highest quality in dis whole town -- ole Virginny stock. Fust

famblies, he wuz. Jes as good stock as de Driscolls en de Howards,

de bes' day dey ever seed." She put on a little prouder air, if

possible, and added impressively: "Does you 'member Cunnel Cecil

Burleigh Essex, dat died de same year yo' young Marse Tom Driscoll's

pappy died, en all de Masons en Odd Fellers en Churches turned out en

give him de bigges' funeral dis town ever seed? Dat 's de man."

Under the inspiration of her soaring complacency the departed

graces of her earlier days returned to her, and her bearing took to

itself a dignity and state that might have passed for queenly if her

surroundings had been a little more in keeping with it.

"Dey ain't another nigger in dis town dat 's as high-bawn as

you is. Now den, go 'long! En jes you hold yo' head up as high as

you want to -- you has de right, en dat I kin swah."

X

All say, "How hard it is that we have to die" -- a strange

complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.

-- <Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.>

When angry, count four; when very angry, swear.

-- <Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.>

Every now and then, after Tom went to bed, he had sudden

wakings out of his sleep, and his first thought was, "Oh, joy, it was

all a dream!" Then he laid himself heavily down again, with a groan

and the muttered words, "A nigger! I am a nigger! Oh, I wish I was

dead!"

He woke at dawn with one more repetition of this horror, and

then he resolved to meddle no more with that treacherous sleep. He

began to think. Sufficiently bitter thinkings they were. They

wandered along something after this fashion:

"Why were niggers <and> whites made? What crime did the

uncreated first nigger commit that the curse of birth was decreed for

him? And why is this awful difference made between white and black?

... How hard the nigger's fate seems, this morning! -- yet until last

night such a thought never entered my head."

He sighed and groaned an hour or more away. Then "Chambers"

came humbly in to say that breakfast was nearly ready. "Tom" blushed

scarlet to see this aristocratic white youth cringe to him, a nigger,

and call him "Young Marster." He said roughly --

"Get out of my sight!" and when the youth was gone, he

muttered, "He has done me no harm, poor wretch, but he is an eyesore

to me now, for he is Driscoll the young gentleman, and I am a -- oh,

I wish I was dead!"

A gigantic irruption, like that of Krakatoa a few years ago,

with the accompanying earthquakes, tidal waves, and clouds of

volcanic dust, changes the face of the surrounding landscape beyond

recognition, bringing down the high lands, elevating the low, making

fair lakes where deserts had been, and deserts where green prairies

had smiled before. The tremendous catastrophe which had befallen Tom

had changed his moral landscape in much the same way. Some of his

low places he found lifted to ideals, some of his ideals had sunk to

the valleys, and lay there with the sackcloth and ashes of

pumice-stone and sulphur on their ruined heads.

For days he wandered in lonely places, thinking, thinking,

thinking -- trying to get his bearings. It was new work. If he met

a friend, he found that the habit of a lifetime had in some

mysterious way vanished -- his arm hung limp, instead of

involuntarily extending the hand for a shake. It was the "nigger" in

him asserting its humility, and he blushed and was abashed. And the

"nigger" in him was surprised when the white friend put out his hand

for a shake with him. He found the "nigger" in him involuntarily

giving the road, on the sidewalk, to the white rowdy and loafer.

When Rowena, the dearest thing his heart knew, the idol of his secret

worship, invited him in, the "nigger" in him made an embarrassed

excuse and was afraid to enter and sit with the dread white folks on

equal terms. The "nigger" in him went shrinking and skulking here

and there and yonder, and fancying it saw suspicion and maybe

detection in all faces, tones, and gestures. So strange and

uncharacteristic was Tom's conduct that people noticed it, and turned

to look after him when he passed on; and when he glanced back -- as

he could not help doing, in spite of his best resistance -- and

caught that puzzled expression in a person's face, it gave him a sick

feeling, and he took himself out of view as quickly as he could. He

presently came to have a hunted sense and a hunted look, and then he

fled away to the hilltops and the solitudes. He said to himself that

the curse of Ham was upon him.

He dreaded his meals; the "nigger" in him was ashamed to sit at

the white folks' table, and feared discovery all the time; and once

when Judge Driscoll said, "What 's the matter with you? You look as

meek as a nigger," he felt as secret murderers are said to feel when

the accuser says, "Thou art the man!" Tom said he was not well, and

left the table.

His ostensible "aunt's" solicitudes and endearments were become

a terror to him, and he avoided them.

And all the time, hatred of his ostensible "uncle" was steadily

growing in his heart; for he said to himself, "He is white; and I am

his chattel, his property, his goods, and he can sell me, just as he

could his dog."

For as much as a week after this, Tom imagined that his

character had undergone a pretty radical change. But that was

because he did not know himself.

In several ways his opinions were totally changed, and would

never go back to what they were before, but the main structure of his

character was not changed, and could not be changed. One or two very

important features of it were altered, and in time effects would

result from this, if opportunity offered -- effects of a quite

serious nature, too. Under the influence of a great mental and moral

upheaval his character and habits had taken on the appearance of

complete change, but after a while with the subsidence of the storm

both began to settle toward their former places. He dropped

gradually back into his old frivolous and easy-going ways and

conditions of feeling and manner of speech, and no familiar of his

could have detected anything in him that differentiated him from the

weak and careless Tom of other days.

The theft-raid which he had made upon the village turned out

better than he had ventured to hope. It produced the sum necessary

to pay his gaming-debts, and saved him from exposure to his uncle and

another smashing of the will. He and his mother learned to like each

other fairly well. She could n't love him, as yet, because there

"war n't nothing <to> him," as she expressed it, but her nature

needed something or somebody to rule over, and he was better than

nothing. Her strong character and aggressive and commanding ways

compelled Tom's admiration in spite of the fact that he got more

illustrations of them than he needed for his comfort. However, as a

rule her conversation was made up of racy tattle about the privacies

of the chief families of the town (for she went harvesting among

their kitchens every time she came to the village), and Tom enjoyed

this. It was just in his line. She always collected her half of his

pension punctually, and he was always at the haunted house to have a

chat with her on these occasions. Every now and then she paid him a

visit there on between-days also.

Occasionally he would run up to St. Louis for a few weeks, and

at last temptation caught him again. He won a lot of money, but lost

it, and with it a deal more besides, which he promised to raise as

soon as possible.

For this purpose he projected a new raid on his town. He never

meddled with any other town, for he was afraid to venture into houses

whose ins and outs he did not know and the habits of whose households

he was not acquainted with. He arrived at the haunted house in

disguise on the Wednesday before the advent of the twins -- after

writing his aunt Pratt that he would not arrive until two days after

-- and lay in hiding there with his mother until toward daylight

Friday morning, when he went to his uncle's house and entered by the

back way with his own key, and slipped up to his room, where he could

have the use of mirror and toilet articles. He had a suit of girl's

clothes with him in a bundle as a disguise for his raid, and was

wearing a suit of his mother's clothing, with black gloves and veil.

By dawn he was tricked out for his raid, but he caught a glimpse of

Pudd'nhead Wilson through the window over the way, and knew that

Pudd'n-head had caught a glimpse of him. So he entertained Wilson

with some airs and graces and attitudes for a while, then stepped out

of sight and resumed the other disguise, and by and by went down and

out the back way and started down town to reconnoiter the scene of

his intended labors.

But he was ill at ease. He had changed back to Roxy's dress,

with the stoop of age added to the disguise, so that Wilson would not

bother himself about a humble old woman leaving a neighbor's house by

the back way in the early morning, in case he was still spying. But

supposing Wilson had seen him leave, and had thought it suspicious,

and had also followed him? The thought made Tom cold. He gave up

the raid for the day, and hurried back to the haunted house by the

obscurest route he knew. His mother was gone; but she came back, by

and by, with the news of the grand reception at Patsy Cooper's, and

soon persuaded him that the opportunity was like a special

providence, it was so inviting and perfect. So he went raiding,

after all, and made a nice success of it while everybody was gone to

Patsy Cooper's. Success gave him nerve and even actual intrepidity;

insomuch, indeed, that after he had conveyed his harvest to his

mother in a back alley, he went to the reception himself, and added

several of the valuables of that house to his takings.

AFTER this long digression we have now arrived once more at the

point where Pudd'nhead Wilson, while waiting for the arrival of the

twins on that same Friday evening, sat puzzling over the strange

apparition of that morning -- a girl in young Tom Driscoll's bedroom;

fretting, and guessing, and puzzling over it, and wondering who the

shameless creature might be.

XI

There are three infallible ways of pleasing an author, and the

three form a rising scale of compliment: 1, to tell him you have read

one of his books; 2, to tell him you have read all of his books; 3,

to ask him to let you read the manuscript of his forthcoming book.

No. 1 admits you to his respect; No. 2 admits you to his admiration;

No. 3 carries you clear into his heart.

-- <Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.>

As to the Adjective: when in doubt, strike it out.

-- <Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.>

The twins arrived presently, and talk began. It flowed along

chattily and sociably, and under its influence the new friendship

gathered ease and strength. Wilson got out his Calendar, by request,

and read a passage or two from it, which the twins praised quite

cordially. This pleased the author so much that he complied gladly

when they asked him to lend them a batch of the work to read at home.

In the course of their wide travels they had found out that there are

three sure ways of pleasing an author; they were now working the best

of the three.

There was an interruption, now. Young Tom Driscoll appeared,

and joined the party. He pretended to be seeing the distinguished

strangers for the first time when they rose to shake hands; but this

was only a blind, as he had already had a glimpse of them at the

reception, while robbing the house. The twins made mental note that

he was smooth-faced and rather handsome, and smooth and undulatory in

his movements -- graceful, in fact. Angelo thought he had a good

eye; Luigi thought there was something veiled and sly about it.

Angelo thought he had a pleasant free-and-easy way of talking; Luigi

thought it was more so than was agreeable. Angelo thought he was a

sufficiently nice young man; Luigi reserved his decision. Tom's

first contribution to the conversation was a question which he had

put to Wilson a hundred times before. It was always cheerily and

good-naturedly put, and always inflicted a little pang, for it

touched a secret sore; but this time the pang was sharp, since

strangers were present.

"Well, how does the law come on? Had a case yet?"

Wilson bit his lip, but answered, "No -- not yet," with as much

indifference as he could assume. Judge Driscoll had generously left

the law feature out of the Wilson biography which he had furnished to

the twins. Young Tom laughed pleasantly, and said:

"Wilson 's a lawyer, gentlemen, but he does n't practise now."

The sarcasm bit, but Wilson kept himself under control, and

said without passion:

"I don't practise, it is true. It is true that I have never

had a case, and have had to earn a poor living for twenty years as an

expert accountant in a town where I can't get hold of a set of books

to untangle as often as I should like. But it is also true that I

did fit myself well for the practice of the law. By the time I was

your age, Tom, I had chosen a profession, and was soon competent to

enter upon it." Tom winced. "I never got a chance to try my hand at

it, and I may never get a chance; and yet if I ever do get it I shall

be found ready, for I have kept up my law-studies all these years."

"That 's it; that 's good grit! I like to see it. I 've a

notion to throw all my business your way. My business and your

law-practice ought to make a pretty gay team, Dave," and the young

fellow laughed again.

"If you will throw -- " Wilson had thought of the girl in Tom's

bedroom, and was going to say, "If you will throw the surreptitious

and disreputable part of your business my way, it may amount to

something"; but thought better of it and said, "However, this matter

does n't fit well in a general conversation."

"All right, we 'll change the subject; I guess you were about

to give me another dig, anyway, so I'm willing to change. How 's the

Awful Mystery flourishing these days? Wilson 's got a scheme for

driving plain window-glass out of the market by decorating it with

greasy finger-marks, and getting rich by selling it at famine prices

to the crowned heads over in Europe to outfit their palaces with.

Fetch it out, Dave."

Wilson brought three of his glass strips, and said --

"I get the subject to pass the fingers of his right hand

through his hair, so as to get a little coating of the natural oil on

them, and then press the balls of them on the glass. A fine and

delicate print of the lines in the skin results, and is permanent, if

it does n't come in contact with something able to rub it off. You

begin, Tom."

"Why, I think you took my finger-marks once or twice before."

"Yes; but you were a little boy the last time, only about

twelve years old."

"That 's so. Of course I 've changed entirely since then, and

variety is what the crowned heads want, I guess."

He passed his fingers through his crop of short hair, and

pressed them one at a time on the glass. Angelo made a print of his

fingers on another glass, and Luigi followed with the third. Wilson

marked the glasses with names and date, and put them away. Tom gave

one of his little laughs, and said --

"I thought I would n't say anything, but if variety is what you

are after, you have wasted a piece of glass. The hand-print of one

twin is the same as the hand-print of the fellow-twin."

"Well, it 's done now, and I like to have them both, anyway,"

said Wilson, returning to his place.

"But look here, Dave," said Tom, "you used to tell people's

fortunes, too, when you took their finger-marks. Dave 's just an

all-round genius -- a genius of the first water, gentlemen; a great

scientist running to seed here in this village, a prophet with the

kind of honor that prophets generally get at home -- for here they

don't give shucks for his scientifics, and they call his skull a

notion-factory -- hey, Dave, ain't it so? But never mind; he 'll

make his mark some day -- finger-mark, you know, he-he! But really,

you want to let him take a shy at your palms once; it 's worth twice

the price of admission or your money 's returned at the door. Why,

he 'll read your wrinkles as easy as a book, and not only tell you

fifty or sixty things that 's going to happen to you, but fifty or

sixty thousand that ain't. Come, Dave, show the gentlemen what an

inspired Jack-at-all-science we 've got in this town, and don't know

it."

Wilson winced under this nagging and not very courteous chaff,

and the twins suffered with him and for him. They rightly judged,

now, that the best way to relieve him would be to take the thing in

earnest and treat it with respect, ignoring Tom's rather overdone

raillery; so Luigi said --

"We have seen something of palmistry in our wanderings, and

know very well what astonishing things it can do. If it is n't a

science, and one of the greatest of them, too, I don't know what its

other name ought to be. In the Orient -- "

Tom looked surprised and incredulous. He said --

"That juggling a science? But really, you ain't serious, are

you?"

"Yes, entirely so. Four years ago we had our hands read out to

us as if our palms had been covered with print."

"Well, do you mean to say there was actually anything in it?"

asked Tom, his incredulity beginning to weaken a little.

"There was this much in it," said Angelo; "what was told us of

our characters was minutely exact -- we could not have bettered it

ourselves. Next, two or three memorable things that had happened to

us were laid bare -- things which no one present but ourselves could

have known about."

"Why, it 's rank sorcery!" exclaimed Tom, who was now becoming

very much interested. "And how did they make out with what was going

to happen to you in the future?"

"On the whole, quite fairly," said Luigi. "Two or three of the

most striking things foretold have happened since; much the most

striking one of all happened within that same year. Some of the

minor prophecies have come true; some of the minor and some of the

major ones have not been fulfilled yet, and of course may never be:

still, I should be more surprised if they failed to arrive than if

they did n't."

Tom was entirely sobered, and profoundly impressed. He said,

apologetically --

"Dave, I was n't meaning to belittle that science; I was only

chaffing -- chattering, I reckon I 'd better say. I wish you would

look at their palms. Come, won't you?"

"Why, certainly, if you want me to; but you know I 've had no

chance to become an expert, and don't claim to be one. When a past

event is somewhat prominently recorded in the palm I can generally

detect that, but minor ones often escape me, -- not always, of

course, but often, -- but I have n't much confidence in myself when

it comes to reading the future. I am talking as if palmistry was a

daily study with me, but that is not so. I have n't examined half a

dozen hands in the last half dozen years; you see, the people got to

joking about it, and I stopped to let the talk die down. I 'll tell

you what we 'll do, Count Luigi: I 'll make a try at your past, and

if I have any success there -- no, on the whole, I 'll let the future

alone; that 's really the affair of an expert."

He took Luigi's hand. Tom said --

"Wait -- don't look yet, Dave! Count Luigi, here 's paper and

pencil. Set down that thing that you said was the most striking one

that was foretold to you, and happened less than a year afterward,

and give it to me so I can see if Dave finds it in your hand."

Luigi wrote a line privately, and folded up the piece of paper,

and handed it to Tom, saying --

"I 'll tell you when to look at it, if he finds it."

Wilson began to study Luigi's palm, tracing life lines, heart

lines, head lines, and so on, and noting carefully their relations

with the cobweb of finer and more delicate marks and lines that

enmeshed them on all sides; he felt of the fleshy cushion at the base

of the thumb, and noted its shape; he felt of the fleshy side of the

hand between the wrist and the base of the little finger, and noted

its shape also; he painstakingly examined the fingers, observing

their form, proportions, and natural manner of disposing themselves

when in repose. All this process was watched by the three spectators

with absorbing interest, their heads bent together over Luigi's palm,

and nobody disturbing the stillness with a word. Wilson now entered

upon a close survey of the palm again, and his revelations began.

He mapped out Luigi's character and disposition, his tastes,

aversions, proclivities, ambitions, and eccentricities in a way which

sometimes made Luigi wince and the others laugh, but both twins

declared that the chart was artistically drawn and was correct.

Next, Wilson took up Luigi's history. He proceeded cautiously

and with hesitation, now, moving his finger slowly along the great

lines of the palm, and now and then halting it at a "star" or some

such landmark, and examining that neighborhood minutely. He

proclaimed one or two past events, Luigi confirmed his correctness,

and the search went on. Presently Wilson glanced up suddenly with a

surprised expression --

"Here is record of an incident which you would perhaps not wish

me to -- "

"Bring it out," said Luigi, good-naturedly; "I promise you it

sha'n't embarrass me."

But Wilson still hesitated, and did not seem quite to know what

to do. Then he said --

"I think it is too delicate a matter to -- to -- I believe I

would rather write it or whisper it to you, and let you decide for

yourself whether you want it talked out or not."

"That will answer," said Luigi; "write it."

Wilson wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to

Luigi, who read it to himself and said to Tom --

"Unfold your slip and read it, Mr. Driscoll."

Tom read:

<"It was prophesied that I would kill a man. It came true

before the year was out.">

Tom added, "Great Scott!"

Luigi handed Wilson's paper to Tom, and said --

"Now read this one."

Tom read:

<"You have killed some one, but whether man, woman or child, I

do not make out.">

"Caesar's ghost!" commented Tom, with astonishment. "It beats

anything that was ever heard of! Why, a man's own hand is his

deadliest enemy! Just think of that -- a man's own hand keeps a

record of the deepest and fatalest secrets of his life, and is

treacherously ready to expose him to any black-magic stranger that

comes along. But what do you let a person look at your hand for,

with that awful thing printed in it?"

"Oh," said Luigi, reposefully, "I don't mind it. I killed the

man for good reasons, and I don't regret it."

"What were the reasons?"

"Well, he needed killing."

"I 'll tell you why he did it, since he won't say himself,"

said Angelo, warmly. "He did it to save my life, that 's what he did

it for. So it was a noble act, and not a thing to be hid in the

dark."

"So it was, so it was," said Wilson; "to do such a thing to

save a brother's life is a great and fine action."

"Now come," said Luigi, "it is very pleasant to hear you say

these things, but for unselfishness, or heroism, or magnanimity, the

circumstances won't stand scrutiny. You overlook one detail: suppose

I had n't saved Angelo's life, what would have become of mine? If I

had let the man kill him, would n't he have killed me, too? I saved

my own life, you see."

"Yes; that is your way of talking," said Angelo, "but I know

you -- I don't believe you thought of yourself at all. I keep that

weapon yet that Luigi killed the man with, and I 'll show it to you

some time. That incident makes it interesting, and it had a history

before it came into Luigi's hands which adds to its interest. It was

given to Luigi by a great Indian prince, the Gaikowar of Baroda, and

it had been in his family two or three centuries. It killed a good

many disagreeable people who troubled that hearthstone at one time

and another. It is n't much to look at, except that it is n't shaped

like other knives, or dirks, or whatever it may be called -- here, I

'll draw it for you." He took a sheet of paper and made a rapid

sketch. "There it is -- a broad and murderous blade, with edges like

a razor for sharpness. The devices engraved on it are the ciphers or

names of its long line of possessors -- I had Luigi's name added in

Roman letters myself with our coat of arms, as you see. You notice

what a curious handle the thing has. It is solid ivory, polished

like a mirror, and is four or five inches long -- round, and as thick

as a large man's wrist, with the end squared off flat, for your thumb

to rest on; for you grasp it, with your thumb resting on the blunt

end -- so -- and lift it aloft and strike downward. The Gaikowar

showed us how the thing was done when he gave it to Luigi, and before

that night was ended Luigi had used the knife, and the Gaikowar was a

man short by reason of it. The sheath is magnificently ornamented

with gems of great value. You will find the sheath more worth

looking at than the knife itself, of course."

Tom said to himself --

"It's lucky I came here. I would have sold that knife for a

song; I supposed the jewels were glass."

"But go on; don't stop," said Wilson. "Our curiosity is up

now, to hear about the homicide. Tell us about that."

"Well, briefly, the knife was to blame for that, all around. A

native servant slipped into our room in the palace in the night, to

kill us and steal the knife on account of the fortune incrusted on

its sheath, without a doubt. Luigi had it under his pillow; we were

in bed together. There was a dim night-light burning. I was asleep,

but Luigi was awake, and he thought he detected a vague form nearing

the bed. He slipped the knife out of the sheath and was ready, and

unembarrassed by hampering bed-clothes, for the weather was hot and

we had n't any. Suddenly that native rose at the bedside, and bent

over me with his right hand lifted and a dirk in it aimed at my

throat; but Luigi grabbed his wrist, pulled him downward, and drove

his own knife into the man's neck. That is the whole story."

Wilson and Tom drew deep breaths, and after some general chat

about the tragedy, Pudd'nhead said, taking Tom's hand --

"Now, Tom, I 've never had a look at your palms, as it happens;

perhaps you 've got some little questionable privacies that need --

hel-lo!"

Tom had snatched away his hand, and was looking a good deal

confused.

"Why, he 's blushing!" said Luigi.

Tom darted an ugly look at him, and said sharply --

"Well, if I am, it ain't because I 'm a murderer!" Luigi's dark

face flushed, but before he could speak or move, Tom added with

anxious haste: "Oh, I beg a thousand pardons. I did n't mean that;

it was out before I thought, and I 'm very, very sorry -- you must

forgive me!"

Wilson came to the rescue, and smoothed things down as well as

he could; and in fact was entirely successful as far as the twins

were concerned, for they felt sorrier for the affront put upon him by

his guest's outburst of ill manners than for the insult offered to

Luigi. But the success was not so pronounced with the offender. Tom

tried to seem at his ease, and he went through the motions fairly

well, but at bottom he felt resentful toward all the three witnesses

of his exhibition; in fact, he felt so annoyed at them for having

witnessed it and noticed it that he almost forgot to feel annoyed at

himself for placing it before them. However, something presently

happened which made him almost comfortable, and brought him nearly

back to a state of charity and friendliness. This was a little spat

between the twins; not much of a spat, but still a spat; and before

they got far with it they were in a decided condition of irritation

with each other. Tom was charmed; so pleased, indeed, that he

cautiously did what he could to increase the irritation while

pretending to be actuated by more respectable motives. By his help

the fire got warmed up to the blazing-point, and he might have had

the happiness of seeing the flames show up, in another moment, but

for the interruption of a knock on the door -- an interruption which

fretted him as much as it gratified Wilson. Wilson opened the door.

The visitor was a good-natured, ignorant, energetic,

middle-aged Irishman named John Buckstone, who was a great politician

in a small way, and always took a large share in public matters of

every sort. One of the town's chief excitements, just now, was over

the matter of rum. There was a strong rum party and a strong

anti-rum party. Buckstone was training with the rum party, and he

had been sent to hunt up the twins and invite them to attend a

mass-meeting of that faction. He delivered his errand, and said the

clans were already gathering in the big hall over the market-house.

Luigi accepted the invitation cordially, Angelo less cordially, since

he disliked crowds, and did not drink the powerful intoxicants of

America. In fact, he was even a teetotaler sometimes -- when it was

judicious to be one.

The twins left with Buckstone, and Tom Driscoll joined company

with them uninvited.

In the distance one could see a long wavering line of torches

drifting down the main street, and could hear the throbbing of the

bass drum, the clash of cymbals, the squeaking of a fife or two, and

the faint roar of remote hurrahs. The tail-end of this procession

was climbing the market-house stairs when the twins arrived in its

neighborhood; when they reached the hall it was full of people,

torches, smoke, noise, and enthusiasm. They were conducted to the

platform by Buckstone -- Tom Driscoll still following -- and were

delivered to the chairman in the midst of a prodigious explosion of

welcome. When the noise had moderated a little, the chair proposed

that "our illustrious guests be at once elected, by complimentary

acclamation, to membership in our ever-glorious organization, the

paradise of the free and the perdition of the slave."

This eloquent discharge opened the flood-gates of enthusiasm

again, and the election was carried with thundering unanimity. Then

arose a storm of cries:

"Wet them down! Wet them down! Give them a drink!"

Glasses of whisky were handed to the twins. Luigi waved his

aloft, then brought it to his lips; but Angelo set his down. There

was another storm of cries:

"What 's the matter with the other one?" "What is the blond one

going back on us for?" "Explain! Explain!"

The chairman inquired, and then reported --

"We have made an unfortunate mistake, gentlemen. I find that

the Count Angelo Cappello is opposed to our creed -- is a teetotaler,

in fact, and was not intending to apply for membership with us. He

desires that we reconsider the vote by which he was elected. What is

the pleasure of the house?"

There was a general burst of laughter, plentifully accented

with whistlings and cat-calls, but the energetic use of the gavel

presently restored something like order. Then a man spoke from the

crowd, and said that while he was very sorry that the mistake had

been made, it would not be possible to rectify it at the present

meeting. According to the by-laws it must go over to the next

regular meeting for action. He would not offer a motion, as none was

required. He desired to apologize to the gentleman in the name of

the house, and begged to assure him that as far as it might lie in

the power of the Sons of Liberty, his temporary membership in the

order would be made pleasant to him.

This speech was received with great applause, mixed with cries

of --

"That 's the talk!" "He 's a good fellow, any way, if he <is> a

teetotaler!" "Drink his health!" "Give him a rouser, and no

heel-taps!"

Glasses were handed around, and everybody on the platform drank

Angelo's health, while the house bellowed forth in song:

For he 's a jolly good fel-low,

For he 's a jolly good fel-low,

For he 's a jolly good fe-el-low, --

Which nobody can deny.

Tom Driscoll drank. It was his second glass, for he had drunk

Angelo's the moment that Angelo had set it down. The two drinks made

him very merry -- almost idiotically so -- and he began to take a

most lively and prominent part in the proceedings, particularly in

the music and cat-call and side-remarks.

The chairman was still standing at the front, the twins at his

side. The extraordinarily close resemblance of the brothers to each

other suggested a witticism to Tom Driscoll, and just as the chairman

began a speech he skipped forward and said with an air of tipsy

confidence to the audience --

"Boys, I move that he keeps still and lets this human philopena

snip you out a speech."

The descriptive aptness of the phrase caught the house, and a

mighty burst of laughter followed.

Luigi's southern blood leaped to the boiling-point in a moment

under the sharp humiliation of this insult delivered in the presence

of four hundred strangers. It was not in the young man's nature to

let the matter pass, or to delay the squaring of the account. He

took a couple of strides and halted behind the unsuspecting joker.

Then he drew back and delivered a kick of such titanic vigor that it

lifted Tom clear over the footlights and landed him on the heads of

the front row of the Sons of Liberty.

Even a sober person does not like to have a human being emptied

on him when he is not doing any harm; a person who is not sober

cannot endure such an attention at all. The nest of Sons of Liberty

that Driscoll landed in had not a sober bird in it; in fact there was

probably not an entirely sober one in the auditorium. Driscoll was

promptly and indignantly flung on to the heads of Sons in the next

row, and these Sons passed him on toward the rear, and then

immediately began to pummel the front-row Sons who had passed him to

them. This course was strictly followed by bench after bench as

Driscoll traveled in his tumultuous and airy flight toward the door;

so he left behind him an ever lengthening wake of raging and plunging

and fighting and swearing humanity. Down went group after group of

torches, and presently above the deafening clatter of the gavel, roar

of angry voices, and crash of succumbing benches, rose the paralyzing

cry of

"FIRE!"

The fighting ceased instantly; the cursing ceased; for one

distinctly defined moment there was a dead hush, a motionless calm,

where the tempest had been; then with one impulse the multitude awoke

to life and energy again, and went surging and struggling and

swaying, this way and that, its outer edges melting away through

windows and doors and gradually lessening the pressure and relieving

the mass.

The fire-boys were never on hand so suddenly before; for there

was no distance to go, this time, their quarters being in the rear

end of the market-house. There was an engine company and a

hook-and-ladder company. Half of each was composed of rummies and

the other half of anti-rummies, after the moral and political

share-and-share-alike fashion of the frontier town of the period.

Enough anti-rummies were loafing in quarters to man the engine and

the ladders. In two minutes they had their red shirts and helmets on

-- they never stirred officially in unofficial costume -- and as the

mass meeting overhead smashed through the long row of windows and

poured out upon the roof of the arcade, the deliverers were ready for

them with a powerful stream of water which washed some of them off

the roof and nearly drowned the rest. But water was preferable to

fire, and still the stampede from the windows continued, and still

the pitiless drenchings assailed it until the building was empty;

then the fire-boys mounted to the hall and flooded it with water

enough to annihilate forty times as much fire as there was there; for

a village fire-company does not often get a chance to show off, and

so when it does get a chance it makes the most of it. Such citizens

of that village as were of a thoughtful and judicious temperament did

not insure against fire; they insured against the fire-company.

XII

Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear -- not absence

of fear. Except a creature be part coward it is not a compliment to

say it is brave; it is merely a loose misapplication of the word.

Consider the flea! -- incomparably the bravest of all the creatures

of God, if ignorance of fear were courage. Whether you are asleep or

awake he will attack you, caring nothing for the fact that in bulk

and strength you are to him as are the massed armies of the earth to

a sucking child; he lives both day and night and all days and nights

in the very lap of peril and the immediate presence of death, and yet

is no more afraid than is the man who walks the streets of a city

that was threatened by an earthquake ten centuries before. When we

speak of Clive, Nelson, and Putnam as men who "did n't know what fear

was," we ought always to add the flea -- and put him at the head of

the procession.

-- <Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.>

Judge Driscoll was in bed and asleep by ten o'clock on Friday

night, and he was up and gone a-fishing before daylight in the

morning with his friend Pembroke Howard. These two had been boys

together in Virginia when that State still ranked as the chief and

most imposing member of the Union, and they still coupled the proud

and affectionate adjective "old" with her name when they spoke of

her. In Missouri a recognized superiority attached to any person who

hailed from Old Virginia; and this superiority was exalted to

supremacy when a person of such nativity could also prove descent

from the First Families of that great commonwealth. The Howards and

Driscolls were of this aristocracy. In their eyes it was a nobility.

It had its unwritten laws, and they were as clearly defined and as

strict as any that could be found among the printed statutes of the

land. The F. F. V. was born a gentleman; his highest duty in life

was to watch over that great inheritance and keep it unsmirched. He

must keep his honor spotless. Those laws were his chart; his course

was marked out on it; if he swerved from it by so much as half a

point of the compass it meant shipwreck to his honor; that is to say,

degradation from his rank as a gentleman. These laws required

certain things of him which his religion might forbid: then his

religion must yield -- the laws could not be relaxed to accommodate

religions or anything else. Honor stood first; and the laws defined

what it was and wherein it differed in certain details from honor as

defined by church creeds and by the social laws and customs of some

of the minor divisions of the globe that had got crowded out when the

sacred boundaries of Virginia were staked out.

If Judge Driscoll was the recognized first citizen of Dawson's

Landing, Pembroke Howard was easily its recognized second citizen.

He was called "the great lawyer" -- an earned title. He and Driscoll

were of the same age -- a year or two past sixty.

Although Driscoll was a free-thinker and Howard a strong and

determined Presbyterian, their warm intimacy suffered no impairment

in consequence. They were men whose opinions were their own property

and not subject to revision and amendment, suggestion or criticism,

by anybody, even their friends.

The day's fishing finished, they came floating down stream in

their skiff, talking national politics and other high matters, and

presently met a skiff coming up from town, with a man in it who said:

"I reckon you know one of the new twins gave your nephew a

kicking last night, Judge?"

"Did <what>?"

"Gave him a kicking."

The old Judge's lips paled, and his eyes began to flame. He

choked with anger for a moment, then he got out what he was trying to

say --

"Well -- well -- go on! Give me the details."

The man did it. At the finish the Judge was silent a minute,

turning over in his mind the shameful picture of Tom's flight over

the footlights; then he said, as if musing aloud --

"H'm -- I don't understand it. I was asleep at home. He did

n't wake me. Thought he was competent to manage his affair without

my help, I reckon." His face lit up with pride and pleasure at that

thought, and he said with a cheery complacency, "I like that -- it 's

the true old blood -- hey, Pembroke?"

Howard smiled an iron smile, and nodded his head approvingly.

Then the news-bringer spoke again --

"But Tom beat the twin on the trial."

The Judge looked at the man wonderingly, and said --

"The trial? What trial?"

"Why, Tom had him up before Judge Robinson for assault and

battery."

The old man shrank suddenly together like one who has received

a death-stroke. Howard sprang for him as he sank forward in a swoon,

and took him in his arms, and bedded him on his back in the boat. He

sprinkled water in his face, and said to the startled visitor --

"Go, now -- don't let him come to and find you here. You see

what an effect your heedless speech has had; you ought to have been

more considerate than to blurt out such a cruel piece of slander as

that."

"I 'm right down sorry I did it now, Mr. Howard, and I would

n't have done it if I had thought: but it ain't a slander; it 's

perfectly true, just as I told him."

He rowed away. Presently the old Judge came out of his faint

and looked up piteously into the sympathetic face that was bent over

him.

"Say it ain't true, Pembroke; tell me it ain't true!" he said

in a weak voice.

There was nothing weak in the deep organ-tones that responded

--

"You know it 's a lie as well as I do, old friend. He is of

the best blood of the Old Dominion."

"God bless you for saying it!" said the old gentleman,

fervently. "Ah, Pembroke, it was such a blow!"

Howard stayed by his friend, and saw him home, and entered the

house with him. It was dark, and past supper-time, but the Judge was

not thinking of supper; he was eager to hear the slander refuted from

headquarters, and as eager to have Howard hear it, too. Tom was sent

for, and he came immediately. He was bruised and lame, and was not a

happy-looking object. His uncle made him sit down, and said --

"We have been hearing about your adventure, Tom, with a

handsome lie added to it for embellishment. Now pulverize that lie

to dust! What measures have you taken? How does the thing stand?"

Tom answered guilelessly: "It don't stand at all; it 's all

over. I had him up in court and beat him. Pudd'nhead Wilson

defended him -- first case he ever had, and lost it. The judge fined

the miserable hound five dollars for the assault."

Howard and the Judge sprang to their feet with the opening

sentence -- why, neither knew; then they stood gazing vacantly at

each other. Howard stood a moment, then sat mournfully down without

saying anything. The Judge's wrath began to kindle, and he burst out

--

"You cur! You scum! You vermin! Do you mean to tell me that

blood of my race has suffered a blow and crawled to a court of law

about it? Answer me!"

Tom's head drooped, and he answered with an eloquent silence.

His uncle stared at him with a mixed expression of amazement and

shame and incredulity that was sorrowful to see. At last he said --

"Which of the twins was it?"

"Count Luigi."

"You have challenged him?"

"N -- no," hesitated Tom, turning pale.

"You will challenge him to-night. Howard will carry it."

Tom began to turn sick, and to show it. He turned his hat

round and round in his hand, his uncle glowering blacker and blacker

upon him as the heavy seconds drifted by; then at last he began to

stammer, and said piteously --

"Oh, please don't ask me to do it, uncle! He is a murderous

devil -- I never could -- I -- I 'm afraid of him!"

Old Driscoll's mouth opened and closed three times before he

could get it to perform its office; then he stormed out --

"A coward in my family! A Driscoll a coward! Oh, what have I

done to deserve this infamy!" He tottered to his secretary in the

corner repeating that lament again and again in heartbreaking tones,

and got out of a drawer a paper, which he slowly tore to bits

scattering the bits absently in his track as he walked up and down

the room, still grieving and lamenting. At last he said --

"There it is, shreds and fragments once more -- my will. Once

more you have forced me to disinherit you, you base son of a most

noble father! Leave my sight! Go -- before I spit on you!"

The young man did not tarry. Then the Judge turned to Howard:

"You will be my second, old friend?"

"Of course."

"There is pen and paper. Draft the cartel, and lose no time."

"The Count shall have it in his hands in fifteen minutes," said

Howard.

Tom was very heavy-hearted. His appetite was gone with his

property and his self-respect. He went out the back way and wandered

down the obscure lane grieving, and wondering if any course of future

conduct, however discreet and carefully perfected and watched over,

could win back his uncle's favor and persuade him to reconstruct once

more that generous will which had just gone to ruin before his eyes.

He finally concluded that it could. He said to himself that he had

accomplished this sort of triumph once already, and that what had

been done once could be done again. He would set about it. He would

bend every energy to the task, and he would score that triumph once

more, cost what it might to his convenience, limit as it might his

frivolous and liberty-loving life.

"To begin," he said to himself, "I 'll square up with the

proceeds of my raid, and then gambling has got to be stopped -- and

stopped short off. It 's the worst vice I 've got -- from my

standpoint, anyway, because it 's the one he can most easily find

out, through the impatience of my creditors. He thought it expensive

to have to pay two hundred dollars to them for me once. Expensive --

<that!> Why, it cost me the whole of his fortune -- but of course he

never thought of that; some people can't think of any but their own

side of a case. If he had known how deep I am in, now, the will

would have gone to pot without waiting for a duel to help. Three

hundred dollars! It 's a pile! But he 'll never hear of it, I 'm

thankful to say. The minute I 've cleared it off, I 'm safe; and I

'll never touch a card again. Anyway, I won't while he lives, I make

oath to that. I 'm entering on my last reform -- I know it -- yes,

and I 'll win; but after that, if I ever slip again I 'm gone."

XIII

When I reflect upon the number of disagreeable people who I

know have gone to a better world, I am moved to lead a different

life.

-- <Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.>

October. This is one of the peculiarly dangerous months to

speculate in stocks in. The others are July, January, September,

April, November, May, March, June, December, August, and February.

-- <Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.>

Thus mournfully communing with himself Tom moped along the lane

past Pudd'nhead Wilson's house, and still on and on between fences

inclosing vacant country on each hand till he neared the haunted

house, then he came moping back again, with many sighs and heavy with

trouble. He sorely wanted cheerful company. Rowena! His heart gave

a bound at the thought, but the next thought quieted it -- the

detested twins would be there.

He was on the inhabited side of Wilson's house, and now as he

approached it he noticed that the sitting-room was lighted. This

would do; others made him feel unwelcome sometimes, but Wilson never

failed in courtesy toward him, and a kindly courtesy does at least

save one's feelings, even if it is not professing to stand for a

welcome. Wilson heard footsteps at his threshold, then the clearing

of a throat.

"It's that fickle-tempered, dissipated young goose -- poor

devil, he finds friends pretty scarce to-day, likely, after the

disgrace of carrying a personal-assault case into a law-court."

A dejected knock. "Come in!"

Tom entered, and drooped into a chair, without saying anything.

Wilson said kindly --

"Why, my boy, you look desolate. Don't take it so hard. Try

and forget you have been kicked."

"Oh, dear," said Tom, wretchedly, "it 's not that, Pudd'n-head

-- it 's not that. It's a thousand times worse than that -- oh, yes,

a million times worse."

"Why, Tom, what do you mean? Has Rowena -- "

"Flung me? No, but the old man has."

Wilson said to himself, "Aha!" and thought of the mysterious

girl in the bedroom. "The Driscolls have been making discoveries!"

Then he said aloud, gravely:

"Tom, there are some kinds of dissipation which -- "

"Oh, shucks, this has n't got anything to do with dissipation.

He wanted me to challenge that derned Italian savage, and I would n't

do it."

"Yes, of course he would do that," said Wilson in a meditative

matter-of-course way; "but the thing that puzzled me was, why he did

n't look to that last night, for one thing, and why he let you carry

such a matter into a court of law at all, either before the duel or

after it. It 's no place for it. It was not like him. I could n't

understand it. How did it happen?"

"It happened because he did n't know anything about it. He was

asleep when I got home last night."

"And you did n't wake him? Tom, is that possible?"

Tom was not getting much comfort here. He fidgeted a moment,

then said:

"I did n't choose to tell him -- that 's all. He was going

a-fishing before dawn, with Pembroke Howard, and if I got the twins

into the common calaboose -- and I thought sure I could -- I never

dreamed of their slipping out on a paltry fine for such an outrageous

offense -- well, once in the calaboose they would be disgraced, and

uncle would n't want any duels with that sort of characters, and

would n't allow any."

"Tom, I am ashamed of you! I don't see how you could treat

your good old uncle so. I am a better friend of his than you are;

for if I had known the circumstances I would have kept that case out

of court until I got word to him and let him have a gentleman's

chance."

"You would?" exclaimed Tom, with lively surprise. "And it your

first case! And you know perfectly well there never would have

<been> any case if he had got that chance, don't you? And you 'd

have finished your days a pauper nobody, instead of being an actually

launched and recognized lawyer to-day. And you would really have

done that, would you?"

"Certainly."

Tom looked at him a moment or two, then shook his head

sorrowfully and said --

"I believe you -- upon my word I do. I don't know why I do,

but I do. Pudd'nhead Wilson, I think you 're the biggest fool I ever

saw."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"Well, he has been requiring you to fight the Italian and you

have refused. You degenerate remnant of an honorable line! I 'm

thoroughly ashamed of you, Tom!"

"Oh, that 's nothing! I don't care for anything, now that the

will 's torn up again."

"Tom, tell me squarely -- did n't he find any fault with you

for anything but those two things -- carrying the case into court and

refusing to fight?"

He watched the young fellow's face narrowly, but it was

entirely reposeful, and so also was the voice that answered:

"No, he did n't find any other fault with me. If he had had

any to find, he would have begun yesterday, for he was just in the

humor for it. He drove that jack-pair around town and showed them

the sights, and when he came home he could n't find his father's old

silver watch that don't keep time and he thinks so much of, and could

n't remember what he did with it three or four days ago when he saw

it last; and so when I arrived he was all in a sweat about it, and

when I suggested that it probably was n't lost but stolen, it put him

in a regular passion and he said I was a fool -- which convinced me,

without any trouble, that that was just what he was afraid <had>

happened, himself, but did not want to believe it, because lost

things stand a better chance of being found again than stolen ones."

"Whe-ew!" whistled Wilson; "score another on the list."

"Another what?"

"Another theft!"

"Theft?"

"Yes, theft. That watch is n't lost, it 's stolen. There 's

been another raid on the town -- and just the same old mysterious

sort of thing that has happened once before, as you remember."

"You don't mean it!"

"It 's as sure as you are born! Have you missed anything

yourself?"

"No. That is, I did miss a silver pencil-case that Aunt Mary

Pratt gave me last birthday -- "

"You 'll find it 's stolen -- that 's what you 'll find."

"No, I sha'n't; for when I suggested theft about the watch and

got such a rap, I went and examined my room, and the pencil-case was

missing, but it was only mislaid, and I found it again."

"You are sure you missed nothing else?"

"Well, nothing of consequence. I missed a small plain gold

ring worth two or three dollars, but that will turn up. I 'll look

again."

"In my opinion you 'll not find it. There 's been a raid, I

tell you. Come <in>!"

Mr. Justice Robinson entered, followed by Buckstone and the

town-constable, Jim Blake. They sat down, and after some wandering

and aimless weather-conversation Wilson said --

"By the way, we 've just added another to the list of thefts,

maybe two. Judge Driscoll's old silver watch is gone, and Tom here

has missed a gold ring."

"Well, it is a bad business," said the Justice, "and gets worse

the further it goes. The Hankses, the Dobsons, the Pilligrews, the

Ortons, the Grangers, the Hales, the Fullers, the Holcombs, in fact

everybody that lives around about Patsy Cooper's has been robbed of

little things like trinkets and teaspoons and such-like small

valuables that are easily carried off. It 's perfectly plain that

the thief took advantage of the reception at Patsy Cooper's, when all

the neighbors were in her house and all their niggers hanging around

her fence for a look at the show, to raid the vacant houses

undisturbed. Patsy is miserable about it; miserable on account of

the neighbors, and particularly miserable on account of her

foreigners, of course; so miserable on their account that she has n't

any room to worry about her own little losses."

"It 's the same old raider," said Wilson. "I suppose there is

n't any doubt about that."

"Constable Blake does n't think so."

"No, you 're wrong there," said Blake; "the other times it was

a man; there was plenty of signs of that, as we know, in the

profession, though we never got hands on him; but this time it 's a

woman."

Wilson thought of the mysterious girl straight off. She was

always in his mind now. But she failed him again. Blake continued:

"She 's a stoop-shouldered old woman with a covered basket on

her arm, in a black veil, dressed in mourning. I saw her going

aboard the ferry-boat yesterday. Lives in Illinois, I reckon; but I

don't care where she lives, I 'm going to get her -- she can make

herself sure of that."

"What makes you think she 's the thief?"

"Well, there ain't any other, for one thing; and for another,

some of the nigger draymen that happened to be driving along saw her

coming out of or going into houses, and told me so -- and it just

happens that they was <robbed> houses, every time."

It was granted that this was plenty good enough circumstantial

evidence. A pensive silence followed, which lasted some moments,

then Wilson said --

"There 's one good thing, anyway. She can't either pawn or

sell Count Luigi's costly Indian dagger."

"My!" said Tom, "is <that> gone?"

"Yes."

"Well, that was a haul! But why can't she pawn it or sell it?"

"Because when the twins went home from the Sons of Liberty

meeting last night, news of the raid was sifting in from everywhere,

and Aunt Patsy was in distress to know if they had lost anything.

They found that the dagger was gone, and they notified the police and

pawnbrokers everywhere. It was a great haul, yes, but the old woman

won't get anything out of it, because she 'll get caught."

"Did they offer a reward?" asked Buckstone.

"Yes; five hundred dollars for the knife, and five hundred more

for the thief."

"What a leather-headed idea!" exclaimed the constable. "The

thief da's n't go near them, nor send anybody. Whoever goes is going

to get himself nabbed, for there ain't any pawnbroker that 's going

to lose the chance to -- "

If anybody had noticed Tom's face at that time, the gray-green

color of it might have provoked curiosity; but nobody did. He said

to himself: "I 'm gone! I never can square up; the rest of the

plunder won't pawn or sell for half of the bill. Oh, I know it -- I

'm gone, I 'm gone -- and this time it 's for good. Oh, this is

awful -- I don't know what to do, nor which way to turn!"

"Softly, softly," said Wilson to Blake. "I planned their

scheme for them at midnight last night, and it was all finished up

shipshape by two this morning. They 'll get their dagger back, and

then I 'll explain to you how the thing was done."

There were strong signs of a general curiosity, and Buckstone

said --

"Well, you have whetted us up pretty sharp, Wilson, and I 'm

free to say that if you don't mind telling us in confidence -- "

"Oh, I 'd as soon tell as not, Buckstone, but as long as the

twins and I agreed to say nothing about it, we must let it stand so.

But you can take my word for it you won't be kept waiting three days.

Somebody will apply for that reward pretty promptly, and I 'll show

you the thief and the dagger both very soon afterward."

The constable was disappointed, and also perplexed. He said --

"It may all be -- yes, and I hope it will, but I 'm blamed if I

can see my way through it. It 's too many for yours truly."

The subject seemed about talked out. Nobody seemed to have

anything further to offer. After a silence the justice of the peace

informed Wilson that he and Buckstone and the constable had come as a

committee, on the part of the Democratic party, to ask him to run for

mayor -- for the little town was about to become a city and the first

charter election was approaching. It was the first attention which

Wilson had ever received at the hands of any party; it was a

sufficiently humble one, but it was a recognition of his debut into

the town's life and activities at last; it was a step upward, and he

was deeply gratified. He accepted, and the committee departed,

followed by young Tom.

XIV

The true Southern watermelon is a boon apart, and not to be

mentioned with commoner things. It is chief of this world's

luxuries, king by the grace of God over all the fruits of the earth.

When one has tasted it, he knows what the angels eat. It was not a

Southern watermelon that Eve took: we know it because she repented.

-- <Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.>

About the time that Wilson was bowing the committee out,

Pembroke Howard was entering the next house to report. He found the

old Judge sitting grim and straight in his chair, waiting.

"Well, Howard -- the news?"

"The best in the world."

"Accepts, does he?" and the light of battle gleamed joyously in

the Judge's eye.

"Accepts? Why, he jumped at it."

"Did, did he? Now that 's fine -- that 's very fine. I like

that. When is it to be?"

"Now! Straight off! To-night! An admirable fellow --

admirable!"

"Admirable? He 's a darling! Why, it 's an honor as well as a

pleasure to stand up before such a man. Come -- off with you! Go

and arrange everything -- and give him my heartiest compliments. A

rare fellow, indeed; an admirable fellow, as you have said!"

Howard hurried away, saying --

"I 'll have him in the vacant stretch between Wilson's and the

haunted house within the hour, and I 'll bring my own pistols."

Judge Driscoll began to walk the floor in a state of pleased

excitement; but presently he stopped, and began to think -- began to

think of Tom. Twice he moved toward the secretary, and twice he

turned away again; but finally he said --

"This may be my last night in the world -- I must not take the

chance. He is worthless and unworthy, but it is largely my fault.

He was intrusted to me by my brother on his dying bed, and I have

indulged him to his hurt, instead of training him up severely, and

making a man of him. I have violated my trust, and I must not add

the sin of desertion to that. I have forgiven him once already, and

would subject him to a long and hard trial before forgiving him

again, if I could live; but I must not run that risk. No, I must

restore the will. But if I survive the duel, I will hide it away,

and he will not know, and I will not tell him until he reforms and I

see that his reformation is going to be permanent."

He re-drew the will, and his ostensible nephew was heir to a

fortune again. As he was finishing his task, Tom, wearied with

another brooding tramp, entered the house and went tiptoeing past the

sitting-room door. He glanced in, and hurried on, for the sight of

his uncle had nothing but terrors for him to-night. But his uncle

was writing! That was unusual at this late hour. What could he be

writing? A chill of anxiety settled down upon Tom's heart. Did that

writing concern him? He was afraid so. He reflected that when ill

luck begins, it does not come in sprinkles, but in showers. He said

he would get a glimpse of that document or know the reason why. He

heard some one coming, and stepped out of sight and hearing. It was

Pembroke Howard. What could be hatching?

Howard said, with great satisfaction:

"Everything 's right and ready. He's gone to the battle-ground

with his second and the surgeon -- also with his brother. I 've

arranged it all with Wilson -- Wilson 's his second. We are to have

three shots apiece."

"Good! How is the moon?"

"Bright as day, nearly. Perfect, for the distance -- fifteen

yards. No wind -- not a breath; hot and still."

"All good; all first-rate. Here, Pembroke, read this, and

witness it."

Pembroke read and witnessed the will, then gave the old man's

hand a hearty shake and said:

"Now that 's right, York -- but I knew you would do it. You

could n't leave that poor chap to fight along without means or

profession, with certain defeat before him, and I knew you would n't,

for his father's sake if not for his own."

"For his dead father's sake I could n't, I know; for poor Percy

-- but you know what Percy was to me. But mind -- Tom is not to know

of this unless I fall to-night."

"I understand. I 'll keep the secret."

The Judge put the will away, and the two started for the

battle-ground. In another minute the will was in Tom's hands. His

misery vanished, his feelings underwent a tremendous revulsion. He

put the will carefully back in its place, and spread his mouth and

swung his hat once, twice, three times around his head, in imitation

of three rousing huzzas, no sound issuing from his lips. He fell to

communing with himself excitedly and joyously, but every now and then

he let off another volley of dumb hurrahs.

He said to himself: "I 've got the fortune again, but I 'll not

let on that I know about it. And this time I 'm going to hang on to

it. I take no more risks. I 'll gamble no more, I 'll drink no

more, because -- well, because I 'll not go where there is any of

that sort of thing going on, again. It 's the sure way, and the only

sure way; I might have thought of that sooner -- well, yes, if I had

wanted to. But now -- dear me, I 've had a bad scare this time, and

I 'll take no more chances. Not a single chance more. Land! I

persuaded myself this evening that I could fetch him around without

any great amount of effort, but I 've been getting more and more

heavy-hearted and doubtful straight along, ever since. If he tells

me about this thing, all right; but if he does n't, I sha'n't let on.

I -- well, I 'd like to tell Pudd'nhead Wilson, but -- no, I 'll

think about that; perhaps I won't." He whirled off another dead

huzza, and said, "I 'm reformed, and this time I 'll stay so, sure!"

He was about to close with a final grand silent demonstration,

when he suddenly recollected that Wilson had put it out of his power

to pawn or sell the Indian knife, and that he was once more in awful

peril of exposure by his creditors for that reason. His joy

collapsed utterly, and he turned away and moped toward the door

moaning and lamenting over the bitterness of his luck. He dragged

himself upstairs, and brooded in his room a long time disconsolate

and forlorn, with Luigi's Indian knife for a text. At last he sighed

and said:

"When I supposed these stones were glass and this ivory bone,

the thing had n't any interest for me because it had n't any value,

and could n't help me out of my trouble. But now -- why, now it is

full of interest; yes, and of a sort to break a body's heart. It 's

a bag of gold that has turned to dirt and ashes in my hands. It

could save me, and save me so easily, and yet I 've got to go to

ruin. It 's like drowning with a life-preserver in my reach. All

the hard luck comes to me, and all the good luck goes to other people

-- Pudd'nhead Wilson, for instance; even his career has got a sort of

a little start at last, and what has he done to deserve it, I should

like to know? Yes, he has opened his own road, but he is n't content

with that, but must block mine. It 's a sordid, selfish world, and I

wish I was out of it." He allowed the light of the candle to play

upon the jewels of the sheath, but the flashings and sparklings had

no charm for his eye; they were only just so many pangs to his heart.

"I must not say anything to Roxy about this thing," he said, "she is

too daring. She would be for digging these stones out and selling

them, and then -- why, she would be arrested and the stones traced,

and then -- " The thought made him quake, and he hid the knife away,

trembling all over and glancing furtively about, like a criminal who

fancies that the accuser is already at hand.

Should he try to sleep? Oh, no, sleep was not for him; his

trouble was too haunting, too afflicting for that. He must have

somebody to mourn with. He would carry his despair to Roxy.

He had heard several distant gunshots, but that sort of thing

was not uncommon, and they had made no impression upon him. He went

out at the back door, and turned westward. He passed Wilson's house

and proceeded along the lane, and presently saw several figures

approaching Wilson's place through the vacant lots. These were the

duelists returning from the fight; he thought he recognized them, but

as he had no desire for white people's company, he stooped down

behind the fence until they were out of his way.

Roxy was feeling fine. She said:

"Whah was you, child? Warn't you in it?"

"In what?"

"In de duel."

"Duel? Has there been a duel?"

"'Co'se dey has. De ole Jedge has be'n havin' a duel wid one

o' dem twins."

"Great Scott!" Then he added to himself: "That 's what made him

re-make the will; he thought he might get killed, and it softened him

toward me. And that 's what he and Howard were so busy about ... Oh

dear, if the twin had only killed him, I should be out of my -- "

"What is you mumblin' 'bout, Chambers? Whah was you? Did n't

you know dey was gwyne to be a duel?"

"No. I did n't. The old man tried to get me to fight one with

Count Luigi, but he did n't succeed, so I reckon he concluded to

patch up the family honor himself."

He laughed at the idea, and went rambling on with a detailed

account of his talk with the Judge, and how shocked and ashamed the

Judge was to find that he had a coward in his family. He glanced up

at last, and got a shock himself. Roxana's bosom was heaving with

suppressed passion, and she was glowering down upon him with

measureless contempt written in her face.

"En you refuse' to fight a man dat kicked you, 'stid o' jumpin'

at de chance! En you ain't got no mo' feelin' den to come en tell

me, dat fetched sich a po' low-down ornery rabbit into de worl'!

Pah! it make me sick! It 's de nigger in you, dat 's what it is.

Thirty-one parts o' you is white, en on'y one part nigger, en dat po'

little one part is yo' <soul>. Tain't wuth savin'; tain't wuth

totin' out on a shovel en thowin in de gutter. You has disgraced yo'

birth. What would yo' pa think o' you? It 's enough to make him

turn in his grave."

The last three sentences stung Tom into a fury, and he said to

himself that if his father were only alive and in reach of

assassination his mother would soon find that he had a very clear

notion of the size of his indebtedness to that man, and was willing

to pay it up in full, and would do it too, even at risk of his life;

but he kept his thought to himself; that was safest in his mother's

present state.

"Whatever has come o' yo' Essex blood? Dat 's what I can't

understand. En it ain't on'y jist Essex blood dat 's in you, not by

a long sight -- 'deed it ain't. My great-great-great-gran'father en

yo' great-great-great-great-gran'father was ole Cap'n John Smith, de

highest blood dat Ole Virginny ever turned out, en <his>

great-great-gran'mother or somers along back dah, was Pocahontas de

Injun queen, en her husbun' was a nigger king outen Africa -- en yit

here you is, a slinkin' outen a duel en disgracin' our whole line

like a ornery low-down hound! Yes, it 's de nigger in you!"

She sat down on her candle-box and fell into a reverie. Tom

did not disturb her; he sometimes lacked prudence, but it was not in

circumstances of this kind. Roxana's storm went gradually down, but

it died hard, and even when it seemed to be quite gone, it would now

and then break out in a distant rumble, so to speak, in the form of

muttered ejaculations. One of these was, "Ain't nigger enough in him

to show in his finger-nails, en dat takes mighty little -- yit dey 's

enough to paint his soul."

Presently she muttered, "Yassir, enough to paint a whole

thimbleful of 'em." At last her ramblings ceased altogether, and her

countenance began to clear -- a welcome sign to Tom, who had learned

her moods, and knew she was on the threshold of good-humor, now. He

noticed that from time to time she unconsciously carried her finger

to the end of her nose. He looked closer and said:

"Why, mammy, the end of your nose is skinned. How did that

come?"

She sent out the sort of whole-hearted peal of laughter which

God has vouchsafed in its perfection to none but the happy angels in

heaven and the bruised and broken black slave on the earth, and said:

"Dad fetch dat duel, I be'n in it myself."

"Gracious! did a bullet do that?"

"Yassir, you bet it did!"

"Well, I declare! Why, how did that happen?"

"Happen dis-away. I 'uz a-sett'n' here kinder dozin' in de

dark, en <che-bang!> goes a gun, right out dah. I skips along out

towards t' other end o' de house to see what 's gwyne on, en stops by

de ole winder on de side towards Pudd'nhead Wilson's house dat ain't

got no sash in it, -- but dey ain't none of 'em got any sashes, fur

as dat 's concerned, -- en I stood dah in de dark en look out, en dar

in de moonlight, right down under me 'uz one o' de twins a-cussin' --

not much, but jist a-cussin' soft -- it 'uz de brown one dat 'uz

cussin', 'ca'se he 'uz hit in de shoulder. En Doctor Claypool he 'uz

a-workin' at him, en Pudd'nhead Wilson he 'uz a-he'pin', en ole Jedge

Driscoll en Pem Howard 'uz a-standin' out yonder a little piece

waitin' for 'em to git ready agin. En treckly dey squared off en

give de word, en <bang-bang> went de pistols, en de twin he say,

`Ouch!' -- hit him on de han' dis time, -- en I hear dat same bullet

go <spat!> ag'in' de logs under de winder; en de nex' time dey shoot,

de twin say, `Ouch!' ag'in, en I done it too, 'ca'se de bullet

glance' on his cheek-bone en skip up here en glance on de side o' de

winder en whiz right acrost my face en tuck de hide off'n my nose --

why, if I 'd 'a' be'n jist a inch or a inch en a half furder 't would

'a' tuck de whole nose en disfigger me. Here 's de bullet; I hunted

her up."

"Did you stand there all the time?"

"Dat 's a question to ask, ain't it! What else would I do?

Does I git a chance to see a duel every day?"

"Why, you were right in range! Were n't you afraid?"

The woman gave a sniff of scorn.

"'Fraid! De Smith-Pocahontases ain't 'fraid o' nothin', let

alone bullets."

"They 've got pluck enough, I suppose; what they lack is

judgment. would n't have stood there."