answer;

so I grabbed a plank that touched me while I was "treading water," and

struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. But I made out to see

that the drift of the current was towards the left-hand shore, which

meant that I was in a crossing; so I changed off and went that way.

It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so I was a

good long time in getting over. I made a safe landing, and clum up the

bank. I couldn't see but a little ways, but I went poking along over

rough ground for a quarter of a mile or more, and then I run across

a big old-fashioned double log house before I noticed it. I was

going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went

to howling and barking at me, and I knowed better than to move another

peg.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

In about half a minute somebody spoke out of a window, without

putting his head out, and says:

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

I says:

"It's me."

"Who's me?"

"George Jackson, sir."

"What do you want?"

"I don't want nothing, sir. I only want to go along by, but the dogs

won't let me."

"What are you prowling around here this time of night, for- hey?"

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

steamboat."

"Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, somebody.

What did you say your name was?"

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

"Look here; if you're telling the truth, you needn't be afraid-

nobody'll hurt you. But don't try to budge; stand right where you are.

Rouse out Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George

Jackson, is there anybody with you?"

"No, sir, nobody."

I heard the people stirring around in the house, now, and see a

light. The man sung out:

"Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool- ain't you got any

sense? Put it on the floor behind the front door. Bob, if you and

Tom are ready, take your places."

"All ready."

"Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?"

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

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

forward, George Jackson. And mind, don't you hurry- come mighty

slow. If there's anybody with you, let him keep back- if he shows

himself he'll be shot. Come along, now. Come slow; push the door open,

yourself- just enough to squeeze in, d' you hear?"

I didn't hurry, I couldn't if I'd a wanted to. I took one slow

step at a time, and there warn't a sound, only I thought I could

hear my heart. The dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed

a little behind me. When I got to the three log door-steps, I heard

them unlocking and unbarring and unbolting. I put my hand on the

door and pushed it a little and a little more, till somebody said,

"There, that's enough- put your head in." I done it, but I judged they

would take it off.

The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at

me, and me at them, for about a quarter of a minute. Three big men

with guns pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the

oldest, gray and about sixty, the other two thirty or more- all of

them fine and handsome- and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and

back of her two young women which I couldn't see right well. The old

gentleman says:

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

As soon as I was in, the old gentleman he locked the door and barred

it and bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their guns,

and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the

floor, and got together in a corner that was out of range of the front

windows- there warn't none on the side. They held the candle, and took

a good look at me, and all said, "Why he ain't a Shepherdson- no,

there ain't any Shepherdson about him." Then the old man said he hoped

I wouldn't mind being searched for arms, because he didn't mean no

harm by it- it was only to make sure. So he didn't pry into my

pockets, but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was all

right. He told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all

about myself; but the old lady says:

"Why bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; and

don't you reckon it may be he's hungry?"

"True for you, Rachel- I forgot."

So the old lady says:

"Betsy" (this was a nigger woman), "you fly around and get him

something to eat, as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you

girls go and wake up Buck and tell him- Oh, here he is himself.

Buck, take this little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him

and dress him up in some of yours that's dry."

Buck looked about as old as me- thirteen or fourteen or along there,

though he was a little bigger than me. He hadn't on anything but a

shirt, and he was very frowsy-headed. He come in gaping and digging

one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the other

one. He says:

"Ain't they no Shepherdsons around?"

They said, no, 'twas a false alarm.

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

They all laughed, and Bob says:

"Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you've been so slow in

coming."

"Well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right. I'm always kep'

down; I don't get no show."

"Never mind, Buck, my boy," says the old man, "you'll have show

enough, all in good time, don't you fret about that. Go 'long with you

now, and do as your mother told you."

When we got up stairs to his room, he got me a coarse shirt and a

roundabout and pants of his, and I put them on. While I was at it he

asked me what my name was, but before I could tell him, he started

to telling me about a blue jay and a young rabbit he had catched in

the woods day before yesterday, and he asked me where Moses was when

the candle went out. I said I didn't know; I hadn't heard about it

before, no way.

"Well, guess," he says.

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

it before?"

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

"Which candle?" I says.

"Why, any candle," he says.

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

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

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

"Why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? Say, how long are

you going to stay here? You got to stay always. We can just have

booming times- they don't have no school now. Do you own a dog? I've

got a dog- and he'll go in the river and bring out chips that you

throw in. Do you like to comb up, Sundays, and all that kind of

foolishness? You bet I don't, but ma she makes me. Confound these

ole britches, I reckon I'd better put'em on, but I'd ruther not,

it's so warm. Are you all ready? All right- come along, old hoss."

Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk- that is

what they had for me down there, and there ain't nothing better that

ever I've come across yet. Buck and his ma and all of them smoked

cob pipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two

young women. They all smoked and talked, and I eat and talked. The

young women had quilts around them, and their hair down their backs.

They all asked me questions, and I told them how pap and me and all

the family was living on a little farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw,

and my sister Mary Ann run off and got married and never was heard

of no more, and Bill went to hunt them and he warn't heard of no more,

and Tom and Mort died, and then there warn't nobody but just me and

pap left, and he was just trimmed down to nothing, on account of his

troubles; so when he died I took what there was left, because the farm

didn't belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, and

fell overboard; and that was how I come to be here. So they said I

could have a home there as long as I wanted it. Then it was most

daylight, and everybody went to bed, and I went to bed with Buck,

and when I waked up in the morning, drat it all, I had forgot what

my name was. So I laid there about an hour trying to think, and when

Buck waked up, I says:

"Can you spell, Buck?"

"Yes," he says.

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

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

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

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

"Well," says I, "you done it, but I didn't think you could. It ain't

no slouch of a name to spell- right off without studying."

I set it down, private, because somebody might want me to spell

it, next, and so I wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like I

was used to it.

It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. I

hadn't seen no house out in the country before that was so nice and

had so much style. It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor

a wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, and the

same as houses in a town. There warn't no bed in the parlor, not a

sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them. There

was a big fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was

kept clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with

another brick; sometimes they washed them over with red water-paint

that they called Spanish-brown, same as they do in town. They had

big brass dog-irons that could hold up a saw-log. There was a clock on

the middle of the mantel-piece, with a picture of a town painted on

the bottom half of the glass front, and a round place in the middle of

it for the sun, and you could see the pendulum swing behind it. It was

beautiful to hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of these

peddlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in good

shape, she would start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she

got tuckered out. They wouldn't took any money for her.

Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock,

made out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. By one of

the parrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the

other; and when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but didn't

open their mouths nor look different nor interested. They squeaked

through underneath. There was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans

spread out behind those things. On a table in the middle of the room

was a kind of lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges and

peaches and grapes piled up in it which was much redder and yellower

and prettier than real ones is, but they warn't real because you could

see where pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk or

whatever it was, underneath.

This table had a cover made out of beautiful oil-cloth, with a red

and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all

around. It come all the way from Philadelphia, they said. There was

some books too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table.

One was a big family Bible, full of pictures. One was "Pilgrim's

Progress," about a man that left his family it didn't say why. I

read considerable in it now and then. The statements was

interesting, but tough. Another was "Friendship's Offering," full of

beautiful stuff and poetry; but I didn't read the poetry. Another

was Henry Clay's Speeches, and another was Dr. Gunn's Family Medicine,

which told you all about what to do if a body was sick or dead.

There was a Hymn Book, and a lot of other books. And there was nice

split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too- not bagged down in

the middle and busted, like an old basket.

They had pictures hung on the walls- mainly Washingtons and

Lafayettes, and battles, and Highland Marys, and one called "Signing

the Declaration." There was some that they called crayons, which one

of the daughters which was dead made her own self when she was only

fifteen years old. They was different from any pictures I ever see

before; blacker, mostly, than is common. One was a woman in a slim

black dress, belted small under the arm-pits, with bulges like a

cabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel

bonnet with a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with

black tape, and very wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was

leaning pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping

willow, and her other hand hanging down her side holding a white

handkerchief and a reticule, and underneath the picture it said "Shall

I Never See Thee More Alas." Another one was a young lady with her

hair all combed up straight to the top of her head, and knotted

there in front of a comb like a chair-back, and she was crying into

a handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other

hand with its heels up, and underneath the picture it said "I Shall

Never Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas." There was one where a young

lady was at a window looking up at the moon, and tears running down

her cheeks; and she had an open letter in one hand with black

sealing-wax showing on one edge of it, and she was mashing a locket

with a chain to it against her mouth, and underneath the picture it

said "And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone Alas." These was all nice

pictures, I reckon, but I didn't somehow seem to take to them, because

if ever I was down a little, they always give me the fan-tods.

Everybody was sorry she died, because she had laid out a lot more of

these pictures to do, and a body could see by what she had done what

they had lost. But I reckoned, that with her disposition, she was

having a better time in the graveyard. She was at work on what they

said was her greatest picture when she took sick, and every day and

every night it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it

done, but she never got the chance. It was a picture of a young

woman in a long white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all ready

to jump off, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the

moon, with the tears running down her face, and she had two arms

folded across her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and two

more reaching up towards the moon- and the idea was, to see which pair

would look best and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was

saying, she died before she got her mind made up, and now they kept

this picture over the head of the bed in her room, and every time

her birthday come they hung flowers on it. Other times it was hid with

a little curtain. The young woman in the picture had a kind of a

nice sweet face, but there was so many arms it made her look too

spidery, seemed to me.

This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to

paste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it

out of the Presbyterian Observer, and write poetry after them out of

her own head. It was very good poetry. This is what she wrote about

a boy by the name of Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a well and

was drownded:

Ode to Stephen Dowling Bots, Dec'd.

And did young Stephen sicken,

And did young Stephen die?

And did the sad hearts thicken,

And did the mourners cry?

No; such was not the fate of

Young Stephen Dowling Bots;

Though sad hearts round him thickened,

'Twas not from sickness'shots.

No whooping-cough did rack his frame,

Nor measles drear, with spots;

Not these impaired the sacred name

Of Stephen Dowling Bots.

Despised love struck not with woe

That head of curly knots.

Nor stomach troubles laid him low,

Young Stephen Dowling Bots.

O No. Then list with tearful eye,

Whilst I his fate do tell.

His soul did from this cold world fly,

By falling down a well.

They got him out and emptied him;

Alas it was too late;

His spirit was gone for to sport aloft

In the realms of the good and great.

If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she was

fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could a done by-and-by. Buck

said she could rattle off poetry like nothing. She didn't ever have to

stop to think. He said she would slap down a line, and if she couldn't

find anything to rhyme with it she would just scratch it out and

slap down another one, and go ahead. She warn't particular, she

could write about anything you choose to give her to write about, just

so it was sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child

died, she would be on hand with her "tribute" before he was cold.

She called them tributes. The neighbors said it was the doctor

first, then Emmeline, then the undertaker- the undertaker never got in

ahead of Emmeline but once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme the dead

person's name, which was Whistler. She warn't ever the same, after

that; she never complained, but she kind of pined away and did not

live long. Poor thing, many's the time I made myself go up to the

little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrapbook

and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and I had

soured on her a little. I liked all that family, dead ones and all,

and warn't going to let anything come between us. Poor Emmeline made

poetry about all the dead people when she was alive, and it didn't

seem right that there warn't nobody to make some about her, now she

was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but I

couldn't seem to make it go, somehow. They kept Emmeline's room trim

and nice and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked to have

them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. The old lady

took care of the room herself, though there was plenty of niggers, and

she sewed there a good deal and read her Bible there, mostly.

Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains

on the windows: white, with pictures painted on them, of castles

with vines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink.

There was a little old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, I

reckon, and nothing was ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies

sing, "The Last Link is Broken" and play "The Battle of Prague" on it.

The walls of all the rooms was plastered, and most had carpets on

the floors, and the whole house was whitewashed on the outside.

It was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them was

roofed and floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the

middle of the day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. Nothing

couldn't be better. And warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of

it too!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Col. Grangerford was a gentleman, you see. He was a gentleman all

over; and so was his family. He was well born, as the saying is, and

that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the Widow

Douglas said, and nobody ever denied that she was of the first

aristocracy in our town; and pap he always said it, too, though he

warn't no more quality than a mudcat, himself. Col. Grangerford was

very tall and very slim, and had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign

of red in it anywheres; he was clean-shaved every morning, all over

his thin face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the

thinnest kind of nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and

the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they seemed like

they was looking out of caverns at you, as you may say. His forehead

was high, and his hair was black and straight, and hung to his

shoulders. His hands was long and thin, and every day of his life he

put on a clean shirt and a full suit from head to foot made out of

linen so white it hurt your eyes to look at it; and on Sundays he wore

a blue tail-coat with brass buttons on it. He carried a mahogany

cane with a silver head to it. There warn't no frivolishness about

him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud. He was as kind as he could

be- you could feel that, you know, and so you had confidence.

Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see; but when he

straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun

to flicker out from under his eyebrows you wanted to climb a tree

first, and find out what the matter was afterwards. He didn't ever

have to tell anybody to mind their manners- everybody was always

good mannered where he was. Everybody loved to have him around, too;

he was sunshine most always- I mean he made it seem like good weather.

When he turned into a cloud-bank it was awful dark for a half a minute

and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a week.

When him and the old lady come down in the morning, all the family

got up out of their chairs and give them good-day, and didn't set down

again till they had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard

where the decanters was, and mixed a glass of bitters and handed it to

him, and he held it in his hand and waited till Tom's and Bob's was

mixed, and then they bowed and said "Our duty to you, sir, and madam;"

and they bowed the least bit in the world and said thank you, and so

they drank, all three, and Bob and Tom poured a spoonful of water on

the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple brandy in the bottom of

their tumblers, and give it to me and Buck, and we drank to the old

people too.

Bob was the oldest, and Tom next. Tall, beautiful men with very

broad shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black eyes.

They dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman,

and wore broad Panama hats.

Then there was Miss Charlotte, she was twenty-five, and tall and

proud and grand, but as good as she could be, when she warn't

stirred up; but when she was, she had a look that would make you

wilt in your tracks, like her father. She was beautiful.

So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different kind. She was

gentle and sweet, like a dove, and she was only twenty.

Each person had their own nigger to wait on them- Buck, too. My

nigger had a monstrous easy time, because I warn't used to having

anybody do anything for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of the

time.

This was all there was of the family, now; but there used to be

more- three sons, they got killed; and Emmeline that died.

The old gentleman owned a lot of farms, and over a hundred

niggers. Sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, from

ten or fifteen mile around, and stay five or six days, and have such

junketings round about and on the river, and dances and picnics in the

woods, day-times, and balls at the house, nights. These people was

mostly kinfolks of the family. The men brought their guns with them.

It was a handsome lot of quality, I tell you.

There was another clan of aristocracy around there- five or six

families- mostly of the name of Shepherdson. They was as high-toned,

and well born, and rich and grand, as the tribe of Grangerfords. The

Shepherdsons and the Grangerfords used the same steamboat landing,

which was about two mile above our house; so sometimes when I went

up there with a lot of our folks I used to see a lot of the

Shepherdsons there, on their fine horses.

One day Buck and me was away out in the woods, hunting, and heard

a horse coming. We was crossing the road. Buck says:

"Quick! Jump for the woods!"

We done it, and then peeped down the woods through the leaves.

Pretty soon a splendid young man came galloping down the road, setting

his horse easy and looking like a soldier. He had his gun across his

pommel. I had seen him before. It was young Harney Shepherdson. I

heard Buck's gun go off at my ear, and Harney's hat tumbled off from

his head. He grabbed his gun and rode straight to the place where we

was hid. But we didn't wait. We started through the woods on a run.

The woods warn't thick, so I looked over my shoulder, to dodge the

bullet, and twice I seen Harney cover Buck with his gun; and then he

rode away the way he come- to get his hat, I reckon, but I couldn't

see. We never stopped running till we got home. The old gentleman's

eyes blazed a minute- 'twas pleasure, mainly, I judged- then his

face sort of smoothed down and he says, kind of gentle:

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

step into the road, my boy?"

"The Shepherdsons don't, father. They always take advantage."

Miss Charlotte she held her head up like a queen while Buck was

telling his tale and her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped. The two

young men looked dark, but never said nothing. Miss Sophia she

turned pale, but the color came back when she found the man warn't

hurt.

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

ourselves, I says:

"Did you want to kill him, Buck?"

"Well, I bet I did."

"What did he do to you?"

"Him? He never done nothing to me."

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

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

"What's a feud?"

"Why, where was you raised? Don't you know what a feud is?"

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

"Well," says Buck, "a feud is this way. A man has a quarrel with

another man, and kills him; then that other man's brother kills him;

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

cousins chip in- and by-and-by everybody's killed off, and there ain't

no more feud. But it's kind of slow, and takes a long time."

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

"Well I should reckon! it started thirty year ago, or som'ers

along there. There was trouble 'bout something and then a lawsuit to

settle it; and the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and

shot the man that won the suit- which he would naturally do, of

course. Anybody would."

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

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

"Well, who done the shooting?- was it a Grangerford or a

Shepherdson?"

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

"Don't anybody know?"

"Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old folks; but

they don't know, now, what the row was about in the first place."

"Has there been many killed, Buck?"

"Yes- right smart chance of funerals. But they don't always kill.

Pa's got a few buck-shot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't

weigh much anyway. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and Tom's

been hurt once or twice."

"Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?"

"Yes, we got one and they got one. 'Bout three months ago, my cousin

Bud, fourteen years old, was riding through the woods, on t'other side

of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which was blame'

foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse a-coming

behind him, and sees old Baldy Shepherdson a-linkin' after him with

his gun in his hand and his white hair a-flying in the wind; and

'stead of jumping off and taking to the brush, Bud 'lowed he could

outrun him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile and more,

the old man againing all the time; so at last Bud seen it warn't any

use, so he stopped and faced around so as to have the bullet holes

in front, you know, and the old man he rode up and shot him down.

But he didn't git much chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a

week our folks laid him out."

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

"I reckon he warn't a coward. Not by a blame' sight. There ain't a

coward amongst them Shepherdsons- not a one. And there ain't no

cowards amongst the Grangerfords, either. Why, that old man kep' up

his end in a fight one day, for a half an hour, against three

Grangerfords, and come out winner. They was all a-horseback; he lit

off of his horse and got behind a little wood-pile, and kep' his horse

before him to stop the bullets; but the Grangerfords staid on their

horses and capered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and

he peppered away at them. Him and his horse both went home pretty

leaky and crippled, but the Grangerfords had to be fetched home- and

one of 'em was dead, and another died the next day. No, sir, if a

body's out hunting for cowards, he don't want to fool away any time

against Shepherdsons, becuz they don't breed any of that kind."

Next Sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody

a-horseback. The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept them

between their knees or stood them handy against the wall. The

Shepherdsons done the same. It was pretty ornery preaching- all

about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said

it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and

had such a powerful lot to say about faith, and good works, and free

grace, and preforeordestination, and I don't know what all, that it

did seem to me to be one of the roughest Sundays I had run across yet.

About an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in

their chairs and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull.

Buck and a dog was stretched out on the grass in the sun, sound

asleep. I went up to our room, and judged I would take a nap myself. I

found that sweet Miss Sophia standing in her door, which was next to

ours, and she took me in her room and shut the door very soft, and

asked me if I liked her, and I said I did; and she asked me if I would

do something for her and not tell anybody, and I said I would. Then

she said she'd forgot her Testament, and left it in the seat at

church, between two other books and would I slip out quiet and go

there and fetch it to her, and not say nothing to nobody. I said I

would. So I slid out and slipped off up the road, and there warn't

anybody at the church, except maybe a hog or two, for there warn't any

lock on the door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor in summer-time

because it's cool. If you notice, most folks don't go to church only

when they've got to; but a hog is different.

Says I to myself something's up- it ain't natural for a girl to be

in such a sweat about a Testament; so I give it a shake, and out drops

a little piece of paper with "Half-past two" wrote on it with a

pencil. I ransacked it, but couldn't find anything else. I couldn't

make anything out of that, so I put the paper in the book again, and

when I got home and up stairs, there was Miss Sophia in her door

waiting for me. She pulled me in and shut the door; then she looked in

the Testament till she found the paper, and as soon as she read it she

looked glad; and before a body could think, she grabbed me and give me

a squeeze, and said I was the best boy in the world, and not to tell

anybody. She was mighty red in the face, for a minute, and her eyes

lighted up and it made her powerful pretty. I was a good deal

astonished, but when I got my breath I asked what the paper was about,

and she asked me if I had read it, and I said no, and she asked me

if I could read writing and I told her "no, only coarse-hand," and

then she said the paper warn't anything but a book-mark to keep her

place, and I might go and play now.

I went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty

soon I noticed that my nigger was following along behind. When we

was out of sight of the house, he looked back and around a second, and

then comes a-running, and says:

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

whole stack o' water-moccasins."

Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he said that yesterday. He

oughter know a body don't love water moccasins enough to go around

hunting for them. What is he up to anyway? So I says-

"All right, trot ahead."

I followed a half a mile, then he struck out over the swamp and

waded ankle deep as much as another half mile. We come to a little

flat piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and

bushes and vines, and he says-

"You shove right in dah, jist a few steps, Mars Jawge, dah's whah

dey is. I's seed 'm befo', I don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'."

Then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees

hid him. I poked into the place a-ways, and come to a little open

patch as big as a bedroom, all hung around with vines, and found a man

laying there asleep- and by jings it was my old Jim!

I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise

to him to see me again, but it warn't. He nearly cried, he was so

glad, but he warn't surprised. Said he swum along behind me, that

night, and heard me yell every time, but dasn't answer, because he

didn't want nobody to pick him up, and take him into slavery again.

Says he-

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

ways behine you, towards de las'; when you landed I reckoned I could

ketch up wid you on de lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when I

see dat house I begin to go slow. I off too fur to hear what dey say

to you- I wuz 'fraid o' de dogs- but when it 'uz all quiet agin, I

knowed you's in de house, so I struck out for de woods to wait for

day. Early in de mawnin' some er de niggers come along, gwyne to de

fields, en dey tuck me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can't

track me on accounts o' de water, en dey brings me truck to eat

every night, en tells me how you's a gitt'n along."

"Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim?"

"Well,'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck, tell we could do sumfn-

but we's all right, now. I ben a-buyin' pots en pans en vittles, as

I get a chanst, en a patchin' up de raf', nights, when-"

"What raft, Jim?"

"Our ole raf'."

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

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

but dey warn't no great harm done, on'y our traps was mos' all los'.

Ef we hadn' dive' so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night

hadn' ben so dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd, en ben sich

punkin-heads, as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'. But it's jis' as

well we didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed up agin mos' as good as new,

en we's got a new lot o' stuff, too, in de place o' what 'uz los'."

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

her?"

"How I gwyne to ketch her, en I out in de woods? No, some er de

niggers foun' her ketched on a snag, along heah in de ben', en dey hid

her in a crick, 'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout

which un 'um she b'long to de mos', dat I come to heah 'bout it

pooty soon, so I ups en settles de trouble by tellin' 'um she don't

b'long to none uv um, but to you en me; en I ast'm if dey gwyne to

grab a young white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? Den I gin

'm ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some

mo' raf's 'ud come along en make 'm rich agin. Dey's mighty good to

me, dese niggers is, en whatever I wants 'm to do fur me, I doan' have

to ast 'm twice, honey. Dat Jack's a good nigger, en pooty smart."

"Yes, he is. He ain't ever told me you was here; told me to come,

and he'd show me a lot of water-moccasins. If anything happens, he

ain't mixed up in it. He can say he never seen us together, and

it'll be the truth."

I don't want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I'll cut it

pretty short. I waked up about dawn, and was agoing to turn over and

go to sleep again, when I noticed how still it was- didn't seem to

be anybody stirring. That warn't usual. Next I noticed that Buck was

up and gone. Well, I gets up, a-wondering, and goes down stairs-

nobody around; everything as still as a mouse. Just the same

outside; thinks I, what does it mean? Down by the wood-pile I comes

across my Jack, and says:

"What's it all about?"

Says he:

"Don't you know, Mars Jawge?"

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

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

de night, sometime- nobody don't know jis' when- run off to git

married to dat young Harney Shepherdson, you know- leastways, so dey

'spec. De fambly foun' it out, 'bout half an hour ago- maybe a

little mo'- en' I tell you dey warn't no time los'. Sich another

hurryin' up guns en hosses you never see! De women folks has gone

for to stir up the relations, en ole Mars Saul en de boys tuck dey

guns en rode up de river road for to try to ketch dat young man en

kill him 'fo' he kin git acrost de river wid Miss Sophia. I reck'n

dey's gwyne to be mighty rough times."

"Buck went off 'thout waking me up."

"Well I reck'n he did! Dey warn't gwyne to mix you up in it. Mars

Buck he loaded up his gun en 'lowed he's gwyne to fetch home a

Shepherdson or bust. Well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, I reck'n, en

you bet you he'll fetch one ef he gits a chanst."

I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By-and-by I begin

to hear guns a good ways off. When I come in sight of the log store

and the wood-pile where the steamboats lands, I worked along under the

trees and brush till I got to a good place, and then I clumb up into

the forks of a cotton-wood that was out of reach, and watched. There

was a wood-rank four foot high, a little ways in front of the tree,

and first I was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was luckier

I didn't.

There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the

open place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to

get at a couple of young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside

of the steamboat landing- but they couldn't come it. Every time one of

them showed himself on the river side of the wood-pile he got shot at.

The two boys was squatting back to back behind the pile, so they could

watch both ways.

By-and-by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They started

riding towards the store; then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady

bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle.

All the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed the hurt one and

started to carry him to the store; and that minute the two boys

started on the run. They got half-way to the tree I was in before

the men noticed. Then the men see them, and jumped on their horses and

took out after them. They gained on the boys, but it didn't do no

good, the boys had too good a start; they got to the wood-pile that

was in front of my tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they had the

bulge on the men again. One of the boys was Buck, and the other was

a slim young chap about nineteen years old.

The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. As soon as they

was out of sight, I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn't know what

to make of my voice coming out of the tree, at first. He was awful

surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him know when the men

come in sight again; said they was up to some devilment or other-

wouldn't be gone long. I wished I was out of that tree, but I dasn't

come down. Buck begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed that him and his

cousin Joe (that was the other young chap) would make up for this day,

yet. He said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or

three of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons laid for them, in ambush.

Buck said his father and brothers ought to waited for their relations-

the Shepherdsons was too strong for them. I asked him what was

become of young Harney and Miss Sophia. He said they'd got across

the river and was safe. I was glad of that; but the way Buck did

take on because he didn't manage to kill Harney that day he shot at

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

All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns- the

men had slipped around through the woods and come in from behind

without their horses! The boys jumped for the river- both of them

hurt- and as they swum down the current the men run along the bank

shooting at them and singing out, "Kill them, kill them!" It made me

so sick I most fell out of the tree. I ain't agoing to tell all that

happened- it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I ain't

ever going to get shut of them- lots of times I dream about them.

I staid in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come

down. Sometimes I heard guns. away off in the woods; and twice I

seen little gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so I

reckoned the trouble was still agoing on. I was mighty down-hearted;

so I made up my mind I wouldn't ever go anear that house again,

because I reckoned I was to blame, somehow. I judged that piece of

paper meant that Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at halfpast

two and run off; and I judged I ought to told her father about that

paper and the curious way she acted, and then maybe he would a

locked her up and this awful mess wouldn't ever happened.

When I got down out of the tree, I crept along down the river bank a

piece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water, and

tugged at them till I got them ashore; then I covered up their

faces, and got away as quick as I could. I cried a little when I was

covering up Buck's face, for he was mighty good to me.

It was just dark, now. I never went near the house, but struck

through the woods and made for the swamp. Jim warn't on his island, so

I tramped off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the

willows, red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful country- the

raft was gone! My souls, but I was scared! I couldn't get my breath

for most a minute. Then I raised a yell. A voice not twenty-five

foot from me, says-

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

It was Jim's voice- nothing ever sounded so good before. I run along

the bank a piece and got aboard, and Jim he grabbed me and hugged

me, he was so glad to see me. He says-

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

Jack's been heah, he say he reck'n you's ben shot, kase you didn' come

home no mo'; so I's jes' dis minute a startin' de raf' down towards de

mouf er de crick, so's to be all ready for to shove out en leave

soon as Jack comes agin en tells me for certain you is dead. Lawsy,

I's mighty glad to git you back agin, honey."

I says-

"All right- that's mighty good; they won't find me, and they'll

think I've been killed, and floated down the river- there's

something up there that'll help them to think so- so don't you lose no

time, Jim, but just shove off for the big water as fast as ever you

can."

I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out

in the middle of the Mississippi. Then we hung up our signal

lantern, and judged that we was free and safe once more. I hadn't

had a bite to eat since yesterday; so Jim he got out some corn-dodgers

and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage, and greens- there ain't

nothing in the world so good, when it's cooked right- and whilst I eat

my supper we talked, and had a good time. I was powerful glad to get

away from the feuds, and so was Jim to get away from the swamp. We

said there warn't no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem

so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't. You feel mighty free and

easy and comfortable on a raft.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Two or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they swum

by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. Here is the way we

put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down there- sometimes

a mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid

day-times; soon as night was most gone, we stopped navigating and tied

up- nearly always in the dead water under a tow-head; and then cut

young cottonwoods and willows and hid the raft with them. Then we

set out the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as

to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where

the water was about knee deep, and watched the daylight come. Not a

sound, anywheres- perfactly still- just like the whole world was

asleep, only sometimes the bull-frogs a-cluttering, maybe. The first

thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line-

that was the woods on t'other side- you couldn't make nothing else

out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness, spreading

around; then the river softened up, away off, and warn't black any

more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along, ever

so far away-trading scows, and such things; and long black streaks-

rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up

voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by-and-by you

could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the

streak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it

and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up

off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make

out a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on

t'other side of the river, being a wood-yard, likely, and piled by

them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice

breeze blows up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and

fresh, and sweet to smell, on account of the woods and the flowers;

but sometimes not that way, because they've left dead fish laying

around, gars, and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you've

got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the

song-birds just going it!

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

fish off of the lines, and cook up a hot breakfast. And afterwards

we would watch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy

along, and by-and-by lazy off to sleep. Wake up, by-and-by, and look

to see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat, coughing along up

stream, so far off towards the other side you couldn't tell nothing

about her only whether she was stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for

about an hour there wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see-

just solid lonesomeness. Next you'd see a raft sliding by, away off

yonder, and maybe a galoot on it chopping, because they're most always

doing it on a raft; you'd see the ax flash, and come down- you don't

hear nothing; you see that ax go up again, and by the time it's

above the man's head, then you hear the k'chunk!- it had took all that

time to come over the water. So we would put in the day, lazying

around, listening to the stillness. Once there was a thick fog, and

the rafts and things that went by was beating tin pans so the

steamboats wouldn't run over them. A scow or a raft went by so close

we could hear them talking and cussing and laughing- heard them plain;

but we couldn't see no sign of them; it made you feel crawly, it was

like spirits carrying on that way in the air. Jim said he believed

it was spirits; but I says:

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

Soon as it was night, out we shoved; when we got her out to about

the middle, we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current

wanted her to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the

water and talked about all kinds of things- we was always naked, day

and night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us- the new clothes

Buck's folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I

didn't go much on clothes, nohow.

Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the

longest time. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the

water; and maybe a spark- which was a candle in a cabin window- and

sometimes on the water you could see a spark or two- on a raft or a

scow, you know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a song coming

over from one of them crafts. It's lovely to live on a raft. We had

the sky, up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on

our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was

made, or only just happened- Jim he allowed they was made, but I

allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to make so

many. Jim said the moon could a laid them; well, that looked kind of

reasonable, so I didn't say nothing against it, because I've seen a

frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch

the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they'd

got spoiled and was hove out of the nest.

Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along

in the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of

sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the

river and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her

lights would wink out and her pow-wow shut off and leave the river

still again; and by-and-by her waves would get to us, a long time

after she was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you

wouldn't hear nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except maybe

frogs or something.

After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two

or three hours the shores was black- no more sparks in the cabin

windows. These sparks was our clock- the first one that showed again

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

right away.

One morning about day-break, I found a canoe and crossed over a

chute to the main shore- it was only two hundred yards- and paddled

about a mile up a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if I

couldn't get some berries. Just as I was passing a place where a

kind of a cow-path crossed the crick, here comes a couple of men

tearing up the path as tight as they could foot it. I thought I was

a goner, for whenever anybody was after anybody I judged it was me- or

maybe Jim. I was about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they

was pretty close to me then, and sung out and begged me to save

their lives- said they hadn't been doing nothing, and was being chased

for it- said there was men and dogs a-coming. They wanted to jump

right in, but I says-

"Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs and horses yet; you've got

time to crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little ways;

then you take to the water and wade down to me and get in- that'll

throw the dogs off the scent."

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

tow-head, and in about five or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the

men away off, shouting. We heard them come along towards the crick,

but couldn't see them; they seemed to stop and fool around a while;

then, as we got further and further away all the time, we couldn't

hardly hear them at all; by the time we had left a mile of woods

behind us and struck the river, everything was quiet, and we paddled

over to the tow-head and hid in the cottonwoods and was safe.

One of these fellows was about seventy, or upwards, and had a bald

head and very gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch hat

on, and a greasy blue woolen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches

stuffed into his boot tops, and home-knit galluses- no, he only had

one. He had an old longtailed blue jeans coat with slick brass

buttons, flung over his arm, and both of them had big fat

ratty-looking carpet-bags.

The other fellow was about thirty and dressed about as ornery. After

breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come

out was that these chaps didn't know one another.

"What got you into trouble?" says the baldhead to t'other chap.

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

and it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel with it- but I

staid about one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the

act of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side of

town, and you told me they were coming, and begged me to help you to

get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble myself and would

scatter with you. That's the whole yarn- what's yourn?"

"Well, I'd been a-runnin'a little temperance revival thar, 'bout a

week, and was the pet of the women-folks, big and little, for I was

makin' it mighty warm for the rummies, I tell you, and takin' as

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

niggers free- and business a growin' all the time; when somehow or

another a little report got around, last night, that I had a way of

puttin'in my time with a private jug, on the sly. A nigger rousted

me out this mornin', and told me the people was getherin' on the

quiet, with their dogs and horses, and they'd be along pretty soon and

give me 'bout half an hour's start, and then run me down, if they

could; and if they got me they'd tar and feather me and ride me on a

rail, sure. I didn't wait for no breakfast- I warn't hungry."

"Old man," says the young one, "I reckon we might double-team it

together; what do you think?"

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

"Jour printer, by trade; do a little in patent medicines;

theatre-actor- tragedy, you know; take a turn at mesmerism and

phrenology when there's a chance; teach singing-geography school for a

change; sling a lecture, sometimes- oh, I do lots of things- most

anything that comes handy, so it ain't work. What's your lay?"

"I've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin' on o'

hands is my best holt- for cancer, and paralysis, and sich things; and

I k'n tell a fortune pretty good, when I've got somebody along to find

out the facts for me. Preachin's my line, too; and workin'

camp-meetin's; and missionaryin' around."

Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a

sigh and says-

"Alas!"

"What're you alassin' about?" says the baldhead.

"To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be

degraded down into such company." And he begun to wipe the corner of

his eye with a rag.

"Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?" says the

baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.

"Yes, it is good enough for me; it's as good as I deserve; for who

fetched me so low, when I was so high? I did myself. I don't blame

you, gentlemen- far from it; I don't blame anybody. I deserve it

all. Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know- there's a

grave somewhere for me. The world may go on just as it's always

done, and take everything from me- loved ones, property, everything-

but it can't take that. Some day I'll lie down in it and forget it

all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest." He went on a-wiping.

"Drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead; "what are you

heaving your pore broken heart at us f'r? We hain't done nothing."

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

myself down- yes, I did it myself. It's right I should suffer-

perfectly right- I don't make any moan."

"Brought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down from?"

"Ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes- let it

pass- 'tis no matter. The secret of my birth-"

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

"Gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn, "I will reveal it to

you, for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights I am a duke!"

Jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did,

too. Then the baldhead says: "No! you can't mean it?"

"Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater,

fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the

pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own

father dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke

seized the title and estates- the infant real duke was ignored. I am

the lineal descendant of that infant- I am the rightful Duke of

Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate,

hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken,

and degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!"

Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort

him, but he said it warn't much use, he couldn't be much comforted;

said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more

good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us

how. He said we ought to bow, when we spoke to him, and say "Your

Grace," or "My Lord," or "Your Lordship"- and he wouldn't mind it if

we called him plain "Bridgewater," which he said was a title,

anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him at

dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done.

Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood

around and waited on him, and says, "Will yo' Grace have some o'dis,

or some o'dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing

to him.

But the old man got pretty silent, by-and-by- didn't have much to

say, and didn't look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was

going on around that duke. He seemed to have something on his mind.

So, along in the afternoon, he says:

"Looky here, Bilgewater," he says, "I'm nation sorry for you, but

you ain't the only person that's had troubles like that."

"No?"

"No, you ain't. You ain't the only person that's ben snaked down

wrongfully out'n a high place."

"Alas!"

"No, you ain't the only person that's had a secret of his birth."

And by jings, he begins to cry.

"Hold! What do you mean?"

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

sobbing.

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

squeezed it, and says, "The secret of your being: speak!"

"Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!"

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

"You are what?"

"Yes, my friend, it is too true- your eyes is lookin' at this very

moment on the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of

Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette."

"You! At your age! No! You mean you're the late Charlemagne; you

must be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least."

"Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has

brung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen,

you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin' exiled,

trampled-on and sufferin' rightful King of France."

Well, he cried and took on so, that me and Jim didn't know hardly

what to do, we was so sorry- and so glad and proud we'd got him with

us, too. So we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to

comfort him. But he said it warn't no use, nothing but to be dead

and done with it all could do him any good; though he said it often

made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated him

according to his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to him, and

always called him "Your Majesty," and waited on him first at meals,

and didn't set down in his presence till he asked them. So Jim and

me set to majestying him, and doing this and that and t'other for him,

and standing up till he told us we might set down. This done him heaps

of good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind

of soured on him, and didn't look a bit satisfied with the way

things was going; still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and

said the duke's great-grandfather and all the other Dukes of

Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by his father and was allowed to

come to the palace considerable; but the duke staid hurry a good

while, till by-and-by the king says:

"Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time, on this h-yer

raft, Bilgewater, and so what's the use o' your bein' sour? It'll only

make things oncomfortable. It ain't my fault I warn't born a duke,

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

worry? Make the best o' things the way you find 'em, says I- that's my

motto. This ain't no bad thing that we've struck here- plenty grub and

an easy life- come, give us your hand, Duke, and less all be friends."

The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It

took away all the uncomfortableness, and we felt mighty good over

it, because it would a been a miserable business to have any

unfriendliness on the raft; for what you want, above all things, on

a raft, is for everybody to be satisfied, and feel right and kind

towards the others.

It didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn't no

kings nor dukes, at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. But I

never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best

way; then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get into no trouble.

If they wanted us to call them kings and dukes, I hadn't no

objections, 'long as it would keep peace in the family; and it

warn't no use to tell Jim, so I didn't tell him. If I never learnt

nothing else out of pap, I learnt that the best way to get along

with his kind of people is to let them have their own way.

CHAPTER TWENTY

They asked us considerable many questions; wanted to know what we

covered up the raft that way for, and laid by in the day-time

instead of running- was Jim a runaway nigger? Says I-

"Goodness sakes, would a runaway nigger run south?"

No, they allowed he wouldn't. I had to account for things some way,

so I says:

"My folks was living in Pike County, in Missouri, where I was

born, and they all died off but me and pa and my brother Ike. Pa, he

'lowed he'd break up and go down and live with Uncle Ben, who's got

a little one-horse place on the river, forty-four mile below

Orleans. Pa was pretty poor, and had some debts; so when he'd

squared up there warn't nothing left but sixteen dollars and our

nigger, Jim. That warn't enough to take us fourteen hundred mile, deck

passage nor no other way. Well, when the river rose, pa had a streak

of luck one day; he ketched this piece of a raft; so we reckoned

we'd go down to Orleans on it. Pa's luck didn't hold out; a

steamboat run over the forrard corner of the raft, one night, and we

all went overboard and dove under the wheel; Jim and me come up, all

right, but pa was drunk, and Ike was only four years old, so they

never come up no more. Well, for the next day or two we had

considerable trouble, because people was always coming out in skiffs

and trying to take Jim away from me, saying they believed he was a

runaway nigger. We don't run day-times no more, now; nights they don't

bother us."

The duke says-

"Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the day-time if

we want to. I'll think the thing over- I'll invent a plan that'll

fix it. We'll let it alone for to-day, because of course we don't want

to go by that town yonder in daylight- it mightn't be healthy."

Towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the heat

lightning was squirting around, low down in the sky, and the leaves

was beginning to shiver- it was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy

to see that. So the duke and the king went to overhauling our

wigwam, to see what the beds was like. My bed was a straw tick- better

than Jim's, which was a corn-shuck tick; there's always cobs around

about in a shuck tick, and they poke into you and hurt; and when you

roll over, the dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of

dead leaves; it makes such a rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke

allowed he would take my bed; but the king allowed he wouldn't. He

says-

"I should a reckoned the difference in rank would a sejested to

you that a corn-shuck bed warn't just fitten for me to sleep on.

Your Grace'll take the shuck bed yourself."

Jim and me was in a sweat again, for a minute, being afraid there

was going to be some more trouble amongst them; so we was pretty

glad when the duke says-

"'Tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the iron heel

of oppression. Misfortune has broken my once haughty spirit; I

yield, I submit; 'tis my fate. I am alone in the world- let me suffer;

I can bear it."

We got away as soon as it was good and dark. The king told us to

stand well out towards the middle of the river, and not show a light

till we got a long ways below the town. We come in sight of the little

bunch of lights by-and-by- that was the town, you know- and slid by,

about a half a mile out, all right. When we was three-quarters of a

mile below, we hoisted up our signal lantern; and about ten o'clock it

come on to rain and blow and thunder and lighten like everything; so

the king told us to both stay on watch till the weather got better;

then him and the duke crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the

night. It was my watch below, till twelve, but I wouldn't a turned in,

anyway, if I'd had a bed; because a body don't see such a storm as

that every night in the week, not by a long sight. My souls, how the

wind did scream along! And every second or two there'd come a glare

that lit up the white-caps for a half a mile around, and you'd see the

islands looking dusty through the rain, and the trees thrashing around

in the wind; then comes a h-wack!- bum! bum!

bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum- and the thunder would go rumbling and

grumbling away, and quit- and then rip comes another flash and another

sockdolager. The waves most washed me off the raft, sometimes, but I

hadn't any clothes on, and didn't mind. We didn't have no trouble

about snags; the lightning was glaring and flittering around so

constant that we could see them plenty soon enough to throw her head

this way or that and miss them.

I had the middle watch, you know, but I was pretty sleepy by that

time, so Jim he said he would stand the first half of it for me; he

was always mighty good, that way, Jim was. I crawled into the

wigwam, but the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around so

there warn't no show for me; so I laid outside- I didn't mind the

rain, because it was warm, and the waves warn't running so high,

now. About two they come up again, though, and Jim was going to call

me, but he changed his mind because he reckoned they warn't high

enough yet to do any harm; but he was mistaken about that, for

pretty soon all of a sudden along comes a regular ripper, and washed

me overboard. It most killed Jim a-laughing. He was the easiest nigger

to laugh that ever was, anyway.

I took the watch, and Jim he laid down and snored away; and

by-and-by the storm let up for good and all; and the first cabin-light

that showed, I rousted him out and we slid the raft into

hiding-quarters for the day.

The king got out an old ratty deck of cards, after breakfast, and

him and the duke played seven-up a while, five cents a game. Then they

got tired of it, and allowed they would "lay out a campaign," as

they called it. The duke went down into his carpet-bag and fetched

up a lot of little printed bills, and read them out loud. One bill

said "The celebrated Dr. Armand de Montalban of Paris," would "lecture

on the Science of Phrenology" at such and such a place, on the blank

day of blank, at ten cents admission, and "furnish charts of character

at twenty-five cents apiece." The duke said that was him. In another

bill he was the "world renowned Shaksperean tragedian, Garrick the

Younger, of Drury Lane, London." In other bills he had a lot of

other names and done other wonderful things, like finding water and

gold with a "divining rod," "dissipating witch-spells," and so on.

By-and-by he says-

"But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you ever trod the

boards, Royalty?"

"No," says the king.

"You shall, then, before you're three days older, Fallen

Grandeur," says the duke. "The first good town we come to, we'll

hire a hall and do the sword-fight in Richard III. and the balcony

scene in Romeo and Juliet. How does that strike you?"

"I'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, Bilgewater,

but you see I don't know nothing about play-actn', and hain't ever

seen much of it. I was too small when pap used to have 'em at the

palace. Do you reckon you can learn me?"

"Easy!"

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

commence, right away."

So the duke he told him all about who Romeo was, and who Juliet was,

and said he was used to being Romeo, so the king could be Juliet.

"But if Juliet's such a young gal, Duke, my peeled head and my white

whiskers is goin' to look oncommon odd on her, maybe."

"No, don't you worry- these country jakes won't ever think of

that. Besides, you know, you'll be in costume, and that makes all

the difference in the world; Juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the

moonlight before she goes to bed, and she's got on her night-gown

and her ruffled night-cap. Here are the costumes for the parts."

He got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which he said was

meedyevil armor for Richard III. and t'other chap, and a long white

cotton night-shirt and a ruffled night-cap to match. The king was

satisfied; so the duke got out his book and read the parts over in the

most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around and acting at the same

time, to show how it had got to be done; then he give the book to

the king and told him to get his part by heart.

There was a little one-horse town about three mile down the bend,

and after dinner the duke said he had ciphered out his idea about

how to run in daylight without it being dangersome for Jim; so he

allowed he would go down to the town and fix that thing. The king

allowed he would go too, and see if he couldn't strike something. We

was out of coffee, so Jim said I better go along with them in the

canoe and get some.

When we got there, there warn't nobody stirring; streets empty,

and perfectly dead and still, like Sunday. We found a sick nigger

sunning himself in a back yard, and he said everybody that warn't

too young or too sick or too old, was gone to camp-meeting, about

two mile back in the woods. The king got the directions, and allowed

he'd go and work that camp-meeting for all it was worth, and I might

go, too.

The duke said what he was after was a printing office. We found

it; a little bit of a concern, up over a carpenter shop- carpenters

and printers all gone to the meeting, and no doors locked. It was a

dirty, littered-up place, and had ink marks, and handbills with

pictures of horses and runaway niggers on them, all over the walls.

The duke shed his coat and said he was all right, now. So me and the

king lit out for the camp-meeting.

We got there in about a half an hour, fairly dripping, for it was

a most awful hot day. There was as much as a thousand people there,

from twenty mile around. The woods was full of teams and wagons,

hitched everywheres, feeding out of the wagon troughs and stomping

to keep off the flies. There was sheds made out of poles and roofed

over with branches, where they had lemonade and gingerbread to sell,

and piles of watermelons and green corn and such-like truck.

The preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only

they was bigger and held crowds of people. The benches was made out of

outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive

sticks into for legs. They didn't have no backs. The preachers had

high platforms to stand on, at one end of the sheds. The women had

on sunbonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham

ones, and a few of the young ones had on calico. Some of the young men

was barefooted, and some of the children didn't have on any clothes

but just a tow-linen shirt. Some of the old women was knitting, and

some of the young folks was courting on the sly.

The first shed we come to, the preacher was lining out a hymn. He

lined out two lines, everybody sung it, and it was kind of grand to

hear it, there was so many of them and they done it in such a

rousing way; then he lined out two more for them to sing- and so on.

The people woke up more and more, and sung louder and louder; and

towards the end, some begun to groan, and some begun to shout. Then

the preacher begun to preach; and begun in earnest, too; and went

weaving first to one side of the platform and then the other, and then

a leaning down over the front of it, with his arms and his body

going all the time, and shouting his words out with all his might; and

every now and then he would hold up his Bible and spread it open,

and kind of pass it around this way and that, shouting, "It's the

brazen serpent in the wilderness! Look upon it and live!" And people

would shout out, "Glory!- A-a-men!" And so he went on, and the

people groaning and crying and saying amen:

"Oh, come to the mourners' bench! come, black with sin! (amen!)

come, sick and sore! (amen!) come, lame and halt, and blind! (amen!)

come, pore and needy, sunk in shame! (amen!) come all that's worn, and

soiled, and suffering!- come with a broken spirit! come with a

contrite heart! come in your rags and sin and dirt! the waters that

cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open- oh, enter in and be

at rest!" (a-a-men! glory, glory hallelujah!)

And so on. You couldn't make out what the preacher said, any more,

on account of the shouting and crying. Folks got up, everywheres in

the crowd, and worked their way, just by main strength, to the

mourners' bench, with the tears running down their faces; and when all

the mourners had got up there to the front benches in a crowd, they

sung, and shouted, and flung themselves down on the straw, just

crazy and wild.

Well, the first I knowed, the king got agoing; and you could hear

him over everybody; he went a-charging up on to the platform and the

preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and he done it. He told

them he was a pirate- been a pirate for thirty years, out in the

Indian Ocean, and his crew was thinned out considerable, last

spring, in a fight, and he was home now, to take out some fresh men,

and thanks to goodness he'd been robbed last night, and put ashore off

of a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad of it, it was the

blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he was a changed

man now, and happy for the first time in his life; and poor as he was,

he was going to start right off and work his way back to the Indian

Ocean and put in the rest of his life trying to turn the pirates

into the true path; for he could do it better than anybody else, being

acquainted with all the pirate crews in that ocean; and though it

would take him a long time to get there, without money, he would get

there anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he would say to

him, "Don't you thank me, don't you give me no credit, it all

belongs to them dear people in Pokeville camp-meeting, natural

brothers and benefactors of the race- and that dear preacher there,

the truest friend a pirate ever had!"

And then he busted into tears, and so did everybody. Then somebody

sings out, "Take up a collection for him, take up a collection!" Well,

a half dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, "Let him

pass the hat around!" Then everybody said it, the preacher too.

So the king went all through the crowd with his hat, swabbing his

eyes, and blessing the people and praising them and thanking them

for being so good to the poor pirates away off there; and every little

while the prettiest kind of girls, with the tears running down their

cheeks, would up and ask him would he let them kiss him, for to

remember him by; and he always done it; and some of them he hugged and

kissed as many as five or six times- and he was invited to stay a

week; and everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and said

they'd think it was an honor; but he said as this was the last day

of the camp-meeting he couldn't do no good, and besides he was in a

sweat to get to the Indian Ocean right off and go to work on the

pirates.

When we got back to the raft and he come to count up, he found he

had collected eighty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents. And then he

had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he found

under a wagon when we was starting home through the woods. The king

said, take it all around, it laid over any day he'd ever put in the

missionarying line. He said it warn't no use talking, heathens don't

amount to shucks, alongside of pirates, to work a camp-meeting with.

The duke was thinking he'd been doing pretty well, till the king

come to show up, but after that he didn't think so much. He had set up

and printed off two little jobs for farmers, in that printing

office- horse bills- and took the money, four dollars. And he had

got in ten dollars worth of advertisements for the paper, which he

said he would put in for four dollars if they would pay in advance- so

they done it. The price of the paper was two dollars a year, but he

took in three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on condition of

them paying him in advance; they were going to pay in cord-wood and

onions, as usual, but he said he had just bought the concern and

knocked down the price as low as he could afford it, and was going

as low as he could afford it, and was going to run it for cash. He set

up a little piece of poetry, which he made, himself, out of his own

head- three verses- kind of sweet and saddish- the name of it was,

"Yes, crush, cold world, this breaking heart"- and he left that all

set up and ready to print in the paper and didn't charge nothing for

it. Well, he took in nine dollars and a half, and said he'd done a

pretty square day's work for it.

Then he showed us another little job he'd printed and hadn't charged

for, because it was for us. It had a picture of a runaway nigger, with

a bundle on a stick, over his shoulder, and "$200 reward" under it.

The reading was all about Jim, and just described him to a dot. It

said he run away from St. Jacques' plantation, forty mile below New

Orleans, last winter, and likely went north, and whoever would catch

him and send him back, he could have the reward and expenses.

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

we want to. Whenever we see anybody coming, we can tie Jim hand and

foot with a rope, and lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and

say we captured him up the river, and were too poor to travel on a

steamboat, so we got this little raft on credit from our friends and

are going down to get the reward. Handcuffs and chains would look

still better on Jim, but it wouldn't go well with the story of us

being so poor. Too much like jewelry. Ropes are the correct thing-

we must preserve the unities, as we say on the boards."

We all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn't be no

trouble about running daytimes. We judged we could make miles enough

that night to get out of the reach of the pow-wow we reckoned the

duke's work in the printing office was going to make in that little

town- then we could boom right along, if we wanted to.

We laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten

o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn't

hoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it.

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

says-

"Huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost any mo' kings on dis

trip?"

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

"Well," says he, "dat's all right, den. I doan' mine one er two

kings, but dat's enough. Dis one's powerful drunk, en de duke ain'

much better."

I found Jim had been trying to get him to talk French, so he could

hear what it was like; but he said he had been in this country so

long, and had so much trouble, he'd forgot it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was after sun-up, now, but we went right on, and didn't tie up.

The king and the duke turned out, by-and-by, looking pretty rusty; but

after they'd jumped overboard and took a swim, it chippered them up

a good deal. After breakfast the king he took a seat on a corner of

the raft, and pulled off his boots and rolled up his britches, and let

his legs dangle in the water, so as to be comfortable, and lit his

pipe, and went to getting his Romeo and Juliet by heart. When he had

got it pretty good, him and the duke begun to practice it together.

The duke had to learn him over and over again, how to say every

speech; and he made him sigh, and put his hand on his heart, and after

while he said he done it pretty well; "only," he says, "you mustn't

bellow out Romeo! that way, like a bull- you must say it soft, and

sick, and languishy, so- R-o-o-meo! that is the idea; for Juliet's a

dear sweet mere child of a girl, you know, and she don't bray like a

jackass."

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

out of oak laths, and begun to practice the swordfight- the duke

called himself Richard III.; and the way they laid on, and pranced

around the raft was grand to see. But by-and-by the king tripped and

fell overboard, and after that they took a rest, and had a talk

about all kinds of adventures they'd had in other times along the

river.

After dinner, the duke says:

"Well, Capet, we'll want to make this a first-class show, you

know, so I guess we'll add a little more to it. We want a little

something to answer encores with, anyway."

"What's onkores, Bilgewater?"

The duke told him, and then says:

"I'll answer by doing the Highland fling or the sailor's hornpipe;

and you- well, let me see- oh, I've got it- you can do Hamlet's

soliloquy."

"Hamlet's which?"

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

Shakespeare. Ah, it's sublime, sublime! Always fetches the house. I

haven't got it in the book- I've only got one volume- but I reckon I

can piece it out from memory. I'll just walk up and down a minute, and

see if I can call it back from recollection's vaults."

So he went to marching up and down, thinking, and frowning

horrible every now and then; then he would hoist up his eyebrows; next

he would squeeze his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind of

moan; next he would sigh, and next he'd let on to drop a tear. It

was beautiful to see him. By-and-by he got it. He told us to give

attention. Then he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg

shoved forwards, and his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted

back, looking up at the sky; and then he begins to rip and rave and

grit his teeth; and after that, all through his speech he howled,

and spread around, and swelled up his chest, and just knocked the

spots out of any acting ever I see before. This is the speech- I

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

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

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane,

But that the fear of something after death

Murders the innocent sleep,

Great nature's second course,

And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune

Than fly to others that we know not of.

There's the respect must give us pause:

Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

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

The law's delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take,

In the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn

In customary suits of solemn black,

But that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler

returns,

Breathes forth contagion on the world,

And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i' the

adage,

Is sicklied o'er with care,

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

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.

'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. But soft you, the fair

Ophelia:

Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws,

But get thee to a nunnery- go!

Well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so

he could do it first rate. It seemed like he was just born for it; and

when he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the

way he would rip and tear and rair up behind when he was getting it

off.

The first chance we got, the duke he had some show bills printed;

and after that, for two or three days as we floated along, the raft

was a most uncommon lively place, for there warn't nothing but

sword-fighting and rehearsing- as the duke called it- going on all the

time. One morning, when we was pretty well down the State of Arkansaw,

we come in sight of a little one-horse town in a big bend; so we

tied up about three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth of a

crick which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of

us but Jim took the canoe and went down there to see if there was

any chance in that place for our show.

We struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a circus there that

afternoon, and the country people was already beginning to come in, in

all kinds of old shackly wagons, and on horses. The circus would leave

before night, so our show would have a pretty good chance. The duke he

hired the court house, and we went around and stuck up our bills. They

read like this:

Shaksperean Revival!!!

Wonderful Attraction!

For One Night Only!

The world renowned tragedians,

David Garrick the younger,

of Drury Lane Theatre, London,

and

Edmund Kean the elder,

of the Royal Haymarket Theatre, Whitechapel,

Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the

Royal Continental Theatres, in their sublime

Shaksperean Spectacle entitled

The Balcony Scene

in

Romeo and Juliet!!!

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

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

Also:

The thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling

Broad-sword conflict

In Richard III.!!!

Assisted by the whole strength of the company!

New costumes, new scenery, new appointments!

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

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

Also

(by special request,)

Hamlet's Immortal Soliloquy!!

By the Illustrious Kean!

Done by him 300 consecutive nights in Paris!

For One Night Only,

On account of imperative European engagements!

Admission 25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents.

Then we went loafing around the town. The stores and houses was most

all old shackly dried-up frame concerns that hadn't ever been painted;

they was set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to be

out of reach of the water when the river was overflowed. The houses

had little gardens around them, but they didn't seem to raise hardly

anything in them but jimpson weeds, and sunflowers, and ash-piles, and

old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces of bottles, and rags, and

played-out tin-ware. The fences was made of different kinds of boards,

nailed on at different times; and they leaned every which-way, and had

gates that didn't generly have but one hinge- a leather one. Some of

the fences had been whitewashed, some time or another, but the duke

said it was in Clumbus's time, like enough. There was generly hogs

in the garden, and people driving them out.

All the stores was along one street. They had white-domestic awnings

in front, and the country people hitched their horses to the

awning-posts. There was empty dry-goods boxes under the awnings, and

loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them with their

Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping and yawning and

stretching- a mighty ornery lot. They generly had on yellow straw hats

most as wide as an umbrella, but didn't wear no coats nor

waistcoats; they called one another Bill, and Buck, and Hank, and Joe,

and Andy, and talked lazy and drawly, and used considerable many

cuss-words. There was as many as one loafer leaning up against every

awning-post, and he most always had his hands in his britches pockets,

except when he fetched them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or

scratch. What a body was hearing amongst them, all the time was-

"Gimme a chaw'v tobacker, Hank."

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

Maybe Bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain't

got none. Some of them kinds of loafers never has a cent in the world,

nor a chaw of tobacco of their own. They get all their chawing by

borrowing- they say to a fellow, "I wisht you'd len' me a chaw,

Jack, I jist this minute give Ben Thompson the last chaw I had"- which

is a lie, pretty much every time; it don't fool nobody but a stranger;

but Jack ain't no stranger, so he says-

"You give him a chaw, did you? so did your sister's cat's

grandmother. You pay me back the chaws you've awready borry'd off'n

me, Lafe Buckner, then I'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't

charge you no back intrust, nuther."

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

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

paid back nigger-head."

Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the

natural leaf twisted. When they borrow a chaw, they don't generly

cut it off with a knife, but they set the plug in between their teeth,

and gnaw with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till

they get it in two- then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks

mournful at it when it's handed back, and says, sarcastic-

"Here, gimme the chaw, and you take the plug."

All the streets and lanes was just mud, they warn't nothing else but

mud- mud as black as tar, and nigh about a foot deep in some places;

and two or three inches deep in all the places. The hogs loafed and

grunted around, everywheres. You'd see a muddy sow and a litter of

pigs come lazying along the street and whollop herself right down in

the way, where folks had to walk around her, and she'd stretch out,

and shut her eyes, and wave her ears, whilst the pigs was milking her,

and look as happy as if she was on salary. And pretty soon you'd

hear a loafer sing out, "Hi! so boy! sick him, Tige!" and away the sow

would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog or two swinging to

each ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and then you would

see all the loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh

at the fun and look grateful for the noise. Then they'd settle back

again till there was a dog-fight. There couldn't anything wake them up

all over, and make them happy all over, like a dog-fight- unless it

might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to him, or

tying a tin to his tail and see him run himself to death.

On the river front some of the houses was sticking out over the

bank, and they was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in. The

people had moved out of them. The bank was caved away under one corner

of some others, and that corner was hanging over. People lived in them

yet, but it was dangersome, because sometimes a strip of land as

wide as a house caves in at a time. Sometimes a belt of land a quarter

of a mile deep will start in and cave along and cave along till it all

caves into the river in one summer. Such a town as that has to be

always moving back, and back, and back, because the river's always

gnawing at it.

The nearer it got to noon that day, the thicker and thicker was

the wagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time.

Families fetched their dinners with them, from the country, and eat

them in the wagons. There was considerable whiskey drinking going

on, and I seen three fights. By-and-by somebody sings out-

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

monthly drunk- here he comes, boys!"

All the loafers looked glad- I reckoned they was used to having

fun out of Boggs. One of them says-

"Wonder who he's a gwyne to chaw up this time. If he'd a chawed up

all the men he's ben a gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty year,

he'd have considerable ruputation, now."

Another one says, "I wisht old Boggs'd threaten me, 'cuz then I'd

know I warn't gwyne to die for a thousan' year."

Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whopping and yelling

like an Injun, and singing out-

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

is a gwyne to raise."

He was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over fifty

year old, and had a very red face. Everybody yelled at him, and

laughed at him, and sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he'd

attend to them and lay them out in their regular turns, but he

couldn't wait now, because he'd come to town to kill old Colonel

Sherburn, and his motto was, "meat first, and spoon vittles to top off

on."

He see me, and rode up and says-

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

Then he rode on. I was scared; but a man says- "He don't mean

nothing; he's always a carryin'on like that, when he's drunk. He's the

best-naturedest old fool in Arkansaw- never hurt nobody, drunk nor

sober."

Boggs rode up before the biggest store in town and bent his head

down so he could see under the curtain of the awning, and yells"-

Come out here, Sherburn! Come out and meet the man you've

swindled. You're the houn' I'm after, and I'm a gwyne to have you,

too!"

And so he went on, calling Sherburn everything he could lay his

tongue to, and the whole street packed with people listening and

laughing and going on. By-and-by a proudlooking man about

fifty-five- and he was a heap the best dressed man in that town,

too- steps out of the store, and the crowd drops back on each side

to let him come. He says to Boggs, mighty ca'm and slow- he says:

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

o'clock, mind- no longer. If you open your mouth against me only once,

after that time, you can't travel so far but I will find you."

Then he turns and goes in. The crowd looked mighty sober; nobody

stirred, and there warn't no more laughing. Boggs rode off

blackguarding Sherburn as loud as he could yell, all down the

street; and pretty soon back he comes and stops before the store,

still keeping it up. Some men crowded around him and tried to get

him to shut up, but he wouldn't; they told him it would be one o'clock

in about fifteen minutes, and so he must go home- he must go right

away. But it didn't do no good. He cussed away, with all his might,

and throwed his hat down in the mud and rode over it, and pretty

soon away he went a-raging down the street again, with his gray hair

a-flying. Everybody that could get a chance at him tried their best to

coax him off of his horse so they could lock him up and get him sober;

but it warn't no use- up the street he would tear again, and give

Sherburn another cussing. By-and-by somebody says-

"Go for his daughter!- quick, go for his daughter; sometimes he'll

listen to her. If anybody can persuade him, she can."

So somebody started on a run. I walked down street a ways, and

stopped. In about five or ten minutes, here comes Boggs again- but not

on his horse. He was a-reeling across the street towards me,

bareheaded, with a friend on both sides of him aholt of his arms and

hurrying him along. He was quiet, and looked uneasy; and he warn't

hanging back any, but was doing some of the hurrying himself. Somebody

sings out-

"Boggs!"

I looked over to see who said it, and it was that Colonel

Sherburn. He was standing perfectly still, in the street, and had a

pistol raised in his right hand- not aiming it, but holding it out

with the barrel tilted up towards the sky. The same second I see a

young girl coming on the run, and two men with her. Boggs and the

men turned round, to see who called him, and when they see the

pistol the men jumped to one side, and the pistol barrel come down

slow and steady to a level-both barrels cocked. Boggs throws up both

of his hands, and says, "O Lord, don't shoot!" Bang! goes the first

shot, and he staggers back clawing at the air- bang! goes the second

one, and he tumbles backwards onto the ground, heavy and solid, with

his arms spread out. That young girl screamed out, and comes

rushing, and down she throws herself on her father, crying, and

saying, "Oh, he's killed him, he's killed him!" The crowd closed up

around them, and shouldered and jammed one another, with their necks

stretched, trying to see, and people on the inside trying to shove

them back, and shouting, "Back, back! give him air, give him air!"

Colonel Sherburn he tossed his pistol onto the ground, and turned

around on his heels and walked off.

They took Boggs to a little drug store, the crowd pressing around,

just the same, and the whole town following, and I rushed and got a

good place at the window, where I was close to him and could see in.

They laid him on the floor, and put one large Bible under his head,

and opened another one and spread it on his breast- but they tore open

his shirt first, and I seen where one of the bullets went in. He

made about a dozen long gasps, his breast lifting the Bible up when he

drawed in his breath, and letting it down again when he breathed it

out- and after that he laid still; he was dead. Then they pulled his

daughter away from him, screaming and crying, and took her off. She

was about sixteen, and very sweet and gentle-looking, but awful pale

and scared.

Well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming and

scrouging and pushing and shoving to get at the window and have a

look, but people that had the places wouldn't give them up, and

folks behind them was saying all the time, "Say, now, you've looked

enough, you fellows; 'taint right and 'taint fair, for you to stay

thar all the time, and never give nobody a chance; other folks has

their rights as well as you.

There was considerable jawing back, so I slid out, thinking maybe

there was going to be trouble. The streets was full, and everybody was

excited. Everybody that seen the shooting was telling how it happened,

and there was a big crowd packed around each one of these fellows,

stretching their necks and listening. One long lanky man, with long

hair and a big white fur stove-pipe hat on the back of his head, and a

crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the ground where

Boggs stood, and where Sherburn stood, and the people following him

around from one place to t'other and watching everything he done,

and bobbing their heads to show they understood, and stopping a little

and resting their hands on their thighs to watch him mark the places

on the ground with his cane; and then he stood up straight and stiff

where Sherburn had stood, frowning and having his hatbrim down over

his eyes, and sung out, "Boggs!" and then fetched his cane down slow

to a level, and says "Bang!" staggered backwards, says "Bang!"

again, and fell down flat on his back. The people that had seen the

thing said he done it perfect; said it was just exactly the way it all

happened. Then as much as a dozen people got out their bottles and

treated him.

Well, by-and-by somebody said Sherburn ought to be lynched. In about

a minute everybody was saying it; so away they went, mad and

yelling, and snatching down every clothes-line they come to, to do the

hanging with.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

They swarmed up the street towards Sherburn's house, a-whooping

and yelling and raging like Injuns, and everything had to clear the

way or get run over and tromped to mush, and it was awful to see.

Children was heeling it ahead of the mob, screaming and trying to

get out of the way; and every window along the road was full of

women's heads, and there was nigger boys in every tree, and bucks

and wenches looking over every fence; and as soon as the mob would get

nearly to them they would break and skaddle back out of reach. Lots of

the women and girls was crying and taking on, scared most to death.

They swarmed in front of Sherburn's palings as thick as they could

jam together, and you couldn't hear yourself think for the noise. It

was a little twenty-foot yard. Some sung out "Tear down the fence!

tear down the fence!" Then there was a racket of ripping and tearing

and smashing, and down she goes, and the front wall of the crowd

begins to roll in like a wave.

Just then Sherburn steps out of the roof of his little front

porch, with a double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand,

perfectly ca'm and deliberate, not saying a word. The racket

stopped, and the wave sucked back.

Sherburn never said a word- just stood there, looking down. The

stillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable. Sherburn run his eye

slow along the crowd; and wherever it struck, the people tried a

little to outgaze him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes

and looked sneaky. Then pretty soon Sherburn sort of laughed; not

the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you

are eating bread that's got sand in it.

Then he says, slow and scornful:

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

thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a man! Because you're brave

enough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women that come

along here, did that make you think you had grit enough to lay your

hands on a man? Why, a man's safe in the hands of ten thousand of your

kind- as long as it's day-time and you're not behind him.

"Do I know you? I know you clear through. I was born and raised in

the South, and I've lived in the North; so I know the average all

around. The average man's a coward. In the North he lets anybody

walk over him that wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble

spirit to bear it. In the South one man, all by himself, has stopped a

stage full of men, in the day-time, and robbed the lot. Your

newspapers call you brave people so much that you think you are braver

than any other people- whereas you're just as brave, and no braver.

Why don't your juries hang murderers? Because they're afraid the man's

friends will shoot them in the back, in the dark- and it's just what

they would do.

"So they always acquit; and then a man goes in the night, with a

hundred masked cowards at his back, and lynches the rascal. Your

mistake is, that you didn't bring a man with you; that's one

mistake, and the other is that you didn't come in the dark, and

fetch your masks. You brought part of a man- Buck Harkness, there- and

if you hadn't had him to start you, you'd a taken it out in blowing.

"You didn't want to come. The average man don't like trouble and

danger. You don't like trouble and danger. But if only half a man-

like Buck Harkness, there- shouts 'Lynch him, lynch him!' you're

afraid to back down- afraid you'll be found out to be what you are-

cowards- and so you raise a yell, and hang yourselves onto that

half-a-man's coat tail, and come raging up here, swearing what big

things you're going to do. The pitifulest thing out is a mob; that's

what an army is- a mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in

them, but with courage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their

officers. But a mob without any man at the head of it, is beneath

pitifulness. Now the thing for you to do, is to droop your tails and

go home and crawl in a hole. If any real lynching's going to be

done, it will be done in the dark, Southern fashion; and when they

come they'll bring their masks, and fetch a man along. Now leave-

and take your half-a-man with you"- tossing his gun up across his left

arm and cocking it, when he says this.

The crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart and went

tearing off every which way, and Buck Harkness he heeled it after

them, looking tolerable cheap. I could a staid, if I'd a wanted to,

but I didn't want to.

I went to the circus, and loafed around the back side till the

watchman went by, and then dived in under the tent. I had a

twenty-dollar gold piece and some other money, but I reckoned I better

save, because there ain't no telling how soon you are going to need

it, away from home and amongst strangers, that way. You can't be too

careful. I ain't opposed to spending money on circuses, when there

ain't no other way, but there ain't no use in wasting it on them.

It was a real bully circus. It was the splendidest sight that ever

was, when they all come riding two and two, a gentleman and lady, side

by side, the men just in their drawers and under-shirts, and no

shoes nor stirrups, and resting their hands on their thighs, easy

and comfortable- there must a' been twenty of them- and every lady

with a lovely complexion, and perfectly beautiful, and looking just

like a gang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed in clothes that

cost millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. It was a

powerful fine sight; I never see anything so lovely. And then one by

one they got up and stood, and went a-weaving around the ring so

gentle and wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy

and straight, and their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up

there under the tentroof, and every lady's rose-leafy dress flapping

soft and silky around her hips, and she looking like the most

loveliest parasol.

And then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing, first one

foot stuck out in the air and then the other, the horses leaning

more and more, and the ring-master going round and round the

centre-pole, cracking his whip and shouting "hi!- hi!" and the clown

cracking jokes behind him; and by-and-by all hands dropped the

reins, and every lady put her knuckles on her hips and every gentleman

folded his arms, and then how the horses did lean over and hump

themselves! And so, one after the other they all skipped off into

the ring, and made the sweetest bow I ever see, and then scampered

out, and everybody clapped their hands and went just about wild.

Well, all through the circus they done the most astonishing

things; and all the time that clown carried on so it most killed the

people. The ring-master couldn't ever say a word to him but he was

back at him quick as a wink with the funniest things a body ever said;

and how he ever could think of so many of them, and so sudden and so

pat, was what I couldn't noway understand. Why, I couldn't a thought

of them in a year. And by-and-by a drunk man tried to get into the

ring- said he wanted to ride; said he could ride as well as anybody

that ever was. They argued and tried to keep him out, but he

wouldn't listen, and the whole show come to a standstill. Then the

people begun to holler at him and make fun of him, and that made him

mad, and he begun to rip and tear; so that stirred up the people,

and a lot of men begun to pile down off of the benches and swarm

towards the ring, saying, "Knock him down! throw him out!" and one

or two women begun to scream. So, then, the ring-master he made a

little speech, and said he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and

if the man would promise he wouldn't make no more trouble, he would

let him ride, if he thought he could stay on the horse. So everybody

laughed and said all right, and the man got on. The minute he was

on, the horse begun to rip and tear and jump and cavort around, with

two circus men hanging onto his bridle trying to hold him, and the

drunk man hanging onto his neck, and his heels flying in the air every

jump, and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting and

laughing till the tears rolled down. And at last sure enough, all

the circus men could do, the horse broke loose, and away he went

like the very nation, round and round the ring, with that sot laying

down on him and hanging to his neck with first one leg hanging most to

the ground on one side, and then t'other one on t'other side, and

the people just crazy. It warn't funny to me, though; I was all of a

tremble to see his danger. But pretty soon he struggled up astraddle

and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that; and the next

minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle and stood! and the horse

agoing like a house afire too. He just stood up there, a-sailing

around as easy and comfortable as if he warn't ever drunk in his life-

and then he begun to pull off his clothes and sling them. He shed them

so thick they kind of clogged up the air, and altogether he shed

seventeen suits. And then, there he was, slim and handsome, and

dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you ever saw, and he lit into

that horse with his whip and made him fairly hum- and finally

skipped off, and made his bow and danced off to the dressing-room, and

everybody just a-howling with pleasure and astonishment.

Then the ring-master he see how he had been fooled, and he was the

sickest ring-master you ever see, I reckon. Why, it was one of his own

men! He had got up that joke all out of his own head, and never let on

to nobody. Well, I felt sheepish enough, to be took in so, but I

wouldn't a been in that ringmaster's place, not for a thousand

dollars. I don't know; there may be bullier circuses than what that

one was, but I never struck them yet. Anyways it was plenty good

enough for me; and wherever I run across it, it can have all of my

custom, every time.

Well, that night we had our show; but there warn't only about twelve

people there; just enough to pay expenses. And they laughed all the

time, and that made the duke mad; and everybody left, anyway, before

the show was over, but one boy which was asleep. So the duke said

these Arkansaw lunkheads couldn't come up to Shakspeare; what they

wanted was low comedy- and may be something ruther worse than low

comedy, he reckoned. He said he could size their style. So next

morning he got some big sheets of wrapping-paper and some black paint,

and drawed off some handbills and stuck them up all over the

village. The bills said:

AT THE COURT HOUSE!

For 3 Nights Only!

The World-Renowned Tragedians

DAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER!

AND

EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER!

Of the London and Continental Theatres,

In their Thrilling Tragedy of

THE KING'S CAMELOPARD

or

THE ROYAL NONESUCH!!!

Admission 50 cents.

Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all-which said:

LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED

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

Arkansaw!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Well, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a stage,

and a curtain, and a row of candles for footlights; and that night the

house was jam full of men in no time. When the place couldn't hold

no more, the duke he quit tending door and went around the back way

and come onto the stage and stood up before the curtain, and made a

little speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most

thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging about the

tragedy and about Edmund Kean the Elder, which was to play the main

principal part in it; and at last when he'd got everybody's

expectations up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next

minute the king come a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was

painted all over, ring-streaked-and-striped, all sorts of colors, as

splendid as a rainbow. And- but never mind the rest of his outfit,

it was just wild, but it was awful funny. The people most killed

themselves laughing; and when the king got done capering, and

capered off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and

haw-hawed till he come back and done it over agin; and after that,

they made him do it another time. Well, it would a made a cow laugh to

see the shines that old idiot cut.

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

and says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more,

on accounts of pressing London engagements, where the seats is all

sold aready for it in Drury Lane; and then he makes them another

bow, and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and instructing

them, he will be deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their

friends and get them to come and see it.

Twenty people sings out:

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

The duke says yes. Then there was a fine time. Everybody sings

out "sold," and rose up mad, and was agoing for that stage and them

tragedians. But a big fine-looking man jumps up on a bench, and

shouts:

"Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen." They stopped to listen. "We are

sold- mighty badly sold. But we don't want to hear the last of this

thing as long as we live. No. What we be the laughing-stock of this

whole town, I reckon, and never want, is to go out here quiet, and

talk this show up, and sell the rest of the town! Then we'll all be in

the same boat. Ain't that sensible?" ("You bet it is!- the jedge is

right!" everybody sings out.) "All right, then- not a word about any

sell. Go along home, and advise everybody to come and see the

tragedy."

Next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how splendid

that show was. House was jammed again, that night, and we sold this

crowd the same way. When me and the king and the duke got home to

the raft, we all had a supper; and by-and-by, about midnight, they

made Jim and me back her out and float her down the middle of the

river and fetch her in and hide her about two mile below the town.

The third night the house was crammed again- and they warn't

new-comers, this time, but people that was at the show the other two

nights. I stood by the duke at the door, and I see that every man that

went in had his pockets bulging or something muffled up under his

coat- and I see it warn't no perfumery neither, not by a long sight. I

smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such things;

and if I know the signs of a dead cat being around, and I bet I do,

there was sixty-four of them went in. I shoved in there for a

minute, but it was too various for me, I couldn't stand it. Well, when

the place couldn't hold no more people, the duke he give a fellow a

quarter and told him to tend door for him a minute, and then he

started around for the stage door, I after him; but the minute we

turned the corner and was in the dark, he says:

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

for the raft like the dickens was after you!"

I done it, and he done the same. We struck the raft at the same

time, and in less than two seconds we was gliding down stream, all

dark and still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody

saying a word. I reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of

it with the audience; but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he crawls

out from under the wigwam, and says:

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

He hadn't been up town at all.

We never showed a light till we was about ten mile below that

village. Then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke

fairly laughed their bones loose over the way they'd served them

people. The duke says:

"Greenhorns, flatheads! I knew the first house would keep mum and

let the rest of the town get roped in; and I knew they'd lay for us

the third night, and consider it was their turn now. Well, it is their

turn, and I'd give something to know how much they'd take for it. I

would just like to know how they're putting in their opportunity. They

can turn it into a picnic, if they want to- they brought plenty

provisions."

Them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in

that three nights. I never see money hauled in by the wagon-load

like that, before.

By-and-by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says:

"Don't it 'sprise you, de way dem kings carries on, Huck?"

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

"Why don't it, Huck?"

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

alike."

"But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is regular rapscallions; dat's jist

what dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions."

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

as fur as I can make out."

"Is dat so?"

"You read about them once- you'll see. Look at Henry the Eight;

this'n's a Sunday-School Superintendent to him. And look at Charles

Second, and Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James Second, and

Edward Second, and Richard Third, and forty more; besides all them

Saxon heptarchies that used to rip around so in old times and raise

Cain. My, you ought to seen old Henry the Eight when he was in

bloom. He was a blossom. He used to marry a new wife every day, and

chop off her head next morning. And he would do it just as indifferent

as if he was ordering up eggs. 'Fetch up Nell Gwynn,' he says. They

fetch her up. Next morning, 'Chop off her head!' And they chop it off.

'Fetch up Jane Shore,' he says; and up she comes. Next morning 'Chop

off her head'- and they chop it off. 'Ring up Fair Rosamun.' Fair

Rosamun answers the bell. Next morning, 'Chop off her head.' he made

every one of them tell him a tale every night; and he kept that up

till he had hogged a thousand and one tales that way, and then he

put them all in a book, and called it Domesday Book- which was a

good name and stated the case. You don't know kings, Jim, but I know

them; and this old rip of ourn is one of the cleanest I've struck in

history. Well, Henry he takes a notion he wants to get up some trouble

with this country. How does he go at it- give notice?- give the

country a show? No. All of a sudden he heaves all the tea in Boston

Harbor overboard, and whacks out a declaration of independence, and

dares them to come on. That was his style- he never give anybody a

chance. He had suspicions of his father, the Duke of Wellington. Well,

what did he do?- ask him to show up? No- drownded him in a butt of

mamsey, like a cat. Spose people left money laying around where he

was- what did he do? He collared it. Spose he contracted to do a

thing; and you paid him, and didn't set down there and see that he

done it- what did he do? He always done the other thing. Spose he

opened his mouth- what then? If he didn't shut it up powerful quick,

he'd lose a lie, every time. That's the kind of a bug Henry was; and

if we'd a had him along 'stead of our kings, he'd a fooled that town a

heap worse than ourn done. I don't say that ourn is lambs because they

ain't, when you come right down to the cold facts; but they ain't

nothing to that old ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is kings, and you

got to make allowances. Take them all around, they're a mighty

ornery lot. It's the way they're raised."

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

"Well, they all do, Jim. We can't help the way a king smells;

history don't tell no way."

"Now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man, in some ways."

"Yes, a duke's different. But not very different. This one's a

middling hard lot, for a duke. When he's drunk, there ain't no

near-sighted man could tell him from a king."

"Well, anyways, I doan' hanker for no mo' un um, Huck. Dese is all I

kin stan'."

"It's the way I feel, too, Jim. But we've got them on our hands, and

we got to remember what they are, and make allowances. Sometimes I

wish we could hear of a country that's out of kings."

What was the use to tell Jim these warn't real kings and dukes? It

wouldn't a done no good; and besides, it was just as I said; you

couldn't tell them from the real kind.

I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it was my turn. He

often done that. When I waked up, just at daybreak, he was setting

there with his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to

himself. I didn't take notice, nor let on. I knowed what it was about.

He was thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and

he was low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home

before in his life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his

people as white folks does for their'n. It don't seem natural, but I

reckon it's so. He was often moaning and mourning that way, nights,

when he judged I was asleep, and saying, "Po' little 'Lizabeth! po'

little Johnny! its mighty hard; I spec' I ain't ever gwyne to see

you no mo', no mo'!" He was a mighty good nigger, Jim was.

But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and

young ones; and by-and-by he says:

"What makes me feel so bad dis time, 'uz bekase I hear sumpn over

yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er

de time I treat my little 'Lizabeth so ornery. She warn't on'y 'bout

fo' year ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet-fever, en had a powful rough

spell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin' aroun', en I

says to her, I says:

"'Shet de do'.'

"She never done it; jis'stood dah, kiner smilin' up at me. It make

me mad; en I says agin, mighty loud, I says:

"'Doan' you hear me?- shet de do'!'

"She jis' stood de same way, kiner smilin'up. I was a-bilin'! I

says:

"'I lay I make you mine!'

"En wid dat I fetch' her a slap side de head dat sont her

a-sprawlin'. Den I went into de yuther room, en 'uz gone 'bout ten

minutes; en when I come back, dah was dat do' a-stannin' open yit,

en dat chile stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin' down and mournin',

en de tears runnin' down. My, but I wuz mad, I was agwyne for de

chile, but jis' den- it was a do' dat open innerds- jis' den 'long

come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-blam!- en my lan', de

chile never move'! My breff mos' hop outer me; en I feel so- so- I

doan' know how I feel. I crope out, all a-tremblin', en crope aroun'

en open de do' easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile,

sof' en still, en all uv a sudden, I says pow! jis' as loud as I could

yell. She never budge! Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in

my arms, en say, 'Oh, de po' little thing! de Lord God Amighty

fogive po' ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long's he

live!' Oh, she was plumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb- en

I'd ben a-treat'n her so!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Next day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow tow-head

out in the middle, where there was a village on each side of the

river, and the duke and the king begun to lay out a plan for working

them towns. Jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it wouldn't

take but a few hours, because it got mighty heavy and tiresome to

him when he had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with the rope. You

see, when we left him all alone we had to tie him, because if

anybody happened on him all by himself and not tied, it wouldn't

look much like he was a runaway nigger, you know. So the duke said

it was kind of hard to have to lay roped all day, and he'd cipher

out some way to get around it.

He was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it. He

dressed Jim up in King Lear's outfit- it was a long curtain-calico

gown, and a white horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his

theatre-paint and painted Jim's face and hands and ears and neck all

over a dead dull solid blue, like a man that's been drownded nine

days. Blamed if he warn't the horriblest looking outrage I ever see.

Then the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so-

Sick Arab- but harmless when not out of his head

And he nailed the shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four

or five foot in front of the wigwam. Jim was satisfied. He said it was

a sight better than laying tied a couple of years every day and

trembling all over every time there was a sound. The duke told him

to make himself free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling

around he must hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch

a howl or two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light

out and leave him alone. Which was sound enough judgment; but you take

the average man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. Why, he

didn't only look like he was dead, he looked considerable more than

that.

These rapscallions wanted to try the Nonesuch again, because there

was so much money in it, but they judged it wouldn't be safe,

because maybe the news might a worked along down by this time. They

couldn't hit no project that suited, exactly; so at last the duke said

he reckoned he'd lay off and work his brains an hour or two and see if

he couldn't put up something on the Arkansaw village; and the king

he allowed he would drop over to t'other village, without any plan,

but just trust in Providence to lead him the profitable way- meaning

the devil, I reckon. We had all bought store clothes where we

stopped last; and now the king put his'n on, and he told me to put

mine on. I done it, of course. The king's duds was all black, and he

did look real swell and starchy. I never knowed how clothes could

change a body before. Why, before, he looked like the orneriest old

rip that ever was; but now, when he'd take off his new white beaver

and make a bow and do a smile, he looked that grand and good and pious

that you'd say he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old

Leviticus himself. Jim cleaned up the canoe, and I got my paddle

ready. There was a big steamboat laying at the shore away up under the

point, about three mile above town- been there a couple of hours,

taking on freight. Says the king:

"Seein' how I'm dressed, I reckon maybe I better arrive down from

St. Louis or Cincinnati, or some other big place. Go for the

steamboat, Huckleberry; we'll come down to the village on her."

I didn't have to be ordered twice, to go and take a steamboat

ride. I fetched the shore a half a mile above the village, and then

went scooting along the bluff bank in the easy water. Pretty soon we

come to a nice innocent-looking young country jake setting on a log

swabbing the sweat off of his face, for it was powerful warm

weather; and he had a couple of big carpet-bags by him.

"Run her nose in shore," says the king. I done it. "Wher' you

bound for, young man?"

"For the steamboat; going to Orleans."

"Git aboard," says the king. "Hold on a minute, my servant'll he'p

you with them bags. Jump out and he'p the gentleman, Adolphus"-

meaning me, I see.

I done so, and then we all three started on again. The young chap

was mighty thankful; said it was tough work toting his baggage in such

weather. He asked the king where he was going, and the king told him

he'd come down the river and landed at the other village this morning,

and now he was going up a few mile to see an old friend on a farm up

there. The young fellow says:

"When I first see you, I says to myself, 'It's Mr. Wilks, sure,

and he come mighty near getting here in time.' But then I says

again, 'No, I reckon it ain't him, or else he wouldn't be paddling

up the river.' You ain't him, are you?"

"No, my name's Blodgett- Elexander Blodgett- Reverend Elexander

Blodgett, I spose I must say, as I'm one o' the Lord's poor

servants. But still I'm jist as able to be sorry for Mr. Wilks for not

arriving in time, all the same, if he's missed anything by it- which I

hope he hasn't."

"Well, he don't miss any property by it, because he'll get that

all right; but he's missed seeing his brother Peter die- which he

mayn't mind, nobody can tell as to that- but his brother would a

give anything in this world to see him before he died; never talked

about nothing else all these three weeks; hadn't seen him since they

was boys together- and hadn't ever seen his brother William at all-

that's the deef and dumb one- William ain't more than thirty or

thirty-five. Peter and George was the only ones that come out here;

George was the married brother; him and his wife both died last

year. Harvey and William's the only ones that's left now; and, as I

was saying, they haven't got here in time."

"Did anybody send' em word?"

"Oh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was first took; because

Peter said then that he sorter felt like he warn't going to get well

this time. You see, he was pretty old, and George's g'yirls was too

young to be much company for him, except Mary Jane the red-headed one;

and so he was kinder lonesome after George and his wife died, and

didn't seem to care much to live. He most desperately wanted to see

Harvey- and William too, for that matter- because he was one of them

kind that can't bear to make a will. He left a letter behind for

Harvey, and said he'd told in it where his money was hid, and how he

wanted the rest of the property divided up so George's g'yirls would

be all right- for George didn't leave nothing. And that letter was all

they could get him to put a pen to."

"Why do you reckon Harvey don't come? Wher' does he live?"

"Oh, he lives in England- Sheffield- preaches there- hasn't ever

been in this country. He hasn't had any too much time- and besides

he mightn't a got the letter at all, you know."

"Too bad, too bad he couldn't a lived to see his brothers, poor

soul. You going to Orleans, you say?"

"Yes, but that ain't only a part of it. I'm going in a ship, next

Wednesday, for Ryo Janeero, where my uncle lives."

"It's a pretty long journey. But it'll be lovely; I wisht I was

agoing. Is Mary Jane the oldest? How old is the others?"

"Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and Joanna's about fourteen-

that's the one that gives herself to good works and has a hare-lip."

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

"Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had friends, and they

ain't going to let them come to no harm. There's Hobson, the Babtis'

preacher; and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford,

and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and

the widow Bartley, and- well, there's a lot of them; but these are the

ones that Peter was thickest with, and used to write about

sometimes, when he wrote home; so Harvey'll know where to look for

friends when he gets here."

Well, the old man he went on asking questions till he just fairly

emptied that young fellow. Blamed if he didn't inquire about everybody

and everything in that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and

about Peter's business- which was a tanner; and about George's-

which was a carpenter; and about Harvey's- which was a dissentering

minister; and so on, and so on. Then he says:

"What did you want to walk all the way up to the steamboat for?"

"Because she's a big Orleans boat, and I was afeard she mightn't

stop there. When they're deep they won't stop for a hail. A Cincinnati

boat will, but this is a St. Louis one."

"Was Peter Wilks well off?"

"Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses and land, and it's reckoned

he left three or four thousand in cash hid up som'ers."

"When did you say he died?"

"I didn't say, but it was last night."

"Funeral to-morrow, likely?"

"Yes, 'bout the middle of the day."

"Well, it's all terrible sad; but we've all got to go, one time or

another. So what we want to do is to be prepared; then we're all

right."

"Yes, sir, it's the best way. Ma used to always say that."

When we struck the boat, she was about done loading, and pretty soon

she got off. The king never said nothing about going aboard, so I lost

my ride, after all. When the boat was gone, the king made me paddle up

another mile to a lonesome place, and then he got ashore, and says:

"Now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up here, and the new

carpet-bags. And if he's gone over to t'other side, go over there

and git him. And tell him to git himself up regardless. Shove along,

now."

I see what he was up to; but I never said nothing, of course. When I

got back with the duke, we hid the canoe and then they set down on a

log, and the king told him everything, just like the young fellow

had said it- every last word of it. And all the time he was a doing

it, he tried to talk like an Englishman; and he done it pretty well

too, for a slouch. I can't imitate him, and so I ain't agoing to try

to; but he really done it pretty good. Then he says:

"How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?"

The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a deef

and dumb person on the histrionic boards. So then they waited for a

steamboat.

About the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats come

along, but they didn't come from high enough up the river; but at last

there was a big one, and they hailed her. She sent out her yawl, and

we went aboard, and she was from Cincinnati; and when they found we

only wanted to go four or five mile, they was booming mad, and give us

a cussing, and said they wouldn't land us. But the king was ca'm. He

says:

"If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece, to be took

on and put off in a yawl, a steamboat kin afford to carry 'em, can't

it?"

So they softened down and said it was all right; and when we got

to the village, they yawled us ashore. About two dozen men flocked

down, when they see the yawl a coming; and when the king says-

"Kin any of you gentlemen tell me where Mr. Peter Wilks lives?" they

give a glance at one another, and nodded their heads, as much as to

say, "What d' I tell you?" Then one of them says, kind of soft and

gentle:

"I'm sorry, sir, but the best we can do is to tell you where he

did live yesterday evening."

Sudden as winking, the ornery old cretur went all to smash, and fell

up against the man, and put his chin on his shoulder, and cried down

his back, and says:

"Alas, alas, our poor brother- gone, and we never got to see him;

oh, it's too, too hard!"

Then he turns around, blubbering, and making a lot of idiotic

signs to the duke on his hands, and blamed if he didn't drop a

carpet-bag and bust out a-crying. If they warn't the beatenest lot,

them two frauds, that ever I struck.

Well, the men gethered around, and sympathized with them, and said

all sorts of kind things to them, and carried their carpet-bags up the

hill for them, and let them lean on them and cry, and told the king

all about his brother's last moments, and the king he told it all over

again on his hands to the duke, and both of them took on about that

dead tanner like they'd lost the twelve disciples. Well, if ever I

struck anything like it, I'm a nigger. It was enough to make a body

ashamed of the human race.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The news was all over town in two minutes, and you could see the

people tearing down on the run, from every which way, some of them

putting on their coats as they come. Pretty soon we was in the

middle of a crowd, and the noise of the tramping was like a

soldier-march. The windows and door-yards was full; and every minute

somebody would say, over a fence:

"Is it them?"

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

"You bet it is."

When we got to the house, the street in front of it was packed,

and the three girls was standing in the door. Mary Jane was

red-headed, but that don't make no difference, she was most awful

beautiful, and her face and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she

was so glad her uncles was come. The king he spread his arms, and Mary

Jane she jumped for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the duke, and

there they had it! Everybody most, leastways women, cried for joy to

see them meet again at last and have such good times.

Then the king he hunched the duke, private- I see him do it- and

then he looked around and see the coffin, over in the corner on two

chairs; so then, him and the duke, with a hand across each other's

shoulder, and t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and solemn

over there, everybody dropping back to give them room, and all the

talk and noise stopping, people saying "Sh!" and all the men taking

their hats off and dropping their heads, so you could a heard a pin

fall. And when they got there, they bent over and looked in the

coffin, and took one sight, and then they bust out a crying so you

could a heard them to Orleans, most; and then they put their arms

around each other's neck, and hung their chins over each other's

shoulders; and then for three minutes, or maybe four, I never see

two men leak the way they done. And mind you, everybody was doing

the same; and the place was that damp I never see anything like it.

Then one of them got on one side of the coffin, and t'other on t'other

side, and they kneeled down and rested their foreheads on the

coffin, and let on to pray all to theirselves. Well, when it come to

that, it worked the crowd like you never see anything like it, and

so everybody broke down and went to sobbing right out loud- the poor

girls, too; and every woman, nearly, went up to the girls, without

saying a word, and kissed them, solemn, on the forehead, and then

put their hand on their head, and looked up towards the sky, with

the tears running down, and then busted out and went off sobbing and

swabbing, and give the next woman a show. I never see anything so

disgusting.

Well, by-and-by the king he gets up and comes forward a little,

and works himself up and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears

and flapdoodle about its being a sore trial for him and his poor

brother to lose the diseased, and to miss seeing diseased alive, after

the long journey of four thousand mile, but it's a trial that's

sweetened and sanctified to us by this dear sympathy and these holy

tears, and so he thanks them out of his heart and out of his brother's

heart, because out of their mouths they can't, words being too weak

and cold, and all that kind of rot and slush, till it was just

sickening; and then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody Amen, and

turns hirnself loose and goes to crying fit to bust.

And the minute the words was out of his mouth somebody over in the

crowd struck up the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with all

their might, and it just warmed you up and made you feel as good as

church letting out. Music is a good thing; and after all that

soul-butter and hogwash, I never see it freshen up things so, and

sound so honest and bully.

Then the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him and his

nieces would be glad if a few of the main principal friends of the

family would take supper here with them this evening, and help set

up with the ashes of the diseased; and says if his poor brother laying

yonder could speak, he knows who he would name, for they was names

that was very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters; and

so he will name the same, to-wit, as follows, vizz:- Rev. Mr.

Hobson, and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Mr. Ben Rucker, and Abner

Shackleford, and Levi Bell, and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and the

widow Bartley.

Rev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down to the end of the town,

a-hunting together; that is, I mean the doctor was shipping a sick man

to t'other world, and the preacher was pinting him right. Lawyer

Bell was away up to Louisville on some business. But the rest was on

hand, so they all come and shook hands with the king and thanked him

and talked to him; and then they shook hands with the duke, and didn't

say nothing but just kept a-smiling and bobbing their heads like a

passel of sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs with his hands

and said "Goo-goo- goo-goo-goo," all the time, like a baby that

can't talk.

So the king he blatted along, and managed to inquire about pretty

much everybody and dog in town, by his name, and mentioned all sorts

of little things that happened one time or another in the town, or

to George's family, or to Peter; and he always let on that Peter wrote

him the things, but that was a lie, he got every blessed one of them

out of that young flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat.

Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father left behind, and

the king he read it out loud and cried over it. It give the

dwelling-house and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and

it give the tanyard (which was doing a good business), along with some

other houses and land (worth about seven thousand), and three thousand

dollars in gold to Harvey and William, and told where the six thousand

cash was hid, down cellar. So these two frauds said they'd go and

fetch it up, and have everything square and above-board; and told me

to come with a candle. We shut the cellar door behind us, and when

they found the bag they spilt it out on the floor and it was a

lovely sight, all them yaller-boys. My, the way the king's eyes did

shine! He slaps the duke on the shoulder, and says:

"Oh, this ain't bully, nor noth'n! Oh, no, I reckon not! Why, Biljy,

it beats the Nonesuch, don't it!"

The duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted them

through their fingers and let them jingle down on the floor; and the

king says:

"It ain't no use talkin'; bein' brothers to a rich dead man, and

representatives of furrin heirs that's got left, is the line for you

and me, Bilge. Thish-yer comes of trust'n to Providence. It's the best

way, in the long run. I've tried 'em all, and ther' ain't no better

way."

Most everybody would a been satisfied with the pile, and took it

on trust; but no, they must count it. So they counts it, and it

comes out four hundred and fifteen dollars short. Says the king:

"Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four hundred and

fifteen dollars?"

They worried over that a while, and ransacked all around for it.

Then the duke says:

"Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake- I

reckon that's the way of it. The best way's to let it go, and keep

still about it. We can spare it."

"Oh, shucks, yes, we can spare it. I don't k'yer noth'n 'bout

that- it's the count I'm thinkin'about. We want to be awful square and

open and aboveboard, here, you know. We want to lug this h-yer money

up stairs and count it before everybody- then ther' ain't noth'n

suspicious. But when the dead man says ther's six thous'n dollars, you

know, we don't want to-"

"Hold on," says the duke. "Less make up the deffisit"- and he

begun to haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket.

"It's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke- you have got a rattlin' clever

head on you," says the king. "Blest if the old None-such ain't a

heppin' us out agin"- and he begun to haul out yaller-jackets and

stack them up.

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

clear.

"Say," says the duke, "I got another idea. Le's go up stairs and

count this money, and then take and give it to the girls."

"Good land, duke, lemme hug you! It's the most dazzling idea 'at

ever a man struck. You have cert'nly got the most astonishin' head I

ever see. Oh, this is the boss dodge, ther' ain't no mistake 'bout it.

Let 'em fetch along their suspicions now, if they want to- this'll lay

'em out."

When we got up stairs, everybody gethered around the table, and

the king he counted it and stacked it up, three hundred dollars in a

pile- twenty elegant little piles. Everybody looked hungry at it,

and licked their chops. Then they raked it into the bag agin, and I

see the king begin to swell himself up for another speech. He says:

"Friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder, has done generous by

them that's left behind in the vale of sorrers. He has done generous

by these-yer poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and that's

left fatherless and motherless. Yes, and we that knowed him, knows

that he would a done more generous by 'em if he hadn't ben afeard o'

woundin' his dear William and me. Now, wouldn't he? Ther' ain't no

question 'bout it, in my mind. Well, then- what kind o' brothers would

it be, that'd stand in his way at sech a time? And what kind o' uncles

would it be that'd rob- yes, rob- sech poor sweet lambs as these 'at

he loved so, at sech a time? If I know William- and I think I do-

he- well, I'll jest ask him." He turns around and begins to make a lot

of signs to the duke with hands; and the duke he looks at him stupid

and leather-headed a while, then all of a sudden he seems to catch his

meaning, and jumps for the king, goo-gooing with all his might for

joy, and hugs him about fifteen times before he lets up. Then the king

says, "I knowed it; I reckon that'll convince anybody the way he feels

about it. Here, Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner, take the money- take it

all. It's the gift of him that lays yonder, cold but joyful."

Mary Jane she went for him, Susan and the hare-lip went for the

duke, and then such another hugging and kissing I never see yet. And

everybody crowded up with the tears in their eyes, and most shook

the hands off of them frauds, saying all the time:

"You dear good souls!- how lovely!- how could you!"

Well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking about the

diseased again, and how good he was, and what a loss he was, and all

that; and before long a big iron-jawed man worked himself in there

from outside, and stood a listening and looking, and not saying

anything; and nobody saying anything to him either, because the king

was talking and they was all busy listening. The king was saying- in

the middle of something he'd started in on-

"-they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased. That's why

they're invited here this evenin'; but to-morrow we want all to

come- everybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody, and

so it's fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public."

And so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk, and

every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies again, till the

duke he couldn't stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap of

paper, "obsequies, you old fool," and folds it up and goes to

goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to him. The king he

reads it, and puts it in his pocket, and says:

"Poor William, afflicted as he is, his heart's aluz right. Asks me

to invite everybody to come to the funeral- wants me to make 'em all

welcome. But he needn't a worried- it was jest what I was at."

Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and goes to dropping

in his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like he done

before. And when he done it the third time he says:

"I say orgies, not because it's the common term, because it ain't-

obsequies bein' the common term- but because orgies is the right term.

Obsequies ain't used in England no more, now- it's gone out. We say

orgies now, in England. Orgies is better, because it means the thing

you're after, more exact. It's a word that's made up outin the Greek

orgo, outside, open, abroad; and the Hebrew jeesum, to plant, cover

up; hence inter. So, you see, funeral orgies is an open er public

funeral."

He was the worst I ever struck. Well, the iron-jawed man he

laughed right in his face. Everybody was shocked. Everybody says, "Why

doctor!" and Abner Shackleford says:

"Why, Robinson, hain't you heard the news? This is Harvey Wilks."

The king he smiled eager, and shoved out his flapper, and says:

"Is it my poor brother's dear good friend and physician? I-"

"Keep your hands off of me!" says the doctor. "You talk like an

Englishman- don't you? It's the worst imitation I ever heard. You

Peter Wilks's brother. You're a fraud, that's what you are!"

Well, how they all took on! They crowded around the doctor, and

tried to quiet him down, and tried to explain to him, and tell him how

Harvey'd showed in forty ways that he was Harvey, and knowed everybody

by name, and the names of the very dogs, and begged and begged him not

to hurt Harvey's feelings and the poor girls' feelings, and all

that; but it warn't no use, he stormed right along, and said any man

that pretended to be an Englishman and couldn't imitate the lingo no

better than what he did, was a fraud and a liar. The poor girls was

hanging to the king and crying; and all of a sudden the doctor ups and

turns on them. He says:

"I was your father's friend, and I'm your friend; and I warn you

as a friend, and an honest one, that wants to protect you and keep you

out of harm and trouble, to turn your backs on that scoundrel, and

have nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp, with his idiotic

Greek and Hebrew as he calls it. He is the thinnest kind of an

imposter- has come here with a lot of empty names and facts which he

has picked up somewheres, and you take them for proofs, and are helped

to fool yourselves by these foolish friends here, who ought to know

better. Mary Jane Wilks, you know me for your friend, and for your

unselfish friend, too. Now listen to me; turn this pitiful rascal out-

I beg you to do it. Will you?"

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

says:

"Here is my answer." She hove up the bag of money and put it in

the king's hands, and says, "Take this six thousand dollars, and

invest it for me and my sisters any way you want to, and don't give us

no receipt for it."

Then she put her arm around the king on one side, and Susan and

the hare-lip done the same on the other. Everybody clapped their hands

and stomped on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the king held up

his hand and smiled proud. The doctor says:

"All right, I wash my hands of the matter. But I warn you all that a

time's coming when you're going to feel sick whenever you think of

this day"- and away he went.

"All right, doctor," says the king, kinder mocking him, "we'll try

and get 'em to send for you"- which made them all laugh, and they said

it was a prime good hit.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Well when they was all gone, the king he asks Mary Jane how they was

off for spare rooms, and she said she had one spare room, which

would do for Uncle William, and she'd give her own room to Uncle

Harvey, which was a little bigger, and she would turn into the room

with her sisters and sleep on a cot; and up garret was a little cubby,

with a pallet in it. The king said the cubby would do for his

valley- meaning me.

So Mary Jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which

was plain but nice. She said she'd have her frocks and a lot of

other traps took out of her room if they was in Uncle Harvey's way,

but he said they warn't. The frocks was hung along the wall, and

before them was a curtain made out of calico that hung down to the

floor. There was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar box

in another, and all sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks

around, like girls brisken up a room with. The king said it was all

the more homely and more pleasanter for these fixings, and so don't

disturb them. The duke's room was pretty small, but plenty good

enough, and so was my cubby.

That night they had a big supper, and all them men and women was

there, and I stood behind the king and the duke's chairs and waited on

them, and the niggers waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set at the

head of the table, with Susan along side of her, and said how bad

the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was, and how ornery and

tough the fried chickens was- and all that kind of rot, the way

women always do for to force out compliments; and the people all

knowed everything was tip-top, and said so- said "How do you get

biscuits to brown so nice?" and "Where, for the land's sake did you

get these amaz'n pickles?" and all that kind of humbug talky-talk,

just the way people always does at a supper, you know.

And when it was all done, me and the hare-lip had supper in the

kitchen off of the leavings, whilst the others was helping the niggers

clean up the things. The hare-lip she got to pumping me about England,

and blest if I didn't think the ice was getting mighty thin,

sometimes. She says:

"Did you ever see the king?"

"Who? William Fourth? Well, I bet I have- he goes to our church."

I knowed he was dead years ago, but I never let on. So when I says

he goes to our church, she says:

"What- regular?"

"Yes- regular. His pew's right over opposite ourn- on t'other side

the pulpit."

"I thought he lived in London?"

"Well, he does. Where would he live?"

"But I thought you lived in Sheffield?"

I see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get choked with a chicken

bone, so as to get time to think how to get down again. Then I says:

"I mean he goes to our church regular when he's in Sheffield. That's

only in the summer-time, when he comes there to take the sea baths."

"Why, how you talk- Sheffield ain't on the sea."

"Well, who said it was?"

"Why, you did."

"I didn't, nuther."

"You did!"

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I never said nothing of the kind."

"Well, what did you say, then?"

"Said he come to take the sea baths- that's what I said."

"Well, then! how's he going to take the sea baths if it ain't on the

sea?"

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

"Yes."

"Well, did you have to go to Congress to get it?"

"Why, no."

"Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to the sea to get a

sea bath."

"How does he get it, then?"

"Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-water- in barrels.

There in the palace at Sheffield they've got furnaces, and he wants

his water hot. They can't bile that amount of water away off there

at the sea. They haven't got no conveniences for it."

"Oh, I see, now. You might a said that in the first place and

saved time."

When she said that, I see I was out of the woods again, and so I was

comfortable and glad. Next, she says:

"Do you go to church, too?"

"Yes- regular."

"Where do you set?"

"Why, in our pew."

"Whose pew?"

"Why, ourn- your Uncle Harvey's."

"His'n? What does he want with a pew?"

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

"Why, I thought he'd be in the pulpit."

Rot him, I forgot he was a preacher. I see I was up a stump again,

so I played another chicken bone and got another think. Then I says:

"Blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one preacher to a church?"

"Why, what do they want with more?"

"What!- to preach before a king? I never see such a girl as you.

They don't have no less than seventeen."

"Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn't set out such a string as

that, not if I never got to glory. It must take 'em a week."

"Shucks, they don't all of 'em preach the same day- only one of

'em."

"Well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?"

"Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate- and one thing or

another. But mainly they don't do nothing."

"Well, then, what are they for?"

"Why, they're for style. Don't you know nothing?"

"Well, I don't want to know no such foolishness as that. How is

servants treated in England? Do they treat 'em better 'n we treat

our niggers?"

"No! A servant ain't nobody there. They treat them worse than dogs."

"Don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do, Christmas and New

Year's week, and Fourth of July?"

"Oh, just listen! A body could tell you hain't ever been to England,

by that. Why, Hare-l- why, Joanna, they never see a holiday from

year's end to year's end; never go to the circus, nor theatre, nor

nigger shows, nor nowheres."

"Nor church?"

"Nor church."

"But you always went to church."

Well, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old man's servant. But

next minute I whirled in on a kind of an explanation how a valley

was different from a common servant, and had to go to church whether

he wanted to or not, and set with the family, on account of it's being

the law. But I didn't do it pretty good, and when I got done I see she

warn't satisfied. She says:

"Honest injun, now, hain't you been telling me a lot of lies?"

"Honest injun," says I.

"None of it at all?"

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

"Lay your hand on this book and say it."

I see it warn't nothing but a dictionary, so I laid my hand on it

and said it. So then she looked a little better satisfied, and says:

"Well, then, I'll believe some of it; but I hope to gracious if I'll

believe the rest."

"What is it you won't believe, Joe?" says Mary Jane, stepping in

with Susan behind her. "It ain't right nor kind for you to talk so

to him, and him a stranger and so far from his people. How would you

like to be treated so?"

"That's always your way, Maim- always sailing in to help somebody

before they're hurt. I hain't done nothing to him. He's told some

stretchers, I reckon; and I said I wouldn't swallow it all; and that's

every bit and grain I did say. I reckon he can stand a little thing

like that, can't he?"

"I don't care whether 'twas little or whether 'twas big, he's here

in our house and a stranger, and it wasn't good of you to say it. If

you was in his place, it would make you feel ashamed; and so you

oughtn't to say a thing to another person that will make them feel

ashamed."

"Why, Maim, he said-"

"It don't make no difference what he said- that ain't the thing. The

thing is for you to treat him kind, and not be saying things to make

him remember he ain't in his own country and amongst his own folks."

I says to myself, this is a girl that I'm letting that old reptle

rob her of her money!

Then Susan she waltzed in; and if you'll believe me, she did give

Hare-lip hark from the tomb!

Says I to myself, And this is another one that I'm letting him rob

her of her money!

Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and lovely

again- which was her way- but when she got done there warn't hardly

anything left o' poor Hare-lip. So she hollered.

"All right, then," says the other girls, "you just ask his pardon."

She done it, too. And she done it beautiful. She done it so

beautiful it was good to hear; and I wished I could tell her a

thousand lies, so she could do it again.

I says to myself, this is another one that I'm letting him rob her

of her money. And when she got through, they all jest laid theirselves

out to make me feel at home and know I was amongst friends. I felt

so ornery and low down and mean, that I says to myself, My mind's made

up; I'll hive that money for them or bust.

So then I lit out- for bed, I said, meaning some time or another.

When I got by myself, I went to thinking the thing over. I says to

myself, shall I go to that doctor, private, and blow on these

frauds? No- that won't do. He might tell who told him; then the king

and the duke would make it warm for me. Shall I go, private, and

tell Mary Jane? No- I dasn't do it. Her face would give them a hint,

sure; they've got the money, and they'd slide right out and get away

with it. If she was to fetch in help, I'd get mixed up in the

business, before it was done with, I judge. No, there ain't no good

way but one. I got to steal that money, somehow; and I got to steal it

some way that they won't suspicion that I done it. They've got a

good thing, here; and they ain't agoing to leave till they've played

this family and this town for all they're worth, so I'll find a chance

time enough. I'll steal it, and hide it; and by-and-by, when I'm

away down the river, I'll write a letter and tell Mary Jane where it's

hid. But I better hive it to-night, if I can, because the doctor maybe

hasn't let up as much as he lets on he has; he might scare them out of

here, yet.

So, thinks I, I'll go and search them rooms. Up stairs the hall

was dark, but I found the duke's room, and started to paw around it

with my hands; but I recollected it wouldn't be much like the king

to let anybody else take care of that money but his own self; so

then I went to his room and begun to paw around there. But I see I

couldn't do nothing without a candle, and I dasn't light one, of

course. So I judged I'd got to do the other thing- lay for them and

eavesdrop. About that time, I hears their footsteps coming and was

going to skip under the bed; I reached for it, but it wasn't where I

thought it would be; but I touched the curtain that hid Mary Jane's

frocks, so I jumped in behind that and snuggled in amongst the

gowns, and stood there perfectly still.

They come in and shut the door; and the first thing the duke done

was to get down and look under the bed. Then I was glad I hadn't found

the bed when I wanted it. And yet, you know, it's kind of natural to

hide under the bed when you are up to anything private. They sets

down, then, and the king says:

"Well, what is it? and cut it middlin' short, because it's better

for us to be down there a whoopin'-up the mournin', than up here

givin' 'em a chance to talk us over."

"Well, this is it, Capet. I ain't easy; I ain't comfortable. That

doctor lays on my mind. I wanted to know your plans. I've got a

notion, and I think it's a sound one."

"What is it, duke?"

"That we better glide out of this, before three in the morning,

and clip it down the river with what we've got. Specially, seeing we

got it so easy- given back to us, flung at our heads, as you may

say, when of course we allowed to have to steal it back. I'm for

knocking off and lighting out."

That made me feel pretty bad. About an hour or two ago, it would a

been a little different, but now it made me feel bad and disappointed.

The king rips out and says:

"What! And not sell out the rest o' the property? March off like a

passel o' fools and leave eight or nine thous'n' dollars' worth o'

property layin' around jest sufferin' to be scooped in?- and all

good salable stuff, too."

The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and he didn't

want to go no deeper- didn't want to rob a lot of orphans of

everything they had.

"Why, how you talk!" says the king. "We shan't rob 'em of nothing at

all but jest this money. The people that buys the property is the

suff'rers; because as soon's it's found out 'at we didn't own it-

which won't be long after we've slid- the sale won't be valid, and

it'll all go back to the estate. These-yer orphans'll git their

house back agin, and that's enough for them; they're young and spry,

and k'n easy earn a livin'. They ain't agoing to suffer. Why, jest

think- there's thous'n's and thous'n's that ain't nigh so well off.

Bless you, they ain't got noth'n to complain of."

Well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and

said all right, but said he believed it was blame foolishness to stay,

and that doctor hanging over them. But the king says:

"Cuss the doctor! What do we k'yer for him? Hain't we got all the

fools in town on our side? and ain't that a big enough majority in any

town?"

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

"I don't think we put that money in a good place."

That cheered me up. I'd begun to think I warn't going to get a

hint of no kind to help me. The king says:

"Because Mary Jane'll be in mourning from this out; and first you

know the nigger that does up the rooms will get an order to box

these duds up and put 'em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run

across money and not borrow some of it?"

"Your head's level, agin, duke," says the king; and he come a

fumbling under the curtain two or three foot from where I was. I stuck

tight to the wall, and kept mighty still, though quivery; and I

wondered what them fellows would say to me if they catched me; and I

tried to think what I'd better do if they did catch me. But the king

he got the bag before I could think more than about a half a

thought, and he never suspicioned I was around. They took and shoved

the bag through a rip in the straw tick that was under the feather

bed, and crammed it in a foot or two amongst the straw and said it was

all right, now, because a nigger only makes up the feather bed, and

don't turn over the straw tick only about twice a year, and so it

warn't in no danger of getting stole, now.

But I knowed better. I had it out of there before they was

half-way down stairs. I groped along up to my cubby, and hid it

there till I could get a chance to do better. I judged I better hide

it outside of the house somewheres, because if they missed it they

would give the house a good ransacking. I knowed that very well.

Then I turned in, with my clothes all on; but I couldn't a gone to

sleep, if I'd a wanted to, I was in such a sweat to get through with

the business. By-and-by I heard the king and the duke come up; so I

rolled off my pallet and laid with my chin at the top of my ladder and

waited to see if anything was going to happen. But nothing did.

So I held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones

hadn't begun, yet; and then I slipped down the ladder.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I crept to their doors and listened; they was snoring, so I tip-toed

along, and got down stairs all right. There warn't a sound

anywheres. I peeped through a crack of the diningroom door, and see

the men that was watching the corpse all sound asleep on their chairs.

The door was open into the parlor, where the corpse was laying, and

there was a candle in both rooms. I passed along, and the parlor

door was open; but I see there warn't nobody in there but the

remainders of Peter; so I shoved on by; but the front door was locked,

and the key wasn't there. Just then I heard somebody coming down the

stairs, back behind me. I run in the parlor, and took a swift look

around, and the only place I see to hide the bag was in the coffin.

The lid was shoved along about a foot, showing the dead man's face

down in there, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on. I tucked

the money-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his hands was

crossed, which made me creep, they was so cold, and then I run back

across the room and in behind the door.

The person coming was Mary Jane. She went to the coffin, very

soft, and kneeled down and looked in; then she put up her handkerchief

and I see she begun to cry, though I couldn't hear her, and her back

was to me. I slid out, and as I passed the dining room I thought I'd

make sure them watchers hadn't seen me; so I looked through the

crack and everything was all right. They hadn't stirred.

I slipped up to bed, feeling rather blue, on accounts of the thing

playing out that way after I had took so much trouble and run so

much resk about it. Says I, if it could stay where it is, all right;

because when we get down the river a hundred mile or two, I could

write back to Mary Jane, and she could dig him up again and get it;

but that ain't the thing that's going to happen; the thing that's

going to happen is, the money'll be found when they come to screw on

the lid. Then the king'll get it again, and it'll be a long day before

he gives anybody another chance to smouch it from him. Of course I

wanted to slide down and get it out of there, but I dasn't try it.

Every minute it was getting earlier, now, and pretty soon some of them

watchers would begin to stir, and I might get catched- catched with

six thousand dollars in my hands that nobody hadn't hired me to take

care of. I don't wish to be mixed up in no such business as that, I

says to myself.

When I got down stairs in the morning, the parlor was shut up, and

the watchers was gone. There warn't nobody around but the family and

the widow Bartley and our tribe. I watched their faces to see if

anything had been happening, but I couldn't tell.

Towards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man,

and they set the coffin in the middle of the room on a couple of

chairs, and then set all our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from

the neighbors till the hall and the parlor and the dining-room was

full. I see the coffin lid was the way it was before, but I dasn't

go to look in under it, with folks around.

Then the people begun to flock in, and the beats and the girls

took seats in the front row at the head of the coffin, and for a

half an hour the people filed around slow, in single rank, and

looked down at the dead man's face a minute, and some dropped in a

tear, and it was all very still and solemn, only the girls and the

beats holding handkerchiefs to their eyes and keeping their heads

bent, and sobbing a little. There warn't no other sound but the

scraping of the feet on the floor, and blowing noses- because people

always blow them more at a funeral than they do at other places except

church.

When the place was packed full, the undertaker he slid around in his

black gloves with his softy soothering ways, putting on the last

touches, and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfortable,

and making no more sound than a cat. He never spoke; he moved people

around, he squeezed in late ones, he opened up passage-ways, and

done it all with nods, and signs with his hands. Then he took his

place over against the wall. He was the softest, glidingest,

stealthiest man I ever see; and there warn't no more smile to him than

there is to a ham.

They had borrowed a melodeum- a sick one; and when everything was

ready, a young woman set down and worked it, and it was pretty skreeky

and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and Peter was the

only one that had a good thing, according to my notion. Then the

Reverend Hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and begun to talk; and

straight off the most outrageous row busted out in the cellar a body

ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made a most powerful racket,

and he kept it up, right along; the parson he had to stand there, over

the coffin, and wait- you couldn't hear yourself think. It was right

down awkward, and nobody didn't seem to know what to do. But pretty

soon they see that long-legged undertaker make a sign to the

preacher as much as to say, "Don't you worry- just depend on me." Then

he stooped down and begun to glide along the wall, just his

shoulders showing over the people's heads. So he glided along, and the

pow-wow and racket getting more and more outrageous all the time;

and at last, when he had gone around two sides of the room, he

disappears down cellar. Then, in about two seconds we heard a whack,

and the dog he finished up with a most amazing howl or two, and then

everything was dead still, and the parson begun his solemn talk

where he left off. In a minute or two here comes this undertaker's

back and shoulders gliding along the wall again; and so he glided, and

glided, around three sides of the room, and then rose up, and shaded

his mouth with his hands, and stretched his neck out towards the

preacher, over the people's heads, and says, in a kind of a coarse

whisper, "He had a rat!" Then he drooped down and glided along the

wall again to his place. You could see it was a great satisfaction

to the people, because naturally they wanted to know. A little thing

like that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little things that

makes a man to be looked up to and liked. There warn't no more popular

man in town than what that undertaker was.

Well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and tiresome;

and then the king he shoved in and got off some of his usual

rubbage, and at last the job was through, and the undertaker begun

to sneak up on the coffin with his screw-driver. I was in a sweat

then, and watched him pretty keen. But he never meddled at all; just

slid the lid along, as soft as mush, and screwed it down tight and

fast. So there I was! I didn't know whether the money was in there, or

not. So, says I, spose somebody has hogged that bag on the sly?- now

how do I know whether to write to Mary Jane or not? Spose she dug

him up and didn't find nothing- what would she think of me? Blame

it, I says, I might get hunted up and jailed; I'd better lay low and

keep dark, and not write at all; the thing's awful mixed, now;

trying to better it, I've worsened it a hundred times, and I wish to

goodness I'd just let it alone, dad fetch the whole business!

They buried him, and we come back home, and I went to watching faces

again- I couldn't help it, and I couldn't rest easy. But nothing

come of it; the faces didn't tell me nothing.

The king he visited around, in the evening, and sweetened

everybody up, and made himself ever so friendly; and he give out the

idea that his congregation over in England would be in a sweat about

him, so he must hurry and settle up the estate right away, and leave

for home. He was very sorry he was so pushed, and so was everybody;

they wished he could stay longer, but they said they could see it

couldn't be done. And he said of course him and William would take the

girls home with them; and that pleased everybody too, because then the

girls would be well fixed, and amongst their own relations; and it

pleased the girls, too- tickled them so they clean forgot they ever

had a trouble in the world; and told him to sell out as quick as he

wanted to, they would be ready. Them poor things was that glad and

happy it made my heart ache to see them getting fooled and lied to so,

but I didn't see no safe way for me to chip in and change the

general tune.

Well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and the niggers and

all the property for auction straight off- sale two days after the

funeral; but anybody could buy private beforehand if they wanted to.

So the next day after the funeral, along about noontime, the

girls' joy got the first jolt; a couple of nigger traders come

along, and the king sold them the niggers reasonable, for three-day

drafts as they called it, and away they went, the two sons up the

river to Memphis, and their mother down the river to Orleans. I

thought them poor girls and them niggers would break their hearts

for grief; they cried around each other, and took on so it most made

me down sick to see it. The girls said they hadn't ever dreamed of

seeing the family separated or sold away from the town. I can't ever

get it out of my memory, the sight of them poor miserable girls and

niggers hanging around each other's necks and crying; and I reckon I

couldn't a stood it all but would a had to bust out and tell on our

gang if I hadn't known the sale warn't no account and the niggers

would be back home in a week or two.

The thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a good many come out

flatfooted and said it was scandalous to separate the mother and the

children that way. It injured the frauds some; but the old fool he

bulled right along, spite of all the duke could say or do, and I

tell you the duke was powerful uneasy.

Next day was auction day. About broad-day in the morning, the king

and the duke come up in the garret and woke me up, and I see by

their look that there was trouble. The king says:

"Was you in my room night before last?"

"No, your majesty"- which was the way I always called him when

nobody but our gang warn't around.

"Was you in there yesterday er last night?"

"No, your majesty."

"Honor bright, now- no lies."

"Honor bright, your majesty, I'm telling you the truth. I hain't

been anear your room since Miss Mary Jane took you and the duke and

showed it to you."

The duke says:

"Have you seen anybody else go in there?"

"No, your grace, not as I remember, I believe."

"Stop and think."

I studied a while, and see my chance, then I says:

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

Both of them give a little jump; and looked like they hadn't ever

expected it, and then like they had. Then the duke says:

"What, all of them?"

"No- leastways not all at once. That is, I don't think I ever see

them all come out at once but just one time."

"Hello- when was that?"

"It was the day we had the funeral. In the morning. It warn't early,

because I overslept. I was just starting down the ladder, and I see

them."

"Well, go on, go on- what did they do? How'd they act?"

"They didn't do anything. And they didn't act anyway, much, as fur

as I see. They tip-toed away; so I seen, easy enough, that they'd

shoved in there to do up your majesty's room, or something, sposing

you was up; and found you warn't up, and so they was hoping to slide

out of the way of trouble without waking you up, if they hadn't

already waked you up."

"Great guns, this is a go!" says the king; and both of them looked

pretty sick, and tolerable silly. They stood there a thinking and

scratching their heads, a minute, and then the duke he bust into a

kind of a little raspy chuckle, and says:

"It does beat all, how neat the niggers played their hand. They

let on to be sorry they was going out of this region! and I believed

they was sorry. And so did you, and so did everybody. Don't ever

tell me any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic talent. Why,

the way they played that thing, it would fool anybody. In my opinion

there's a fortune in 'em. If I had capital and a theatre, I wouldn't

want a better lay out than that- and here we've gone and sold 'em

for a song. Yes, and ain't privileged to sing the song, yet. Say,

where is that song?- that draft."

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

"Well, that's all right then, thank goodness."

Says I, kind of timid-like:

"Is something gone wrong?"

The king whirls on me and rips out:

"None o' your business! You keep your head shet, and mind y'r own

affairs- if you got any. Long as you're in this town, don't you forgit

that, you hear?" Then he says to the duke, "We got to jest swaller it,

and say noth'n: mum's the word for us."

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

and says:

"Quick sales and small profits! It's a good business- yes."

The king snarls around on him and says,

"I was trying to do for the best, in sellin' 'm out so quick. If the

profits has turned out to be none, lackin' considable, and none to

carry, is it my fault any more'n it's yourn?"

"Well, they'd be in this house yet, and we wouldn't if I could a got

my advice listened to."

The king sassed back, as much as was safe for him, and then

swapped around and lit into me again. He give me down the banks for

not coming and telling him I see the niggers come out of his room

acting that way- said any fool would a knowed something was up. And

then waltzed in and cussed himself a while; and said it all come of

him not laying late and taking his natural rest that morning, and he'd

be blamed if he'd ever do it again. So they went off a jawing; and I

felt dreadful glad I'd worked it all off onto the niggers and yet

hadn't done the niggers no harm by it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

By-and-by it was getting-up time; so I come down the ladder and

started for down stairs, but as I come to the girls' room, the door

was open, and I see Mary Jane setting by her old hair trunk, which was

open and she'd been packing things in it- getting ready to go to

England. But she had stopped now, with a folded gown in her lap, and

had her face in her hands, crying. I felt awful bad to see it; of

course anybody would. I went in there, and says:

"Miss Mary Jane, you can't abear to see people in trouble, and I

can't- most always. Tell me about it."

So she done it. And it was the niggers- I just expected it. She said

the beautiful trip to England was most about spoiled for her; she

didn't know how she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the

mother and the children warn't ever going to see each other no more-

and then busted out bitterer than ever, and flung up her hands, and

says:

"Oh, dear, to think they ain't ever going to see each other any

more!"

"But they will- and inside of two weeks- and I know it!" says I.

Laws, it was out before I could think!- and before I could budge,

she throws her arms around my neck, and told me to say it again, say

it again, say it again!

I see I had spoke too sudden, and said too much, and was in a

close place. I asked her to let me think a minute; and she set

there, very impatient and excited, and handsome, but looking kind of

happy and eased-up, like a person that's had a tooth pulled out. So

I went to studying it out. I says to myself, I reckon a body that

ups and tells the truth when he is in a tight place, is taking

considerable many resks, though I ain't had no experience, and can't

say for certain; but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet here's a

case where I'm blest if it don't look to me like the truth is

better, and actuly safer, than a lie. I must lay it by in my mind, and

think it over some time or other, it's so kind of strange and

unregular. I never see nothing like it. Well, I says to myself at

last, I'm agoing to chance it; I'll up and tell the truth this time,

though it does seem most like setting down on a kag of powder and

touching it off just to see where you'll go to. Then I says:

"Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a little ways, where

you could go and stay three or four days?"

"Yes- Mr. Lathrop's. Why?"

"Never mind why, yet. If I tell you how I know the niggers will

see each other again- inside of two weeks- here in this house- and

prove how I know it- will you go to Mr. Lathrop's and stay four days?"

"Four days!" she says; "I'll stay a year!"

"All right," I says, "I don't want nothing more out of you than just

your word- I druther have it than another man's kiss-the-Bible." She

smiled, and reddened up very sweet, and I says, "If you don't mind it,

I'll shut the door- and bolt it."

Then I come back and set down again, and says:

"Don't you holler. Just set still, and take it like a man. I got

to tell the truth, and you want to brace up, Miss Mary, because it's a

bad kind, and going to be hard to take, but there ain't no help for

it. These uncles of yourn ain't no uncles at all- they're a couple

of frauds- regular dead-beats. There, now we're over the worst of

it- you can stand the rest middling easy."

It holted her up like everything, of course; but I was over the

shoal water now, so I went right along, her eyes a blazing higher

and higher all the time, and told her every blame thing, from where we

first struck that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear

through to where she flung herself onto the king's breast at the front

door and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times- and then up she

jumps, with her face afire like sunset, and says:

"The brute! Come- don't waste a minute- not a second- we'll have

them tarred and feathered, and flung in the river!

Says I:

"Cert'nly. But do you mean, before you go to Mr. Lathrop's, or-"

"Oh," she says, "what am I thinking about!" she says, and set

right down again. "Don't mind what I said- please don't- you won't,

now, will you?" Laying her silky hand on mine in that kind of a way

that I said I would die first. "I never thought, I was so stirred up,"

she says; "now go on, and I won't do so any more. You tell me what

to do, and whatever you say, I'll do it."

"Well," I says, "it's a rough gang, them two frauds, and I'm fixed

so I got to travel with them a while longer, whether I want to or not-

I druther not tell you why- and if you was to blow on them this town

would get me out of their claws, and I'd be all right, but there'd

be another person that you don't know about who'd be in big trouble.

Well, we got to save him, hain't we? Of course. Well, then, we won't

blow on them."

Saying them words put a good idea in my head. I see how maybe I

could get me and Jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed here, and then

leave. But I didn't want to run the raft in day-time, without

anybody aboard to answer questions but me; so I didn't want the plan

to begin working till pretty late to-night. I says:

"Miss Mary Jane, I'll tell you what we'll do- and you won't have

to stay at Mr. Lathrop's so long, nuther. How fur is it?"

"A little short of four miles- right out in the country, back here."

"Well, that'll answer. Now you go along out there, and lay low

till nine or half-past, to-night, and then get them to fetch you

home again- tell them you've thought of something. If you get here

before eleven, put a candle in this window, and if I don't turn up,

wait till eleven, and then if I don't turn up it means I'm gone, and

out of the way, and safe. Then you come out and spread the news

around, and get these beats jailed."

"Good," she says, "I'll do it."

"And if it just happens so that I don't get away, but get took up

along with them, you must up and say I told you the whole thing

beforehand, and you must stand by me all you can."

"Stand by you, indeed I will. They shan't touch a hair of your

head!" she says, and I see her nostrils spread and her eyes snap

when she said it, too.

"If I get away, I shan't be here," I says, "to prove these

rapscallions ain't your uncles, and I couldn't do it if I was here.

I could swear they was beats and bummers, that's all; though that's

worth something. Well, there's others can do that better than what I

can- and they're people that ain't going to be doubted as quick as I'd

be. I'll tell you how to find them. Gimme a pencil and a piece of

paper. There- 'Royal Nonesuch, Bricksville.' Put it away, and don't

lose it. When the court wants to find out something about these two,

let them send up to Bricksville and say they've got the men that

oldyed the Royal Nonesuch, and ask for some witnesses- why, you'll

have that entire town down here before you can hardly wink, Miss Mary.

And they'll come a-biling, too."

I judged we had got everything fixed about right, now. So I says:

"Just let the auction go right along, and don't worry. Nobody

don't have to pay for the things they buy till a whole day after the

auction, on accounts of the short notice, and they ain't going out

of this till they get that money- and the way we've fixed it the

sale ain't going to count, and they ain't going to get no money.

It's just like the way it was with the niggers- it warn't no sale, and

the niggers will be back before long. Why, they can't collect the

money for the niggers, yet- they're in the worst kind of a fix, Miss

Mary."

"Well," she says, "I'll run down to breakfast now, and then I'll

start straight for Mr. Lathrop's."

"Deed, that ain't the ticket, Miss Mary Jane," I says, "by no manner

of means; go before breakfast."

"Why?"

"What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all for, Miss Mary?"

"Well, I never thought- and come to think, I don't know. What was

it?"

"Why, it's because you ain't one of these leather-face people. I

don't want no better book than what your face is. A body can set

down and read it off like coarse print. Do you reckon you can go and

face your uncles, when they come to kiss you good-morning, and never-"

"There, there, don't! Yes, I'll go before breakfast- I'll be glad

to. And leave my sisters with them?"

"Yes- never mind about them. They've got to stand it yet a while.

They might suspicion something if all of you was to go. I don't want

you to see them, nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town- if a

neighbor was to ask how is your uncles this morning, your face would

tell something. No, you go right along, Miss Mary Jane, and I'll fix

it with all of them. I'll tell Miss Susan to give your love to your

uncles and say you've went away for a few hours for to get a little

rest and change, or to see a friend, and you'll be back to-night or

early in the morning."

"Gone to see a friend is all right, but I won't have my love given

to them."

"Well, then, it shan't be." It was well enough to tell her so- no

harm in it. It was only a little thing to do, and no trouble; and it's

the little things that smoothes people's roads the most, down here

below; it would make Mary Jane comfortable, and it wouldn't cost

nothing. Then I says: "There's one more thing- that bag of money."

"Well, they've got that; and it makes me feel pretty silly to

think how they got it."

"No, you're out, there. They hain't got it."

"Why, who's got it?"

"I wish I knowed, but I don't. I had it, because I stole it from

them: and I stole it to give to you; and I know where I hid it, but

I'm afraid it ain't there no more. I'm awful sorry, Miss Mary Jane,

I'm just as sorry as I can be; but I done the best I could; I did,

honest. I come nigh getting caught, and I had to shove it into the

first place I come to, and run- and it warn't a good place."

"Oh, stop blaming yourself- it's too bad to do it, and I won't allow

it- you couldn't help it; it wasn't your fault. Where did you hide

it?"

I didn't want to set her to thinking about her troubles again; and I

couldn't seem to get my mouth to tell her what would make her see that

corpse laying in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach.

So for a minute I didn't say nothing- then I says:

"I'd ruther not tell you where I put it, Miss Mary Jane, if you

don't mind letting me off; but I'll write it for you on a piece of

paper, and you can read it along the road to Mr. Lathrop's, if you

want to. Do you reckon that'll do?"

"Oh, yes."

So I wrote: "I put it in the coffin. It was in there when you was

crying there, away in the night. I was behind the door, and I was

mighty sorry for you, Miss Mary Jane."

It made my eyes water a little, to remember her crying there all

by herself in the night, and them devils laying there right under

her own roof, shaming her and robbing her; and when I folded it up and

give it to her, I see the water come into her eyes, too; and she shook

me by the hand, hard, and says:

"Good-bye- I'm going to do everything just as you've told me; and if

I don't ever see you again, I shan't ever forget you, and I'll think

of you a many and a many a time, and I'll pray for you, too!"- and she

was gone.

Pray for me! I reckoned if she knowed me she'd take a job that was

more nearer her size. But I bet she done it, just the same- she was

just that kind. She had the grit to pray for Judus if she took the

notion- there warn't no backdown to her, I judge. You may say what you

want to, but in my opinion she had more sand in her than any girl I

ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand. It sounds like

flattery, but it ain't no flattery. And when it comes to beauty- and

goodness too- she lays over them all. I hain't ever seen her since,

but I reckon I've thought of her a many and a many a million times,

and of her saying she would pray for me; and if ever I'd a thought

it would do any good for me to pray for her, blamed if I wouldn't a

done it or bust.

Well, Mary Jane she lit out the back way, I reckon; because nobody

see her go. When I struck Susan and the harelip, I says:

"What's the name of them people over on t'other side of the river

that you all goes to see sometimes?"

They says:

"There's several; but it's the Proctors, mainly."

"That's the name," I says; "I most forgot it. Well, Miss Mary Jane

she told me to tell you she's gone over there in a dreadful hurry- one

of them's sick."

"Which one?"

"I don't know; leastways I kinder forget; but I think it's-"

"Sakes alive, I hope it ain't Hanner?"

"I'm sorry to say it," I says, "but Hanner's the very one."

"My goodness- and she so well only last week! Is she took bad?"

"It ain't no name for it. They set up with her all night, Miss

Mary Jane said, and they don't think she'll last many hours."

"Only think of that, now! What's the matter with her!"

I couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so I

says:

"Mumps."

"Mumps your granny! They don't set up with people that's got the

mumps."

"They don't, don't they? You better bet they do with these mumps.

These mumps is different. It's a new kind, Miss Mary Jane said."

"How's it a new kind?"

"Because it's mixed up with other things."

"What other things?"

"Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and

consumption, and yeller janders, and brain fever, and I don't know

what all."

"My land! And they call it the mumps?"

"That's what Miss Mary Jane said."

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

"Why, because it is the mumps. That's what it starts with."

"Well, ther' ain't no sense in it. A body might stump his toe, and

take pison, and fall down the well, and break his neck, and bust his

brains out, and somebody come along and ask what killed him, and

some numskull up and say, 'Why, he stumped his toe.' Would ther' be

any sense in that? No. And ther' ain't no sense in this, nuther. Is it

ketching?"

"Is it ketching? Why, how you talk. Is a harrow catching?- in the

dark? If you don't hitch onto one tooth, you're bound to on another,

ain't you? And you can't get away with that tooth without fetching the

whole harrow along, can you? Well, these kind of mumps is a kind of

harrow, as you may say- and it ain't no slouch of a harrow, nuther,

you come to get it hitched on good."

"Well, it's awful, I think," says the hare-lip. "I'll go to Uncle

Harvey and-"

"Oh, yes," I says, "I would. Of course I would. I wouldn't lose no

time."

"Well, why wouldn't you?"

"Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. Hain't your uncles

obleeged to get along home to England as fast as they can? And do

you reckon they'd be mean enough to go off and leave you to go all

that journey by yourselves? You know they'll wait for you. So fur,

so good. Your uncle Harvey's a preacher, ain't he? Very well, then; is

a preacher going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to

deceive a ship clerk?- so as to get them to let Miss Mary Jane go

aboard? Now you know he ain't. What will he do, then? Why, he'll

say, 'It's a great pity, but my church matters has got to get along

the best way they can; for my niece has been exposed to the dreadful

pluribus-unum mumps, and so it's my bounden duty to set down here

and wait the three months it takes to show on her if she's got it.'

But never mind, if you think it's best to tell your uncle Harvey-"

"Shucks, and stay fooling around here when we could all be having

good times in England whilst we was waiting to find out whether Mary

Jane's got it or not? Why, you talk like a muggins."

"Well, anyway, maybe you better tell some of the neighbors."

"Listen at that, now. You do beat all, for natural stupidness. Can't

you see that they'd go and tell? Ther' ain't no way but just not to

tell anybody at all."

"Well, maybe you're right- yes, I judge you are right."

"But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she's gone out a

while, anyway, so he won't be uneasy about her?"

"Yes, Miss Mary Jane she wanted you to do that. She says, 'Tell them

to give Uncle Harvey and William my love and a kiss, and say I've

run over the river to see Mr.- Mr.- what is the name of that rich

family your uncle Peter used to think so much of?- I mean the one

that-"'

"Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain't it?"

"Of course; bother them kind of names, a body can't ever seem to

remember them, half the time, somehow. Yes, she said, say she has

run over for to ask the Apthorps to be sure and come to the auction

and buy this house, because she allowed her uncle Peter would ruther

they had it than anybody else; and she's going to stick to them till

they say they'll come, and then, if she ain't too tired, she's

coming home; and if she is, she'll be home in the morning anyway.

She said, don't say nothing about the Proctors, but only about the

Apthorps- which'll be perfectly true, because she is going there to

speak about their buying the house; I know it, because she told me so,

herself."

"All right," they said, and cleared out to lay for their uncles, and

give them the love and the kisses, and tell them the message.

Everything was all right now. The girls wouldn't say nothing because

they wanted to go to England; and the king and the duke would ruther

Mary Jane was off working for the auction than around in reach of

Doctor Robinson. I felt very good; I judged I had done it pretty neat-

I reckoned Tom Sawyer couldn't a done it no neater himself. Of

course he would a throwed more style into it, but I can't do that very

handy, not being brung up to it.

Well, they held the auction in the public square, along towards

the end of the afternoon, and it strung along, and strung along, and

the old man he was on hand and looking his level piousest, up there

longside of the auctioneer, and chipping in a little Scripture, now

and then, or a little goody-goody saying, of some kind, and the duke

he was around goo-gooing for sympathy all he knowed how, and just

spreading himself generly.

But by-and-by the thing dragged through, and everything was sold.

Everything but a little old trifling lot in the graveyard. So they'd

got to work that off- I never see such a girafft as the king was for

wanting to swallow everything. Well, whilst they was at it, a

steamboat landed, and in about two minutes up comes a crowd a whooping

and yelling and laughing and carrying on, and singing out:

"Here's your opposition line! here's your two sets o' heirs to old

Peter Wilks- and you pays your money and you takes your choice!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

They was fetching a very nice looking old gentleman along, and a

nice looking younger one, with his right arm in a sling. And my souls,

how the people yelled, and laughed, and kept it up. But I didn't see

no joke about it, and I judged it would strain the duke and the king

some to see any. I reckoned they'd turn pale. But no, nary a pale

did they turn. The duke he never let on he suspicioned what was up,

but just went a goo-gooing around, happy and satisfied, like a jug

that's googling out buttermilk; and as for the king, he just gazed and

gazed down sorrowful on them newcomers like it give him the

stomach-ache in his very heart to think there could be such frauds and

rascals in the world. Oh, he done it admirable. Lots of the

principal people gethered around the king, to let him see they was

on his side. That old gentleman that had just come looked all

puzzled to death. Pretty soon he begun to speak, and I see, straight

off, he pronounced like an Englishman, not the king's way, though

the king's was pretty good, for an imitation. I can't give the old

gent's words, nor I can't imitate him; but he turned around to the

crowd, and says, about like this:

"This is a surprise to me which I wasn't looking for; and I'll

acknowledge, candid and frank, I ain't very well fixed to meet it

and answer it; for my brother and me has had misfortunes, he's broke

his arm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here, last

night in the night by a mistake. I am Peter Wilks's brother Harvey,

and this is his brother William, which can't hear nor speak- and can't

even make signs to amount to much, now't he's only got one hand to

work them with. We are who we say we are; and in a day or two, when

I get the baggage, I can prove it. But, up till then, I won't say

nothing more, but go to the hotel and wait."

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

blethers out:

"Broke his arm- very likely ain't it?- and very convenient, too, for

a fraud that's got to make signs, and hain't learnt how. Lost their

baggage! That's mighty good!- and mighty ingenious- under the

circumstances!"

So he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three or

four, or maybe half a dozen. One of these was that doctor; another one

was a sharp looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the

old-fashioned kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just come off of

the steamboat and was talking to him in a low voice, and glancing

towards the king now and then and nodding their heads- it was Levi

Bell, the lawyer that was gone up to Louisville; and another one was a

big rough husky that come along and listened to all the old

gentleman said, and was listening to the king now. And when the king

got done, this husky up and says:

"Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when'd you come to this

town?"

"The day before the funeral, friend," says the king.

"But what time o' day?"

"In the evenin'- 'bout an hour er two before sundown."

"How'd you come?"

"I come down on the Susan Powell, from Cincinnati."

"Well, then, how'd you come to be up at the Pint in the mornin'-

in a canoe?"

"I warn't up at the Pint

"It's a lie."

Several of them jumped for him and begged him not to talk that way

to an old man and a preacher.

"Preacher be hanged, he's a fraud and a liar. He was up at the

Pint that mornin'. I live up there, don't I? Well, I was up there, and

he was up there. I see him there. He come in a canoe, along with Tim

Collins and a boy."

The doctor he up and says:

"Would you know the boy again if you was to see him, Hines?"

"I reckon I would, but I don't know. Why, yonder he is, now. I

know him perfectly easy."

It was me he pointed at. The doctor says:

"Neighbors, I don't know whether the new couple is frauds or not;

but if these two ain't frauds, I am an idiot, that's all. I think it's

our duty to see that they don't get away from here till we've looked

into this thing. Come along, Hines; come along, the rest of you. We'll

take these fellows to the tavern and affront them with t'other couple,

and I reckon we'll find out something before we get through."

It was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for the king's

friends; so we all started. It was about sundown. The doctor he led me

along by the hand, and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go

my hand.

We all got in a big room in the hotel, and lit up some candles,

and fetched in the new couple. First, the doctor says:

"I don't wish to be too hard on these two men, but I think they're

frauds, and they may have complices that we don't know nothing

about. If they have, won't the complices get away with that bag of

gold Peter Wilks left? It ain't unlikely. If these men ain't frauds,

they won't object to sending for that money and letting us keep it

till they prove they're all right- ain't that so?"

Everybody agreed to that. So I judged they had our gang in a

pretty tight place, right at the outstart. But the king he only looked

sorrowful, and says:

"Gentlemen, I wish the money was there, for I ain't got no

disposition to throw anything in the way of a fair, open,

out-and-out investigation o' this misable business; but alas, the

money ain't there; you k'n send and see, if you want to."

"Where is it, then?"

"Well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her, I took and hid

it inside o' the straw tick o' my bed, not wishin' to bank it for

the few days we'd be here, and considerin' the bed a safe place, we

not bein' used to niggers, and suppos'n' em honest, like servants in

England. The niggers stole it the very next mornin' after I had went

down stairs; and when I sold 'em, I hadn't missed the money yit, so

they got clean away with it. My servant here k'n tell you 'bout it,

gentlemen."

The doctor and several said "Shucks!" and I see nobody didn't

altogether believe him. One man asked me if I see the niggers steal

it. I said no, but I see them sneaking out of the room and hustling

away, and I never thought nothing, only I reckoned they was afraid

they had waked up my master and was trying to get away before he

made trouble with them. That was all they asked me. Then the doctor

whirls on me and says:

"Are you English too?"

I says yes; and him and some others laughed, and said, "Stuff!"

Well, then they sailed in on the general investigation, and there we

had it, up and down, hour in, hour out, and nobody never said a word

about supper, nor ever seemed to think about it- and so they kept it

up, and kept it up; and it was the worst mixed-up thing you ever

see. They made the king tell his yarn, and they made the old gentleman

tell his'n; and anybody but a lot of prejudiced chuckleheads would a

seen that the old gentleman was spinning truth and t'other one lies.

And by-and-by they had me up to tell what I knowed. The king he give

me a left-handed look out of the corner of his eye, and so I knowed

enough to talk on the right side. I begun to tell about Sheffield, and

how we lived there, and all about the English Wilkses, and so on;

but I didn't get pretty fur till the doctor begun to laugh; and Levi

Bell, the lawyer, says:

"Set down, my boy, I wouldn't strain myself, if I was you. I

reckon you ain't used to lying, it don't seem to come handy; what

you want is practice. You do it pretty awkward."

I didn't care nothing for the compliment, but I was glad to be let

off, anyway.

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

"If you'd been in town at first, Levi Bell-"

The king broke in and reached out his hand, and says:

"Why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend that he's wrote so

often about?"

The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and looked

pleased, and they talked right along a while, and then got to one side

and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says:

"That'll fix it. I'll take the order and send it, along with your

brother's, and then they'll know it's all right."

So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and

twisted his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled

off something; and then they give the pen to the duke- and then for

the first time, the duke looked sick. But he took the pen and wrote.

So then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says:

"You and your brother please write a line or two and sign your

names."

The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't read it. The lawyer

looked powerful astonished, and says:

"Well, it beats me"- and snaked a lot of old letters out of his

pocket, and examined them, and then examined the old man's writing,

and then them again; and then says: "These old letters is from

Harvey Wilks; and here's these two's handwritings, and anybody can see

they didn't write them" (the king and the duke looked sold and

foolish, I tell you, to see how the lawyer had took them in), "and

here's this old gentleman's handwriting, and anybody can tell, easy

enough, he didn't write them- fact is, the scratches he makes ain't

properly writing, at all. Now here's some letters from-"

The new old gentleman says:

"If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but my

brother there- so he copies for me. It's his hand you've got there,

not mine."

"Well!" says the lawyer, "this is a state of things. I've got some

of William's letters too; so if you'll get him to write a line or so

we can com-"

"He can't write with his left hand," says the old gentleman. "If

he could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his own

letters and mine too. Look at both, please- they're by the same hand."

The lawyer done it, and says:

"I believe it's so- and if it ain't so, there's a heap stronger

resemblance than I'd noticed before, anyway. Well, well, well! I

thought we was right on the track of a slution, but it's gone to

grass, partly. But anyway, one thing is proved- these two ain't either

of 'em Wilkses"- and he wagged his head towards the king and the duke.

Well, what do you think?- that muleheaded old fool wouldn't give

in then! Indeed he wouldn't. Said it warn't no fair test. Said his

brother William was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't tried

to write- he see William was going to play one of his jokes the minute

he put the pen to paper. And so he warmed up and went warbling and

warbling right along, till he was actuly beginning to believe what

he was saying, himself- but pretty soon the new old gentleman broke

in, and says:

"I've thought of something. Is there anybody here that helped to lay

out my br- helped to lay out the late Peter Wilks for burying?"

"Yes," says somebody, "me and Ab Turner done it. We're both here."

Then the old man turns towards the king, and says:

"Perhaps this gentleman can tell me what was tatooed on his breast?"

Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd a

squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took

him so sudden- and mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to

make most anybody sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that

without any notice- because how was he going to know what was

tatooed on the man? He whitened a little; he couldn't help it; and

it was mighty still in there, and everybody bending a little

forwards and gazing at him. Says I to myself, Now he'll throw up the

sponge- there ain't no more use. Well, did he? A body can't hardly

believe it, but he didn't. I reckon he thought he'd keep the thing

up till he tired them people out, so they'd thin out, and him and

the duke could break loose and get away. Anyway, he set there, and

pretty soon he begun to smile, and says:

"Mf! It's a very tough question, ain't it! Yes, sir, I k'n tell

you what's tatooed on his breast. It's jest a small, thin, blue arrow-

that's what it is; and if you don't look clost, you can't see it.

Now what do you say- hey?"

Well, I never see anything like that old blister for clean

out-and-out cheek.

The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and his pard,

and his eye lights up like he judged he'd got the king this time,

and says:

"There- you've heard what he said! Was there any such mark on

Peter Wilks's breast?"

Both of them spoke up and says:

"We didn't see no such mark."

"Good!" says the old gentleman. "Now, what you did see on his breast

was a small dim P, and a B (which is an initial he dropped when he was

young), and a W, with dashes between them, so: P-B-W"-and he marked

them that way on a piece of paper. "Come- ain't that what you saw?"

Both of them spoke up again, and says:

"No, we didn't. We never seen any marks at all."

Well, everybody was in a state of mind, now; and they sings out:

"The whole bilin' of' m's frauds! Le's duck 'em! le's drown 'em!

le's ride'em on a rail!" and everybody was whooping at once, and there

was a rattling pow-wow. But the lawyer he jumps on the table and

yells, and says:

"Gentlemen- gentlemen! Hear me just a word- just a single word- if

you PLEASE! There's one way yet- let's go and dig up the corpse and

look."

That took them.

"Hooray!" they all shouted, and was starting right off; but the

lawyer and the doctor sung out:

"Hold on, hold on! Collar all these four men and the boy, and

fetch them along, too!"

"We'll do it!" they all shouted: "and if we don't find them marks

we'll lynch the whole gang!"

I was scared, now, I tell you. But there warn't no getting away, you

know. They gripped us all, and marched us right along, straight for

the graveyard, which was a mile and a half down the river, and the

whole town at our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was only

nine in the evening.

As we went by our house I wished I hadn't sent Mary Jane out of

town; because now if I could tip her the wink, she'd light out and

save me, and blow on our dead-beats.

Well, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying on like

wild-cats; and to make it more scary, the sky was darking up, and

the lightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver

amongst the leaves. This was the most awful trouble and most

dangersome I ever was in; and I was kinder stunned; everything was

going so different from what I had allowed for; stead of being fixed

so I could take my own time, if I wanted to, and see all the fun,

and have Mary Jane at my back to save me and set me free when the

close-fit come, here was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden

death but just them tatoo-marks. If they didn't find them-

I couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, I couldn't

think about nothing else. It got darker and darker, and it was a

beautiful time to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me

by the wrist- Hines- and a body might as well try to give Goliar the

slip. He dragged me right along, he was so excited; and I had to run

to keep up.

When they got there they swarmed into the graveyard and washed

over it like an overflow. And when they got to the grave, they found

they had about a hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but

nobody hadn't thought to fetch a lantern. But they sailed into

digging, anyway, by the flicker of the lightning, and sent a man to

the nearest house a half a mile off, to borrow one.

So they dug and dug, like everything; and it got awful dark, and the

rain started, and the wind swished and swushed along, and the

lightning come brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but them

people never took no notice of it, they was so full of this

business; and one minute you could see everything and every face in

that big crowd, and the shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the

grave, and the next second the dark wiped it all out, and you couldn't

see nothing at all.

At last they got out the coffin, and begun to unscrew the lid, and

then such another crowding, and shouldering, and shoving as there was,

to scrouge in and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that

way, it was awful. Hines he hurt my wrist dreadful, pulling and

tugging so, and I reckon he clean forgot I was in the world, he was so

excited and panting.

All of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice of white

glare, and somebody sings out:

"By the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his breast!"

Hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and dropped my wrist and

give a big surge to bust his way in and get a look, and the way I

lit out and shinned for the road in the dark, there ain't nobody can

tell.

I had the road all to myself, and I fairly flew- leastways I had

it all to myself, except the solid dark, and the now-and-then

glares, and the buzzing of the rain, and the thrashing of the wind,

and the splitting of the thunder; and sure as you are born I did

clip it along!

When I struck the town, I see there warn't nobody out in the

storm, so I never hunted for no back streets, but humped it straight

through the main one; and when I begun to get towards our house I

aimed my eye and set it. No light there; the house all dark- which

made me feel sorry and disappointed, I didn't know why. But at last,

just as I was sailing by, flash comes the light in Mary Jane's window!

and my heart swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same second

the house and all was behind me in the dark, and wasn't ever going

to be before me no more in this world. She was the best girl I ever

see, and had the most sand.

The minute I was far enough above the town to see I could make the

tow-head, I begun to look sharp for a boat to borrow; and the first

time the lightning showed me one that wasn't chained, I snatched it

and shoved. It was a canoe, and warn't fastened with nothing but a

rope. The tow-head was a rattling big distance off, away out there

in the middle of the river, but I didn't lose no time; and when I

struck the raft at last, I was so fagged I would a just laid down to

blow and gasp if I could afforded it. But I didn't. As I sprung aboard

I sung out:

"Out with you Jim, and set her loose! Glory be to goodness, we're

shut of them!"

Jim lit out, and was a coming for me with both arms spread, he was

so full of joy; but when I glimpsed him in the lightning, my heart

shot up in my mouth, and I went overboard backwards; for I forgot he

was old King Lear and a drowned A-rab all in one, and it most scared

the livers and lights out of me. But Jim fished me out, and was

going to hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so glad I was back and

we was shut of the king and the duke, but I says:

"Not now- have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast! Cut loose

and let her slide!"

So, in two seconds, away we went, a sliding down the river, and it

did seem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the big

river and nobody to bother us. I had to skip around a bit, and jump up

and crack my heels a few times, I couldn't help it; but about the

third crack, I noticed a sound that I knowed mighty well- and held

my breath and listened and waited- and sure enough, when the next

flash busted out over the water, here they come!- and just a laying to

their oars and making their skiff hum! It was the king and the duke.

So I wilted right down onto the planks, then, and give up; and it

was all I could do to keep from crying.

CHAPTER THIRTY

When they got aboard, the king went for me, and shook me by the

collar, and says:

"Tryin' to give us the slip, was ye, you pup! Tired of our

company- hey?"

I says:

"No, your majesty, we warn't- please don't, your majesty!"

"Quick, then, and tell us what was your idea, or I'll shake the

insides out o' you!"

"Honest, I'll tell you everything, just as it happened, your

majesty. The man that had aholt of me was very good to me, and kept

saying he had a boy about as big as me that died last year, and he was

sorry to see a boy in such a dangerous fix; and when they was all took

by surprise by finding the gold, and made a rush for the coffin, he

lets go of me and whispers, 'Heel it, now, or they'll hang ye,

sure!' and I lit out. It didn't seem no good for me to stay- I

couldn't do nothing, and I didn't want to be hung if I could get away.

So I never stopped running till I found the canoe; and when I got

there I told Jim to hurry, or they'd catch me and hang me yet, and

said I was afeard you and the duke wasn't alive, now, and I was

awful sorry, and so was Jim, and was awful glad when we see you

coming, you may ask Jim if I didn't."

Jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up, and said, "Oh,

yes, it's mighty likely!" and shook me up again, and said he

reckoned he'd drowned me. But the duke says:

"Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would you a done any different? Did

you inquire around for him, when you got loose? I don't remember it."

So the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and

everybody in it. But the duke says:

"You better a blame sight give yourself a good cussing, for you're

the one that's entitled to it most. You hain't done a thing, from

the start, that had any sense in it, except coming out so cool and

cheeky with that imaginary blue-arrow mark. That was bright- it was

right down bully; and it was the thing that saved us. For if it hadn't

been for that, they'd a jailed us till them Englishmen's baggage come-

and then- the penitentiary, you bet! But that trick took 'em to the

graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger kindness; for if the

excited fools hadn't let go all holts and made that rush to get a

look, we'd a slept in our cravats to-night- cravats warranted to wear,

too- longer than we'd need 'em."

They was still a minute- thinking- then the king says, kind of

absent-minded like:

"Mf! And we reckoned the niggers stole it!"

That made me squirm!

"Yes," says the duke, kinder slow, and deliberate, and sarcastic,

"we did."

After about a half a minute, the king drawls out:

"Leastways- I did."

The duke says, the same way:

"On the contrary- I did."

The king kind of ruffles up, and says:

"Looky here, Bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?"

The duke says, pretty brisk:

"When it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask, what was you

referring to?"

"Shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but I don't know- maybe

you was asleep, and didn't know what you was about."

The duke bristles right up, now, and says:

"Oh, let up on this cussed nonsense- do you take me for a blame'

fool? Don't you reckon I know who hid that money in that coffin?"

"Yes, sir! I know you do know- because you done it yourself!"

"It's a lie!"- and the duke went for him. The king sings out:

"Take y'r hands off!- leggo my throat!- I take it all back!" The

duke says:

"Well, you just own up, first, that you did hide that money there,

intending to give me the slip one of these days, and come back and dig

it up, and have it all to yourself."

"Wait jest a minute, duke- answer me this one question, honest and

fair; if you didn't put that money there, say it, and I'll b'lieve

you, and take back everything I said."

"You old scoundrel, I didn't, and you know I didn't. There, now!"

"Well, then, I b'lieve you. But answer me only jest this one more-

now don't git mad; didn't you have it in your mind to hook the money

and hide it?"

The duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says:

"Well- I don't care if I did, I didn't do it, anyway. But you not

only had it in mind to do it, but you done it."

"I wisht I may never die if I done it, duke, and that's honest. I

won't say I warn't goin' to do it, because I was; but you- I mean

somebody- got in ahead o' me."

"It's a lie! You done it, and you got to say you done it, or-"

The king begun to gurgle, and then he gasps out:

"'Nough!- I own up!"

I was very glad to hear him say that, it made me feel much more

easier than what I was feeling before. So the duke took his hands off,

and says:

"If you ever deny it again, I'll drown you. It's well for you to set

there and blubber like a baby- it's fitten for you, after the way

you've acted. I never see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble

everything- and I a trusting you all the time, like you was my own

father. You ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand by and hear

it saddled onto a lot of poor niggers and you never say a word for

'em. It makes me feel ridiculous to think I was soft enough to believe

that rubbage. Cuss you, I can see, now, why you was so anxious to make

up the deffesit- you wanted to get what money I'd got out of the

Nonesuch and one thing or another, and scoop it all!"

The king says, timid, and still a snuffling:

"Why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffersit, it warn't

me."

"Dry up! I don't want to hear no more out of you!" says the duke.

"And now you see what you got by it. They've got all their own money

back, and all of ourn but a shekel or two, besides. G'long to bed- and

don't you deffersit me no more deffersits, long's you live!"

So the king sneaked into the wigwam, and took to his bottle for

comfort; and before long the duke tackled his bottle; and so in

about a half an hour they was as thick as thieves again, and the

tighter they got, the lovinger they got; and went off a snoring in

each other's arms. They both got powerful mellow, but I noticed the

king didn't get mellow enough to forget to remember to not deny

about hiding the money-bag again. That made me feel easy and

satisfied. Of course when they got to snoring, we had a long gabble,

and I told Jim everything.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

We dasn't stop again at any town, for days and days; kept right

along down the river. We was down south in the warm weather, now,

and a mighty long ways from home. We begun to come to trees with

Spanish moss on them, hanging down from the limbs like long gray

beards. It was the first I ever see it growing, and it made the

woods look solemn and dismal. So now the frauds reckoned they was

out of danger, and they begun to work the villages again.

First they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn't make enough

for them both to get drunk on. Then in another village they started

a dancing school; but they didn't know no more how to dance than a

kangaroo does; so the first prance they made, the general public

jumped in and pranced them out of town. Another time they tried a go

at yellocution; but they didn't yellocute long till the audience got

up and give them a solid good cussing and made them skip out. They

tackled missionarying, and mesmerizering, and doctoring, and telling

fortunes, and a little of everything; but they couldn't seem to have

no luck. So at last they got just about dead broke, and laid around

the raft, as she floated along, thinking, and thinking, and never

saying nothing, by the half a day at a time, and dreadful blue and

desperate.

And at last they took a change, and begun to lay their heads

together in the wigwam and talk low and confidential two or three

hours at a time. Jim and me got uneasy. We didn't like the look of it.

We judged they was studying up some kind of worse deviltry than

ever. We turned it over and over, and at last we made up our minds

they was going to break into somebody's house or store, or was going

into the counterfeit-money business, or something. So then we was

pretty scared, and made up an agreement that we wouldn't have

nothing in the world to do with such actions, and if we ever got the

least show we would give them the cold shake, and clear out and

leave them behind. Well, early one morning we hid the raft in a good

safe place about two mile below a little bit of a shabby village,

named Pikesville, and the king he went ashore, and told us all to stay

hid whilst he went up to town and smelt around to see if anybody had

got any wind of the Royal Nonesuch there yet. ("House to rob, you

mean," says I to myself; "and when you get through robbing it you'll

come back here and wonder what's become of me and Jim and the raft-

and you'll have to take it out in wondering.") And he said if he

warn't back by midday, the duke and me would know it was all right,

and we was to come along.

So we staid where we was. The duke he fretted and sweated around,

and was in a mighty sour way. He scolded us for everything, and we

couldn't seem to do nothing right; he found fault with every little

thing. Something was abrewing, sure. I was good and glad when midday

come and no king; we could have a change, anyway- and maybe a chance

for the change, on top of it. So me and the duke went up to the

village, and hunted around there for the king, and by-and-by we

found him in the back room of a little low doggery, very tight, and

a lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a cussing and

threatening with all his might, and so tight he couldn't walk, and

couldn't do nothing to them. The duke he begun to abuse him for an old

fool, and the king begun to sass back; and the minute they was

fairly at it, I lit out, and shook the reefs out of my hind legs,

and spun down the river road like a deer- for I see our chance; and

I made up my mind that it would be a long day before they ever see

me and Jim again. I got down there all out of breath but loaded up

with joy, and sung out-

"Set her loose, Jim, we're all right, now!"

But there warn't no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. Jim

was gone! I set up a shout- and then another one; and run this way and

that in the woods, whooping and screeching; but it warn't no use-

old Jim was gone. Then I set down and cried; I couldn't help it. But I

couldn't set still long. Pretty soon I went out on the road, trying to

think what I better do, and I run across a boy walking, and asked

him if he'd seen a strange nigger dressed so and so, and he says:

"Yes."

"Whereabouts?" says I.

"Down to Silas Phelps's place, two miles below here. He's a

runaway nigger, and they've got him. Was you looking for him?"

"You bet I ain't! I run across him in the woods about an hour or two

ago, and he said if I hollered he'd cut my livers out- and told me

to lay down and stay where I was; and I done it. Been there ever

since; afeard to come out."

"Well," he says, "you needn't be afeard no more, becuz they've got

him. He run f'm down South, som'ers."

"It's a good job they got him."

"Well, I reckon! There two hundred dollars reward on him. It's

like picking up money out'n the road."

"Yes, it is- and I could a had it if I'd been big enough; I see

him first. Who nailed him?"

"It was an old fellow- a stranger- and he sold out his chance in him

for forty dollars, becuz he's got to go up the river and can't wait.

Think o' that, now! You bet I'd wait, if it was seven year."

"That's me, every time," says I. "But maybe his chance ain't worth

no more than that, if he'll sell it so cheap. Maybe there's

something ain't straight about it."

"But it is, though- straight as a string. I see the handbill myself.

It tells all about him, to a dot- paints him like a picture, and tells

the plantation he's frum, below Newrleans. No-siree-bob, they ain't no

trouble 'bout that speculation, you bet you. Say, gimme a chaw

tobacker, won't ye?"

I didn't have none, so he left. I went to the raft, and set down

in the wigwam to think. But I couldn't come to nothing. I thought till

I wore my head sore, but I couldn't see no way out of the trouble.

After all this long journey, and after all we'd done for them

scoundrels, here was it all come to nothing, everything all busted

up and ruined, because they could have the heart to serve Jim such a

trick as that, and make him a slave again all his life, and amongst

strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars.

Once I said to myself it would be a thousand times better for Jim to

be a slave at home where his family was, as long as he's got to be a

slave, and so I'd better write a letter to Tom Sawyer and tell him

to tell Miss Watson where he was. But I soon give up that notion,

for two things: she'd be mad and disgusted at his rascality and

ungratefulness for leaving her, and so she'd sell him straight down

the river again; and if she didn't, everybody naturally despises an

ungrateful nigger, and they'd make Jim feel it all the time, and so

he'd feel ornery and disgraced. And then think of me! It would get all

around, that Huck Finn helped a nigger to get his freedom; and if I

was to ever see anybody from that town again, I'd be ready to get down

and lick his boots for shame. That's just the way: a person does a

low-down thing, and then he don't want to take no consequences of

it. Thinks as long as he can hide it, it ain't no disgrace. That was

my fix exactly. The more I studied about this, the more my

conscience went to grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and

ornery I got to feeling. And at last, when it hit me all of a sudden

that here was the plain hand of Providence slapping me in the face and

letting me know my wickedness was being watched all the time from up

there in heaven, whilst I was stealing a poor old woman's nigger

that hadn't ever done me no harm, and now was showing me there's One

that's always on the lookout, and ain't agoing to allow no such

miserable doings to go only just so fur and no further, I most dropped

in my tracks I was so scared. Well, I tried the best I could to kinder

soften it up somehow for myself, by saying I was brung up wicked,

and so I warn't so much to blame; but something inside of me kept

saying, "There was the Sunday school, you could a gone to it; and if

you'd a done it they'd a learnt you, there, that people that acts as

I'd been acting about that nigger goes to everlasting fire."

It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray; and see if I

couldn't try to quit being the kind of a boy I was, and be better.

So I kneeled down. But the words wouldn't come. Why wouldn't they?

It warn't no use to try and hide it from Him. Nor from me, neither.

I knowed very well why they wouldn't come. It was because my heart

warn't right; it was because I warn't square; it was because I was

playing double. I was letting on to give up sin, but away inside of me

I was holding on to the biggest one of all. I was trying to make my

mouth say I would do the right thing and the clean thing, and go and

write to that nigger's owner and tell where he was; but deep down in

me I knowed it was a lie-and He knowed it. You can't pray a lie- I

found that out.

So I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and didn't know what

to do. At last I had an idea; and I says, I'll go and write the

letter- and then see if I can pray. Why, it was astonishing, the way I

felt as light as a feather, right straight off, and my troubles all

gone. So I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited,

and set down and wrote:

Miss Watson your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile below

Pikesville and Mr. Phelps has got him and he will give him up for

the reward if you send. HUCK FINN

I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had

ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn't

do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking-

thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come

to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to

thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me, all

the time; in the day, and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight,

sometimes storms, and we a floating along, talking, and singing, and

laughing. But somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me

against him, but only the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on

top of his'n, stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and

see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I

come to him agin in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and

such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me, and do

everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and

at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had

smallpox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best

friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the only one he's got now;

and then I happened to look around, and see that paper.

It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was

a trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things,

and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and

then says to myself:

"All right, then, I'll go to hell"- and tore it up.

It was awful thoughts, and awful words, but they was said. And I let

them stay said; and never thought no more about reforming. I shoved

the whole thing out of my head; and said I would take up wickedness

again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and the other

warn't. And for a starter, I would go to work and steal Jim out of

slavery again; and if I could think up anything worse, I would do

that, too; because as long as I was in, and in for good, I might as

well go the whole hog.

Then I set to thinking over how to get at it, and turned over

considerable many ways in my mind; and at last fixed up a plan that

suited me. So then I took the bearings of a woody island that was down

the river a piece, and as soon as it was fairly dark I crept out

with my raft and went for it, and hid it there, and then turned in.

I slept the night through, and got up before it was light, and had

my breakfast, and put on my store clothes, and tied up some others and

one thing or another in a bundle, and took the canoe and cleared for

shore. I landed below where I judged was Phelps's place, and hid my

bundle in the woods, and then filled up the canoe with water, loaded

rocks into her and sunk her where I could find her again when I wanted

her, about a quarter of a mile below a little steam sawmill that was

on the bank.

Then I struck up the road, and when I passed the mill I see a sign

on it, "Phelps's Sawmill," and when I come to the farm-houses, two

or three hundred yards further along, I kept my eyes peeled, but

didn't see nobody around, though it was good daylight, now. But I

didn't mind, because I didn't want to see nobody just yet- I only

wanted to get the lay of the land. According to my plan, I was going

to turn up there from the village, not from below. So I just took a

look, and shoved along, straight for town. Well, the very first man

I see, when I got there, was the duke. He was sticking up a bill for

the Royal Nonesuch- three-night performance- like the other time. They

had the cheek, them frauds! I was right on him, before I could

shirk. He looked astonished and says:

"Hel-lo! Where'd you come from?" Then he says, kind of glad and

eager, "Where's the raft?- got her in a good place?"

I says:

"Why, that's just what I was agoing to ask your grace."

Then he didn't look so joyful- and says:

"What was your idea for asking me?" he says.

"Well," I says, "when I see the king in that doggery yesterday, I

says to myself, we can't get him home for hours, till he's soberer; so

I went a loafing around town to put in the time, and wait. A man up

and offered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff over the river and

back to fetch a sheep, and so I went along; but when we was dragging

him to the boat, the man left me aholt of the rope and went behind him

to shove him along, he was too strong for me, and jerked loose and

run, and we after him. We didn't have no dog, and so we had to chase

him all over the country till we tired him out. We never got him

till dark, then we fetched him over, and I started down for the

raft. When I got there and see it was gone, I says to myself, 'they've

got into trouble and had to leave; and they've took my nigger, which

is the only nigger I've got in the world, and now I'm in a strange

country, and ain't got no property no more, nor nothing, and no way to

make my living'; so I set down and cried. I slept in the woods all

night. But what did become of the raft then?- and Jim, poor Jim!"

"Blamed if I know- that is, what's become of the raft. That old fool

had made a trade and got forty dollars, and when we found him in the

doggery the loafers had matched half dollars with him and got every

cent but what he'd spent for whisky; and when I got him home late last

night and found the raft gone, we said, 'That little rascal has

stole our raft and shook us, and run off down the river.'"

"I wouldn't shake my nigger, would I?- the only nigger I had in

the world, and the only property."

"We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we'd come to consider

him our nigger; yes, we did consider him so- goodness knows we had

trouble enough for him. So when we see the raft was gone, and we

flat broke, there warn't anything for it but to try the Royal Nonesuch

another shake. And I've pegged along ever since, dry as a

powderhorn. Where's that ten cents? Give it here."

I had considerable money, so I give him ten cents, but begged him to

spend it for something to eat, and give me some, because it was all

the money I had, and I hadn't had nothing to eat since yesterday.

The next minute he whirls on me and says:

"Do you reckon that nigger would blow on us? We'd skin him if he

done that!"

"How can he blow? Hain't he run off.?"

"No! That old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the

money's gone."

"Sold him?" I says, and begun to cry; "why, he was my nigger, and

that was my money. Where is he?- I want my nigger."

"Well, you can't get your nigger, that's all- so dry up your

blubbering. Looky here- do you think you'd venture to blow on us?

Blamed if I think I'd trust you. Why, if you was to blow on us-"

He stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes

before. I went on a-whimpering, and says:

"I don't want to blow on nobody; and I ain't got no time to blow,

nohow. I got to turn out and find my nigger."

He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering

on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his forehead. At last he says:

"I'll tell you something. We got to be here three days. If you'll

promise you won't blow, and won't let the nigger blow, I'll tell you

where to find him."

So I promised, and he says:

"A farmer by the name of Silas Ph-" and then he stopped. You see

he started to tell me the truth; but when he stopped, that way, and

begun to study and think agin, I reckoned he was changing his mind.

And so he was. He wouldn't trust me; he wanted to make sure of

having me out of the way the whole three days. So pretty soon he says:

"The man that bought him is named Abram Foster- Abram G. Foster- and

he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to

Lafayette."

"All right," I says, "I can walk it in three days. And I'll start

this very afternoon."

"No, you won't, you'll start now; and don't lose any time about

it, neither, nor do any gabbling by the way. Just keep a tight

tongue in your head and move right along, and then you won't get

into trouble with us, d'ye hear?"

That was the order I wanted, and that was the one I played for. I

wanted to be left free to work my plans.

"So clear out," he says; "and can tell Mr. Foster whatever you

want to. Maybe you can get him to believe that Jim is your nigger-

some idiots don't require documents- leastways I've heard there's such

down South here. And when you tell him the handbill and the reward's

bogus, maybe he'll believe you when you explain to him what the idea

was for getting 'em out. Go 'long, now, and tell him anything you want

to; but mind you don't work your jaw any between here and there."

So I left, and struck for the back country. I didn't look around,

but I kinder felt like he was watching me. But I knowed I could tire

him out at that. I went straight out in the country as much as a mile,

before I stopped; then I doubled back through the woods towards

Phelps's. I reckoned I better start in on my plan straight off,

without fooling around, because I wanted to stop Jim's mouth till

these fellows could get away. I didn't want no trouble with their

kind. I'd seen all I wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely

shut of them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

When I got there it was all still and Sunday-like, and hot and

sunshiny- the hands was gone to the fields; and there was them kind of

faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem so

lonesome and like everybody's dead and gone; and if a breeze fans

along and quivers the leaves, it makes you feel mournful, because

you feel like it's spirits whispering-spirits that's been dead ever so

many years- and you always think they're talking about you. As a

general thing it makes a body wish he was dead, too, and done with

it all.

Phelps's was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations; and

they all look alike. A rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile, made

out of logs sawed off and up-ended, in steps, like barrels of a

different length, to climb over the fence with, and for the women to

stand on when they are going to jump onto a horse; some sickly

grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth, like

an old hat with the nap rubbed off; big double log house for the white

folks- hewed logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar,

and these mud-stripes been whitewashed some time or another; round-log

kitchen, with a big broad, open but roofed passage joining it to the

house; log smoke-house back of the kitchen; three little log

nigger-cabins in a row t'other side the smokehouse; one little hut all

by itself away down against the back fence, and some outbuildings down

a piece the other side; ash-hopper, and big kettle to bile soap in, by

the little hut; bench by the kitchen door, with bucket of water and

a gourd; hound asleep there, in the sun; more hounds asleep, round

about; about three shade-trees away off in a corner; some currant

bushes and gooseberry bushes in one place by the fence; outside of the

fence a garden and a water-melon patch; then the cotton fields begins;

and after the fields, the woods.

I went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper, and

started for the kitchen. When I got a little ways, I heard the dim hum

of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along down again; and

then I knowed for certain I wished I was dead- for that is the

lonesomest sound in the whole world.

I went right along, not fixing up any particular plan, but just

trusting to Providence to put the right words in my mouth when the

time come; for I'd noticed that Providence always did put the right

words in my mouth, if I left it alone.

When I got half-way, first one hound and then another got up and

went for me, and of course I stopped and faced them, and kept still.

And such another pow-wow as they made! In a quarter of a minute I

was a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may say- spokes made out of

dogs- circle of fifteen of them packed together around me, with

their necks and noses stretched up towards me, a barking and

howling; and more a coming; you could see them sailing over fences and

around corners from everywheres.

A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin in

her hand, singing out, "Begone! you Tige! you Spot! begone, sah!"

and she fetched first one and then another of them a clip and sent him

howling, and then the rest followed; and the next second, half of them

come back, wagging their tails around me and making friends with me.

There ain't no harm in a hound, nohow.

And behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little

nigger boys, without anything on but tow-linen shirts, and they hung

onto their mother's gown, and peeped out from behind her at me,

bashful, the way they always do. And here comes the white woman

running from the house, about forty-five or fifty year old,

bareheaded, and her spinningstick in her hand; and behind her comes

her little white children, acting the same way the little niggers

was doing. She was smiling all over so she could hardly stand- and

says:

"It's you, at last!- ain't it?"

I out with a "Yes'm," before I thought.

She grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then gripped me by both

hands and shook and shook; and the tears come in her eyes, and run

down over; and she couldn't seem to hug and shake enough, and kept

saying, "You don't look as much like your mother as I reckoned you

would, but law sakes, I don't care for that, I'm so glad to see you!

Dear, dear, it does seem like I could eat you up! Children, it's

your cousin Tom!- tell him howdy."

But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their

mouths, and hid behind her. So she run on:

"Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast, right away- or did

you get your breakfast on the boat?"

I said I had got it on the boat. So then she started for the

house, leading me by the hand, and the children tagging after. When we

got there, she set me down in a split-bottomed chair, and set

herself down on a little low stool in front of me, holding both of

my hands, and says:

"Now I can have a good look at you: and laws-a-me, I've been

hungry for it a many and a many a time, all these long years, and it's

come at last! We been expecting you a couple of days and more.

What's kep' you?- boat get aground?"

"Don't say yes'm- say Aunt Sally. Where'd she get aground?"

I didn't rightly know what to say, because I didn't know whether the

boat would be coming up the river or down. But I go a good deal on

instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming up- from down

towards Orleans. That didn't help me much, though; for I didn't know

the names of bars down that way. I see I'd got to invent a bar, or

forget the name of the one we got aground on- or- Now I struck an

idea, and fetched it out:

"It warn't the grounding- that didn't keep us back but a little.

We blowed out a cylinder-head."

"Good gracious! anybody hurt?"

"No'm. Killed a nigger."

"Well, it's lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. Two years

ago last Christmas, your uncle Silas was coming up from Newrleans on

the old Lally Rook, and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crippled

a man. And I think he died afterwards. He was a Babtist. Your uncle

Silas knowed a family in Baton Rouge that knowed his people very well.

Yes, I remember, now he did die. Mortification set in, and they had to

amputate him. But it didn't save him. Yes, it was mortification-

that was it. He turned blue all over, and died in the hope of a

glorious resurrection. They say he was a sight to look at. Your

uncle's been up to the town every day to fetch you. And he's gone

again, not more'n an hour ago; he'll be back any minute, now. You must

a met him on the road, didn't you?- oldish man, with a-"

"No, I didn't see nobody, Aunt Sally. The boat landed just at

daylight, and I left my baggage on the wharf-boat and went looking

around the town and out a piece in the country, to put in the time and

not get here too soon; and so I come down the back way."

"Who'd you give the baggage to?"

"Nobody."

"Why, child, it'll be stole!"

"Not where I hid it I reckon it won't," I says.

"How'd you get your breakfast so early on the boat?" It was kinder

thin ice, but I says:

"The captain see me standing around, and told me I better have

something to eat before I went ashore; so he took me in the texas to

the officers' lunch, and give me all I wanted."

I was getting so uneasy I couldn't listen good. I had my mind on the

children all the time; I wanted to get them out to one side, and

pump them a little, and find out who I was. But I couldn't get no

show, Mrs. Phelps kept it up and run on so. Pretty soon she made the

cold chills streak all down my back, because she says:

"But here we're a running on this way, and you hain't told me a word

about Sis, nor any of them. Now I'll rest my works a little, and you

start up yourn; just tell me everything- tell me all about 'm all-

every one of 'm; and how they are, and what they're doing, and what

they told you to tell me; and every last thing you can think of."

Well, I see I was up a stump- and up it good. Providence had stood

by me this fur, all right, but I was hard and tight aground, now, I

see it warn't a bit of use to try to go ahead- I'd got to throw up

my hand. So I says to myself, here's another place where I got to resk

the truth. I opened my mouth to begin; but she grabbed me and

hustled me in behind the bed, and says:

"Here he comes! stick your head down lower- there, that'll do; you

can't be seen, now. Don't you let on you're here. I'll play a joke

on him. Children, don't you say a word."

I see I was in a fix, now. But it warn't no use to worry; there

warn't nothing to do but just hold still, and try and be ready to

stand from under when the lightning struck.

I had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he come

in, then the bed hid him. Mrs. Phelps she jumps for him and says:

"Has he come?"

"No," says her husband.

"Good-ness gracious!" she says, "what in the world can have become

of him?"

"I can't imagine," says the old gentleman; "and I must say, it makes

me dreadful uneasy."

"Uneasy!" she says, "I'm ready to go distracted! He must a come; and

you've missed him along the road. I know it's so- something tells me

so."

"Why Sally, I couldn't miss him along the road- you know that."

"But oh, dear, dear, what will Sis say! He must a come! You must a

missed him. He-"

"Oh, don't distress me any more'n I'm already distressed. I don't

know what in the world to make of it. I'm at my wit's end, and I don't

mind acknowledging't I'm right down scared. But there's no hope that

he's come; for he couldn't come and me miss him. Sally, it's terrible-

just terrible- something's happened to the boat, sure!"

"Why, Silas! Look yonder!- up the road!- ain't that somebody

coming?"

He sprung to the window at the head of the bed, and that gave Mrs.

Phelps the chance she wanted. She stooped down quick, at the foot of

the bed, and give me a pull, and out I come; and when he turned back

from the window, there she stood, a-beaming and a-smiling like a house

afire, and I standing pretty meek and sweaty alongside. The old

gentleman stared, and says:

"Why, who's that?"

"Who do you reckon 't is?"

"I haint no idea. Who is it?"

"It's Tom Sawyer!"

By jings, I most slumped through the floor. But there warn't no time

to swap knives; the old man grabbed me by the hand and shook, and kept

on shaking; and all the time, how the woman did dance around and laugh

and cry; and then how they both did fire off questions about Sid,

and Mary, and the rest of the tribe.

But if they was joyful, it warn't nothing to what I was; for it

was like being born again, I was so glad to find out who I was.

Well, they froze to me for two hours; and at last when my chin was

so tired it couldn't hardly go, any more, I had told them more about

my family- I mean the Sawyer family- than ever happened to any six

Sawyer families. And I explained all about how we blowed out a

cylinder-head at the mouth of White River and it took us three days to

fix it. Which was all right, and worked first rate; because they

didn't know but what it would take three days to fix it. If I'd a

called it a bolt-head it would a done just as well.

Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pretty

uncomfortable all up the other. Being Tom Sawyer was easy and

comfortable; and it stayed easy and comfortable till by-and-by I

hear a steamboat coughing along down the river- then I says to myself,

spose Tom Sawyer come down on that boat?- and spose he steps in

here, any minute, and sings out my name before I can throw him a

wink to keep quiet? Well, I couldn't have it that way- it wouldn't

do at all. I must go up the road and waylay him. So I told the folks I

reckoned I would go up to the town and fetch down my baggage. The

old gentleman was for going along with me, but I said no, I could

drive the horse myself, and I druther he wouldn't take no trouble

about me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

So I started for town, in the wagon, and when I was half-way I see a

wagon coming, and sure enough it was Tom Sawyer, and I stopped and

waited till he come along. I says "Hold on!" and it stopped alongside,

and his mouth opened up like a trunk, and staid so; and he swallowed

two or three times like a person that's got a dry throat, and then

says:

"I hain't ever done you no harm. You know that. So then, what you

want to come back and ha'nt me for?"

I says:

"I hain't come back- I hain't been gone."

When he heard my voice, it righted him up some, but he warn't

quite satisfied yet. He says:

"Don't you play nothing on me, because I wouldn't on you. Honest

injun, now, you ain't a ghost?"

"Honest injun, I ain't," I says.

"Well- I- I- well, that ought to settle it, of course; but I can't

somehow seem to understand it, no way. Looky here, warn't you ever

murdered at all?"

"No. I warn't ever murdered at all- I played it on them. You come in

here and feel of me if you don't believe me."

So he done it; and it satisfied him; and he was that glad to see

me again, he didn't know what to do. And he wanted to know all about

it right off; because it was a grand adventure, and mysterious, and so

it hit him where he lived. But I said, leave it alone till

by-and-by; and told his driver to wait, and we drove off a little

piece, and I told him the kind of a fix I was in, and what did he

reckon we better do? He said, let him alone a minute, and don't

disturb him. So he thought and thought, and pretty soon he says:

"It's all right, I've got it. Take my trunk in your wagon, and let

on it's your'n; and you turn back and fool along slow, so as to get to

the house about the time you ought to; and I'll go towards town a

piece, and take a fresh start, and get there a quarter or a half an

hour after you; and you needn't let on to know me, at first."

I says:

"All right; but wait a minute. There's one more thing- a thing

that nobody don't know but me. And that is, there's a nigger here that

I'm a trying to steal out of slavery- and his name is Jim- old Miss

Watson's Jim."

He says:

"What! Why Jim is-"

He stopped and went to studying. I says:

"I know what you'll say. You'll say it's dirty low-down business;

but what if it is?- I'm low down; and I'm agoing to steal him, and I

want you to keep mum and not let on. Will you?"

His eye lit up, and he says:

"I'll help you steal him!"

Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It was the most

astonishing speech I ever heard- and I'm bound to say Tom Sawyer fell,

considerable, in my estimation. Only I couldn't believe it. Tom Sawyer

a nigger stealer!

"Oh, shucks," I says, "you're joking."

"I ain't joking, either."

"Well, then," I says, "joking or no joking, if you hear anything

said about a runaway nigger, don't forget to remember that you don't

know nothing about him, and I don't know nothing about him."

Then we took the trunk and put it in my wagon and he drove off his

way, and I drove mine. But of course I forgot all about driving

slow, on accounts of being glad and full of thinking; so I got home

a heap too quick for that length of a trip. The old gentleman was at

the door, and he says:

"Why, this is wonderful. Who ever would a thought it was in that

mare to do it. I wish we'd a timed her. And she hain't sweated a hair-

not a hair. It's wonderful. Why, I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for

that horse now; I wouldn't, honest; and yet I'd a sold her for fifteen

before, and thought 'twas all she was worth."

That's all he said. He was the innocentest, best old soul I ever

see. But it warn't surprising; because he warn't only just a farmer,

he was a preacher, too, and had a little one-horse log church down

back of the plantation, which he built it himself at his own

expense, for a church and school-house, and never charged nothing

for his preaching, and it was worth it, too. There was plenty other

farmer-preachers like that, and done the same way, down South.

In about half an hour Tom's wagon drove up to the front stile, and

Aunt Sally she see it through the window because it was only about

fifty yards, and says:

"Why, there's somebody come! I wonder who 'tis? Why, I do believe

it's a stranger. Jimmy" (that's one of the children), "run and tell

Lize to put on another plate for dinner."

Everybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course, a

stranger don't come every year, and so he lays over the yaller

fever, for interest, when he does come. Tom was over the stile and

starting for the house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the

village, and we was all bunched in the front door. Tom had his store

clothes on, and an audience- and that was always nuts for Tom

Sawyer. In them circumstances it warn't no trouble to him to throw

in an amount of style that was suitable. He warn't a boy to meeky

along up that yard like a sheep; no, he come ca'm and important,

like the ram. When he got afront of us, he lifts his hat ever so

gracious and dainty, like it was the lid of a box that had butterflies

asleep in it and he didn't want to disturb them, and says:

"Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?"

"No, my boy," says the old gentleman, "I'm sorry to say't your

driver has deceived you; Nichols's place is down a matter of three

mile more. Come in, come in."

Tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says, "Too late- he's

out of sight."

"Yes, he's gone, my son, and you must come in and eat your dinner

with us; and then we'll hitch up and take you down to Nichols's."

"Oh, I can't make you so much trouble; I couldn't think of it.

I'll walk- I don't mind the distance."

"But we won't let you walk- it wouldn't be Southern hospitality to

do it. Come right in."

"Oh, do," says Aunt Sally; "it ain't a bit of trouble to us, not a

bit in the world. You must stay. It's a long, dusty three mile, and we

can't let you walk. And besides, I've already told 'em to put on

another plate, when I see you coming; so you mustn't disappoint us.

Come right in, and make yourself at home."

So Tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome, and let himself

be persuaded, and come in; and when he was in, he said he was a

stranger from Hicksville, Ohio, and his name was William Thompson- and

he made another bow.

Well, he run on, and on, and on, making up stuff about Hicksville

and everybody in it he could invent, and I was getting a little

nervous, and wondering how this was going to help me out of my scrape;

and at last, still talking along, he reached over and kissed Aunt

Sally right on the mouth, and then settled back again in his chair,

comfortable, and was going on talking; but she jumped up and wiped

it off with the back of her hand, and says:

"You owdacious puppy!"

He looked kind of hurt, and says:

"I'm surprised at you, m'am."

"You're s'rp- Why, what do you reckon I am? I've a good notion to

take and- say, what do you mean by kissing me?"

He looked kind of humble, and says:

"I didn't mean nothing, m'am. I didn't mean no harm. I- I- thought

you'd like it."

"Why, you born fool!" She took up the spinning-stick, and it

looked like it was all she could do to keep from giving him a crack

with it. "What made you think I'd like it?"

"Well, I don't know. Only, they- they- told me you would."

"They told you I would. Whoever told you's another lunatic. I

never heard the beat of it. Who's they?"

"Why- everybody. They all said so, m'am."

It was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes snapped, and her

fingers worked like she wanted to scratch him; and she says:

"Who's 'everybody?' Out with their names- or ther'll be an idiot

short."

He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says:

"I'm sorry, and I warn't expecting it. They told me to. They all

told me to. They all said kiss her; and said she'll like it. They

all said it- every one of them. But I'm sorry, m'am, and I won't do it

no more- I won't honest."

"You won't, won't you? Well, I sh'd reckon you won't!"

"No'm, I'm honest about it; I won't ever do it again. Till you ask

me."

"Till I ask you! Well, I never see the beat of it in my born days! I

lay you'll be the Methusalem-numskull of creation before ever I ask

you- or the likes of you."

"Well," he says, "it does surprise me so. I can't make it out,

somehow. They said you would, and I thought you would. But-" He

stopped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across a

friendly eye, somewhere's; and fetched up on the old gentleman's,

and says, "Didn't you think she'd like me to kiss her, sir?"

"Why, no, I- I- well, no, I b'lieve I didn't."

Then he looks on around, the same way, to me- and says:

"Tom, didn't you think Aunt Sally'd open out her arms and say,

'Sid Sawyer-'"

"My land!" she says, breaking in and jumping for him, "you

impudent young rascal, to fool a body so-" and was going to hug him,

but he fended her off, and says:

"No, not till you've asked me, first."

So she didn't lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him and kissed

him, over and over again, and then turned him over to the old man, and

he took what was left. And after they got a little quiet again, she

says:

"Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We warn't looking for

you, at all, but only Tom. Sis never wrote to me about anybody

coming but him."

"It's because it warn't intended for any of us to come but Tom,"

he says; "but I begged and begged, and at the last minute she let me

come, too; so, coming down the river, me and Tom thought it would be a

first-rate surprise for him to come here to the house first, and for

me to by-and-by tag along and drop in and let on to be a stranger. But

it was a mistake, Aunt Sally. This ain't no healthy place for a

stranger to come."

"No- not impudent whelps, Sid. You ought to had your jaws boxed; I

hain't been so put out since I don't know when. But I don't care, I

don't mind the terms- I'd be willing to stand a thousand such jokes to

have you here. Well, to think of that performance! I don't deny it,

I was most putrified with astonishment when you give me that smack."

We had dinner out in that broad open passage betwixt the house and

the kitchen; and there was things enough on that table for seven

families- and all hot, too; none of your flabby tough meat that's laid

in a cupboard in a damp cellar all night and tastes like a hunk of old

cold cannibal in the morning. Uncle Silas he asked a pretty long

blessing over it, but it was worth it; and it didn't cool it a bit,

neither, the way I've seen them kind of interruptions do, lots of

times.

There was a considerable good deal of talk, all the afternoon, and

me and Tom was on the lookout all the time, but it warn't no use, they

didn't happen to say nothing about any runaway nigger, and we was

afraid to try to work up to it. But at supper, at night, one of the

little boys says:

"Pa, mayn't Tom and Sid and me go to the show?"

"No," says the old man, "I reckon there ain't going to be any; and

you couldn't go if there was; because the runaway nigger told Burton

and me all about that scandalous show, and Burton said he would tell

the people; so I reckon they've drove the owdacious loafers out of

town before this time."

So there it was!- but I couldn't help it. Tom and me was to sleep in

the same room and bed; so, being tired, we bid goodnight and went up

to bed, right after supper, and clumb out of the window and down the

lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for I didn't believe anybody

was going to give the king and the duke a hint, and so, if I didn't

hurry up and give them one they'd get into trouble sure.

On the road Tom he told me all about how it was reckoned I was

murdered, and how pap disappeared, pretty soon, and didn't come back

no more, and what a stir there was when Jim run away; and I told Tom

all about our Royal Nonesuch rapscallions, and as much of the

raft-voyage as I had time to; and as we struck into the town and up

through the middle of it- it was as much as half-after eight, then-

here comes a raging rush of people, with torches, and an awful

whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blowing horns; and we

jumped to one side to let them go by; and as they went by, I see

they had the king and the duke astraddle of a rail- that is, I

knowed it was the king and the duke, though they was all over tar

and feathers, and didn't look like nothing in the world that was

human- just looked like a couple of monstrous big soldier-plumes.

Well, it made me sick to see it; and I was sorry for them poor pitiful

rascals, it seemed like I couldn't ever feel any hardness against them

any more in the world. It was a dreadful thing to see. Human beings

can be awful cruel to one another.

We see we was too late- couldn't do no good. We asked some

stragglers about it, and they said everybody went to the show

looking very innocent; and laid low and kept dark till the poor old

king was in the middle of his cavortings on the stage; then somebody

give a signal, and the house rose up and went for them.

So we poked along back home, and I warn't feeling so brash as I

was before, but kind of ornery, and humble, and to blame, somehow-

though I hadn't done nothing. But that's always the way; it don't make

no difference whether you do right or wrong, a person's conscience

ain't got no sense, and just goes for him anyway. If I had a yaller

dog that didn't know no more than a person's conscience does, I

would pison him. It takes up more room than all the rest of a person's

insides, and yet ain't no good, nohow. Tom Sawyer he says the same.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

We stopped talking, and got to thinking. By-and-by Tom says:

"Looky here, Huck, what fools we are, to not think of it before! I

bet I know where Jim is."

"No! Where?"

"In that hut down by the ash-hopper. Why, looky here. When we was at

dinner, didn't you see a nigger man go in there with some vittles?"

"What did you think the vittles was for?"

"For a dog."

"So'd I. Well, it wasn't for a dog."

"Because part of it was watermelon."

"So it was- I noticed it. Well, it does beat all, that I never

thought about a dog not eating watermelon. It shows how a body can see

and don't see at the same time."

"Well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he went in, and he

locked it again when he come out. He fetched uncle a key, about the

time we got up from table- same key, I bet. Watermelon shows man, lock

shows prisoner; and it ain't likely there's two prisoners on such a

little plantation, and where the people's all so kind and good.

Jim's the prisoner. All right- I'm glad we found it out detective

fashion; I wouldn't give shucks for any other way. Now you work your

mind and study out a plan to steal Jim, and I will study out one, too;

and we'll take the one we like the best."

What a head for just a boy to have! If I had Tom Sawyer's head, I

wouldn't trade it off to be a duke, nor mate of a steamboat, nor clown

in a circus, nor nothing I can think of. I went to thinking out a

plan, but only just to be doing something; I knowed very well where

the right plan was going to come from. Pretty soon, Tom says:

"Ready?"

"Yes," I says.

"All right- bring it out."

"My plan is this," I says. "We can easy find out if it's Jim in

there. Then get up my canoe to-morrow night, and fetch my raft over

from the island. Then the first dark night that comes, steal the key

out of the old man's britches, after he goes to bed, and shove off

down the river on the raft, with Jim, hiding daytimes and running

nights, the way me and Jim used to do before. Wouldn't that plan

work?"

"Work? Why cert'nly, it would work, like rats a fighting. But it's

too blame' simple; there ain't nothing to it. What's the good of a

plan that ain't no more trouble than that? It's as mild as goose-milk.

Why, Huck, it wouldn't make no more talk than breaking into a soap

factory."

I never said nothing, because I warn't expecting nothing

different; but I knowed mighty well that whenever he got his plan

ready it wouldn't have none of them objections to it.

And it didn't. He told me what it was, and I see in a minute it

was worth fifteen of mine, for style, and would make Jim just as

free a man as mine would, and maybe get us all killed besides. So I

was satisfied, and said we would waltz in on it. I needn't tell what

it was, here, because I knowed it wouldn't stay the way it was. I

knowed he would be changing it around, every which way, as we went

along, and heaving in new bullinesses wherever he got a chance. And

that is what he done.

Well, one thing was dead sure; and that was, that Tom Sawyer was

in earnest and was actuly going to help steal that nigger out of

slavery. That was the thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy

that was respectable, and well brung up and had a character to lose;

and folks at home that had characters; and he was bright and not

leather-headed; and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but

kind; and yet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or

feeling, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and

his family a shame, before everybody. I couldn't understand it, no way

at all. It was outrageous, and I knowed I ought to just up and tell

him so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right

where he was, and save himself. And I did start to tell him; but he

shut me up, and says:

"Don't you reckon I know what I'm about? Don't I generly know what

I'm about?"

"Yes."

"Didn't I say I was going to help steal the nigger?"

"Yes."

"Well then."

That's all he said, and that's all I said. It warn't no use to say

any more; because when he said he'd do a thing, he always done it. But

I couldn't make out how he was willing to go into this thing; so I

just let it go, and never bothered no more about it. If he was bound

to have it so, I couldn't help it.

When we got home, the house was all dark and still; so we went on

down to the hut by the ash-hopper, for to examine it. We went

through the yard, so as to see what the hounds would do. They knowed

us, and didn't make no more noise than country dogs is always doing

when anything comes by in the night. When we got to the cabin, we took

a look at the front and the two sides; and on the side I warn't

acquainted with- which was the north side- we found a square

window-hole, up tolerable high, with just one stout board nailed

across it. I says:

"Here's the ticket. This hole's big enough for Jim to get through,

if we wrench off the board."

Tom says:

"It's as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as easy as

playing hooky. I should hope we can find a way that's a little more

complicated than that, Huck Finn."

"Well then," I says, "how'll it do to saw him out, the way I done

before I was murdered, that time?"

"That's more like," he says. "It's real mysterious, and troublesome,

and good," he says; "but I bet we can find a way that's twice as long.

There ain't no hurry; le's keep on looking around."

Betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to, that

joined the hut at the eaves, and was made out of plank. It was as long

as the hut, but narrow- only about six foot wide. The door to it was

at the south end, and was padlocked. Tom he went to the soap kettle,

and searched around and fetched back the iron thing they lift the

lid with; so he took it and prized out one of the staples. The chain

fell down, and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and struck

a match, and see the shed was only built against the cabin and

hadn't no connection with it; and there warn't no floor to the shed,

nor nothing in it but some rusty played-out hoes, and spades, and

packs, and a crippled plow. The match went out, and so did we, and

shoved in the staple again, and the door was locked as good as ever.

Tom was joyful. He says:

"Now we're all right. We'll dig him out. It'll take about a week!"

Then we started for the house, and I went in the back door- you only

have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don't fasten the doors- but

that warn't romantical enough for Tom Sawyer: no way would do him

but he must climb up the lightning-rod. But after he got up half-way

about three times, and missed fire and fell every time, and the last

time most busted his brains out, he thought he'd got to give it up;

but after he was rested, he allowed he would give her one more turn

for luck, and this time he made the trip.

In the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger

cabins to pet the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed

Jim- if it was Jim that was being fed. The niggers was just getting

through breakfast and starting for the fields; and Jim's nigger was

piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the

others was leaving, the key come from the house.

This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool

was all tied up in little bunches with thread. That was to keep

witches off. He said the witches was pestering him awful, these

nights, and making him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all

kinds of strange words and noises, and he didn't believe he was ever

witched so long, before, in his life. He got so worked up, and got

to running on so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he'd

been going to do. So Tom says:

"What's the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?"

The nigger kind of smiled around graduly over his face, like when

you heave a brickbat in a mud puddle, and he says:

"Yes, Mars Sid, a dog. Cur'us dog, too. Does you want to go en

look at 'im?"

"Yes."

I hunched Tom, and whispers:

"You going, right here in the day-break? That warn't the plan."

"No, it warn't- but it's the plan now."

So, drat him, we went along, but I didn't like it much. When we

got in, we couldn't hardly see anything, it was so dark; but Jim was

there, sur