1876

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

by Mark Twain

DEDICATION

Dedication

To my wife this book is affectionately dedicated

PREFACE

Preface

MOST OF THE ADVENTURES recorded in this book really occurred; one or

two were experiences of my own, the rest those of boys who were

schoolmates of mine. Huck Finn is drawn from life; Tom Sawyer also,

but not from an individual- he is a combination of the characteristics

of three boys whom I knew, and therefore belongs to the composite

order of architecture.

The odd superstitions touched upon were all prevalent among children

and slaves in the West at the period of this story- that is to say,

thirty or forty years ago.

Although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys

and girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that

account, for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind

adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and

thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes

engaged in.

THE AUTHOR.

HARTFORD, 1876.

Chapter 1

Tom Plays, Fights, and Hides

"TOM!"

No answer.

"Tom!"

No answer.

"What's gone with that boy, I wonder? You TOM!"

No answer.

The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them,

about the room; then she put them up and looked out under them. She

seldom or never looked through them for so small a thing as a boy;

they were her state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for

"style," not service;- she could have seen through a pair of stove

lids just as well. She looked perplexed for a moment, and then said,

not fiercely, but still loud enough for the furniture to hear:

"Well, I lay if I get hold of you I'll-"

She did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and

punching under the bed with the broom- and so she needed breath to

punctuate the punches with. She resurrected nothing but the cat.

"I never did see the beat of that boy!"

She went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the

tomato vines and "jimpson" weeds that constituted the garden. No

Tom. So she lifted up her voice, at an angle calculated for

distance, and shouted:

"Y-o-u-u Tom!"

There was a slight noise behind her and she turned just in time to

seize a small boy by the slack of his roundabout and arrest his

flight.

"There! I might 'a' thought of that closet. What you been doing in

there?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing! Look at your hands. And look at your mouth. What is that

truck?"

"I don't know, aunt."

"Well, I know. It's jam- that's what it is. Forty times I've said if

you didn't let that jam alone I'd skin you. Hand me that switch."

The switch hovered in the air- the peril was desperate-

"My! Look behind you, aunt!"

The old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger.

The lad fled, on the instant, scrambled up the high board-fence, and

disappeared over it.

His aunt Polly stood surprised a moment, and then broke into a

gentle laugh.

"Hang the boy, can't I never learn anything? Ain't he played me

tricks enough like that for me to be looking out for him by this time?

But old fools is the biggest fools there is. Can't learn an old dog

new tricks, as the saying is. But my goodness, he never plays them

alike, two days, and how is a body to know what's coming? He 'pears to

know just how long he can torment me before I get my dander up, and he

knows if he can make out to put me off for a minute or make me

laugh, it's all down again and I can't hit him a lick. I ain't doing

my duty by that boy, and that's the Lord's truth, goodness knows.

Spare the rod and spile the child, as the Good Book says. I'm a laying

up sin and suffering for us both, I know. He's full of the Old

Scratch, but laws-a-me! he's my own dead sister's boy, poor thing, and

I ain't got the heart to lash him, somehow. Every time I let him

off, my conscience does hurt me so, and every time I hit him my old

heart most breaks. Well-a-well, man that is born of woman is of few

days and full of trouble, as the Scripture says, and I reckon it's so.

He'll play hookey this evening, and I'll just be obleeged to make

him work, to-morrow, to punish him. It's mighty hard to make him

work Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work

more than he hates anything else, and I've got to do some of my duty

by him, or I'll be the ruination of the child."

Tom did play hookey, and he had a very good time. He got back home

barely in season to help Jim, the small colored boy, saw next day's

wood and split the kindlings, before supper- at least he was there

in time to tell his adventures to Jim while Jim did three-fourths of

the work. Tom's younger brother, (or rather, half-brother) Sid, was

already through with his part of the work (picking up chips), for he

was a quiet boy, and had no adventurous, troublesome ways.

While Tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity

offered, Aunt Polly asked him questions that were full of guile, and

very deep- for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments.

Like many other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe

she was endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy and

she loved to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of

low cunning. Said she:

"Tom, it was middling warm in school, warn't it?"

"Yes'm."

"Powerful warm, warn't it?"

"Yes'm."

"Didn't you want to go in a-swimming, Tom?"

A bit of a scare shot through Tom- a touch of uncomfortable

suspicion. He searched Aunt Polly's face, but it told him nothing.

So he said:

"No'm- well, not very much."

The old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom's shirt, and said:

"But you ain't too warm now, though." And it flattered her to

reflect that she had discovered that the shirt was dry without anybody

knowing that that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her,

Tom knew where the wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might be

the next move:

"Some of us pumped on our heads- mine's damp yet. See?"

Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of

circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new

inspiration:

"Tom, you didn't have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it, to

pump on your head, did you? Unbutton your jacket!"

The trouble vanished out of Tom's face. He opened his jacket. His

shirt collar was securely sewed.

"Bother! Well, go 'long with you. I'd made sure you'd played

hookey and been a-swimming. But I forgive ye, Tom. I reckon you're a

kind of a singed cat, as the saying is- better'n you look. This time."

She was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that

Tom had stumbled into obedient conduct for once.

But Sidney said:

"Well, now, if I didn't think you sewed his collar with white

thread, but it's black."

"Why I did sew it with white! Tom!"

But Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door he

said:

"Siddy, I'll lick you for that."

In a safe place Tom examined two large needles which were thrust

into the lappels of his jacket, and had thread bound about them- one

needle carried white thread and the other black. He said:

"She'd never noticed, if it hadn't been for Sid. Consound it!

sometimes she sews it with white, and sometimes she sews it with

black. I wish to geeminy she'd stick to one or t'other- I can't keep

the run of 'em. But I bet you I'll lam Sid for that. I'll learn him!"

He was not the Model Boy of the village. He knew the model boy

very well though- and loathed him.

Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles.

Not because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him

than a man's are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest

bore them down and drove them out of his mind for the time- just as

men's misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new

enterprises. This new interest was a valued novelty in whistling,

which he had just acquired from a negro, and he was suffering to

practice it undisturbed. It consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn,

a sort of liquid warble, produced by touching the tongue to the roof

of the mouth at short intervals in the midst of the music- the

reader probably remembers how to do it, if he has ever been a boy.

Diligence and attention soon gave him the knack of it, and he strode

down the street with his mouth full of harmony and his soul full of

gratitude. He felt much as an astronomer feels who has discovered a

new planet. No doubt, as far as strong, deep, unalloyed pleasure is

concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the astronomer.

The summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet. Presently Tom

checked his whistle. A stranger was before him- a boy a shade larger

than himself. A new-comer of any age or either sex was an impressive

curiosity in the poor little shabby village of St. Peterburg. This boy

was well dressed, too- well dressed on a week-day. This was simply

astounding. His cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue

cloth roundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons. He had

shoes on- and yet it was only Friday. He even wore a necktie, a bright

bit of ribbon. He had a citified air about him that ate into Tom's

vitals. The more Tom stared at the splendid marvel, the higher he

turned up his nose at his finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own

outfit seemed to him to grow. Neither boy spoke. If one moved, the

other moved- but only sidewise, in a circle; they kept face to face

and eye to eye all the time. Finally Tom said:

"I can lick you!"

"I'd like to see you try it."

"Well, I can do it."

"No you can't, either."

"Yes I can."

"No you can't."

"I can."

"You can't."

"Can."

"Can't."

An uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said:

"What's your name?"

"'Tisn't any of your business, maybe."

"Well I 'low I'll make it my business."

"Well why don't you?"

"If you say much I will."

"Much- much- much. There now."

"O, you think you're mighty smart, don't you? I could lick you

with one hand tied behind me, if I wanted to."

"Well why don't you do it? You say you can do it."

"Well I will, if you fool with me."

"O yes- I've seen whole families in the same fix."

"Smarty! You think you're some, now, don't you? O what a hat!"

"You can lump that hat if you don't like it. I dare you to knock

it off- and anybody that'll take a dare will suck eggs."

"You're a liar!"

"You're another."

"You're a fighting liar and dasn't take it up."

"Aw- take a walk!"

"Say- if you gimme much more of your sass I'll take and bounce a

rock off'n your head."

"O, of course you will."

"Well I will."

"Well why don't you do it then? What do you keep saying you will

for? Why don't you do it? It's because you're afraid."

"I ain't afraid."

"You are."

"I ain't."

"You are."

Another pause, and more eyeing and sidling around each other.

Presently they were shoulder to shoulder. Tom said:

"Get away from here!"

"Go away yourself!"

"I won't."

"I won't either."

So they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and

both shoving with might and main, and glowering at each other with

hate. But neither could get an advantage. After struggling till both

were hot and flushed, each relaxed his strain with watchful caution,

and Tom said:

"You're a coward and a pup. I'll tell my big brother on you, and

he can thrash you with his little finger, and I'll make him do it,

too."

"What do I care for your big brother? I've got a brother that's

bigger than he is- and what's more, he can throw him over that fence,

too." [Both brothers were imaginary.]

"That's a lie."

"Your saying so don't make it so."

Tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said:

"I dare you to step over that, and I'll lick you till you can't

stand up. Anybody that'll take a dare will steal a sheep."

The new boy stepped over promptly, and said:

"Now you said you'd do it, now let's see you do it."

"Don't you crowd me, now; you better look out."

"Well you said you'd do it- why don't you do it?"

"By jingo! for two cents I will do it."

The new boy took two broad coppers out of his pocket and held them

out with derision. Tom struck them to the ground. In an instant both

boys were rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like

cats; and for the space of a minute they tugged and tore at each

other's hair and clothes, punched and scratched each other's noses,

and covered themselves with dust and glory. Presently the confusion

took form, and through the fog of battle Tom appeared, seated

astride the new boy and pounding him with his fists.

"Holler 'nuff!" said he.

The boy only struggled to free himself. He was crying,- mainly

from rage.

"Holler 'nuff!"- and the pounding went on.

At last the stranger got out a smothered "Nuff!" and Tom let him

up and said:

"Now that'll learn you. Better look out who you're fooling with,

next time."

The new boy went off brushing the dust from his clothes, sobbing,

snuffling, and occasionally looking back and shaking his head and

threatening what he would do to Tom the "next time he caught him out."

To which Tom responded with jeers, and started off in high feather,

and as soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up a stone,

threw it and hit him between the shoulders and then turned tail and

ran like an antelope. Tom chased the traitor home, and thus found

out where he lived. He then held a position at the gate for some time,

daring the enemy to come outside, but the enemy only made faces at him

through the window and declined. At last the enemy's mother

appeared, and called Tom a bad, vicious, vulgar child, and ordered him

away. So he went away; but he said he "'lowed" to "lay" for that boy.

He got home pretty late, that night, and when he climbed

cautiously in at the window, he uncovered an ambuscade, in the

person of his aunt; and when she saw the state his clothes were in her

resolution to turn his Saturday holiday into captivity at hard labor

became adamantine in its firmness.

Chapter 2

A The Glorious Whitewasher

SATURDAY MORNING was come, and all the summer world was bright and

fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if

the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in

every face and a spring in every step. The locust trees were in

bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff

Hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with vegetation,

and it lay just far enough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy,

reposeful, and inviting.

Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a

long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him

and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of

board fence, nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and

existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it

along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again;

compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching

continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box

discouraged. Jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin pail, and

singing "Buffalo Gals." Bringing water from the town pump had always

been hateful work in Tom's eyes, before, but now it did not strike him

so. He remembered that there was company at the pump. White,

mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there waiting their

turns, resting, trading playthings, quarreling, fighting,

skylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only a

hundred and fifty yards off, Jim never got back with a bucket of water

under an hour- and even then somebody generally had to go after him.

Tom said:

"Say, Jim, I'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some."

Jim shook his head and said:

"Can't, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an' git dis

water an' not stop foolin' roun' wid anybody. She say she spec' Mars

Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an' she tole me go 'long an' 'tend to

my own business- she 'lowed she'd 'tend to de whitewashin'."

"O, never you mind what she said, Jim. That's the way she always

talks. Gimme the bucket- I won't be gone only a minute. She won't ever

know."

"O, I dasn't, Mars Tom. Ole missis she'd take an' tar de head

off'n me. 'Deed she would."

"She! She never licks anybody- whacks 'em over the head with her

thimble- and who cares for that, I'd like to know. She talks awful,

but talk don't hurt- anyways it don't if she don't cry. Jim, I'll give

you a marvel. I'll give you a white alley!"

Jim began to waver.

"White alley, Jim! And it's a bully taw."

"My! Dat's a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars Tom I's

powerful 'fraid ole missis-"

"And besides, if you will I'll show you my sore toe."

Jim was only human- this attraction was too much for him. He put

down his pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with

absorbing interest while the bandage was being unwound. In another

moment he was flying down the street with his pail and a tingling

rear, Tom was whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring

from the field with a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye.

But Tom's energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he had

planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys

would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and

they would make a world of fun of him for having to work- the very

thought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and

examined it- bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an

exchange of work, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an

hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened means to his

pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this dark

and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him! Nothing less than a

great, magnificent inspiration!

He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in

sight presently- the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been

dreading. Ben's gait was the hop-skip-and-jump- proof enough that

his heart was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an

apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a

deep-toned ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a

steamboat. As he drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the

street, leaned far over to starboard and rounded to ponderously and

with laborious pomp and circumstance- for he was personating the

"Big Missouri," and considered himself to be drawing nine feet of

water. He was boat, and captain, and engine-bells combined, so he

had to imagine himself standing on his own hurricane-deck giving the

orders and executing them:

"Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!" The headway ran almost out and he

drew up slowly toward the sidewalk.

"Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!" His arms straightened and

stiffened down his sides.

"Set her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow!

Chow!" His right hand, meantime, describing stately circles,- for it

was representing a forty-foot wheel.

"Let her go back on the labbord! Ting-a-ling-ling!

Chow-ch-chow-chow!" The left hand began to describe circles.

"Stop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the labbord! Come

ahead on the stabboard! Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow!

Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line! Lively now!

Come- out with your spring-line- what're you about there! Take a

turn round that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage,

now- let her go! Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! Sh't!

s'h't! sh't!" (trying the gauge-cocks.)

Tom went on whitewashing- paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben

stared a moment and then said:

"Hi-yi! You're up a stump, ain't you!"

No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist;

then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result,

as before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the

apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said:

"Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?"

Tom wheeled suddenly and said:

"Why it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing."

"Say- I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But

of course you'd druther work- wouldn't you? 'Course you would!"

Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:

"What do you call work?"

"Why ain't that work?"

Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly:

"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, is, it suits Tom

Sawyer."

"O, come, now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?"

The brush continued to move.

"Like it? Well I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get

a chance to whitewash a fence every day?"

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple.

Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth- stepped back to note

the effect- added a touch here and there- criticised the effect again-

Ben watching every move and getting more and more interested, more and

more absorbed. Presently he said:

"Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little."

Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:

"No- no- I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt

Polly's awful particular about this fence- right here on the street,

you know- but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind and she

wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be

done very careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe

two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done."

"No- is that so? Oh come, now- lemme just try. Only just a little-

I'd let you, if you was me, Tom."

"Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly- well Jim wanted

to do it, but she wouldn't let him; Sid wanted to do it, and she

wouldn't let Sid. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If you was to

tackle this fence and anything was to happen to it-"

"O, shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say- I'll give

you the core of my apple."

"Well, here- No, Ben, now don't. I'm afeard-"

"I'll give you all of it!"

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face but alacrity in

his heart. And while the late steamer "Big Missouri" worked and

sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade

close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the

slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of material; boys

happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but remained

to whitewash. By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the

next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite, in good repair; and when he

played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to

swing it with- and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the

middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy

in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He had beside the

things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews-harp, a

piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that

wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a

decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six firecrackers, a

kitten with only one eye, a brass doorknob, a dog-collar- but no

dog- the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange peel, and a

dilapidated old window sash.

He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while- plenty of company-

and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out

of whitewash, he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after

all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing

it- namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it

is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had

been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he

would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is

obliged to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not

obliged to do. And this would help him to understand why

constructing artificial flowers or performing on a treadmill is

work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement.

There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four-horse

passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the

summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if

they were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into

work and then they would resign.

The boy mused a while over the substantial change which had taken

place in his worldly circumstances, and then wended toward

headquarters to report.

Chapter 3

Busy at War and Love

TOM PRESENTED HIMSELF before Aunt Polly, who was sitting by an

open window in a pleasant rearward apartment, which was bed-room,

breakfast-room, dining-room, and library, combined. The balmy summer

air, the restful quiet, the odor of the flowers, and the drowsing

murmur of the bees had had their effect, and she was nodding over

her knitting- for she had no company but the cat, and it was asleep in

her lap. Her spectacles were propped up on her gray head for safety.

She had thought that of course Tom had deserted long ago, and she

wondered at seeing him place himself in her power again in this

intrepid way. He said: "Mayn't I go and play now, aunt?"

"What, a'ready? How much have you done?"

"It's all done, aunt."

"Tom, don't lie to me- I can't bear it."

"I ain't, aunt; it is all done."

Aunt Polly placed small trust in such evidence. She went out to

see for herself; and she would have been content to find twenty per

cent of Tom's statement true. When she found the entire fence

whitewashed, and not only whitewashed but elaborately coated and

recoated, and even a streak added to the ground, her astonishment

was almost unspeakable. She said:

"Well, I never! There's no getting round it, you can work when

you're a mind to, Tom." And then she diluted the compliment by adding,

"But it's powerful seldom you're a mind to, I'm bound to say. Well, go

'long and play; but mind you get back sometime in a week, or I'll

tan you."

She was so overcome by the splendor of his achievement that she took

him into the closet and selected a choice apple and delivered it to

him, along with an improving lecture upon the added value and flavor a

treat took to itself when it came without sin through virtuous effort.

And while she closed with a happy Scriptural flourish, he "hooked" a

doughnut.

Then he skipped out, and saw Sid just starting up the outside

stairway that led to the back rooms on the second floor. Clods were

handy and the air was full of them in a twinkling. They raged around

Sid like a hail-storm; and before Aunt Polly could collect her

surprised faculties and sally to the rescue, six or seven clods had

taken personal effect and Tom was over the fence and gone. There was a

gate, but as a general thing he was too crowded for time to make use

of it. His soul was at peace, now that he had settled with Sid for

calling attention to his black thread and getting him into trouble.

Tom skirted the block, and came round into a muddy alley that led by

the back of his aunt's cow-stable; he presently got safely beyond

the reach of capture and punishment, and hasted toward the public

square of the village, where two "military" companies of boys had

met for conflict, according to previous appointment. Tom was General

of one of these armies, Joe Harper (a bosom friend,) General of the

other. These two great commanders did not condescend to fight in

person- that being better suited to the still smaller fry- but sat

together on an eminence and conducted the field operations by orders

delivered through aides-de-camp. Tom's army won a great victory, after

a long and hard-fought battle. Then the dead were counted, prisoners

exchanged, the terms of the next disagreement agreed upon and the

day for the necessary battle appointed; after which the armies fell

into line and marched away, and Tom turned homeward alone.

As he was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher lived, he saw a

new girl in the garden- a lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow

hair plaited into two long tails, white summer frock and embroidered

pantalettes. The fresh-crowned hero fell without firing a shot. A

certain Amy Lawrence vanished out of his heart and left not even a

memory of herself behind. He had thought he loved her to

distraction, he had regarded his passion as adoration; and behold it

was only a poor little evanescent partiality. He had been months

winning her; she had confessed hardly a week ago; he had been the

happiest and the proudest boy in the world only seven short days,

and here in one instant of time she had gone out of his heart like a

casual stranger whose visit is done.

He worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till he saw that

she had discovered him; then he pretended he did not know she was

present, and began to "show off" in all sorts of absurd boyish ways,

in order to win her admiration. He kept up this grotesque

foolishness for some time; but by and by, while he was in the midst of

some dangerous gymnastic performances, he glanced aside and saw that

the little girl was wending her way toward the house. Tom came up to

the fence and leaned on it, grieving, and hoping she would tarry yet a

while longer. She halted a moment on the steps and then moved toward

the door. Tom heaved a great sigh as she put her foot on the

threshold. But his face lit up, right away, for she tossed a pansy

over the fence a moment before she disappeared.

The boy ran around and stopped within a foot or two of the flower,

and then shaded his eyes with his hand and began to look down street

as if he had discovered something of interest going on in that

direction. Presently he picked up a straw and began trying to

balance it on his nose, with his head tilted far back; and as he moved

from side to side, in his efforts, he edged nearer and nearer toward

the pansy; finally his bare foot rested upon it, his pliant toes

closed upon it, and he hopped away with the treasure and disappeared

round the corner. But only for a minute- only while he could button

the flower inside his jacket, next his heart- or next his stomach,

possibly, for he was not much posted in anatomy, and not

hypercritical, anyway.

He returned, now, and hung about the fence till nightfall,

"showing off," as before; but the girl never exhibited herself

again, though Tom comforted himself a little with the hope that she

had been near some window, meantime, and been aware of his attentions.

Finally he rode home reluctantly, with his poor head full of visions.

All through supper his spirits were so high that his aunt wondered

"what had got into the child." He took a good scolding about

clodding Sid, and did not seem to mind it in the least. He tried to

steal sugar under his aunt's very nose, and got his knuckles rapped

for it. He said:

"Aunt, you don't whack Sid when he takes it."

"Well, Sid don't torment a body the way you do. You'd be always into

that sugar if I warn't watching you."

Presently she stepped into the kitchen, and Sid, happy in his

immunity, reached for the sugar-bowl- a sort of glorying over Tom

which was well-nigh unbearable. But Sid's fingers slipped and the bowl

dropped and broke. Tom was in ecstasies. In such ecstasies that he

even controlled his tongue and was silent. He said to himself that

he would not speak a word, even when his aunt came in, but would sit

perfectly still till she asked who did the mischief; and then he would

tell, and there would be nothing so good in the world as to see that

pet model "catch it." He was so brim-full of exultation that he

could hardly hold himself when the old lady came back and stood

above the wreck discharging lightnings of wrath from over her

spectacles. He said to himself, "Now it's coming!" And the next

instant he was sprawling on the floor! The potent palm was uplifted to

strike again when Tom cried out:

"Hold on, now, what 'er you belting me for?- Sid broke it!"

Aunt Polly paused, perplexed, and Tom looked for healing pity. But

when she got her tongue again, she only said:

"Umf! Well, you didn't get a lick amiss, I reckon. You been into

some other owdacious mischief when I wasn't around, like enough."

Then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something

kind and loving; but she judged that this would be construed into a

confession that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade

that. So she kept silence, and went about her affairs with a

troubled heart. Tom sulked in a corner and exalted his woes. He knew

that in her heart his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was

morosely gratified by the consciousness of it. He would hang out no

signals, he would take notice of none. He knew that a yearning

glance fell upon him, now and then, through a film of tears, but he

refused recognition of it. He pictured himself lying sick unto death

and his aunt bending over him beseeching one little forgiving word,

but he would turn his face to the wall, and die with that word unsaid.

Ah, how would she feel then? And he pictured himself brought home from

the river, dead, with his curls all wet, and his poor hands still

forever, and his sore heart at rest. How she would throw herself

upon him, and how her tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray

God to give her back her boy and she would never never abuse him any

more! But he would lie there cold and white and make no sign- a poor

little sufferer whose griefs were at an end. He so worked upon his

feelings with the pathos of these dreams that he had to keep

swallowing, he was so like to choke; and his eyes swam in a blur of

water, which overflowed when he winked, and ran down and trickled from

the end of his nose. And such a luxury to him was this petting of

his sorrows, that he could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness

or any grating delight intrude upon it; it was too sacred for such

contact; and so, presently, when his cousin Mary danced in, all

alive with the joy of seeing home again after an age-long visit of one

week to the country, he got up and moved in clouds and darkness out at

one door as she brought song and sunshine in at the other.

He wandered far from the accustomed haunts of boys, and sought

desolate places that were in harmony with his spirit. A log raft in

the river invited him, and he seated himself on its outer edge and

contemplated the dreary vastness of the stream, wishing, the while,

that he could only be drowned, all at once and unconsciously,

without undergoing the uncomfortable routine devised by nature. Then

he thought of his flower. He got it out, rumpled and wilted, and it

mightily increased his dismal felicity. He wondered if she would

pity him if she knew? Would she cry, and wish that she had a right

to put her arms around his neck and comfort him? Or would she turn

coldly away like all the hollow world? This picture brought such an

agony of pleasurable suffering that he worked it over and over again

in his mind and set it up in new and varied lights till he wore it

threadbare. At last he rose up sighing, and departed in the darkness.

About half past nine or ten o'clock he came along the deserted

street to where the Adored Unknown lived; he paused a moment; no sound

fell upon his listening ear; a candle was casting a dull glow upon the

curtain of a second-story window. Was the sacred presence there? He

climbed the fence, threaded his stealthy way through the plants,

till he stood under that window; he looked up at it long, and with

emotion; then he laid him down on the ground under it, disposing

himself upon his back, with his hands clasped upon his breast and

holding his poor wilted flower. And thus he would die- out in the cold

world, with no shelter over his homeless head, no friendly hand to

wipe the death-damps from his brow, no loving face to bend pityingly

over him when the great agony came. And thus she would see him when

she looked out upon the glad morning- and O! would she drop one little

tear upon his poor, lifeless form, would she heave one little sigh

to see a bright young life so rudely blighted, so untimely cut down?

The window went up, a maid-servant's discordant voice profaned the

holy calm, and a deluge of water drenched the prone martyr's remains!

The strangling hero sprang up with a relieving snort, there was a

whiz as of a missile in the air, mingled with the murmur of a curse, a

sound as of shivering glass followed, and a small, vague form went

over the fence and shot away in the gloom.

Not long after, as Tom, all undressed for bed, was surveying his

drenched garments by the light of a tallow dip, Sid woke up; but if he

had any dim idea of making any "references to allusions," he thought

better of it and held his peace- for there was danger in Tom's eye.

Tom turned in without the added vexation of prayers, and Sid made

mental note of the omission.

Chapter 4

Showing off in Sunday School

THE SUN ROSE upon a tranquil world, and beamed down upon the

peaceful village like a benediction. Breakfast over, Aunt Polly had

family worship; it began with a prayer built from the ground up of

solid courses of Scriptural quotations welded together with a thin

mortar of originality; and from the summit of this she delivered a

grim chapter of the Mosaic Law, as from Sinai.

Then Tom girded up his loins, so to speak, and went to work to

"get his verses." Sid had learned his lesson days before. Tom bent all

his energies to the memorizing of five verses, and he chose part of

the Sermon on the Mount, because he could find no verses that were

shorter. At the end of half an hour Tom had a vague general idea of

his lesson, but no more, for his mind was traversing the whole field

of human thought, and his hands were busy with distracting

recreations. Mary took his book to hear him recite, and he tried to

find his way through the fog:

"Blessed are the- a- a-"

"Poor"-

"Yes- poor; blessed are the poor- a- a-"

"In spirit-"

"In spirit; blessed are the poor in spirit, for they- they-"

"Theirs-"

"For theirs. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the

kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they- they-"

"Sh-"

"For they- a-"

"S, H, A-"

"For they S, H,- O I don't know what it is!"

"Shall!"

"O, shall! for they shall- for they shall- a- a- shall mourn- a-

a- blessed are they that shall- they that- a- they that shall mourn,

for they shall- a- shall what? Why don't you tell me Mary?- what do

you want to be so mean for?"

"O, Tom, you poor thick-headed thing, I'm not teasing you. I

wouldn't do that. You must go and learn it again. Don't you be

discouraged, Tom, you'll manage it- and if you do, I'll give you

something ever so nice. There, now, that's a good boy."

"All right! What is it, Mary, tell me what it is."

"Never you mind, Tom. You know if I say it's nice, it is nice."

"You bet you that's so, Mary. All right, I'll tackle it again."

And he did "tackle it again"- and under the double pressure of

curiosity and prospective gain, he did it with such spirit that he

accomplished a shining success. Mary gave him a brand-new "Barlow"

knife worth twelve and a half cents; and the convulsion of delight

that swept his system shook him to his foundations. True, the knife

would not cut anything, but it was a "sure-enough" Barlow, and there

was inconceivable grandeur in that- though where the western boys ever

got the idea that such a weapon could possibly be counterfeited to its

injury, is an imposing mystery and will always remain so, perhaps. Tom

contrived to scarify the cupboard with it, and was arranging to

begin on the bureau, when he was called off to dress for

Sunday-School.

Mary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of soap, and he

went outside the door and set the basin on a little bench there;

then he dipped the soap in the water and laid it down; turned up his

sleeves; poured out the water on the ground, gently, and then

entered the kitchen and began to wipe his face diligently on the towel

behind the door. But Mary removed the towel and said:

"Now ain't you ashamed, Tom. You mustn't be so bad. Water won't hurt

you."

Tom was a trifle disconcerted. The basin was refilled, and this time

he stood over it a little while, gathering resolution; took in a big

breath and began. When he entered the kitchen presently, with both

eyes shut, and groping for the towel with his hands, an honorable

testimony of suds and water was dripping from his face. But when he

emerged from the towel, he was not yet satisfactory, for the clean

territory stopped short at his chin and his jaws, like a mask; below

and beyond this line there was a dark expanse of unirrigated soil that

spread downward in front and backward around his neck. Mary took him

in hand, and when she was done with him he was a man and a brother,

without distinction of color, and his saturated hair was neatly

brushed, and its short curls wrought into a dainty and symmetrical

general effect. [He privately smoothed out the curls, with labor and

difficulty, and plastered his hair close down to his head; for he held

curls to be effeminate, and his own filled his life with

bitterness.] Then Mary got out a suit of his clothing that had been

used only on Sundays during two years- they were simply called his

"other clothes"- and so by that we know the size of his wardrobe.

The girl "put him to rights" after he had dressed himself, she

buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin, turned his vast shirt

collar down over his shoulders, brushed him off and crowned him with

his speckled straw hat. He now looked exceedingly improved and

uncomfortable. He was fully as uncomfortable as he looked; for there

was a restraint about whole clothes and cleanliness that galled him.

He hoped that Mary would forget his shoes, but the hope was

blighted; she coated them thoroughly with tallow, as was the custom,

and brought them out. He lost his temper and said he was always

being made to do everything he didn't want to do. But Mary said,

persuasively:

"Please, Tom- that's a good boy."

So he got into the shoes snarling. Mary was soon ready, and the

three children set out for Sunday-school- a place that Tom hated

with his whole heart; but Sid and Mary were fond of it.

Sabbath-school hours were from nine to half past ten; and then

church service. Two of the children always remained for the sermon,

voluntarily, and the other always remained, too- for stronger reasons.

The church's high-backed, uncushioned pews would seat about three

hundred persons; the edifice was but a small, plain affair, with a

sort of pine board tree-box on top of it for a steeple. At the door

Tom dropped back a step and accosted a Sunday-dressed comrade:

"Say, Billy, got a yaller ticket?"

"Yes."

"What'll you take for her?"

"What'll you give?"

"Piece of lickrish and a fish-hook."

"Less see 'em."

Tom exhibited. They were satisfactory, and the property changed

hands. Then Tom traded a couple of white alleys for three red tickets,

and some small trifle or other for a couple of blue ones. He waylaid

other boys as they came, and went on buying tickets of various

colors ten or fifteen minutes longer. He entered the church, now, with

a swarm of clean and noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and

started a quarrel with the first boy that came handy. The teacher, a

grave, elderly man, interfered; then turned his back a moment and

Tom pulled a boy's hair in the next bench, and was absorbed in his

book when the boy turned around; stuck a pin in another boy,

present, in order to hear him say "Ouch!" and got a new reprimand from

his teacher. Tom's whole class were of a pattern- restless, noisy

and troublesome. When they came to recite their lessons, not one of

them knew his verses perfectly, but had to be prompted all along.

However, they worried through, and each got his reward- in small

blue tickets, each with a passage of Scripture on it; each blue ticket

was pay for two verses of the recitation. Ten blue tickets equalled

a red one, and could be exchanged for it; ten red tickets equalled a

yellow one: for ten yellow tickets the Superintendent gave a very

plainly bound Bible, (worth forty cents in those easy times,) to the

pupil. How many of my readers would have the industry and

application to memorize two thousand verses, even for a Dore Bible?

And yet Mary had acquired two Bibles in this way- it was the patient

work of two years- and a boy of German parentage had won four or five.

He once recited three thousand verses without stopping; but the strain

upon his mental faculties was too great, and he was little better than

an idiot from that day forth- a grievous misfortune for the school,

for on great occasions, before company, the Superintendent (as Tom

expressed it) had always made this boy come out and "spread

himself." Only the older pupils managed to keep their tickets and

stick to their tedious work long enough to get a Bible, and so the

delivery of one of these prizes was a rare and noteworthy

circumstance; the successful pupil was so great and conspicuous for

that day that on the spot every scholar's breast was fired with a

fresh ambition that often lasted a couple of weeks. It is possible

that Tom's mental stomach had never really hungered for one of those

prizes, but unquestionably his entire being had for many a day

longed for the glory and the eclat that came with it.

In due course the Superintendent stood up in front of the pulpit,

with a closed hymn-book in his hand and his forefinger inserted

between its leaves, and commanded attention. When a Sunday-school

Superintendent makes his customary little speech, a hymn-book in the

hand is as necessary as is the inevitable sheet of music in the hand

of a singer who stands forward on the platform and sings a solo at a

concert- though why, is a mystery: for neither the hymn-book nor the

sheet of music is ever referred to by the sufferer. This

superintendent was a slim creature of thirty-five, with a sandy goatee

and short sandy hair; he wore a stiff standing-collar whose upper edge

almost reached his ears and whose sharp points curved forward

abreast the corners of his mouth- a fence that compelled a straight

lookout ahead, and a turning of the whole body when a side view was

required; his chin was propped on a spreading cravat which was as

broad and as long as a bank note, and had fringed ends; his boot

toes were turned sharply up, in the fashion of the day, like

sleigh-runners- an effect patiently and laboriously produced by the

young men by sitting with their toes pressed against a wall for

hours together. Mr. Walters was very earnest of mien, and very sincere

and honest at heart; and he held sacred things and places in such

reverence, and so separated them from worldly matters, that

unconsciously to himself his Sunday-school voice had acquired a

peculiar intonation which was wholly absent on week-days. He began

after this fashion:

"Now children, I want you all to sit up just as straight and

pretty as you can and give me all your attention for a minute or

two. There- that is it. That is the way good little boys and girls

should do. I see one little girl who is looking out of the window- I

am afraid she thinks I am out there somewhere- perhaps up in one of

the trees making a speech to the little birds. [Applausive titter.]

I want to tell you how good it makes me feel to see so many bright,

clean little faces assembled in a place like this, learning to do

right and be good."

And so forth and so on. It is not necessary to set down the rest

of the oration. It was of a pattern which does not vary, and so it

is familiar to us all.

The latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of

fights and other recreations among certain of the bad boys, and by

fidgetings and whisperings that extended far and wide, washing even to

the bases of isolated and incorruptible rocks like Sid and Mary. But

now every sound ceased suddenly, with the subsidence of Mr.

Walters's voice, and the conclusion of the speech was received with

a burst of silent gratitude.

A good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event

which was more or less rare- the entrance of visitors; lawyer

Thatcher, accompanied by a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly,

middle-aged gentleman with iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who

was doubtless the latter's wife. The lady was leading a child. Tom had

been restless and full of chafings and repinings;

conscience-smitten, too- he could not meet Amy Lawrence's eye, he

could not brook her loving gaze. But when he saw this small

new-comer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in a moment. The next

moment he was "showing off" with all his might- cuffing boys,

pulling hair, making faces- in a word, using every art that seemed

likely to fascinate a girl and win her applause. His exaltation had

but one alloy- the memory of his humiliation in this angel's garden-

and that record in sand was fast washing out, under the waves of

happiness that were sweeping over it now.

The visitors were given the highest seat of honor, and as soon as

Mr. Walters' speech was finished, he introduced them to the school.

The middle-aged man turned out to be a prodigious personage- no less a

one than the county judge- altogether the most august creation these

children had ever looked upon- and they wondered what kind of material

he was made of- and they half wanted to hear him roar, and were half

afraid he might, too. He was from Constantinople, twelve miles away-

so he had traveled, and seen the world- these very eyes had looked

upon the county court house- which was said to have a tin roof. The

awe which these reflections inspired was attested by the impressive

silence and the ranks of staring eyes. This was the great Judge

Thatcher, brother of their own lawyer. Jeff Thatcher immediately

went forward, to be familiar with the great man and be envied by the

school. It would have been music to his soul to hear the whisperings:

"Look at him, Jim! He's a-going up there. Say- look! he's a-going to

shake hands with him- he is shaking hands with him! By jings, don't

you wish you was Jeff?"

Mr. Walters fell to "showing off", with all sorts of official

bustlings and activities, giving orders, delivering judgments,

discharging directions here, there, everywhere that he could find a

target. The librarian "showed off"- running hither and thither with

his arms full of books and making a deal of the splutter and fuss that

insect authority delights in. The young lady teachers "showed off"-

bending sweetly over pupils that were lately being boxed, lifting

pretty warning fingers at bad little boys and patting good ones

lovingly. The young gentlemen teachers "showed off" with small

scoldings and other little displays of authority and fine attention to

discipline- and most of the teachers, of both sexes, found business up

at the library, by the pulpit; and it was business that frequently had

to be done over again two or three times, (with much seeming

vexation.) The little girls "showed off" in various ways, and the

little boys "showed off" with such diligence that the air was thick

with paper wads and the murmur of scufflings. And above it all the

great man sat and beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all the house,

and warmed himself in the sun of his own grandeur- for he was "showing

off," too.

There was only one thing wanting, to make Mr. Walters' ecstasy

complete, and that was, a chance to deliver a Bible-prize and

exhibit a prodigy. Several pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none

had enough- he had been around among the star pupils inquiring. He

would have given worlds, now, to have that German lad back again

with a sound mind.

And now at this moment, when hope was dead, Tom Sawyer came

forward with nine yellow tickets, nine red tickets, and ten blue ones,

and demanded a Bible. This was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky.

Walters was not expecting an application from this source for the next

ten years. But there was no getting around it- here were the certified

checks, and they were good for their face. Tom was therefore

elevated to a place with the judge and the other elect, and the

great news was announced from head-quarters. It was the most

stunning surprise of the decade; and so profound was the sensation

that it lifted the new hero up to the judicial one's altitude, and the

school had two marvels to gaze upon in place of one. The boys were all

eaten up with envy- but those that suffered the bitterest pangs were

those who perceived too late that they themselves had contributed to

this hated splendor by trading tickets to Tom for the wealth he had

amassed in selling whitewashing privileges. These despised themselves,

as being the dupes of a wily fraud, a guileful snake in the grass.

The prize was delivered to Tom with as much effusion as the

Superintendent could pump up under the circumstances; but it lacked

somewhat of the true gush, for the poor fellow's instinct taught him

that there was a mystery here that could not well bear the light,

perhaps; it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused two

thousand sheaves of Scriptural wisdom on his premises- a dozen would

strain his capacity, without a doubt.

Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in

her face- but he wouldn't look. She wondered; then she was just a

grain troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went- came again; she

watched; a furtive glance told her worlds- and then her heart broke,

and she was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated

everybody. Tom most of all, (she thought.)

Tom was introduced to the judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath

would hardly come, his heart quaked- partly because of the awful

greatness of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would

have liked to fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. The

judge put his hand on Tom's head and called him a fine little man, and

asked him what his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and got it

out:

"Tom."

"O, no, not Tom- it is-"

"Thomas."

"Ah, that's it. I thought there was more to it, maybe. That's very

well. But you've another one I daresay, and you'll tell it to me,

won't you?"

"Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas," said Walters, "and say

sir.- You mustn't forget your manners."

"Thomas Sawyer- sir."

"That's it! That's a good boy. Fine boy. Fine, manly little

fellow. Two thousand verses is a great many- very, very great many.

And you never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for

knowledge is worth more than anything there is in the world; it's what

makes great men and good men; you'll be a great man and a good man

yourself, someday, Thomas, and then you'll look back and say, It's all

owing to the precious Sunday-school privileges of my boyhood- it's all

owing to my dear teachers that taught me to learn- it's all owing to

the good Superintendent, who encouraged me, and watched over me, and

gave me a beautiful Bible- a splendid elegant Bible, to keep and

have it all for my own, always- it's all owing to right bringing up!

That is what you will say, Thomas- and you wouldn't take any money for

those two thousand verses then- no indeed you wouldn't. And now you

wouldn't mind telling me and this lady some of the things you've

learned- no, I know you wouldn't- for we are proud of little boys that

learn. Now no doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples.

Won't you tell us the names of the first two that were appointed?"

Tom was tugging at a button and looking sheepish. He blushed, now,

and his eyes fell. Mr. Walters's heart sank within him. He said to

himself, It is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest

question- why did the judge ask him? Yet he felt obliged to speak up

and say;

"Answer the gentleman, Thomas- don't be afraid."

Tom still hung fire.

"Now I know you'll tell me" said the lady. "The names of the first

two disciples were-"

"DAVID AND GOLIATH!"

Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.

Chapter 5

The Pinch Bug and His Prey

ABOUT HALF-PAST TEN the cracked bell of the small church began to

ring, and presently the people began to gather for the morning sermon.

The Sunday-school children distributed themselves about the house

and occupied pews with their parents, so as to be under supervision.

Aunt Polly came, and Tom and Sid and Mary sat with her- Tom being

placed next the aisle, in order that he might be as far away from

the open window and the seductive outside summer scenes as possible.

The crowd filed up the aisles: the aged and needy postmaster, who

had seen better days; the mayor and his wife- for they had a mayor

there, among other unnecessaries; the justice of the peace; the

widow Douglas, fair, smart and forty, a generous, goodhearted soul and

well-to-do, her hill mansion the only palace in the town, and the most

hospitable and much the most lavish in the matter of festivities

that St. Petersburg could boast; the bent and venerable Major and Mrs.

Ward; lawyer Riverson, the new notable from a distance; next the belle

of the village, followed by a troop of lawn-clad and ribbon-decked

young heart-breakers; then all the young clerks in town in a body- for

they had stood in the vestibule sucking their cane-heads, a circling

wall of oiled and simpering admirers, till the last girl had run their

gauntlet; and last of all came the Model Boy, Willie Mufferson, taking

as heedful care of his mother as if she were cut glass. He always

brought his mother to church, and was the pride of all the matrons.

The boys all hated him, he was so good. And besides, he had been

"thrown up to them" so much. His white handkerchief was hanging out of

his pocket behind, as usual on Sundays- accidentally. Tom had no

handkerchief, and he looked upon boys who had, as snobs.

The congregation being fully assembled, now, the bell rang once

more, to warn laggards and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell

upon the church which was only broken by the tittering and

whispering of the choir in the gallery. The choir always tittered

and whispered all through service. There was once a church choir

that was not ill-bred, but I have forgotten where it was, now. It

was a great many years ago, and I can scarcely remember anything about

it, but I think it was in some foreign country.

The minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish,

in a peculiar style which was much admired in that part of the

country. His voice began on a medium key and climbed steadily up

till it reached a certain point, where it bore with strong emphasis

upon the topmost word and then plunged down as if from a spring-board:

Shall I be car-ri-ed to the skies, on flow'ry beds

of ease,

Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro' blood

-y seas?

He was regarded as a wonderful reader. At church "sociables" he

was always called upon to read poetry; and when he was through, the

ladies would lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their

laps, and "wall" their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say,

"Words cannot express it; it is too beautiful, too beautiful for

this mortal earth."

After the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr. Sprague turned himself

into a bulletin board and read off "notices" of meetings and societies

and things till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack

of doom- a queer custom which is still kept up in America, even in

cities, away here in this age of abundant newspapers. Often, the

less there is to justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get

rid of it.

And now the minister prayed. A good, generous prayer, it was, and

went into details: it pleaded for the church, and the little

children of the church; for the other churches of the village; for the

village itself; for the county; for the State; for the State officers;

for the United States; for the churches of the United States; for

Congress; for the President; for the officers of the Government; for

poor sailors, tossed by stormy seas; for the oppressed millions

groaning under the heel of European monarchies and Oriental

despotisms; for such as have the light and the good tidings, and yet

have not eyes to see nor ears to hear withal; for the heathen in the

far islands of the sea; and closed with a supplication that the

words he was about to speak might find grace and favor, and be as seed

sown in fertile ground, yielding in time a grateful harvest of good.

Amen.

There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat

down. The boy whose history this book relates, did not enjoy the

prayer, he only endured it- if he even did that much. He was

restive, all through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer,

unconsciously- for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of

old, and the clergyman's regular route over it- and when a little

trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his

whole nature resented it; he considered additions unfair, and

scoundrelly. In the midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the back of

the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing

its hands together; embracing its head with its arms and polishing

it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with the

body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping

its wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they

had been coat tails; going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as

if it knew it was perfectly safe. As indeed it was; for as sorely as

Tom's hands itched to grab for it they did not dare- he believed his

soul would be instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the

prayer was going on. But with the closing sentence his hand began to

curve and steal forward; and the instant the "Amen" was out the fly

was a prisoner of war. His aunt detected the act and made him let it

go.

The minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through

an argument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod-

and yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and

brimstone and thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small

as to be hardly worth the saving. Tom counted the pages of the sermon;

after church he always knew how many pages there had been, but he

seldom knew anything else about the discourse. However, this time he

was really interested for a little while. The minister made a grand

and moving picture of the assembling together of the world's hosts

at the millennium when the lion and the lamb should lie down

together and a little child should lead them. But the pathos, the

lesson, the moral of the great spectacle were lost upon the boy; he

only thought of the conspicuousness of the principal character

before the on-looking nations; his face lit with the thought, and he

said to himself that he wished he could be that child, if it was a

tame lion.

Now he lapsed into suffering again, as the dry argument was resumed.

Presently he bethought him of a treasure he had and got it out. It was

a large black beetle with formidable jaws- a "pinch-bug," he called

it. It was in a percussion-cap box. The first thing the beetle did was

to take him by the finger. A natural fillip followed, the beetle

went floundering into the aisle and lit on its back, and the hurt

finger went into the boy's mouth. The beetle lay there working its

helpless legs, unable to turn over. Tom eyed it, and longed for it;

but it was safe out of his reach. Other people uninterested in the

sermon, found relief in the beetle, and they eyed it too. Presently

a vagrant poodle dog came idling along, sad at heart, lazy with the

summer softness and the quiet, weary of captivity, sighing for change.

He spied the beetle; the drooping tail lifted and wagged. He

surveyed the prize; walked around it; smelt at it from a safe

distance; walked around it again; grew bolder, and took a closer

smell; then lifted his lip and made a gingerly snatch at it, just

missing it; made another, and another; began to enjoy the diversion;

subsided to his stomach with the beetle between his paws, and

continued his experiments; grew weary at last, and then indifferent

and absent-minded. His head nodded, and little by little his chin

descended and touched the enemy, who seized it. There was a sharp

yelp, a flirt of the poodle's head, and the beetle fell a couple of

yards away, and lit on its back once more. The neighboring

spectators shook with a gentle inward joy, several faces went behind

fans and handkerchiefs, and Tom was entirely happy. The dog looked

foolish, and probably felt so; but there was resentment in his

heart, too, and a craving for revenge. So he went to the beetle and

began a wary attack on it again; jumping at it from every point of a

circle, lighting with his forepaws within an inch of the creature,

making even closer snatches at it with his teeth, and jerking his head

till his ears flapped again. But he grew tired once more, after a

while; tried to amuse himself with a fly but found no relief; followed

an ant around, with his nose close to the floor, and quickly wearied

of that; yawned, sighed, forgot the beetle entirely, and sat down on

it! Then there was a wild yelp of agony and the poodle went sailing up

the aisle; the yelps continued, and so did the dog; he crossed the

house in front of the altar; he flew down the other aisle; he

crossed before the doors; he clamored up the home-stretch; his anguish

grew with his progress, till presently he was but a woolly comet

moving in its orbit with the gleam and the speed of light. At last the

frantic sufferer sheered from its course, and sprang into its master's

lap; he flung it out of the window, and the voice of distress

quickly thinned away and died in the distance.

By this time the whole church was red-faced and suffocating with

suppressed laughter, and the sermon had come to a dead stand-still.

The discourse was resumed presently, but it went lame and halting, all

possibility of impressiveness being at an end; for even the gravest

sentiments were constantly being received with a smothered burst of

unholy mirth, under cover of some remote pew-back, as if the poor

parson had said a rarely facetious thing. It was a genuine relief to

the whole congregation when the ordeal was over and the benediction

pronounced.

Tom Sawyer went home quite cheerful, thinking to himself that

there was some satisfaction about divine service when there was a

bit of variety in it. He had but one marring thought; he was willing

that the dog should play with his pinch-bug, but he did not think it

was upright in him to carry it off.

Chapter 6

Tom Meets Becky

MONDAY MORNING found Tom Sawyer miserable. Monday morning always

found him so- because it began another week's slow suffering in

school. He generally began that day with wishing he had had no

intervening holiday, it made the going into captivity and fetters

again so much more odious.

Tom lay thinking. Presently it occurred to him that he wished he was

sick; then he could stay home from school. Here was a vague

possibility. He canvassed his system. No ailment was found, and he

investigated again. This time he thought he could detect colicky

symptoms, and he began to encourage them with considerable hope. But

they soon grew feeble, and presently died wholly away. He reflected

further. Suddenly he discovered something. One of his upper front

teeth was loose. This was lucky; he was about to begin to groan, as

a "starter," as he called it, when it occured to him that if he came

into court with that argument, his aunt would pull it out, and that

would hurt. So he thought he would hold the tooth in reserve for the

present, and seek further. Nothing offered for some little time, and

then he remembered hearing the doctor tell about a certain thing

that laid up a patient for two or three weeks and threatened to make

him lose a finger. So the boy eagerly drew his sore toe from under the

sheet and held it up for inspection. But now he did not know the

necessary symptoms. However, it seemed well worth while to chance

it, so he fell to groaning with considerable spirit.

But Sid slept on unconscious.

Tom groaned louder, and fancied that he began to feel pain in the

toe.

No result from Sid.

Tom was panting with his exertions by this time. He took a rest

and then swelled himself up and fetched a succession of admirable

groans.

Sid snored on.

Tom was aggravated. He said, "Sid, Sid!" and shook him. This

course worked well, and Tom began to groan again. Sid yawned,

stretched, then brought himself up on his elbow with a snort, and

began to stare at Tom. Tom went on groaning. Sid said:

"Tom! Say, Tom!" [No response.] "Here, Tom! Tom! What is the matter,

Tom?" And he shook him, and looked in his face anxiously.

Tom moaned out:

"O don't, Sid. Don't joggle me."

"Why what's the matter, Tom? I must call auntie."

"No- never mind. It'll be over by and by, maybe. Don't call

anybody."

"But I must! Don't groan so, Tom, it's awful. How long you been this

way?"

"Hours. Ouch! O don't stir so, Sid, you'll kill me."

"Tom, why didn't you wake me sooner? O, Tom, don't! It makes my

flesh crawl to hear you. Tom, what is the matter?"

"I forgive you everything, Sid. [Groan.] Everything you've ever done

to me. When I'm gone-"

"O, Tom, you ain't dying, are you? Don't, Tom- O, don't. Maybe-"

"I forgive everybody, Sid. [Groan.] Tell 'em so, Sid. And Sid, you

give my window-sash and my cat with one eye to that new girl that's

come to town, and tell her-"

But Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom was suffering in

reality, now, so handsomely was his imagination working, and so his

groans had gathered quite a genuine tone.

Sid flew down stairs and said:

"O, Aunt Polly, come! Tom's dying!"

"Dying."

"Yes'm. Don't wait- come quick!"

"Rubbage! I don't believe it!"

But she fled up stairs, nevertheless, with Sid and Mary at her

heels. And her face grew white, too, and her lip trembled. When she

reached the bedside she gasped out:

"You Tom! Tom, what's the matter with you?"

"O, auntie, I'm-"

"What's the matter with you- what is the matter with you, child!"

"O, auntie, my sore toe's mortified!"

The old lady sank down into a chair and laughed a little, then cried

a little, then did both together. This restored her and she said:

"Tom, what a turn you did give me. Now you shut up that nonsense and

climb out of this."

The groans ceased and the pain vanished from the toe. The boy felt a

little foolish, and he said:

"Aunt Polly it seemed mortified, and it hurt so I never minded my

tooth at all."

"Your tooth, indeed! What's the matter with your tooth?"

"One of them's loose, and it aches perfectly awful."

"There, there, now, don't begin that groaning again. Open your

mouth. Well- your tooth is loose, but you're not going to die about

that. Mary, get me a silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of the

kitchen."

Tom said:

"O, please auntie, don't pull it out. It don't hurt any more. I wish

I may never stir if it does. Please don't, auntie. I don't want to

stay home from school."

"Oh, you don't, don't you? So all this row was because you thought

you'd get to stay home from school and go a-fishing? Tom, Tom, I

love you so, and you seem to try every way you can to break my old

heart with your outrageousness."

By this time the dental instruments were ready. The old lady made

one end of the silk thread fast to Tom's tooth with a loop and tied

the other to the bedpost. Then she seized the chunk of fire and

suddenly thrust it almost into the boy's face. The tooth hung dangling

by the bedpost, now.

But all trials bring their compensations. As Tom wended to school

after breakfast, he was the envy of every boy he met because the gap

in his upper row of teeth enabled him to expectorate in a new and

admirable way. He gathered quite a following of lads interested in the

exhibition; and one that had cut his finger and had been a centre of

fascination and homage up to this time, now found himself suddenly

without an adherent, and shorn of his glory. His heart was heavy,

and he said with a disdain which he did not feel, that it wasn't

anything to spit like Tom Sawyer; but another boy said "Sour

grapes!" and he wandered away a dismantled hero.

Shortly Tom came upon the juvenile pariah of the village,

Huckleberry Finn, son of the town drunkard. Huckleberry was

cordially hated and dreaded by all the mothers of the town because

he was idle, and lawless, and vulgar and bad- and because all their

children admired him so, and delighted in his forbidden society, and

wished they dared to be like him. Tom was like the rest of the

respectable boys, in that he envied Huckleberry his gaudy outcast

condition, and was under strict orders not to play with him. So he

played with him every time he got a chance. Huckleberry was always

dressed in the cast-off clothes of full-grown men, and they were in

perennial bloom and fluttering with rags. His hat was a vast ruin with

a wide crescent lopped out of its brim; his coat, when he wore one,

hung nearly to his heels and had the rearward buttons far down the

back; but one suspender supported his trousers; the seat of the

trousers bagged low and contained nothing; the fringed legs dragged in

the dirt when not rolled up.

Huckleberry came and went, at his own free will. He slept on

doorsteps in fine weather and in empty hogsheads in wet; he did not

have to go to school or to church, or call any being master or obey

anybody; he could go fishing or swimming when and where he chose,

and stay as long as it suited him; nobody forbade him to fight; he

could sit up as late as he pleased; he was always the first boy that

went barefoot in the spring and the last to resume leather in the

fall; he never had to wash, nor put on clean clothes; he could swear

wonderfully. In a word, everything that goes to make life precious,

that boy had. So thought every harassed, hampered, respectable boy

in St. Petersburg.

Tom hailed the romantic outcast:

"Hello, Huckleberry!"

"Hello yourself, and see how you like it."

"What's that you got?"

"Dead cat."

"Lemme see him, Huck. My, he's pretty stiff. Where'd you get him?"

"Bought him off'n a boy."

"What did you give?"

"I give a blue ticket and a bladder that I got at the slaughter

house."

"Where'd you get the blue ticket?"

"Bought it off'n Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick."

"Say- what is dead cats good for, Huck?"

"Good for? Cure warts with."

"No! Is that so? I know something that's better."

"I bet you don't. What is it?"

"Why, spunk-water."

"Spunk-water! I wouldn't give a dem for spunk-water."

"You wouldn't, wouldn't you? D'you ever try it?"

"No, I hain't. But Bob Tanner did."

"Who told you so!"

"Why he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny Baker, and Johnny

told Jim Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers, and Ben told a nigger, and

the nigger told me. There, now!"

"Well, what of it? They'll all lie. Leastways all but the nigger.

I don't know him. But I never see a nigger that wouldn't lie.

Shucks! Now you tell me how Bob Tanner done it, Huck."

"Why he took and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the rain

water was."

"In the daytime?"

"Cert'nly."

"With his face to the stump?"

"Yes. Least I reckon so."

"Did he say anything?"

"I don't reckon he did. I don't know."

"Aha! Talk about trying to cure warts with spunk-water such a

blame fool way as that! Why that ain't a-going to do any good. You got

to go all by yourself, to the middle of the woods, where you know

there's a spunk-water stump, and just as it's midnight you back up

against the stump and jam your hand in and say:

"Barley-corn, Barley-corn, injun-meal shorts,

Spunk-water, spunk-water, swaller these warts;"

and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and

then turn around three times and walk home without speaking to

anybody. Because if you speak the charm's busted."

"Well that sounds like a good way; but that ain't the way Bob Tanner

done."

"No, sir, you can bet he didn't, becuz he's the wartiest boy in this

town; and he wouldn't have a wart on him if he'd knowed how to work

spunk-water. I've took off thousands of warts off of my hands that

way, Huck. I play with frogs so much that I've always got considerable

many warts. Sometimes I take 'em off with a bean."

"Yes, bean's good. I've done that."

"Have you? What's your way?"

"You take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some

blood, and then you put the blood on one piece of the bean and take

and dig a hole and bury it 'bout midnight at the cross-roads in the

dark of the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean. You see

that piece that's got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing,

trying to fetch the other piece to it, and so that helps the blood

to draw the wart, and pretty soon off she comes."

"Yes, that's it, Huck- that's it; though when you're burying it,

if you say 'Down bean; off, wart; come no more to bother me!' it's

better. That's the way Joe Harper does, and he's been nearly to

Constantinople and most everywheres. But say- how do you cure 'em with

dead cats?"

"Why you take your cat and go and get in the graveyard 'long about

midnight when somebody that was wicked has been buried; and when

it's midnight a devil will come, or maybe two or three, but you

can't see em, you can only hear something like the wind, or maybe hear

'em talk; and when they're taking that feller away, you heave your cat

after 'em and say 'Devil follow corpse, cat follow devil, warts follow

cat, I'm done with ye!' That'll fetch any wart."

"Sounds right. D'you ever try it, Huck?"

"No, but old Mother Hopkins told me."

"Well I reckon it's so, then. Becuz they say she's a witch."

"Say! Why Tom I know she is. She witched pap. Pap says so his own

self. He come along one day, and he see she was a-witching him, so

he took up a rock, and if she hadn't dodged, he'd a got her. Well that

very night he rolled off'n a shed wher' he was a-layin' drunk, and

broke his arm."

"Why that's awful. How did he know she was a-witching him."

"Lord, pap can tell, easy. Pap says when they keep looking at you

right stiddy, they're a-witching you. Specially if they mumble.

Becuz when they mumble they're a-saying the Lord's Prayer back'ards."

"Say, Huck, when you going to try the cat?"

"To-night. I reckon they'll come after old Hoss Williams to-night."

"But they buried him Saturday, Huck. Didn't they get him Saturday

night?"

"Why how you talk! How could their charms work till midnight?- and

then it's Sunday. Devils don't slosh around much of a Sunday, I

don't reckon."

"I never thought of that. That's so. Lemme go with you?"

"Of course- if you ain't afeard."

"Afeard! 'Tain't likely. Will you meow?"

"Yes- and you meow back, if you get a chance. Last time, you kep' me

a-meowing around till old Hays went to throwing rocks at me and says

'Dem that cat!' and so I hove a brick through his window- but don't

you tell."

"I won't. I couldn't meow that night, becuz auntie was watching

me, but I'll meow this time. Say, Huck, what's that?"

"Nothing but a tick."

"Where'd you get him?"

"Out in the woods."

"What'll you take for him?"

"I don't know. I don't want to sell him."

"All right. It's a mighty small tick, anyway."

"O, anybody can run a tick down that don't belong to them. I'm

satisfied with it. It's a good enough tick for me."

"Sho, there's ticks a plenty. I could have a thousand of 'em if I

wanted to."

"Well why don't you? Becuz you know mighty well you can't. This is a

pretty early tick, I reckon. It's the first one I've seen this year."

"Say Huck- I'll give you my tooth for him."

"Less see it."

Tom got out a bit of paper and carefully unrolled it. Huckleberry

viewed it wistfully. The temptation was very strong. At last he said:

"Is it genuwyne?"

Tom lifted his lip and showed the vacancy.

"Well, all right," said Huckleberry, "it's a trade."

Tom enclosed the tick in the percussion-cap box that had lately been

the pinch-bug's prison, and the boys separated, each feeling wealthier

than before.

When Tom reached the little isolated frame school-house, he strode

in briskly, with the manner of one who had come with all honest speed.

He hung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with

business-like alacrity. The master, throned on high in his great

splint-bottom arm-chair, was dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of

study. The interruption roused him.

"Thomas Sawyer!"

Tom knew that when his name was pronounced in full, it meant

trouble.

"Sir!"

"Come up here. Now sir, why are you late again, as usual?"

Tom was about to take refuge in a lie, when he saw two long tails of

yellow hair hanging down a back that he recognized by the electric

sympathy of love; and by that form was the only vacant place on the

girl's side of the school-house. He instantly said:

"I STOPPED TO TALK WITH HUCKLEBERRY FINN!"

The master's pulse stood still, and he stared helplessly. The buzz

of study ceased. The pupils wondered if this fool-hardy boy had lost

his mind. The master said:

"You- you did what?"

"Stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn."

There was no mistaking the words.

"Thomas Sawyer, this is the most astounding confession I have ever

listened to. No mere ferule will answer for this offense. Take off

your jacket."

The master's arm performed until it was tired and the stock of

switches notably diminished. Then the order followed:

"Now sir, go and sit with the girls! And let this be a warning to

you."

The titter that rippled around the room appeared to abash the boy,

but in reality that result was caused rather more by his worshipful

awe of his unknown idol and the dread pleasure that lay in his high

good fortune. He sat down upon the end of the pine bench and the

girl hitched herself away from him with a toss of her head. Nudges and

winks and whispers traversed the room, but Tom sat still, with his

arms upon the long, low desk before him, and seemed to study his book.

By and by attention ceased from him, and the accustomed school

murmur rose upon the dull air once more. Presently the boy began to

steal furtive glances at the girl. She observed it, "made a mouth"

at him and gave him the back of her head for the space of a minute.

When she cautiously faced around again, a peach lay before her. She

thrust it away. Tom gently put it back. She thrust it away, again, but

with less animosity. Tom patiently returned it to its place. Then

she let it remain. Tom scrawled on his slate, "Please take it- I got

more." The girl glanced at the words, but made no sign. Now the boy

began to draw something on the slate, hiding his work with his left

hand. For a time the girl refused to notice; but her human curiosity

presently began to manifest itself by hardly perceptible signs. The

boy worked on, apparently unconscious. The girl made a sort of

non-committal attempt to see, but the boy did not betray that he was

aware of it. At last she gave in and hesitatingly whispered:

"Let me see it."

Tom partly uncovered a dismal caricature of a house with two gable

ends to it and a cork-screw of smoke issuing from the chimneys. Then

the girl's interest began to fasten itself upon the work and she

forgot everything else. When it was finished, she gazed a moment, then

whispered:

"It's nice- make a man."

The artist erected a man in the front yard, that resembled a

derrick. He could have stepped over the house; but the girl was not

hypercritical; she was satisfied with the monster, and whispered:

"It's a beautiful man- now make me coming along."

Tom drew an hour-glass with a full moon and straw limbs to it and

armed the spreading fingers with a portentous fan. The girl said:

"It's ever so nice- I wish I could draw."

"It's easy," whispered Tom, "I'll learn you."

"O, will you? When?"

"At noon. Do you go home to dinner?"

"I'll stay, if you will."

"Good,- that's a whack. What's your name?"

"Becky Thatcher. What's yours? Oh, know. It's Thomas Sawyer."

"That's the name they lick me by. I'm Tom, when I'm good. You call

me Tom, will you?"

"Yes."

Now Tom began to scrawl something on the slate, hiding the words

from the girl. But she was not backward this time. She begged to

see. Tom said:

"Oh it ain't anything."

"Yes it is."

"No it ain't. You don't want to see."

"Yes I do, indeed I do. Please let me."

"You'll tell."

"No I won't- deed and deed and double deed I won't."

"You won't tell anybody at all?- Ever, as long as you live?"

"No I won't ever tell anybody. Now let me."

"Oh, you don't want to see!"

"Now that you treat me so, I will see." And she put her small hand

upon his and a little scuffle ensued, Tom pretending to resist in

earnest but letting his hand slip by degrees till these words were

revealed: "I love you."

"O, you bad thing!" And she hit his hand a smart rap, but reddened

and looked pleased, nevertheless.

Just at this juncture the boy felt a slow, fateful grip closing on

his ear, and a steady, lifting impulse. In that vise he was borne

across the house and deposited in his own seat, under a peppering fire

of giggles from the whole school. Then the master stood over him

during a few awful moments, and finally moved away to his throne

without saying a word. But although Tom's ear tingled, his heart was

jubilant.

As the school quieted down Tom made an honest effort to study, but

the turmoil within him was too great. In turn he took his place in the

reading class and made a botch of it; then in the geography class

and turned lakes into mountains, mountains into rivers, and rivers

into continents, till chaos was come again; then in the spelling

class, and got "turned down," by a succession of mere baby words

till he brought up at the foot and yielded up the pewter medal which

he had worn with ostentation for months.

Chapter 7

Tick-Running and Heartbreak

THE HARDER Tom tried to fasten his mind on his book, the more his

ideas wandered. So at last, with a sigh and a yawn, he gave it up.

It seemed to him that the noon recess would never come. The air was

utterly dead. There was not a breath stirring. It was the sleepiest of

sleepy days. The drowsing murmur of the five and twenty studying

scholars soothed the soul like the spell that is in the murmur of

bees. Away off in the flaming sunshine, Cardiff Hill lifted its soft

green sides through a shimmering veil of heat, tinted with the

purple of distance; a few birds floated on lazy wing high in the

air; no other living thing was visible but some cows, and they were

asleep.

Tom's heart ached to be free, or else to have something of

interest to do to pass the dreary time. His hand wandered into his

pocket and his face lit up with a glow of gratitude that was prayer,

though he did not know it. Then furtively the percussion-cap box

came out. He released the tick and put him on the long flat desk.

The creature probably glowed with a gratitude that amounted to prayer,

too, at this moment, but it was premature: for when he started

thankfully to travel off, Tom turned him aside with a pin and made him

take a new direction.

Tom's bosom friend sat next him, suffering just as Tom had been, and

now he was deeply and gratefully interested in this entertainment in

an instant. This bosom friend was Joe Harper. The two boys were

sworn friends all the week, and embattled enemies on Saturdays. Joe

took a pin out of his lappel and began to assist in exercising the

prisoner. The sport grew in interest momently. Soon Tom said that they

were interfering with each other, and neither getting the fullest

benefit of the tick. So he put Joe's slate on the desk and drew a line

down the middle of it from top to bottom.

"Now," said he, "as long as he is on your side you can stir him up

and I'll let him alone; but if you let him get away and get on my

side, you're to leave him alone as long as I can keep him from

crossing over."

"All right- go ahead- start him up."

The tick escaped from Tom, presently, and crossed the equator. Joe

harassed him a while, and then he got away and crossed back again.

This change of base occurred often. While one boy was worrying the

tick with absorbing interest, the other would look on with interest as

strong, the two heads bowed together over the slate, and the two souls

dead to all things else. At last luck seemed to settle and abide

with Joe. The tick tried this, that, and the other course, and got

as excited and as anxious as the boys themselves, but time and again

just as he would have victory in his very grasp, so to speak, and

Tom's fingers would be twitching to begin, Joe's pin would deftly head

him off, and keep possession. At last Tom could stand it no longer.

The temptation was too strong. So he reached out and lent a hand

with his pin. Joe was angry in a moment. Said he:

"Tom, you let him alone."

"I only just want to stir him up a little, Joe."

"No, sir, it ain't fair; you just let him alone."

"Blame it, I ain't going to stir him much."

"Let him alone, I tell you!"

"I won't!"

"You shall- he's on my side of the line."

"Look here, Joe Harper, whose is that tick?"

"I don't care whose tick he is- he's on my side of the line, and

you shan't touch him."

"Well I'll just bet I will, though. He's my tick and I'll do what

I blame please with him, or die!"

A tremendous whack came down on Tom's shoulders, and its duplicate

on Joe's; and for the space of two minutes the dust continued to fly

from the two jackets and the whole school to enjoy it. The boys had

been too absorbed to notice the hush that had stolen upon the school a

while before when the master came tip-toeing down the room and stood

over them. He had contemplated a good part of the performance before

he contributed his bit of variety to it.

When school broke up at noon, Tom flew to Becky Thatcher, and

whispered in her ear:

"Put on your bonnet and let on you're going home; and when you get

to the corner, give the rest of 'em the slip, and turn down through

the lane and come back. I'll go the other way and come it over 'em the

same way."

So the one went off with one group of scholars, and the other with

another. In a little while the two met at the bottom of the lane,

and when they reached the school they had it all to themselves. Then

they sat together, with a slate before them, and Tom gave Becky the

pencil and held her hand in his, guiding it, and so created another

surprising house. When the interest in art began to wane, the two fell

to talking. Tom was swimming in bliss. He said:

"Do you love rats?"

"No! I hate them!"

"Well, I do too- live ones. But I mean dead ones, to swing round

your head with a string."

"No, I don't care for rats much, anyway. What I like, is

chewing-gum."

"O, I should say so! I wish I had some now."

"Do you? I've got some. I'll let you chew it a while, but you must

give it back to me."

That was agreeable, so they chewed it turn about, and dangled

their legs against the bench in excess of contentment.

"Was you ever at a circus?" said Tom.

"Yes, and my pa's going to take me again some time, if I'm good."

"I been to the circus three or four times- lots of times. Church

ain't shucks to a circus. There's things going on at a circus all

the time. I'm going to be a clown in a circus when I grow up."

"O, are you! That will be nice. They're so lovely, all spotted up."

"Yes, that's so. And they get slathers of money- most a dollar a

day, Ben Rogers says. Say, Becky, was you ever engaged?"

"What's that?"

"Why, engaged to be married."

"No."

"Would you like to?"

"I reckon so. I don't know. What is it like?"

"Like? Why it ain't like anything. You only just tell a boy you

won't ever have anybody but him, ever ever ever, and then you kiss and

that's all. Anybody can do it."

"Kiss? What do you kiss for?"

"Why that, you know, is to- well, they always do that."

"Everybody."

"Why yes, everybody that's in love with each other. Do you

remember what I wrote on the slate?"

"Ye- yes."

"What was it?"

"I shan't tell you."

"Shall I tell you?"

"Ye- yes- but some other time."

"No, now."

"No, not now- to-morrow."

"O, no, now. Please Becky- I'll whisper it, I'll whisper it ever

so easy."

Becky hesitating, Tom took silence for consent, and passed his arm

about her waist and whispered the tale ever so softly, with his

mouth close to her ear. And then he added:

"Now you whisper it to me- just the same."

She resisted, for a while, and then said:

"You turn your face away so you can't see, and then I will. But

you mustn't ever tell anybody- will you, Tom? Now you won't, will

you?"

"No, indeed indeed I won't. Now Becky."

He turned his face away. She bent timidly around till her breath

stirred his curls and whispered, "I- love- you!"

Then she sprang away and ran around and around the desks and

benches, with Tom after her, and took refuge in a corner at last, with

her little white apron to her face. Tom clasped her about her neck and

pleaded:

"Now Becky, it's all done- all over but the kiss. Don't you be

afraid of that- it ain't anything at all. Please, Becky."- And he

tugged at her apron and the hands.

By and by she gave up, and let her hands drop; her face, all glowing

with the struggle, came up and submitted. Tom kissed the red lips

and said:

"Now it's all done, Becky. And always after this, you know, you

ain't ever to love anybody but me, and you ain't ever to marry anybody

but me, never never and forever. Will you?"

"No, I'll never love anybody but you, Tom, and I'll never marry

anybody but you- and you ain't to ever marry anybody but me, either."

"Certainly. Of course. That's part of it. And always coming to

school or when we're going home, you're to walk with me, when there

ain't anybody looking- and you choose me and I choose you at

parties, because that's the way you do when you're engaged."

"It's so nice. I never heard of it before."

"O it's ever so gay! Why me and Amy Lawrence"-

The big eyes told Tom his blunder and he stopped, confused.

"O, Tom! Then I ain't the first you've ever been engaged to!"

The child began to cry. Tom said:

"O don't cry, Becky, I don't care for her any more."

"Yes you do, Tom,- you know you do."

Tom tried to put his arm about her neck, but she pushed him away and

turned her face to the wall, and went on crying. Tom tried again, with

soothing words in his mouth, and was repulsed again. Then his pride

was up, and he strode away and went outside. He stood about,

restless and uneasy, for a while, glancing at the door, every now

and then, hoping she would repent and come to find him. But she did

not. Then he began to feel badly and fear that he was in the wrong. It

was a hard struggle with him to make new advances, now, but he

nerved himself to it and entered. She was still standing back there in

the corner, sobbing, with her face to the wall. Tom's heart smote him.

He went to her and stood a moment, not knowing exactly how to proceed.

Then he said hesitatingly:

"Becky, I- I don't care for anybody but you."

No reply- but sobs.

"Becky,"- pleadingly. "Becky, won't you say something?"

More sobs.

Tom got out his chiefest jewel, a brass knob from the top of an

andiron, and passed it around her so that she could see it, and said:

"Please, Becky, won't you take it?"

She struck it to the floor. Then Tom marched out of the house and

over the hills and far away, to return to school no more that day.

Presently Becky began to suspect. She ran to the door; he was not in

sight; she flew around to the play-yard; he was not there. Then she

called:

"Tom! Come back, Tom!"

She listened intently, but there was no answer. She had no

companions but silence and loneliness. So she sat down to cry again

and upbraid herself; and by this time the scholars began to gather

again, and she had to hide her griefs and still her broken heart and

take up the cross of a long, dreary, aching afternoon, with none among

the strangers about her to exchange sorrows with.

Chapter 8

A Pirate Bold To Be

TOM DODGED HITHER and thither through lanes until he was well out of

the track of returning scholars, and then fell into a moody jog. He

crossed a small "branch" two or three times, because of a prevailing

juvenile superstition that to cross water baffled pursuit. Half an

hour later he was disappearing behind the Douglas mansion on the

summit of Cardiff Hill, and the school-house was hardly

distinguishable away off in the valley behind him. He entered a

dense wood, picked his pathless way to the centre of it, and sat

down on a mossy spot under a spreading oak. There was not even a

zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heat had even stilled the songs of

the birds; nature lay in a trance that was broken by no sound but

the occasional far-off hammering of a woodpecker, and this seemed to

render the pervading silence and sense of loneliness the more

profound. The boy's soul was steeped in melancholy; his feelings

were in happy accord with his surroundings. He sat long with his

elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, meditating. It seemed

to him that life was but a trouble, at best, and he more than half

envied Jimmy Hodges, so lately released; it must be very peaceful,

he thought, to lie and slumber and dream forever and ever, with the

wind whispering through the trees and caressing the grass and the

flowers over the grave, and nothing to bother and grieve about, ever

any more. If he only had a clean Sunday-school record he could be

willing to go, and be done with it all. Now as to this girl. What

had he done? Nothing. He had meant the best in the world, and been

treated like a dog- like a very dog. She would be sorry some day-

maybe when it was too late. Ah, if he could only die temporarily!

But the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one

constrained shape long at a time. Tom presently began to drift

insensibly back into the concerns of this life again. What if he

turned his back, now, and disappeared mysteriously? What if he went

away- ever so far away, into unknown countries beyond the seas- and

never came back any more! How would she feel then! The idea of being a

clown recurred to him now, only to fill him with disgust. For

frivolity, and jokes, and spotted tights were an offense, when they

intruded themselves upon a spirit that was exalted into the vague

august realm of the romantic. No, he would be a soldier, and return,

after long years, all war-worn and illustrious. No- better still, he

would join the Indians, and hunt buffaloes and go on the war-path in

the mountain ranges and the trackless great plains of the Far West,

and away in the future come back a great chief, bristling with

feathers, hideous with paint, and prance into Sunday-school, some

drowsy summer morning, with a blood-curdling war-whoop, and sear the

eye-balls of all his companions with unappeasable envy. But no,

there was something gaudier even than this. He would be a pirate! That

was it! Now his future lay plain before him, and glowing with

unimaginable splendor. How his name would fill the world, and make

people shudder! How gloriously he would go plowing the dancing seas,

in his long, low, black-hulled racer, the "Spirit of the Storm,"

with his grisly flag flying at the fore! And at the zenith of his

fame, how he would suddenly appear at the old village and stalk into

church, all brown and weather-beaten, in his black velvet doublet

and trunks, his great jack-boots, his crimson sash, his belt bristling

with horse-pistols, his crime-rusted cutlass at his side, his slouch

hat with waving plumes, his black flag unfurled, with the skull and

cross-bones on it, and hear with swelling ecstasy the whisperings,

"It's Tom Sawyer the Pirate!- the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main!"

Yes, it was settled; his career was determined. He would run away

from home and enter upon it. He would start the very next morning.

Therefore he must now begin to get ready. He would collect his

resources together. He went to a rotten log near at hand and began

to dig under one end of it with his Barlow knife. He soon struck

wood that sounded hollow. He put his hand there and uttered this

incantation impressively:

"What hasn't come here, come! What's here, stay here!"

Then he scraped away the dirt, and exposed a pine shingle. He took

it up and disclosed a shapely little treasure-house whose bottom and

sides were of shingles. In it lay a marble. Tom's astonishment was

boundless! He scratched his head with a perplexed air, and said:

"Well, that beats anything!"

Then he tossed the marble away pettishly, and stood cogitating.

The truth was, that a superstition of his had failed, here, which he

and all his comrades had always looked upon as infallible. If you

buried a marble with certain necessary incantations, and left it alone

a fortnight, and then opened the place with the incantation he had

just used, you would find that all the marbles you had ever lost had

gathered themselves together there, meantime, no matter how widely

they had been separated. But now, this thing had actually and

unquestionably failed. Tom's whole structure of faith was shaken to

its foundations. He had many a time heard of this thing succeeding,

but never of its failing before. It did not occur to him that he had

tried it several times before, himself, but could never find the

hiding places afterwards. He puzzled over the matter some time, and

finally decided that some witch had interfered and broken the charm.

He thought he would satisfy himself on that point; so he searched

around till he found a small sandy spot with a little funnel-shaped

depression in it. He laid himself down and put his mouth close to this

depression and called:

"Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know! Doodle-bug,

doodle-bug tell me what I want to know!"

The sand began to work, and presently a small black bug appeared for

a second and then darted under again in a fright.

"He dasn't tell! So it was a witch that done it. I just knowed it."

He well knew the futility of trying to contend against witches, so

he gave up discouraged. But it occurred to him that he might as well

have the marble he had just thrown away, and therefore he went and

made a patient search for it. But he could not find it. Now he went

back to his treasure-house and carefully placed himself just as he had

been standing when he tossed the marble away; then he took another

marble from his pocket and tossed it in the same way, saying:

"Brother go find your brother!"

He watched where it stopped, and went there and looked. But it

must have fallen short or gone too far; so he tried twice more. The

last repetition was successful. The two marbles lay within a foot of

each other.

Just here the blast of a toy tin trumpet came faintly down the green

aisles of the forest. Tom flung off his jacket and trousers, turned

a suspender into a belt, raked away some brush behind the rotten

log, disclosing a rude bow and arrow, a lath sword and a tin

trumpet, and in a moment had seized these things and bounded away,

bare-legged, with fluttering shirt. He presently halted under a

great elm, blew an answering blast, and then began to tip-toe and look

warily out, this way and that. He said cautiously- to an imaginary

company:

"Hold, my merry men! Keep hid till I blow."

Now appeared Joe Harper, as airily clad and elaborately armed as

Tom. Tom called:

"Hold! Who comes here into Sherwood Forest without my pass?"

"Guy of Guisborne wants no man's pass. Who art thou that- that-"

-"Dares to hold such language," said Tom, prompting- for they

talked "by the book," from memory.

"Who art thou that dares to hold such language?"

"I, indeed! I am Robin Hood, as thy caitiff carcass soon shall

know."

"Then art thou indeed that famous outlaw? Right gladly will I

dispute with thee the passes of the merry wood. Have at thee!"

They took their lath swords, dumped their other traps on the ground,

struck a fencing attitude, foot to foot, and began a grave, careful

combat, "two up and two down." Presently Tom said:

"Now if you've got the hang, go it lively!"

So they "went it lively," panting and perspiring with the work. By

and by Tom shouted:

"Fall! fall! Why don't you fall?"

"I shan't! Why don't you fall yourself.? You're getting the worst of

it."

"Why that ain't anything. I can't fall; that ain't the way it is

in the book. The book says 'Then with one back-handed stroke he slew

poor Guy of Guisborne.' You're to turn around and let me hit you in

the back."

There was no getting around the authorities, so Joe turned, received

the whack and fell.

"Now," said Joe- getting up, "You got to let me kill you. That's

fair."

"Why I can't do that, it ain't in the book."

"Well it's blamed mean,- that's all."

"Well, say, Joe, you can be Friar Tuck or Much the miller's son

and lam me with a quarter-staff; or I'll be the Sheriff of

Nottingham and you be Robin Hood a little while and kill me."

This was satisfactory, and so these adventures were carried out.

Then Tom became Robin Hood again, and was allowed by the treacherous

nun to bleed his strength away through his neglected wound. And at

last Joe, representing a whole tribe of weeping outlaws, dragged him

sadly forth, gave his bow into his feeble hands, and Tom said,

"Where this arrow falls, there bury poor Robin Hood under the

greenwood tree." Then he shot the arrow and fell back and would have

died but he lit on a nettle and sprang up too gaily for a corpse.

The boys dressed themselves, hid their accoutrements, and went off

grieving that there were no outlaws any more, and wondering what

modern civilization could claim to have done to compensate for their

loss. They said they would rather be outlaws a year in Sherwood Forest

than President of the United States forever.

Chapter 9

Tragedy in the Grave Yard

AT HALF PAST NINE, that night, Tom and Sid were sent to bed, as

usual. They said their prayers, and Sid was soon asleep. Tom lay awake

and waited, in restless impatience. When it seemed to him that it must

be nearly daylight, he heard the clock strike ten! This was despair.

He would have tossed and fidgeted, as his nerves demanded, but he

was afraid he might wake Sid. So he lay still, and stared up into

the dark. Everything was dismally still. By and by, out of the

stillness little scarcely perceptible noises began to emphasize

themselves. The ticking of the clock began to bring itself into

notice. Old beams began to crack mysteriously. The stairs creaked

faintly. Evidently spirits were abroad. A measured, muffled snore

issued from Aunt Polly's chamber. And now the tiresome chirping of a

cricket that no human ingenuity could locate, began. Next the

ghastly ticking of a death-watch in the wall at the bed's head made

Tom shudder- it meant that somebody's days were numbered. Then the

howl of a far-off dog rose on the night air and was answered by a

fainter howl from a remoter distance. Tom was in an agony. At last

he was satisfied that time had ceased and eternity begun; he began

to doze, in spite of himself, the clock chimed eleven but he did not

hear it. And then there came mingling with his half-formed dreams, a

most melancholy caterwauling. The raising of a neighboring window

disturbed him. A cry of "Scat! you devil!" and the crash of an empty

bottle against the back of his aunt's woodshed brought him wide awake,

and a single minute later he was dressed and out of the window and

creeping along the roof of the "ell" on all fours. He "meow'd" with

caution once or twice, as he went; then jumped to the roof of the

woodshed and thence to the ground. Huckleberry Finn was there, with

his dead cat. The boys moved off and disappeared in the gloom. At

the end of half an hour they were wading through the tall grass of the

graveyard.

It was a graveyard of the old-fashioned western kind. It was on a

hill, about a mile and a half from the village. It had a crazy board

fence around it, which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest

of the time, but stood upright nowhere. Grass and weeds grew rank over

the whole cemetery. All the old graves were sunken in. There was not a

tombstone on the place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards staggered over

the graves, leaning for support and finding none. "Sacred to the

Memory of" So-and-So had been painted on them once, but it could no

longer have been read, on the most of them, now, even if there had

been light.

A faint wind moaned through the trees, and Tom feared it might be

the spirits of the dead complaining at being disturbed. The boys

talked little, and only under their breath, for the time and the place

and the pervading solemnity and silence oppressed their spirits.

They found the sharp new heap they were seeking, and ensconced

themselves within the protection of three great elms that grew in a

bunch within a few feet of the grave.

Then they waited in silence for what seemed a long time. The hooting

of a distant owl was all the sound that troubled the dead stillness.

Tom's reflections grew oppressive. He must force some talk. So he said

in a whisper:

"Hucky, do you believe the dead people like it for us to be here?"

Huckleberry whispered:

"I wisht I knowed. It's awful solemn like, ain't it?"

"I bet it is."

There was a considerable pause, while the boys canvassed this matter

inwardly. Then Tom whispered:

"Say, Hucky- do you reckon Hoss Williams hears us talking?"

"O' course he does. Least his sperrit does."

Tom, after a pause:

"I wish I'd said Mister Williams. But I never meant any harm.

Everybody calls him Hoss."

"A body can't be too partic'lar how they talk 'bout these-yer dead

people, Tom."

This was a damper, and conversation died again, Presently Tom seized

his comrade's arm and said:

"Sh!"

"What is it, Tom?" And the two clung together with beating hearts.

"Sh! There 'tis again! Didn't you hear it?"

"I-"

"There! Now you hear it."

"Lord, Tom they're coming! They're coming, sure. What'll we do?"

"I dono. Think they'll see us?"

"O, Tom, they can see in the dark, same as cats. I wisht I hadn't

come."

"O, don't be afeard. I don't believe they'll bother us. We ain't

doing any harm. If we keep perfectly still, maybe they won't notice us

at all."

"I'll try to, Tom, but Lord I'm all of a shiver."

"Listen!"

The boys bent their heads together and scarcely breathed. A

muffled sound of voices floated up from the far end of the graveyard.

"Look! See there!" whispered Tom. "What is it?"

"It's devil-fire. O, Tom, this is awful."

Some vague figures approached through the gloom, swinging an

old-fashioned tin lantern that freckled the ground with innumerable

little spangles of light. Presently Huckleberry whispered with a

shudder:

"It's the devils sure enough. Three of 'em! Lordy, Tom, we're

goners! Can you pray?"

"I'll try, but don't you be afeard. They ain't going to hurt us. Now

I lay me down to sleep, I-"

"Sh!"

"What is it, Huck?"

"They're humans! One of 'em is, anyway. One of 'em's old Muff

Potter's voice."

"No- 'tain't so, is it?"

"I bet I know it. Don't you stir nor budge. He ain't sharp enough to

notice us. Drunk, same as usual, likely- blamed old rip!"

"All right, I'll keep still. Now they're stuck. Can't find it.

Here they come again. Now they're hot. Cold again. Hot again. Red hot!

They're p'inted right, this time. Say Huck, I know another o' them

voices; it's Injun Joe."

"That's so- that murderin' half-breed! I'd druther they was

devils, a dem sight. What kin they be up to?"

The whispers died wholly out, now, for the three men had reached the

grave and stood within a few feet of the boys' hiding-place.

"Here it is," said the third voice; and the owner of it held the

lantern up and revealed the face of young Dr. Robinson.

Potter and Injun Joe were carrying a handbarrow with a rope and a

couple of shovels on it. They cast down their load and began to open

the grave. The doctor put the lantern at the head of the grave and

came and sat down with his back against one of the elm trees. He was

so close the boys could have touched him.

"Hurry, men!" he said in a low voice; "the moon might come out at

any moment."

They growled a response and went on digging. For some time there was

no noise but the grating sound of the spades discharging their freight

of mould and gravel. It was very monotonous. Finally a spade struck

upon the coffin with a dull woody accent, and within another minute or

two the men had hoisted it out on the ground. They pried off the lid

with their shovels, got out the body and dumped it rudely on the

ground. The moon drifted from behind the clouds and exposed the pallid

face. The barrow was got ready and the corpse placed on it, covered

with a blanket, and bound to its place with the rope. Potter took

out a large spring-knife and cut off the dangling end of the rope

and then said:

"Now the cussed thing's ready, Sawbones, and you'll just out with

another five, or here she stays."

"That's the talk!" said Injun Joe.

"Look here, what does this mean?" said the doctor. "You required

your pay in advance, and I've paid you."

"Yes, and you done more than that," said Injun joe, approaching

the doctor, who was now standing. "Five year ago you drove me away

from your father's kitchen one night, when I come to ask for something

to eat, and you said I warn't there for any good; and when I swore I'd

get even with you if it took a hundred years, your father had me

jailed for a vagrant. Did you think I'd forget? The Injun blood

ain't in me for nothing. And now I've got you, and you got to

settle, you know!"

He was threatening the doctor, with his fist in his face, by this

time. The doctor struck out suddenly and stretched the ruffian on

the ground. Potter dropped his knife, and exclaimed:

"Here, now, don't you hit my pard!" and the next moment he had

grappled with the doctor and the two were struggling with might and

main, trampling the grass and tearing the ground with their heels.

Injun Joe sprang to his feet, his eyes flaming with passion,

snatched up Potter's knife, and went creeping, catlike and stooping,

round and round about the combatants, seeking an opportunity. All at

once the doctor flung himself free, seized the heavy head-board of

Williams' grave and felled Potter to the earth with it- and in the

same instant the half-breed saw his chance and drove the knife to

the hilt in the young man's breast. He reeled and fell partly upon

Potter, flooding him with his blood, and in the same moment the clouds

blotted out the dreadful spectacle and the two frightened boys went

speeding away in the dark.

Presently, when the moon emerged again, Injun Joe was standing

over the two forms, contemplating them. The doctor murmured

inarticulately, gave a long gasp or two and was still. The

half-breed muttered:

"That score is settled- damn you."

Then he robbed the body. After which he put the fatal knife in

Potter's open right hand, and sat down on the dismantled coffin.

Three- four- five minutes passed, and then Potter began to stir and

moan. His hand closed upon the knife; he raised it, glanced at it, and

let it fall, with a shudder. Then he sat up, pushing the body from

him, and gazed at it, and then around him, confusedly. His eyes met

Joe's.

"Lord, how is this, Joe?" he said.

"It's a dirty business," said Joe, without moving. "What did you

do it for?"

"I! I never done it!"

"Look here! That kind of talk won't wash."

Potter trembled and grew white.

"I thought I'd got sober. I'd no business to drink to-night. But

it's in my head yet- worse'n when we started here. I'm all in a

muddle; can't recollect anything of it hardly. Tell me, Joe- honest,

now, old feller- did I do it? Joe, I never meant to- 'pon my soul

and honor I never meant to, Joe. Tell me how it was, Joe. O, it's

awful- and him so young and promising."

"Why you two was scuffling, and he fetched you one with the

headboard and you fell flat; and then up you come, all reeling and

staggering, like, and snatched the knife and jammed it into him,

just as he fetched you another awful clip- and here you've laid, as

dead as a wedge till now."

"O, I didn't know what I was a-doing. I wish I may die this minute

if I did. It was all on account of the whisky; and the excitement, I

reckon. I never used a weepon in my life before, Joe. I've fought, but

never with weepons. They'll all say that. Joe, don't tell! Say you

won't tell, Joe- that's a good feller. I always liked you Joe, and

stood up for you, too. Don't you remember? You won't tell, will you

Joe?" And the poor creature dropped on his knees before the stolid

murderer, and clasped his appealing hands.

"No, you've always been fair and square with me, Muff Potter, and

I won't go back on you.- There, now, that's as fair as a man can say."

"O, Joe, you're an angel. I'll bless you for this the longest day

I live."

And Potter began to cry.

"Come, now, that's enough of that. This ain't any time for

blubbering. You be off yonder way and I'll go this. Move, now, and

don't leave any tracks behind you."

Potter started on a trot that quickly increased to a run. The

halfbreed stood looking after him. He muttered:

"If he's as much stunned with the lick and fuddled with the rum as

he had the look of being, he won't think of the knife till he's gone

so far he'll be afraid to come back after it to such a place by

himself- chicken-heart!"

Two or three minutes later the murdered man, the blanketed corpse,

the lidless coffin and the open grave were under no inspection but the

moon's. The stillness was complete again, too.

Chapter 10

Dire Prophecy of the Howling Dog

THE TWO BOYS flew on and on, toward the village, speechless with

horror. They glanced backward over their shoulders from time to

time, apprehensively, as if they feared they might be followed.

Every stump that started up in their path seemed a man and an enemy,

and made them catch their breath; and as they sped by some outlying

cottages that lay near the village, the barking of the aroused

watch-dogs seemed to give wings to their feet.

"If we can only get to the old tannery, before we break down!"

whispered Tom, in short catches between breaths, "I can't stand it

much longer."

Huckleberry's hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys

fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work

to win it. They gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast

they burst through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in

the sheltering shadows beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and

Tom whispered:

"Huckleberry, what do you reckon 'll come of this?"

"If Dr. Robinson dies, I reckon hanging 'll come of it."

"Do you though?"

"Why I know it, Tom."

Tom thought a while, then he said:

"Who'll tell? We?"

"What are you talking about? S'pose something happened and Injun Joe

didn't hang? Why he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as

we're a-laying here."

"That's just what I was thinking to myself, Huck."

"If anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he's fool enough.

He's generally drunk enough."

Tom said nothing- went on thinking. Presently he whispered:

"Huck, Muff Potter don't know it. How can he tell?"

"What's the reason he don't know it?"

"Because he'd just got that whack when Injun Joe done it. D' you

reckon he could see anything? D' you reckon he knowed anything?"

"By hokey, that's so Tom!"

"And besides, look-a-here- maybe that whack done for him!"

"No, 'tain't likely Tom. He had liquor in him; I could see that; and

besides, he always has. Well when pap's full, you might take and

belt him over the head with a church and you couldn't phase him. He

says so, his own self. So it's the same with Muff Potter, of course.

But if a man was dead sober, I reckon maybe that whack might fetch

him; I dono."

After another reflective silence, Tom said:

"Hucky, you sure you can keep mum?"

"Tom, we got to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil wouldn't

make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to

squeak 'bout this and they didn't hang him. Now look-a-here, Tom, less

take and swear to one another- that's what we got to do- swear to keep

mum."

"I'm agreed, Huck. It's the best thing. Would you just hold hands

and swear that we-"

"O, no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good enough for little

rubbishy common things- specially with gals, cuz they go back on you

anyway, and blab if they get in a huff- but there orter be writing

'bout a big thing like this. And blood."

Tom's whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and

awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in

keeping with it. He picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the

moonlight, took a little fragment of "red keel" out of his pocket, got

the moon on his work, and painfully scrawled these lines,

emphasizing each slow down-stroke by clamping his tongue between his

teeth, and letting up the pressure on the up-strokes:

(See illustration.)

Huckleberry was filled with admiration of Tom's facility in writing,

and the sublimity of his language. He at once took a pin from his

lappel and was going to prick his flesh, but Tom said:

"Hold on! Don't do that. A pin's brass. It might have verdigrease on

it."

"What's verdigrease?"

"It's p'ison. That's what it is. You just swaller some of it

once- you'll see."

So Tom unwound the thread from one of his needles, and each boy

pricked the ball of his thumb and squeezed out a drop of blood. In

time, after many squeezes, Tom managed to sign his initials, using the

ball of his little finger for a pen. Then he showed Huckleberry how to

make an H and an F, and the oath was complete. They buried the shingle

close to the wall, with some dismal ceremonies and incantations, and

the fetters that bound their tongues were considered to be locked

and the key thrown away.

A figure crept stealthily through a break in the other end of the

ruined building, now, but they did not notice it.

"Tom," whispered Huckleberry, "does this keep us from ever

telling- always?"

"Of course it does. It don't make any difference what happens, we

got to keep mum. We'd drop down dead- don't you know that?"

"Yes, I reckon that's so."

They continued to whisper for some little time. Presently a dog

set up a long, lugubrious howl just outside- within ten feet of them.

The boys clasped each other suddenly, in an agony of fright.

"Which of us does he mean?" gasped Huckleberry.

"I dono- peep through the crack. Quick!"

"No, you, Tom!"

"I cant- I can't do it, Huck!"

"Please, Tom. There 'tis again!"

"O, lordy, I'm thankful!" whispered Tom. "I know his voice. It's

Bull Harbison."

"O, that's good- I tell you, Tom, I was most scared to death; I'd

a bet anything it was a stray dog."

The dog howled again. The boys' hearts sank once more.

"O, my! that ain't no Bull Harbison!" whispered Huckleberry. "Do,

Tom!"

Tom, quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye to the crack. His

whisper was hardly audible when he said:

"O, Huck, IT'S A STRAY DOG!"

"Quick, Tom, quick! Who does he mean?"

"Huck, he must mean us both- we're right together."

"O, Tom, I reckon we're goners. I reckon there ain't no mistake

'bout where I'll go to. I been so wicked."

"Dad fetch it! This comes of playing hookey and doing everything a

feller's told not to do. I might a been good, like Sid, if I'd a

tried- but no, I wouldn't, of course. But if ever I get off this

time, I lay I'll just waller in Sunday-schools!" And Tom began to

snuffle a little.

"You bad!" and Huckleberry began to snuffle, too. "Consound it,

Tom Sawyer, you're just old pie, 'longside o'what I am. O, lordy,

lordy, lordy, I wisht I only had half your chance."

Tom choked off and whispered:

"Look, Hucky, look! He's got his back to us!"

Hucky looked, with joy in his heart.

"Well he has, by jingoes! Did he before?"

"Yes, he did. But I, like a fool, never thought. O, this is bully,

you know. Now, who can he mean?"

The howling stopped. Tom pricked up his ears.

"Sh! What's that?" he whispered.

"Sounds like- like hogs grunting. No- it's somebody snoring, Tom."

"That is it? Where 'bouts is it, Huck?"

"I bleeve it's down at t'other end. Sounds so, anyway. Pap used to

sleep there, sometimes, 'long with the hogs, but laws bless you, he

just lifts things when he snores. Besides, I reckon he ain't ever

coming back to this town any more."

The spirit of adventure rose in the boys' souls once more.

"Hucky do you das't to go if I lead?"

"I don't like to, much. Tom, s'pose it's Injun Joe!"

Tom quailed. But presently the temptation rose up strong again and

the boys agreed to try, with the understanding that they would take to

their heels if the snoring stopped. So they went tip-toeing stealthily

down, the one behind the other. When they had got to within five steps

of the snorer, Tom stepped on a stick, and it broke with a sharp snap.

The man moaned, writhed a little, and his face came into the

moonlight. It was Muff Potter. The boys' hearts had stood still, and

their hopes too, when the man moved, but their fears passed away

now. They tip-toed out, through the broken weather-boarding, and

stopped at a little distance to exchange a parting word. That long,

lugubrious howl rose on the night air again! They turned and saw the

strange dog standing within a few feet of where Potter was lying,

and facing Potter, with his nose pointing heavenward.

"O, geeminy it's him!" exclaimed both boys, in a breath.

"Say, Tom- they say a stray dog come howling around Johnny

Miller's house, 'bout midnight, as much as two weeks ago; and a

whippoorwill come in and lit on the bannisters and sung, the very same

evening; and there ain't anybody dead there yet."

"Well I know that. And suppose there ain't. Didn't Gracie Miller

fall in the kitchen fire and burn herself terrible the very next

Saturday?"

"Yes, but she ain't dead. And what's more, she's getting better,

too."

"All right, you wait and see. She's a goner, just as dead sure as

Muff Potter's a goner. That's what the niggers say, and they know

all about these kind of things, Huck."

Then they separated, cogitating. When Tom crept in at his bedroom

window, the night was almost spent. He undressed with excessive

caution, and fell asleep congratulating himself that nobody knew of

his escapade. He was not aware that the gently-snoring Sid was

awake, and had been so for an hour.

When Tom awoke, Sid was dressed and gone. There was a late look in

the light, a late sense in the atmosphere. He was startled. Why had he

not been called- persecuted till he was up, as usual? The thought

filled him with bodings. Within five minutes he was dressed and down

stairs, feeling sore and drowsy. The family were still at table, but

they had finished breakfast. There was no voice of rebuke; but there

were averted eyes; there was a silence and an air of solemnity that

struck a chill to the culprit's heart. He sat down and tried to seem

gay, but it was up-hill work; it roused no smile, no response, and

he lapsed into silence and let his heart sink down to the depths.

After breakfast his aunt took him aside, and Tom almost brightened

in the hope that he was going to be flogged; but it was not so. His

aunt wept over him and asked him how he could go and break her old

heart so; and finally told him to go on, and ruin himself and bring

her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave, for it was no use for her

to try any more. This was worse than a thousand whippings, and Tom's

heart was sorer now than his body. He cried, he pleaded for

forgiveness, promised reform over and over again and then received his

dismissal, feeling that he had won but an imperfect forgiveness and

established but a feeble confidence.

He left the presence too miserable to even feel revengeful toward

Sid; and so the latter's prompt retreat through the back gate was

unnecessary. He moped to school gloomy and sad, and took his flogging,

along with Joe Harper, for playing hooky the day before, with the

air of one whose heart was busy with heavier woes and wholly dead to

trifles. Then he betook himself to his seat, rested his elbows on

his desk and his jaws in his hands and stared at the wall with the

stony stare of suffering that has reached the limit and can no further

go. His elbow was pressing against some hard substance. After a long

time he slowly and sadly changed his position, and took up this object

with a sigh. It was in a paper. He unrolled it. A long, lingering,

colossal sigh followed, and his heart broke. It was his brass

andiron knob!

This final feather broke the camel's back.

Chapter 11

Conscience Racks Torn

CLOSE UPON THE HOUR OF NOON the whole village was suddenly

electrified with the ghastly news. No need of the as yet

undreamed-of telegraph; the tale flew from man to man, from group to

group, from house to house, with little less than telegraphic speed.

Of course the schoolmaster gave holiday for that afternoon; the town

would have thought strangely of him if he had not.

A gory knife had been found close to the murdered man, and it had

been recognized by somebody as belonging to Muff Potter- so the

story ran. And it was said that a belated citizen had come upon Potter

washing himself in the "branch" about one or two o'clock in the

morning, and that Potter had at once sneaked off- suspicious

circumstances, especially the washing, which was not a habit with

Potter. It was also said that the town had been ransacked for this

"murderer" (the public are not slow in the matter of sifting

evidence and arriving at a verdict) but that he could not be found.

Horsemen had departed down all the roads in every direction, and the

Sheriff "was confident" that he would be captured before night.

All the town was drifting toward the graveyard. Tom's heart-break

vanished and he joined the procession, not because he would not a

thousand times rather go anywhere else, but because an awful,

unaccountable fascination drew him on. Arrived at the dreadful

place, he wormed his small body through the crowd and saw the dismal

spectacle. It seemed to him an age since he was there before. Somebody

pinched his arm. He turned, and his eyes met Huckleberry's. Then

both looked elsewhere at once, and wondered if anybody had noticed

anything in their mutual glance. But everybody was talking, and intent

upon the grisly spectacle before them.

"Poor fellow!" "Poor young fellow!" "This ought to be a lesson to

grave-robbers!" "Muff Potter'll hang for this if they catch him!" This

was the drift of remark; and the minister said, "It was a judgment;

His hand is here."

Now Tom shivered from head to heel; for his eye fell upon the stolid

face of Injun Joe. At this moment the crowd began to sway and

struggle, and voices shouted, "It's him! it's him! he's coming

himself!"

"Who? Who?" from twenty voices.

"Muff Potter!"

"Hallo, he's stopped!- Look out, he's turning! Don't let him get

away!"

People in the branches of the trees over Tom's head, said he

wasn't trying to get away- he only looked doubtful and perplexed.

"Infernal impudence!" said a bystander; "wanted to come and take a

quiet look at his work, I reckon- didn't expect any company."

The crowd fell apart, now, and the Sheriff came through,

ostentatiously leading Potter by the arm. The poor fellow's face was

haggard, and his eyes showed the fear that was upon him. When he stood

before the murdered man, he shook as with a palsy, and he put his face

in his hands and burst into tears.

"I didn't do it, friends," he sobbed; "'pon my word and honor I

never done it."

"Who's accused you?" shouted a voice.

This shot seemed to carry home. Potter lifted his face and looked

around him with a pathetic hopelessness in his eyes. He saw Injun Joe,

and exclaimed: "O, Injun Joe, you promised me you'd never-"

"Is that your knife?" and it was thrust before him by the Sheriff.

Potter would have fallen if they had not caught him and eased him to

the ground. Then he said:

"Something told me 't if I didn't come back and get-" He

shuddered; then waved his nerveless hand with a vanquished gesture and

said, "Tell 'em, Joe, tell 'em- it ain't any use any more."

Then Huckleberry and Tom stood dumb and staring, and heard the

stony-hearted liar reel off his serene statement, they expecting every

moment that the clear sky would deliver God's lightnings upon his

head, and wondering to see how long the stroke was delayed. And when

he had finished and still stood alive and whole, their wavering

impulse to break their oath and save the poor betrayed prisoner's life

faded and vanished away, for plainly this miscreant had sold himself

to Satan and it would be fatal to meddle with the property of such a

power as that.

"Why didn't you leave? What did you want to come here for?" somebody

said.

"I couldn't help it- I couldn't help it," Potter moaned. "I wanted

to run away, but I couldn't seem to come anywhere but here." And he

fell to sobbing again.

Injun Joe repeated his statement, just as calmly, a few minutes

afterward on the inquest, under oath; and the boys, seeing that the

lightnings were still withheld, were confirmed in their belief that

Joe had sold himself to the devil. He was now become, to them, the

most balefully interesting object they had ever looked upon, and

they could not take their fascinated eyes from his face. They inwardly

resolved to watch him, nights, when opportunity should offer, in the

hope of getting a glimpse of his dread master.

Injun Joe helped to raise the body of the murdered man and put it in

a wagon for removal; and it was whispered through the shuddering crowd

that the wound bled a little! The boys thought that this happy

circumstance would turn suspicion in the right direction; but they

were disappointed, for more than one villager remarked:

"It was within three feet of Muff Potter when it done it."

Tom's fearful secret and gnawing conscience disturbed his sleep

for as much as a week after this; and at breakfast one morning Sid

said:

"Tom, you pitch around and talk in your sleep so much that you

keep me awake about half the time."

Tom blanched and dropped his eyes.

"It's a bad sign," said Aunt Polly, gravely. "What you got on your

mind, Tom?"

"Nothing. Nothing 't I know of." But the boy's hand shook so that he

spilled his coffee.

"And you do talk such stuff," Sid said. "Last night you said 'it's

blood, it's blood, that's what it is!' You said that over and over.

And you said, 'Don't torment me so- I'll tell!' Tell what? What is

it you'll tell?"

Everything was swimming before Tom. There is no telling what might

have happened, now, but luckily the concern passed out of Aunt Polly's

face and she came to Tom's relief without knowing it. She said:

"Sho! It's that dreadful murder. I dream about it most every night

myself. Sometimes I dream it's me that done it."

Mary said she had been affected much the same way. Sid seemed

satisfied. Tom got out of the presence as quick as he plausibly could,

and after that he complained of toothache for a week and tied up his

jaws every night. He never knew that Sid lay nightly watching, and

frequently slipped the bandage free and then leaned on his elbow

listening a good while at a time, and afterward slipped the bandage

back to its place again. Tom's distress of mind wore off gradually and

the toothache grew irksome and was discarded. If Sid really managed to

make anything out of Tom's disjointed mutterings, he kept it to

himself.

It seemed to Tom that his schoolmates never would get done holding

inquests on dead cats, and thus keeping his trouble present to his

mind. Sid noticed that Tom never was coroner at one of these

inquiries, though it had been his habit to take the lead in all new

enterprises; he noticed, too, that Tom never acted as a witness,-

and that was strange; and Sid did not overlook the fact that Tom

even showed a marked aversion to these inquests, and always avoided

them when he could. Sid marveled, but said nothing. However, even

inquests went out of vogue at last, and ceased to torture Tom's

conscience.

Every day or two, during this time of sorrow, Tom watched his

opportunity and went to the little grated jail-window and smuggled

such small comforts through to the "murderer" as he could get hold of.

The jail was a trifling little brick den that stood in a marsh at

the edge of the village, and no guards were afforded for it; indeed it

was seldom occupied. These offerings greatly helped to ease Tom's

conscience.

The villagers had a strong desire to tar-and-feather Injun Joe and

ride him on a rail, for body-snatching, but so formidable was his

character that nobody could be found who was willing to take the

lead in the matter, so it was dropped. He had been careful to begin

both of his inquest-statements with the fight, without confessing

the grave-robbery that preceded it; therefore it was deemed wisest not

to try the case in the courts at present.

Chapter 12

The Cat and the Painkiller

ONE OF THE REASONS why Tom's mind had drifted away from its secret

troubles was, that it had found a new and weighty matter to interest

itself about. Becky Thatcher had stopped coming to school. Tom had

struggled with his pride a few days, and tried to "whistle her down

the wind," but failed. He began to find himself hanging around her

father's house, nights, and feeling very miserable. She was ill.

What if she should die! There was distraction in the thought. He no

longer took an interest in war, nor even in piracy. The charm of

life was gone; there was nothing but dreariness left. He put his

hoop away, and his bat; there was no joy in them any more. His aunt

was concerned. She began to try all manner of remedies on him. She was

one of those people who are infatuated with patent medicines and all

new-fangled methods of producing health or mending it. She was an

inveterate experimenter in these things. When something fresh in

this line came out she was in a fever, right away, to try it; not on

herself, for she was never ailing, but on anybody else that came

handy. She was a subscriber for all the "Health" periodicals and

phrenological frauds; and the solemn ignorance they were inflated with

was breath to her nostrils. All the "rot" they contained about

ventilation, and how to go to bed, and how to get up, and what to eat,

and what to drink, and how much exercise to take, and what frame of

mind to keep one's self in, and what sort of clothing to wear, was all

gospel to her, and she never observed that her health-journals of

the current month customarily upset everything they had recommended

the month before. She was as simple-hearted and honest as the day

was long, and so she was an easy victim. She gathered together her

quack periodicals and her quack medicines, and thus armed with

death, went about on her pale horse, metaphorically speaking, with

"hell following after." But she never suspected that she was not an

angel of healing and the balm of Gilead in disguise, to the

suffering neighbors.

The water treatment was new, now, and Tom's low condition was a

windfall to her. She had him out at daylight every morning, stood

him up in the woodshed and drowned him with a deluge of cold water;

then she scrubbed him down with a towel like a file, and so brought

him to; then she rolled him up in a wet sheet and put him away under

blankets till she sweated his soul clean and "the yellow stains of

it came through his pores"- as Tom said.

Yet notwithstanding all this, the boy grew more and more

melancholy and pale and dejected. She added hot baths, sitz baths,

shower baths and plunges. The boy remained as dismal as a hearse.

She began to assist the water with a slim oatmeal diet and blister

plasters. She calculated his capacity as she would a jug's, and filled

him up every day with quack cure-alls.

Tom had become indifferent to persecution, by this time. This

phase filled the old lady's heart with consternation. This

indifference must be broken up at any cost. Now she heard of

Pain-Killer for the first time. She ordered a lot at once. She

tasted it and was filled with gratitude. It was simply fire in a

liquid form. She dropped the water treatment and everything else,

and pinned her faith to Pain-Killer. She gave Tom a tea-spoonful and

watched with the deepest anxiety for the result. Her troubles were

instantly at rest, her soul at peace again; for the "indifference" was

broken up. The boy could not have shown a wilder, heartier interest,

if she had build a fire under him.

Tom felt that it was time to wake up; this sort of life might be

romantic enough, in his blighted condition, but it was getting to have

too little sentiment and too much distracting variety about it. So

he thought over various plans for relief, and finally hit upon that of

professing to be fond of Pain-Killer. He asked for it so often that he

became a nuisance, and his aunt ended by telling him to help himself

and quit bothering her. If it had been Sid, she would have had no

misgivings to alloy her delight; but since it was Tom, she watched the

bottle clandestinely. She found that the medicine did really diminish,

but it did not occur to her that the boy was mending the health of a

crack in the sitting-room floor with it.

One day Tom was in the act of dosing the crack when his aunt's

yellow cat came along, puffing, eyeing the tea-spoon avariciously, and

begging for a taste. Tom said:

"Don't ask for it unless you want it, Peter."

But Peter signified that he did want it.

"You better make sure."

Peter was sure.

"Now you've asked for it, and I'll give it to you, because there

ain't anything mean about me; but if you find you don't like it, you

musn't blame anybody but your own self."

Peter was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth open and poured down the

Pain-Killer. Peter sprang a couple of yards into the air, and then

delivered a war-whoop and set off round and round the room, banging

against furniture, upsetting flower-pots and making general havoc.

Next he rose on his hind feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of

enjoyment, with his head over his shoulder and his voice proclaiming

his unappeasable happiness. Then he went tearing around the house

again spreading chaos and destruction in his path. Aunt Polly

entered in time to see him throw a few double summersets, deliver a

final mighty hurrah, and sail through the open window, carrying the

rest of the flower-pots with him. The old lady stood petrified with

astonishment, peering over her glasses; Tom lay on the floor

expiring with laughter.

"Tom, what on earth ails that cat?"

"I don't know, aunt," gasped the boy.

"Why I never see anything like it. What did make him act so?"

"Deed I don't know Aunt Polly; cats always act so when they're

having a good time."

"They do, do they?" There was something in the tone that made Tom

apprehensive.

"Yes'm. That is, I believe they do."

"You do?"

"Yes'm."

The old lady was bending down, Tom watching, with interest

emphasized by anxiety. Too late he divined her "drift." The handle

of the tell-tale tea-spoon was visible under the bed-valance. Aunt

Polly took it, held it up. Tom winced, and dropped his eyes. Aunt

Polly raised him by the usual handle- his ear- and cracked his head

soundly with her thimble.

"Now, sir, what did you want to treat that poor dumb beast so, for?"

"I done it out of pity for him- because he hadn't any aunt."

"Hadn't any aunt!- you numscull. What has that got to do with it?"

"Heaps. Because if he'd a had one she'd a burnt him out herself!

She'd a roasted his bowels out of him 'thout any more feeling than

if he was a human!"

Aunt Polly felt a sudden pang of remorse. This was putting the thing

in a new light; what was cruelty to a cat might be cruelty to a boy,

too. She began to soften; she felt sorry. Her eyes watered a little,

and she put her hand on Tom's head and said gently:

"I was meaning for the best, Tom. And Tom, it did do you good."

Tom looked up in her face with just a perceptible twinkle peeping

through his gravity:

"I know you was meaning for the best, aunty, and so was I with

Peter. It done him good, too. I never see him get around so since-"

"O, go 'long with you, Tom, before you aggravate me again. And you

try and see if you can't be a good boy, for once, and you needn't take

any more medicine."

Tom reached school ahead of time. It was noticed that this strange

thing had been occurring every day latterly. And now, as usual of

late, he hung about the gate of the school-yard instead of playing

with his comrades. He was sick, he said, and he looked it. He tried to

seem to be looking everywhere but whither he really was looking-

down the road. Presently Jeff Thatcher hove in sight, and Tom's face

lighted; he gazed a moment, and then turned sorrowfully away. When

Jeff arrived, Tom accosted him, and "led up" warily to opportunities

for remark about Becky, but the giddy lad never could see the bait.

Tom watched and watched, hoping whenever a frisking frock came in

sight, and hating the owner of it as soon as he saw she was not the

right one. At last frocks ceased to appear, and he dropped

hopelessly into the dumps; he entered the empty school-house and sat

down to suffer. Then one more frock passed in at the gate, and Tom's

heart gave a great bound. The next instant he was out, and "going

on" like an Indian; yelling, laughing, chasing boys, jumping over

the fence at risk of life and limb, throwing hand-springs, standing on

his head- doing all the heroic things he could conceive of, and

keeping a furtive eye out, all the while, to see if Becky Thatcher was

noticing. But she seemed to be unconscious of it all; she never

looked. Could it be possible that she was not aware that he was there?

He carried his exploits to her immediate vicinity; came war-whooping

around, snatched a boy's cap, hurled it to the roof of the

school-house, broke through a group of boys, tumbling them in every

direction, and fell sprawling, himself, under Becky's nose, almost

upsetting her- and she turned, with her nose in the air, and he

heard her say. "Mf! some people think they're mighty smart- always

showing off!"

Tom's cheeks burned. He gathered himself up and sneaked off, crushed

and crestfallen.

Chapter 13

The Pirate Crew Set Sail

TOM'S MIND was made up now. He was gloomy and desperate. He was a

forsaken, friendless boy, he said; nobody loved him; when they found

out what they had driven him to, perhaps they would be sorry; he had

tried to do right and get along, but they would not let him; since

nothing would do them but to be rid of him, let it be so; and let them

blame him for the consequences- why shouldn't they? What right had the

friendless to complain? Yes, they had forced him to it at last: he

would lead a life of crime. There was no choice.

By this time he was far down Meadow Lane, and the bell for school to

"take up" tinkled faintly upon his ear. He sobbed, now, to think he

should never, never hear that old familiar sound any more- it was very

hard, but it was forced on him; since he was driven out into the

cold world, he must submit- but he forgave them. Then the sobs came

thick and fast.

Just at this point he met his soul's sworn comrade, Hoe Harper-

hard-eyed, and with evidently a great and dismal purpose in his heart.

Plainly here were "two souls with but a single thought." Tom, wiping

his eyes with his sleeve, began to blubber out something about a

resolution to escape from hard usage and lack of sympathy at home by

roaming abroad into the great world never to return; and ended by

hoping that Joe would not forget him.

But it transpired that this was a request which Joe had just been

going to make of Tom, and had come to hunt him up for that purpose.

His mother had whipped him for drinking some cream which he had

never tasted and knew nothing about; it was plain that she was tired

of him and wished him to go; if she felt that way, there was nothing

for him to do but succumb; he hoped she would be happy, and never

regret having driven her poor boy out into the unfeeling world to

suffer and die.

As the two boys walked sorrowing along, they made a new compact to

stand by each other and be brothers and never separate till death

relieved them of their troubles. Then they began to lay their plans.

Joe was for being a hermit, and living on crusts in a remote cave, and

dying, some time, of cold, and want, and grief; but after listening to

Tom, he conceded that there were some conspicuous advantages about a

life of crime, and so he consented to be a pirate.

Three miles below St. Petersburg, at a point where the Mississippi

river was a trifle over a mile wide, there was a long, narrow,

wooded island, with a shallow bar at the head of it, and this

offered well as a rendezvous. It was not inhabited; it lay far over

toward the further shore, abreast a dense and almost wholly

unpeopled forest. So Jackson's Island was chosen. Who were to be the

subjects of their piracies, was a matter that did not occur to them.

Then they hunted up Huckleberry Finn, and he joined them promptly, for

all careers were one to him; he was indifferent. They presently

separated to meet at a lonely spot on the river bank two miles above

the village at the favorite hour- which was midnight. There was a

small log raft there which they meant to capture. Each would bring

hooks and lines, and such provision as he could steal in the most dark

and mysterious way- as became outlaws. And before the afternoon was

done, they had all managed to enjoy the sweet glory of spreading the

fact that pretty soon the town would "hear something." All who got

this vague hint were cautioned to "be mum and wait."

About midnight Tom arrived with a boiled ham and a few trifles,

and stopped in a dense undergrowth on a small bluff overlooking the

meeting-place. It was starlight, and very still. The mighty river

lay like an ocean at rest. Tom listened a moment, but no sound

disturbed the quiet. Then he gave a low, distinct whistle. It was

answered from under the bluff. Tom whistled twice more; these

signals were answered in the same way. Then a guarded voice said:

"Who goes there?"

"Tom Sawyer, the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main. Name your

names."

"Huck Finn the Red-Handed, and Joe Harper the Terror of the Seas."

Tom had furnished these titles, from his favorite literature.

"'Tis well. Give the countersign."

Two hoarse whispers delivered the same awful word simultaneously

to the brooding night:

"BLOOD!"

Then Tom tumbled his ham over the bluff and let himself down after

it, tearing both skin and clothes to some extent in the effort.

There was an easy, comfortable path along the shore under the bluff,

but it lacked the advantages of difficulty and danger so valued by a

pirate.

The Terror of the Seas had brought a side of bacon, and had about

worn himself out with getting it there. Finn the Red-Handed had stolen

a skillet, and a quantity of half-cured leaf tobacco, and had also

brought a few corn-cobs to make pipes with. But none of the pirates

smoked or "chewed" but himself. The Black Avenger of the Spanish

Main said it would never do to start without some fire. That was a

wise thought; matches were hardly known there in that day. They saw

a fire smouldering upon a great raft a hundred yards above, and they

went stealthily thither and helped themselves to a chunk. They made an

imposing adventure of it, saying "Hist!" every now and then and

suddenly halting with finger on lip; moving with hands on imaginary

dagger-hilts; and giving orders in dismal whispers that if "the foe"

stirred, to "let him have it to the hilt," because "dead men tell no

tales." They knew well enough that the raftsmen were all down at the

village laying in stores or having a spree, but still that was no

excuse for their conducting this thing in an unpiratical way.

They shoved off, presently, Tom in command, Huck at the after oar

and Joe at the forward. Tom stood amidships, gloomy-browed, and with

folded arms, and gave his orders in a low, stern whisper:

"Luff, and bring her to the wind!"

"Aye-aye, sir!"

"Steady, stead-y-y-y!"

"Steady it is, sir!"

"Let her go off a point!"

"Point it is, sir!"

As the boys steadily and monotonously drove the raft toward

midstream, it was no doubt understood that these orders were given

only for "style," and were not intended to mean anything in

particular.

"What sail's she carrying?"

"Courses, tops'ls and flying-jib, sir."

"Send the r'yals up! Lay out aloft, there, half a dozen of ye,-

foretopmast-stuns'l! Lively, now!"

"Aye-aye, sir!"

"Shake out that maintogalans'l! Sheets and braces! Now, my

hearties!"

"Aye-aye, sir!"

"Hellum-a-lee- hard a port! Stand by to meet her when she comes!

Port, port! Now, men! With a will! Stead-y-y-y!"

"Steady it is, sir!"

The raft drew beyond the middle of the river; the boys pointed her

head right, and then lay on their oars. The river was not high, so

there was not more than a two- or three-mile current. Hardly a word

was said during the next three-quarters of an hour. Now the raft was

passing before the distant town. Two or three glimmering lights showed

where it lay, peacefully sleeping, beyond the vague vast sweep of

star-gemmed water, unconscious of the tremendous event that was

happening. The Black Avenger stood, still with folded arms, "looking

his last" upon the scene of his former joys and his later

sufferings, and wishing "she" could see him now, abroad on the wild

sea, facing peril and death with dauntless heart, going to his doom

with a grim smile on his lips. It was but a small strain on his

imagination to remove Jackson's Island beyond eye-shot of the village,

and so he "looked his last" with a broken and satisfied heart. The

other pirates were looking their last, too; and they all looked so

long that they came near letting the current drift them out of the

range of the island. But they discovered the danger in time, and

made shift to avert it. About two o'clock in the morning the raft

grounded on the bar two hundred yards above the head of the island,

and they waded back and forth until they had landed their freight.

Part of the little rafts belongings consisted of an old sail, and this

they spread over a nook in the bushes for a tent to shelter their

provisions; but they themselves would sleep in the open air in good

weather, as became outlaws.

They built a fire against the side of a great log twenty or thirty

steps within the sombre depths of the forest, and then cooked some

bacon in the frying-pan for supper, and used up half of the corn

"pone" stock they had brought. It seemed glorious sport to be feasting

in that wild free way in the virgin forest of an unexplored and

uninhabited island, far from the haunts of men, and they said they

never would return to civilization. The climbing fire lit up their

faces and threw its ruddy glare upon the pillared tree trunks of their

forest temple, and upon the varnished foliage and festooning vines.

When the last crisp slice of bacon was gone, and the last

allowance of corn pone devoured, the boys stretched themselves out

on the grass, filled with contentment. They could have found a

cooler place, but they would not deny themselves such a romantic

feature as the roasting camp-fire.

"Ain't it gay?" said Joe.

"It's nuts!" said Tom. "What would the boys say if they could see

us?"

"Say? Well they'd just die to be here- hey Hucky?"

"I reckon so," said Huckleberry; "anyways I'm suited. I don't want

nothing better'n this. I don't ever get enough to eat, gen'ally- and

here they can't come and pick at a feller and bullyrag him so."

"It's just the life for me," said Tom. "You don't have to get up,

mornings, and you don't have to go to school, and wash, and all that

blame foolishness. You see a pirate don't have to do anything, Joe,

when he's ashore, but a hermit he has to be praying considerable,

and then he don't have any fun, anyway, all by himself that way."

"O yes, that's so," said Joe, "but I hadn't thought much about it,

you know. I'd a good deal ruther be a pirate, now that I've tried it."

"You see," said Tom, "people don't go much on hermits, now-a-days,

like they used to in old times, but a pirate's always respected. And a

hermit's got to sleep on the hardest place he can find, and put

sack-cloth and ashes on his head, and stand out in the rain, and-"

"What does he put sack-cloth and ashes on his head for?" inquired

Huck.

"I dono. But they've got to do it. Hermits always do. You'd have

to do that if you was a hermit."

"Dern'd if I would," said Huck.

"Well what would you do?"

"I dono. But I wouldn't do that."

"Why Huck, you'd have to. How'd you get around it?"

"Why I just wouldn't stand it. I'd run away."

"Run away! Well you would be a nice old slouch of a hermit. You'd be

a disgrace."

The Red-Handed made no response, being better employed. He had

finished gouging out a cob, and now he fitted a weed stem to it,

loaded it with tobacco, and was pressing a coal to the charge and

blowing a cloud of fragrant smoke- he was in the full bloom of

luxurious contentment. The other pirates envied him this majestic

vice, and secretly resolved to acquire it shortly. Presently Huck

said:

"What does pirates have to do?"

Tom said:

"O they have just a bully time- take ships, and burn them, and get

the money and bury it in awful places in their island where there's

ghosts and things to watch it, and kill everybody in the ships- make

'em walk a plank."

"And they carry the women to the island," said Joe; "they don't kill

the women."

"No," assented Tom, "they don't kill the women- they're too noble.

And the women's always beautiful, too."

"And don't they wear the bulliest clothes! Oh, no! All gold and

silver and di'monds," said Joe, with enthusiasm.

"Who?" said Huck.

"Why the pirates."

Huck scanned his own clothing forlornly.

"I reckon I ain't dressed fitten for a pirate," said he, with a

regretful pathos in his voice; "but I ain't got none but these."

But the other boys told him the fine clothes would come fast enough,

after they should have begun their adventures. They made him

understand that his poor rags would do to begin with, though it was

customary for wealthy pirates to start with a proper wardrobe.

Gradually their talk died out and drowsiness began to steal upon the

eyelids of the little waifs. The pipe dropped from the fingers of

the Red-Handed, and he slept the sleep of the conscience-free and

the weary. The Terror of the Seas and the Black Avenger of the Spanish

Main had more difficulty in getting to sleep. They said their

prayers inwardly, and lying down, since there was nobody there with

authority to make them kneel and recite aloud; in truth they had a

mind not to say them at all, but they were afraid to proceed to such

lengths as that, lest they might call down a sudden and special

thunderbolt from Heaven. Then at once they reached and hovered upon

the imminent verge of sleep- but an intruder came, now, that would not

"down." It was conscience. They began to feel a vague fear that they

had been doing wrong to run away; and next they thought of the

stolen meat, and then the real torture came. They tried to argue it

away by reminding conscience that they had purloined sweetmeats and

apples scores of times; but conscience was not to be appeased by

such thin plausibilities. It seemed to them, in the end, that there

was no getting around the stubborn fact that taking sweetmeats was

only "hooking," while taking bacon and hams and such valuables was

plain simple stealing- and there was a command against that in the

Bible. So they inwardly resolved that so long as they remained in

the business, their piracies should not again be sullied with the

crime of stealing. Then conscience granted a truce, and these

curiously inconsistent pirates fell peacefully to sleep.

Chapter 14

Happy Camp of the Freebooters

WHEN TOM AWOKE in the morning, he wondered where he was. He sat up

and rubbed his eyes and looked around. Then he comprehended. It was

the cool gray dawn, and there was a delicious sense of repose and

peace in the deep pervading calm and silence of the woods. Not a

leaf stirred; not a sound obtruded upon great Nature's meditation.

Beaded dew-drops stood upon the leaves and grasses. A white layer of

ashes covered the fire, and a thin blue breath of smoke rose

straight into the air. Joe and Huck still slept.

Now, far away in the woods a bird called; another answered;

presently the hammering of a woodpecker was heard. Gradually the

cool dim gray of the morning whitened, and as gradually sounds

multiplied and life manifested itself. The marvel of Nature shaking

off sleep and going to work unfolded itself to the musing boy. A

little green worm came crawling over a dewy leaf, lifting two-thirds

of his body into the air from time to time and "sniffing around," then

proceeding again- for he was measuring, Tom said; and when the worm

approached him, of its own accord, he sat as still as a stone, with

his hopes rising and falling, by turns, as the creature still came

toward him or seemed inclined to go elsewhere; and when at last it

considered a painful moment with its curved body in the air and then

came decisively down upon Tom's leg and began a journey over him,

his whole heart was glad- for that meant that he was going to have a

new suit of clothes- without the shadow of a doubt a gaudy piratical

uniform. Now a procession of ants appeared, from nowhere in

particular, and went about their labors; one struggled manfully by

with a dead spider five times as big as itself in its arms, and lugged

it straight up a tree-trunk. A brown spotted lady-bug climbed the

dizzy height of a grass-blade, and Tom bent down close to it and said,

"Lady-bug, lady-bug, fly away home, your house is on fire, your

children's alone," and she took wing and went off to see about it-

which did not surprise the boy, for he knew of old that this insect

was credulous about conflagrations and he had practiced upon its

simplicity more than once. A tumble-bug came next, heaving sturdily at

its ball, and Tom touched the creature, to see it shut its legs

against its body and pretend to be dead. The birds were fairly rioting

by this time. A cat-bird, the northern mocker, lit in a tree over

Tom's head, and trilled out her imitations of her neighbors in a

rapture of enjoyment; then a shrill jay swept down, a flash of blue

flame, and stopped on a twig almost within the boy's reach, cocked his

head to one side and eyed the strangers with a consuming curiosity;

a gray squirrel and a big fellow of the "fox" kind came kurrying

along, sitting up at intervals to inspect and chatter at the boys, for

the wild things had probably never seen a human being before and

scarcely knew whether to be afraid or not. All Nature was wide awake

and stirring, now; long lances of sunlight pierced down through the

dense foliage far and near, and a few butterflies came fluttering upon

the scene.

Tom stirred up the other pirates and they all clattered away with

a shout, and in a minute or two were stripped and chasing after and

tumbling over each other in the shallow limpid water of the white

sand-bar. They felt no longing for the little village sleeping in

the distance beyond the majestic waste of water. A vagrant current

or a slight rise in the river had carried off their raft, but this

only gratified them, since its going was something like burning the

bridge between them and civilization.

They came back to camp wonderfully refreshed, glad-hearted, and

ravenous; and they soon had the camp-fire blazing up again. Huck found

a spring of clear cold water close by, and the boys made cups of broad

oak or hickory leaves, and felt that water, sweetened with such a

wild-wood charm as that, would be a good enough substitute for coffee.

While Joe was slicing bacon for breakfast, Tom and Huck asked him to

hold on a minute; they stepped to a promising nook in the river bank

and threw in their lines; almost immediately they had reward. Joe

had not had time to get impatient before they were back again with

some handsome bass, a couple of sun-perch and a small catfish-

provision enough for quite a family. They fried the fish with the

bacon and were astonished; for no fish had ever seemed so delicious

before. They did not know that the quicker a fresh water fish is on

the fire after he is caught the better he is; and they reflected

little upon what a sauce open air sleeping, open air exercise,

bathing, and a large ingredient of hunger makes, too.

They lay around in the shade, after breakfast, while Huck had a

smoke, and then went off through the woods on an exploring expedition.

They tramped gaily along, over decaying logs, through tangled

underbrush, among solemn monarchs of the forest, hung from their

crowns to the ground with a drooping regalia of grape-vines. Now and

then they came upon snug nooks carpeted with grass and jeweled with

flowers.

They found plenty of things to be delighted with but nothing to be

astonished at. They discovered that the island was about three miles

long and a quarter of a mile wide, and that the shore it lay closest

to was only separated from it by a narrow channel hardly two hundred

yards wide. They took a swim about every hour, so it was close upon

the middle of the afternoon when they got back to camp. They were

too hungry to stop to fish, but they fared sumptuously upon cold

ham, and then threw themselves down in the shade to talk. But the talk

soon began to drag, and then died. The stillness, the solemnity that

brooded in the woods, and the sense of loneliness, began to tell

upon the spirits of the boys. They fell to thinking. A sort of

undefined longing crept upon them. This took dim shape, presently-

it was budding homesickness. Even Finn the Red-Handed was dreaming

of his door-steps and empty hogsheads. But they were all ashamed of

their weakness, and none was brave enough to speak his thought.

For some time, now, the boys had been dully conscious of a

peculiar sound in the distance, just as one sometimes is of the

ticking of a clock which he takes no distinct note of. But now this

mysterious sound became more pronounced, and forced a recognition. The

boys started, glanced at each other, and then each assumed a listening

attitude. There was a long silence, profound and unbroken; then a

deep, sullen boom came floating down out of the distance.

"What is it!" exclaimed Joe, under his breath.

"I wonder," said Tom in a whisper.

"'Tain't thunder," said Huckleberry, in an awed tone, "becuz

thunder-"

"Hark!" said Tom. "Listen- don't talk."

They waited a time that seemed an age, and then the same muffled

boom troubled the solemn hush.

"Let's go and see."

They sprang to their feet and hurried to the shore toward the

town. They parted the bushes on the bank and peered out over the

water. The little steam ferry boat was about a mile below the village,

drifting with the current. Her broad deck seemed crowded with

people. There were a great many skiffs rowing about or floating with

the stream in the neighborhood of the ferry boat, but the boys could

not determine what the men in them were doing. Presently a great jet

of white smoke burst from the ferry boat's side, and as it expanded

and rose in a lazy cloud, that same dull throb of sound was borne to

the listeners again.

"I know now!" exclaimed Tom; "somebody's drownded!"

"That's it!" said Huck; "they done that last summer, when Bill

Turner got drownded; they shoot a cannon over the water, and that

makes him come up to the top. Yes, and they take loaves of bread and

put quicksilver in 'em and set 'em afloat, and wherever there's

anybody that's drownded, they'll float right there and stop."

"Yes, I've heard about that," said Joe. "I wonder what makes the

bread do that."

"O it ain't the bread, so much," said Tom; "I reckon it's mostly

what they say over it before they start it out."

"But they don't say anything over it," said Huck. "I've seen 'em and

they don't."

"Well that's funny", said Tom. "But maybe they say it to themselves.

Of course they do. Anybody might know that."

The other boys agreed that there was reason in what Tom said,

because an ignorant lump of bread, uninstructed by an incantation,

could not be expected to act very intelligently when sent upon an

errand of such gravity.

"By jings I wish I was over there, now," said Joe.

"I do too," said Huck. "I'd give heaps to know who it is."

The boys still listened and watched. Presently a revealing thought

flashed through Tom's mind, and he exclaimed:

"Boys, I know who's drownded- it's us!"

They felt like heroes in an instant. Here was a gorgeous triumph;

they were missed; they were mourned; hearts were breaking on their

account; tears were being shed; accusing memories of unkindnesses to

these poor lost lads were rising up, and unavailing regrets and

remorse were being indulged; and best of all, the departed were the

talk of the whole town, and the envy of all the boys, as far as this

dazzling notoriety was concerned. This was fine. It was worth while to

be a pirate, after all.

As twilight drew on, the ferry boat went back to her accustomed

business and the skiffs disappeared. The pirates returned to camp.

They were jubilant with vanity over their new grandeur and the

illustrious trouble they were making. They caught fish, cooked

supper and ate it, and then fell to guessing at what the village was

thinking and saying about them; and the pictures they drew of the

public distress on their account were gratifying to look upon- from

their point of view. But when the shadows of night closed them in,

they gradually ceased to talk, and sat gazing into the fire, with

their minds evidently wandering elsewhere. The excitement was gone,

now, and Tom and Joe could not keep back thoughts of certain persons

at home who were not enjoying this fine frolic as much as they were.

Misgivings came; they grew troubled and unhappy; a sigh or two

escaped, unawares. By and by Joe timidly ventured upon a roundabout

"feeler" as to how the others might look upon a return to

civilization- not right now, but-

Tom withered him with derision! Huck, being uncommitted, as yet,

joined in with Tom, and the waverer quickly "explained," and was

glad to get out of the scrape with as little taint of

chicken-hearted homesickness clinging to his garments as he could.

Mutiny was effectually laid to rest for the moment.

As the night deepened, Huck began to nod, and presently to snore.

Joe followed next. Tom lay upon his elbow motionless, for some time,

watching the two intently. At last he got up cautiously, on his knees,

and went searching among the grass and the flickering reflections

flung by the camp-fire. He picked up and inspected several large

semi-cylinders of the thin white bark of a sycamore, and finally chose

two which seemed to suit him. Then he knelt by the fire and

painfully wrote something upon each of these with his "red keel;"

one he rolled up and put in his jacket pocket, and the other he put in

Joe's hat and removed it to a little distance from the owner. And he

also put into the hat certain schoolboy treasures of almost

inestimable value- among them a lump of chalk, an India rubber ball,

three fish-hooks, and one of that kind of marbles known as a "sure

'nough crystal." Then he tip-toed his way cautiously among the trees

till he felt that he was out of hearing, and straightway broke into

a keen run in the direction of the sand-bar.

Chapter 15

Tom's Stealthy Visit Home

A FEW MINUTES LATER Tom was in the shoal water of the bar, wading

toward the Illinois shore. Before the depth reached his middle he

was half way over; the current would permit no more wading, now, so he

struck out confidently to swim the remaining hundred yards. He swam

quartering up stream, but still was swept downward rather faster

than he had expected. However, he reached the shore finally, and

drifted along till he found a low place and drew himself out. He put

his hand on his jacket pocket, found his piece of bark safe, and

then struck through the woods, following the shore, with streaming

garments. Shortly before ten o'clock he came out into an open place

opposite the village, and saw the ferry boat lying in the shadow of

the trees and the high bank. Everything was quiet under the blinking

stars. He crept down the bank, watching with all his eyes, slipped

into the water, swam three or four strokes and climbed into the

skiff that did "yawl" duty at the boat's stern. He laid himself down

under the thwarts and waited, panting.

Presently the cracked bell tapped and a voice gave the order to

"cast off." A minute or two later the skiff's head was standing high

up, against the boat's swell, and the voyage was begun. Tom felt happy

in his success, for he knew it was the boat's last trip for the night.

At the end of a long twelve or fifteen minutes the wheels stopped, and

Tom slipped overboard and swam ashore in the dusk, landing fifty yards

down stream, out of danger of possible stragglers.

He flew along unfrequented alleys, and shortly found himself at

his aunt's back fence. He climbed over, approached the "ell" and

looked in at the sitting-room window, for a light was burning there.

There sat Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, and Joe Harper's mother, grouped

together, talking. They were by the bed, and the bed was between

them and the door. Tom went to the door and began to softly lift the

latch; then he pressed gently and the door yielded a crack; he

continued pushing cautiously, and quaking every time it creaked,

till he judged he might squeeze through on his knees; and so he put

his head through and began, warily.

"What makes the candle blow so?" said Aunt Polly. Tom hurried up.

"Why that door's open, I believe. Why of course it is. No end of

strange things now. Go 'long and shut it, Sid."

Tom disappeared under the bed just in time. He lay and "breathed"

himself for a time, and then crept to where he could almost touch

his aunt's foot.

"But as I was saying," said Aunt Polly, "he warn't bad, so to say-

only mischeevous. Only just giddy, and harum-scarum, you know. He

warn't any more responsible than a colt. He never meant any harm,

and he was the best-hearted boy that ever was"- and she began to cry.

"It was just so with my Joe- always full of his devilment, and up to

every kind of mischief, but he was just as unselfish and kind as he

could be- and laws bless me, to think I went and whipped him for

taking that cream, never once recollecting that I throwed it out

myself because it was sour, and I never to see him again in this

world, never, never, poor abused boy!" And Mrs. Harper sobbed as if

her heart would break.

"I hope Tom's better off where he is," said Sid, "but if he'd been

better in some ways-"

"Sid!" Tom felt the glare of the old lady's eye, though he could not

see it. "Not a word against my Tom, now that he's gone! God'll take

care of him- never you trouble yourself, sir! Oh, Mrs. Harper, I don't

know how to give him up, I don't know how to give him up! He was

such a comfort to me, although he tormented my old heart out of me,

'most."

"The Lord giveth and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name

of the Lord! But it's so hard- O, it's so hard! Only last Saturday

my Joe busted a fire-cracker right under my nose and I knocked him

sprawling. Little did I know then, how soon- O, if it was to do over

again I'd hug him and bless him for it."

"Yes, yes, yes, I know just how you feel, Mrs. Harper, I know just

exactly how you feel. No longer ago than yesterday noon, my Tom took

and filled the cat full of Pain-Killer, and I did think the cretur

would tear the house down. And God forgive me, I cracked Tom's head

with my thimble, poor boy, poor dead boy. But he's out of all his

troubles now. And the last words I ever heard him say was to

reproach-"

But this memory was too much for the old lady, and she broke

entirely down. Tom was snuffling, now, himself- and more in pity of

himself than anybody else. He could hear Mary crying, and putting in a

kindly word for him from time to time. He began to have a nobler

opinion of himself than ever before. Still he was sufficiently touched

by his aunt's grief to long to rush out from under the bed and

overwhelm her with joy- and the theatrical gorgeousness of the thing

appealed strongly to his nature, too, but he resisted and lay still.

He went on listening, and gathered by odds and ends that it was

conjectured at first that the boys had got drowned while taking a

swim; then the small raft had been missed; next, certain boys said the

missing lads had promised that the village should "hear something"

soon; the wise-heads had "put this and that together" and decided that

the lads had gone off on that raft and would turn up at the next

town below, presently; but toward noon the raft had been found, lodged

against the Missouri shore some five or six miles below the

village,- and then hope perished; they must be drowned, else hunger

would have driven them home by nightfall if not sooner. It was

believed that the search for the bodies had been a fruitless effort

merely because the drowning must have occurred in mid-channel, since

the boys, being good swimmers, would otherwise have escaped to

shore. This was Wednesday night. If the bodies continued missing until

Sunday, all hope would be given over, and the funerals would be

preached on that morning. Tom shuddered.

Mrs. Harper gave a sobbing good-night and turned to go. Then with

a mutual impulse the two bereaved women flung themselves into each

other's arms and had a good, consoling cry, and then parted. Aunt

Polly was tender far beyond her wont, in her good-night to Sid and

Mary. Sid snuffled a bit and Mary went off crying with all her heart.

Aunt Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom so touchingly, so

appealingly, and with such measureless love in her words and her old

trembling voice, that he was weltering in tears again, long before she

was through.

He had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she kept making

broken-hearted ejaculations from time to time, tossing unrestfully,

and turning over. But at last she was still, only moaning a little

in her sleep. Now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside,

shaded the candle-light with his hand, and stood regarding her. His

heart was full of pity for her. He took out his sycamore scroll and

placed it by the candle. But something occurred to him, and he

lingered, considering.

His face lighted with a happy solution of his thought; he put the

bark hastily in his pocket. Then he bent over and kissed the faded

lips, and straightway made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind

him.

He threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found nobody at large

there, and walked boldly on board the boat, for he knew she was

tenantless except that there was a watchman, who always turned in

and slept like a graven image. He untied the skiff at the stern,

slipped into it, and was soon rowing cautiously up stream. When he had

pulled a mile above the village, he started quartering across and bent

himself stoutly to his work. He hit the landing on the other side

neatly, for this was a familiar bit of work to him. He was moved to

capture the skiff, arguing that it might be considered a ship and

therefore legitimate prey for a pirate, but he knew a thorough

search would be made for it and that might end in revelations. So he

stepped ashore and entered the wood.

He sat down and took a long rest, torturing himself meantime to keep

awake, and then started wearily down the home-stretch. The night was

far spent. It was broad daylight before he found himself fairly

abreast the island bar. He rested again until the sun was well up

and gilding the great river with its splendor, and then he plunged

into the stream. A little later he paused, dripping, upon the

threshold of the camp, and heard Joe say:

"No, Tom's true-blue, Huck, and he'll come back. He won't desert. He

knows that would be a disgrace to a pirate, and Tom's too proud for

that sort of thing. He's up to something or other. Now I wonder what?"

"Well, the things is ours, anyway, ain't they?"

"Pretty near, but not yet, Huck. The writing says they are if he

ain't back here to breakfast."

"Which he is!" exclaimed Tom, with fine dramatic effect, stepping

grandly into camp.

A sumptuous breakfast of bacon and fish was shortly provided, and as

the boys set to work upon it, Tom recounted (and adorned) his

adventures. They were a vain and boastful company of heroes when the

tale was done. Then Tom hid himself away in a shady nook to sleep till

noon, and the other pirates got ready to fish and explore.

Chapter 16

First Pipes- "I've Lost My Knife"

AFTER DINNER all the gang turned out to hunt for turtle eggs on

the bar. They went about poking sticks into the sand, and when they

found a soft place they went down on their knees and dug with their

hands. Sometimes they would take fifty or sixty eggs out of one

hole. They were perfectly round white things a trifle smaller than

an English walnut. They had a famous fried-egg feast that night, and

another on Friday morning.

After breakfast they went whooping and prancing out on the bar,

and chased each other round and round, shedding clothes as they

went, until they were naked, and then continued the frolic far away up

the shoal water of the bar, against the stiff current, which latter

tripped their legs from under them from time to time and greatly

increased the fun. And now and then they stooped in a group and

splashed water in each other's faces with their palms, gradually

approaching each other, with averted faces to avoid the strangling

sprays and finally gripping and struggling till the best man ducked

his neighbor, and then they all went under in a tangle of white legs

and arms and came up blowing, sputtering, laughing and gasping for

breath at one and the same time.

When they were well exhausted, they would run out and sprawl on

the dry, hot sand, and lie there and cover themselves up with it,

and by and by break for the water again and go through the original

performance once more. Finally it occurred to them that their naked

skin represented flesh-colored "tights" very fairly; so they drew a

ring in the sand and had a circus- with three clowns in it, for none

would yield this proudest post to his neighbor.

Next they got their marbles and played "knucks" and "ring-taw" and

"keeps" till that amusement grew stale. Then Joe and Huck had

another swim, but Tom would not venture, because he found that in

kicking off his trousers he had kicked his string of rattlesnake

rattles off his ankle, and he wondered how he had escaped cramp so

long without the protection of this mysterious charm. He did not

venture again until he had found it, and by that time the other boys

were tired and ready to rest. They gradually wandered apart, dropped

into the "dumps," and fell to gazing longingly across the wide river

to where the village lay drowsing in the sun. Tom found himself

writing "BECKY" in the sand with his big toe; he scratched it out, and

was angry with himself for his weakness. But he wrote it again,

nevertheless; he could not help it. He erased it once more and then

took himself out of temptation by driving the other boys together

and joining them.

But Joe's spirits had gone down almost beyond resurrection. He was

so homesick that he could hardly endure the misery of it. The tears

lay very near the surface. Huck was melancholy, too. Tom was

downhearted, but tried hard not to show it. He had a secret which he

was not ready to tell, yet, but if this mutinous depression was not

broken up soon, he would have to bring it out. He said, with a great

show of cheerfulness:

"I bet there's been pirates on this island before, boys. We'll

explore it again. They've hid treasures here somewhere. How'd you feel

to light on a rotten chest full of gold and silver- hey?"

But it roused only a faint enthusiasm, which faded out, with no

reply. Tom tried one or two other seductions; but they failed, too. It

was discouraging work. Joe sat poking up the sand with a stick and

looking very gloomy. Finally he said:

"O, boys, let's give it up. I want to go home. It's so lonesome."

"O, no, Joe, you'll feel better by and by," said Tom. "Just think of

the fishing that's here."

"I don't care for fishing. I want to go home."

"But Joe, there ain't such another swimming place anywhere."

"Swimming's no good. I don't seem to care for it, somehow, when

there ain't anybody to say I shan't go in. I mean to go home."

"O, shucks! Baby! You want to see your mother, I reckon."

"Yes, I do want to see my mother- and you would too, if you had one.

I ain't any more baby than you are." And Joe snuffled a little.

"Well, we'll let the cry-baby go home to his mother, won't we

Huck? Poor thing- does it want to see its mother? And so it shall. You

like it here, don't you Huck? We'll stay, won't we?"

Huck said "Y-e-s"- without any heart in it.

"I'll never speak to you again as long as I live," said Joe, rising.

"There now!" And he moved moodily away and began to dress himself.

"Who cares!" said Tom. "Nobody wants you to. Go 'long home and get

laughed at. O, you're a nice pirate. Huck and me ain't cry-babies.

We'll stay, won't we Huck? Let him go if he wants to. I reckon we

can get along without him, per'aps."

But Tom was uneasy, nevertheless, and was alarmed to see Joe go

sullenly on with his dressing. And then it was discomforting to see

Huck eyeing Joe's preparations so wistfully, and keeping up such an

ominous silence. Presently, without a parting word, Joe began to

wade off toward the Illinois shore. Tom's heart began to sink. He

glanced at Huck. Huck could not bear the look, and dropped his eyes.

Then he said:

"I want to go, too, Tom. It was getting so lonesome anyway, and

now it'll be worse. Let's us go too, Tom."

"I won't! You can all go, if you want to. I mean to stay."

"Tom, I better go."

"Well go 'long- who's hendering you."

Huck began to pick up his scattered clothes. He said:

"Tom, I wisht you'd come too. Now you think it over. We'll wait

for you when we get to shore."

"Well you'll wait a blame long time, that's all."

Huck started sorrowfully away, and Tom stood looking after him, with

a strong desire tugging at his heart to yield his pride and go along

too. He hoped the boys would stop, but they still waded slowly on.

It suddenly dawned on Tom that it was become very lonely and still. He

made one final struggle with his pride, and then darted after his

comrades, yelling:

"Wait! Wait! I want to tell you something!"

They presently stopped and turned around. When he got to where

they were, he began unfolding his secret, and they listened moodily

till at last they saw the "point" he was driving at, and then they set

up a war-whoop of applause and said it was "splendid!" and said if

he had told them at first, they wouldn't have started away. He made

a plausible excuse; but his real reason had been the fear that not

even the secret would keep them with him any very great length of

time, and so he had meant to hold it in reserve as a last seduction.

The lads came gaily back and went at their sports again with a will,

chattering all the time about Tom's stupendous plan and admiring the

genius of it. After a dainty egg and fish dinner, Tom said he wanted

to learn to smoke, now. Joe caught at the idea and said he would

like to try, too. So Huck made pipes and filled them. These novices

had never smoked anything before but cigars made of grape-vine and

they "bit" the tongue and were not considered manly, anyway.

Now they stretched themselves out on their elbows and began to puff,

charily, and with slender confidence. The smoke had an unpleasant

taste, and they gagged a little, but Tom said:

"Why it's just as easy! If I'd a knowed this was all, I'd a learnt

long ago."

"So would I," said Joe. "It's just nothing."

"Why many a time I've looked at people smoking, and thought well I

wish I could do that; but I never thought I could," said Tom.

"That's just the way with me, hain't it Huck? You've heard me talk

just that way- haven't you Huck? I'll leave it to Huck if I haven't."

"Yes- heaps of times," said Huck.

"Well I have too," said Tom; "O, hundreds of times. Once down

there by the slaughter-house. Don't you remember, Huck? Bob Tanner was

there, and Johnny Miller, and Jeff Thatcher, when I said it. Don't you

remember Huck, 'bout me saying that?"

"Yes, that's so," said Huck. "That was the day after I lost a

white alley. No, 'twas the day before."

"There- I told you so," said Tom. "Huck recollects it."

"I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day," said Joe. "I don't

feel sick."

"Neither do I," said Tom. "I could smoke it all day. But I bet you

Jeff Thatcher couldn't."

"Jeff Thatcher! Why he'd keel over just with two draws. Just let him

try it once. He'd see!"

"I bet he would. And Johnny Miller- I wish I could see Johnny Miller

tackle it once."

"O, don't I" said Joe, "Why I bet you Johnny Miller couldn't any

more do this than nothing. Just one little snifter would fetch him."

"'Deed it would, Joe. Say- I wish the boys could see us now."

"So do I."

"Say- boys, don't say anything about it, and some time when they're

around, I'll come up to you and say 'Joe, got a pipe? I want a smoke.'

And you'll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything,

you'll say, 'Yes, I got my old pipe, and another one, but my

tobacker ain't very good.' I'll say, 'O, that's all right, if it's

strong enough.' And then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up

just as ca'm, and then just see 'em look!"

"By jings that'll be gay, Tom! I wish it was now!"

"So do I! And when we tell 'em we learned when we was off

pirating, won't they wish they'd been along?"

"O, I reckon not! I'll just bet they will!"

So the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag a trifle, and

grow disjointed. The silences widened; the expectoration marvelously

increased. Every pore inside the boys' cheeks became a spouting

fountain; they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues

fast enough to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their

throats occurred in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings

followed every time. Both boys were looking very pale and miserable,

now. Joe's pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers. Tom's followed.

Both fountains were going furiously and both pumps bailing with

might and main. Joe said feebly:

"I've lost my knife. I reckon I better go and find it."

Tom said, with quivering lip and halting utterance:

"I'll help you. You go over that way and I'll hunt around by the

spring. No, you needn't come, Huck- we can find it."

So Huck sat down again, and waited an hour. Then he found it

lonesome, and went to find his comrades. They were wide apart in the

woods, both very pale, both fast asleep. But something informed him

that if they had had any trouble they had got rid of it.

They were not talkative at supper that night. They had a humble

look, and when Huck prepared his pipe after the meal and was going

to prepare theirs, they said no, they were not feeling very well-

something they ate at dinner had disagreed with them.

About midnight Joe awoke, and called the boys. There was a

brooding oppressiveness in the air that seemed to bode something.

The boys huddled themselves together and sought the friendly

companionship of the fire, though the dull dead heat of the breathless

atmosphere was stifling. They sat still, intent and waiting. The

solemn hush continued. Beyond the light of the fire everything was

swallowed up in the blackness of darkness. Presently there came a

quivering glow that vaguely revealed the foliage for a moment and then

vanished. By and by another came, a little stronger. Then another.

Then a faint moan came sighing through the branches of the forest

and the boys felt a fleeting breath upon their cheeks, and shuddered

with the fancy that the Spirit of the Night had gone by. There was a

pause. Now a weird flash turned night into day and showed every little

grass-blade, separate and distinct, that grew about their feet. And it

showed three white, startled faces, too. A deep peal of thunder went

rolling and tumbling down the heavens and lost itself in sullen

rumblings in the distance. A sweep of chilly air passed by, rustling

all the leaves and snowing the flaky ashes broadcast about the fire.

Another fierce glare lit up the forest and an instant crash followed

that seemed to rend the tree-tops right over the boys' heads. They

clung together in terror, in the thick gloom that followed. A few

big rain-drops fell pattering upon the leaves.

"Quick! boys, go for the tent!" exclaimed Tom.

They sprang away, stumbling over roots and among vines in the

dark, no two plunging in the same direction. A furious blast roared

through the trees, making everything sing as it went. One blinding

flash after another came, and peal on peal of deafening thunder. And

now a drenching rain poured down and the rising hurricane drove it

in sheets along the ground. The boys cried out to each other, but

the roaring wind and the booming thunder-blasts drowned their voices

utterly. However, one by one they straggled in at last and took

shelter under the tent, cold scared, and streaming with water; but

to have company in misery seemed something to be grateful for. They

could not talk, the old sail flapped so furiously, even if the other

noises would have allowed them. The tempest rose higher and higher,

and presently the sail tore loose from its fastenings and went winging

away on the blast. The boys seized each others' hands and fled, with

many tumblings and bruises, to the shelter of a great oak that stood

upon the river bank. Now the battle was at its highest. Under the

ceaseless conflagration of lightning that flamed in the skies,

everything below stood out in clean-cut and shadowless distinctness:

the bending trees, the billowy river, white with foam, the driving

spray of spume-flakes, the dim outlines of the high bluffs on the

other side, glimpsed through the drifting cloud-rack and the

slanting veil of rain. Every little while some giant tree yielded

the fight and fell crashing through the younger growth; and the

unflagging thunder-peals came now in ear-splitting explosive bursts,

keen and sharp, and unspeakably appalling. The storm culminated in one

matchless effort that seemed likely to tear the island to pieces, burn

it up, drown it to the tree-tops, blow it away, and deafen every

creature in it, all at one and the same moment. It was a wild night

for homeless young heads to be out in.

But at last the battle was done, and the forces retired with

weaker and weaker threatenings and grumblings, and peace resumed her

sway. The boys went back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found

there was still something to be thankful for, because the great

sycamore, the shelter of their beds, was a ruin now, blasted by the

lightnings, and they were not under it when the catastrophe happened.

Everything in camp was drenched, the camp-fire as well; for they

were but heedless lads, like their generation, and had made no

provision against rain. Here was matter for dismay, for they were

soaked through and chilled. They were eloquent in their distress;

but they presently discovered that the fire had eaten so far up

under the great log it had been built against, (where it curved upward

and separated itself from the ground,) that a hand-breadth or so of it

had escaped wetting; so they patiently wrought until, with shreds

and bark gathered from the under sides of sheltered logs, they

coaxed the fire to burn again. Then they piled on great dead boughs

till they had a roaring furnace and were glad-hearted once more.

They dried their boiled ham and had a feast, and after that they sat

by the fire and expanded and glorified their midnight adventure

until morning, for there was not a dry spot to sleep on, anywhere

around.

As the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over

them and they went out on the sand-bar and lay down to sleep. They got

scorched out by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast.

After the meal they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little

homesick once more. Tom saw the signs, and fell to cheering up the

pirates as well as he could. But they cared nothing for marbles, or

circus, or swimming, or anything. He reminded them of the imposing

secret, and raised a ray of cheer. While it lasted, he got them

interested in a new device. This was to knock off being pirates, for a

while, and be Indians for a change. They were attracted by this

idea; so it was not long before they were stripped, and striped from

head to heel with black mud, like so many zebras,- all of them chiefs,

of course- and then they went tearing through the woods to attack an

English settlement.

By and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted

upon each other from ambush with dreadful war-whoops, and killed and

scalped each other by thousands. It was a gory day. Consequently it

was an extremely satisfactory one.

They assembled in camp toward supper time, hungry and happy; but now

a difficulty arose- hostile Indians could not break the bread of

hospitality together without first making peace, and this was a simple

impossibility without smoking a pipe of peace. There was no other

process that ever they had heard of. Two of the savages almost

wished they had remained pirates. However, there was no other way:

so with such show of cheerfulness as they could muster they called for

the pipe and took their whiff as it passed, in due form.

And behold they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they

had gained something; they found that they could now smoke a little

without having to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get

sick enough to be seriously uncomfortable. They were not likely to

fool away this high promise for lack of effort. No, they practiced

cautiously, after supper, with right fair success, and so they spent a

jubilant evening. They were prouder and happier in their new

acquirement than they would have been in the scalping and skinning

of the Six Nations. We will leave them to smoke and chatter and

brag, since we have no further use for them at present.

Chapter 17

Pirates at Their Own Funeral

BUT THERE WAS NO hilarity in the little town that same tranquil

Saturday afternoon. The Harpers, and Aunt Polly's family, were being

put into mourning, with great grief and many tears. An unusual quiet

possessed the village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all

conscience. The villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air,

and talked little; but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday

seemed a burden to the children. They had no heart in their sports,

and gradually gave them up.

In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the

deserted school-house yard, and feeling very melancholy. But she found

nothing there to comfort her. She soliloquised:

"O, if I only had his brass andiron-knob again! But I haven't got

anything now to remember him by." And she choked back a little sob.

Presently she stopped, and said to herself:

"It was right here. O, if it was to do over again, I wouldn't say

that- I wouldn't say it for the whole world. But he's gone now; I'll

never never never see him any more."

This thought broke her down and she wandered away, with the tears

rolling down her cheeks. Then quite a group of boys and girls,-

playmates of Tom's and Joe's- came by, and stood looking over the

paling fence and talking in reverent tones of how Tom did so-and-so,

the last time they saw him, and how Joe said this and that small

trifle (pregnant with awful prophecy, as they could easily see

now!)- and each speaker pointed out the exact spot where the lost lads

stood at the time, and then added something like "and I was a-standing

just so- just as I am now, and as if you was him- I was as close as

that- and he smiled, just this way- and then something seemed to go

all over me, like,- awful, you know- and I never thought what it

meant, of course, but I can see now!"

Then there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life,

and many claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences,

more or less tampered with by the witness; and when it was

ultimately decided who did see the departed last, and exchanged the

last words with them, the lucky parties took upon themselves a sort of

sacred importance, and were gaped at and envied by all the rest. One

poor chap, who had no other grandeur to offer, said with tolerably

manifest pride in the remembrance:

"Well, Tom Sawyer he licked me once."

But that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the boys could say

that, and so that cheapened the distinction too much. The group

loitered away, still recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed

voices.

When the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell

began to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way. It was a very

still Sabbath, and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the

musing hush that lay upon nature. The villagers began to gather,

loitering a moment in the vestibule to converse in whispers about

the sad event. But there was no whispering in the house; only the

funereal rustling of dresses as the women gathered to their seats

disturbed the silence there. None could remember when the little

church had been so full before. There was finally a waiting pause,

an expectant dumbness, and then Aunt Polly entered, followed by Sid

and Mary, and they by the Harper family, all in deep black, and the

whole congregation, the old minister as well, rose reverently and

stood, until the mourners were seated in the front pew. There was

another communing silence, broken at intervals by muffled sobs, and

then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed. A moving hymn

was sung, and the text followed: "I am the Resurrection, and the

Life."

As the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such pictures of the

graces, the winning ways and the rare promise of the lost lads, that

every soul there, thinking he recognized these pictures, felt a pang

in remembering that he had persistently blinded himself to them,

always before, and had as persistently seen only faults and flaws in

the poor boys. The minister related many a touching incident in the

lives of the departed, too, which illustrated their sweet, generous

natures, and the people could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful

those episodes were, and remembered with grief that at the time they

occurred they had seemed rank rascalities, well deserving of the

cowhide. The congregation became more and more moved, as the

pathetic tale went on, till at last the whole company broke down and

joined the weeping mourners in a chorus of anguished sobs, the

preacher himself giving way to his feelings, and crying in the pulpit.

There was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody noticed; a moment

later the church door creaked; the minister raised his streaming

eyes above his handkerchief, and stood transfixed! First one and

then another pair of eyes followed the minister's, and then almost

with one impulse the congregation rose and stared while the three dead

boys came marching up the aisle, Tom in the lead, Joe next, and

Huck, a ruin of drooping rags, sneaking sheepishly in the rear! They

had been hid in the unused gallery listening to their own funeral

sermon!

Aunt Polly, Mary and the Harpers threw themselves upon their

restored ones, smothered them with kisses and poured out

thanksgivings, while poor Huck stood abashed and uncomfortable, not

knowing exactly what to do or where to hide from so many unwelcoming

eyes. He wavered, and started to slink-away, but Tom seized him and

said:

"Aunt Polly, it ain't fair. Somebody's got to be glad to see Huck."

"And so they shall. I'm glad to see him, poor motherless thing!" And

the loving attentions Aunt Polly lavished upon him were the one

thing capable of making him more uncomfortable than he was before.

Suddenly the minister shouted at the top of his voice: "Praise God

from whom all blessings flow- SING!- and put your hearts in it!"

And they did. Old Hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and

while it shook the rafters Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around upon

the envying juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that this

was the proudest moment of his life.

As the "sold" congregation trooped out they said they would almost

be willing to be made ridiculous again to hear Old Hundred sung like

that once more.

Tom got more cuffs and kisses that day- according to Aunt Polly's

varying moods- than he had earned before in a year; and he hardly knew

which expressed the most gratefulness to God and affection for

himself.

Chapter 18

Tom Reveals His Dream Secret

THAT WAS TOM'S GREAT secret- the scheme to return home with his

brother pirates and attend their own funerals. They had paddled over

to the Missouri shore on a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five or

six miles below the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge

of the town till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back

lanes and alleys and finished their sleep in the gallery of the church

among a chaos of invalided benches.

At breakfast Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to

Tom, and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of

talk. In the course of it Aunt Polly said:

"Well, I don't say it wasn't a fine joke, Tom, to keep everybody

suffering 'most a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity

you could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you could come

over on a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give

me a hint some way that you warn't dead, but only run off."

"Yes, you could have done that, Tom," said Mary; "and I believe

you would if you had thought of it."

"Would you Tom?" said Aunt Polly, her face lighting wistfully.

"Say, now, would you, if you'd thought of it?"

"I- well I don't know. 'Twould a spoiled everything."

"Tom, I hoped you loved me that much," said Aunt Polly, with a

grieved tone that discomforted the boy. "It would been something if

you'd cared enough to think of it, even if you didn't do it."

"Now auntie, that ain't any harm," pleaded Mary; "it's only Tom's

giddy way- he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of

anything."

"More's the pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid would have come

and done it, too. Tom, you'll look back, some day, when it's too late,

and wish you'd cared a little more for me when it would have cost

you so little."

"Now auntie, you know I do care for you," said Tom.

"I'd know it better if you acted more like it."

"I wish now I'd thought," said Tom, with a repentant tone; "but I

dreamed about you anyway. That's something, ain't it?"

"It ain't much- a cat does that much- but it's better than

nothing. What did you dream?"

"Why Wednesday night I dreamt that you was sitting over there by the

bed, and Sid was sitting by the wood-box, and Mary next to him."

"Well, so we did. So we always do. I'm glad your dreams could take

even that much trouble about us."

"And I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was here."

"Why, she was here! Did you dream any more?"

"O, lots. But it's so dim, now."

"Well, try to recollect- can't you?"

"Somehow it seems to me that the wind- the wind blowed the- the-"

"Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something. Come!"

Tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an anxious minute, and

then said:

"I've got it now! I've got it now! It blowed the candle!"

"Mercy on us! Go on, Tom- go on!"

"And it seems to me that you said, 'Why I believe that that door-'"

"Go on, Tom!"

"Just let me study a moment- just a moment. O, yes- you said you

believed the door was open."

"As I'm a-sitting here, I did! Didn't I, Mary? Go on!"

"And then- and then- well I won't be certain, but it seems like as

if you made Sid go and- and-"

"Well? Well? What did I make him do, Tom? What did I make him do?"

"You made him- you- O, you made him shut it."

"Well for the land's sake! I never heard the beat of that in all

my days! Don't tell me there ain't anything in dreams, any more.

Sereny Harper shall know of this before I'm an hour older. I'd like to

see her get around this with her rubbage 'bout superstition. Go on,

Tom!"

"O, it's all getting just as bright as day, now. Next you said I

warn't bad, only mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any more

responsible than- than- I think it was a colt, or something."

"And so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go on, Tom!"

"And then you began to cry."

"So I did. So I did. Not the first time, neither. And then-"

"Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said Joe was just the same

and she wished she hadn't whipped him for taking cream when she'd

throwed it out her own self-"

"Tom! The sperrit was upon you! You was a-prophecying- that's what

you was doing! Land alive, go on, Tom!"

"Then Sid he said- he said-"

"I don't think I said anything," said Sid.

"Yes you did, Sid," said Mary.

"Shut your heads and let Tom go on! What did he say, Tom?"

"He said- I think he said he hoped I was better off where I was gone

to, but if I'd been better sometimes-"

"There, d'you hear that! It was his very words!"

"And you shut him up sharp."

"I lay I did! There must a been an angel there. There was an angel

there, somewheres!"

"And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her with a fire-cracker, and

you told about Peter and the Pain-killer-"

"Just as true as I live!"

"And then there was a whole lot of talk 'bout dragging the river for

us, and 'bout having the funeral Sunday, and then you and old Miss

Harper hugged and cried, and she went."

"It happened just so! It happened just so, as sure as I'm

a-sitting in these very tracks. Tom you couldn't told it more like, if

you'd a seen it! And then what? Go on, Tom?"

"Then I thought you prayed for me- and I could see you and hear

every word you said. And you went to bed, and I was so sorry, that I

took and wrote on a piece of sycamore bark, 'We ain't dead- we are

only off being pirates,' and put it on the table by the candle; and

then you looked so good, laying there asleep, that I thought I went

and leaned over and kissed you on the lips."

"Did you, Tom, did you! I just forgive you everything for that!" And

she seized the boy in a crushing embrace that made him feel like the

guiltiest of villains.

"It was very kind, even though it was only a- dream," Sid

soliloquised just audibly.

"Shut up Sid! A body does just the same in a dream as he'd do if

he was awake. Here's a big Milum apple I've been saving for you Tom,

if you was ever found again- now go 'long to school. I'm thankful to

the good God and Father of us all I've got you back, that's

long-suffering and merciful to them that believe on Him and keep His

word, though goodness knows I'm unworthy of it, but if only the worthy

ones got His blessings and had His hand to help them over the rough

places, there's few enough would smile here or ever enter into His

rest when the long night comes. Go 'long Sid, Mary, Tom- take

yourselves off- you've hendered me long enough."

The children left for school, and the old lady to call on Mrs.

Harper and vanquish her realism with Tom's marvelous dream. Sid had

better judgment than to utter the thought that was in his mind as he

left the house. It was this: "Pretty thin- as long a dream as that,

without any mistakes in it!"

What a hero Tom was become, now! He did not go skipping and

prancing, but moved with a dignified swagger as became a pirate who

felt that the public eye was on him. And indeed it was; he tried not

to seem to see the looks or hear the remarks as he passed along, but

they were food and drink to him. Smaller boys than himself flocked

at his heels, as proud to be seen with him and tolerated by him, as if

he had been the drummer at the head of a procession or the elephant

leading a menagerie into town. Boys of his own size pretended not to

know he had been away at all; but they were consuming with envy,

nevertheless. They would have given anything to have that swarthy

sun-tanned skin of his, and his glittering notoriety; and Tom would

not have parted with either for a circus.

At school the children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered

such eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not

long in becoming insufferably "stuck-up." They began to tell their

adventures to hungry listeners- but they only began; it was not a

thing likely to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to

furnish material. And finally, when they got out their pipes and

went serenely puffing around, the very summit of glory was reached.

Tom decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now.

Glory was sufficient. He would live for glory. Now that he was

distinguished, maybe she would be wanting to "make up." Well, let her-

she should see that he could be as indifferent as some other people.

Presently she arrived. Tom pretended not to see her. He moved away and

joined a group of boys and girls and began to talk. Soon he observed

that she was tripping gayly back and forth with flushed face and

dancing eyes, pretending to be busy chasing school-mates, and

screaming with laughter when she made a capture; but he noticed that

she always made her captures in his vicinity, and that she seemed to

cast a conscious eye in his direction at such times, too. It gratified

all the vicious vanity that was in him; and so, instead of winning him

it only "set him up" the more and made him the more diligent to

avoid betraying that he knew she was about. Presently she gave over

skylarking, and moved irresolutely about, sighing once or twice and

glancing furtively and wistfully toward Tom. Then she observed that

now Tom was talking more particularly to Amy Lawrence than to any

one else. She felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed and uneasy at once.

She tried to go away, but her feet were treacherous, and carried her

to the group instead. She said to a girl almost at Tom's elbow- with

sham vivacity:

"Why Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn't you come to

Sunday-school?"

"I did come- didn't you see me?"

"Why no! Did you? Where did you sit?"

"I was in Miss Peter's class, where I always go. I saw you."

"Did you? Why it's funny I didn't see you. I wanted to tell you

about the picnic."

"O, that's jolly. Who's going to give it?"

"My ma's going to let me have one."

"O, goody; I hope she'll let me come."

"Well she will. The picnic's for me. She'll let anybody come that

I want, and I want you."

"That's ever so nice. When is it going to be?"

"By and by. Maybe about vacation."

"O, won't it be fun! You going to have all the girls and boys?"

"Yes, every one that's friends to me- or wants to be;" and she

glanced ever so furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy

Lawrence about the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning

tore the great sycamore tree "all to flinders" while he was

"standing within three feet of it."

"O, may I come?" said Gracie Miller.

"Yes."

"And me?" said Sally Rogers.

"Yes."

"And me, too?" said Susy Harper. "And Joe?"

"Yes."

And so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the group had

begged for invitations but Tom and Amy. Then Tom turned coolly away,

still talking, and took Amy with him. Becky's lips trembled and the

tears came to her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gayety and

went on chattering, but the life had gone out of the picnic, now,

and out of everything else; she got away as soon as she could and

hid herself and had what her sex call "a good cry." Then she sat

moody, with wounded pride till the bell rang. She roused up, now, with

a vindictive cast in her eye, and gave her plaited tails a shake and

said she knew what she'd do.

At recess Tom continued his flirtation with Amy with jubilant

self-satisfaction. And he kept drifting about to find Becky and

lacerate her with the performance. At last he spied her, but there was

a sudden falling of his mercury. She was sitting cosily on a little

bench behind the school-house looking at a picture book with Alfred

Temple- and so absorbed were they, and their heads so close together

over the book that they did not seem to be conscious of anything in

the world beside. Jealousy ran red hot through Tom's veins. He began

to hate himself for throwing away the chance Becky had offered for a

reconciliation. He called himself a fool, and all the hard names he

could think of. He wanted to cry with vexation. Amy chatted happily

along, as they walked, for her heart was singing, but Tom's tongue had

lost its function. He did not hear what Amy was saying, and whenever

she paused expectantly he could only stammer an awkward assent,

which was as often misplaced as otherwise. He kept drifting to the

rear of the schoolhouse, again and again, to sear his eye-balls with

the hateful spectacle there. He could not help it. And it maddened him

to see, as he thought he saw, that Becky Thatcher never once suspected

that he was even in the land of the living. But she did see,

nevertheless; and she knew she was winning her fight, too, and was

glad to see him suffer as she had suffered.

Amy's happy prattle became intolerable. Tom hinted at things he

had to attend to; things that must be done; and time was fleeting. But

in vain- the girl chirped on. Tom thought, "O hang her, ain't I ever

going to get rid of her?" At last he must be attending to those

things; and she said artlessly that she would be "around" when

school let out. And he hastened away, hating her for it.

"Any other boy!" Tom thought, grating his teeth. "Any boy in the

whole town but that Saint Louis smarty that thinks he dresses so

fine and is aristocracy! O, all right, I licked you the first day

you ever saw this town, mister, and I'll lick you again! You just wait

till I catch you out! I'll just take and-"

And he went through the motions of thrashing an imaginary boy-

pummeling the air, and kicking and gouging. "O, you do, do you? You

holler 'nough, do you? Now, then, let that learn you!" And so the

imaginary flogging was finished to his satisfaction.

Tom fled home at noon. His conscience could not endure any more of

Amy's grateful happiness, and his jealousy could bear no more of the

other distress. Becky resumed her picture-inspections with Alfred, but

as the minutes dragged along and no Tom came to suffer, her triumph

began to cloud and she lost interest; gravity and absent-mindedness

followed, and then melancholy; two or three times she pricked up her

ear at a footstep, but it was a false hope; no Tom came. At last she

grew entirely miserable and wished she hadn't carried it so far.

When poor Alfred, seeing that he was losing her, he did not know

how, and kept exclaiming: "O here's a jolly one! look at this!" she

lost patience at last, and said, "O, don't bother me! I don't care for

them!" and burst into tears, and got up and walked away.

Alfred dropped alongside and was going to try to comfort her, but

she said:

"Go away and leave me alone, can't you! I hate you!"

So the boy halted, wondering what he could have done- for she had

said she would look at pictures all through the nooning- and she

walked on, crying. Then Alfred went musing into the deserted

schoolhouse. He was humiliated and angry. He easily guessed his way to

the truth- the girl had simply made a convenience of him to vent her

spite upon Tom Sawyer. He was far from hating Tom the less when this

thought occurred to him. He wished there was some way to get that

boy into trouble without much risk to himself. Tom's spelling book

fell under his eye. Here was his opportunity. He gratefully opened

to the lesson for the afternoon and poured ink upon the page.

Becky, glancing in at a window behind him at the moment, saw the

act, and moved on, without discovering herself. She started

homeward, now, intending to find Tom and tell him; Tom would be

thankful and their troubles would be healed. Before she was half way

home, however, she had changed her mind. The thought of Tom's

treatment of her when she was talking about her picnic came

scorching back and filled her with shame. She resolved to let him

get whipped on the damaged spelling-book's account, and to hate him

forever, into the bargain.

Chapter 19

The Cruelty of "I Didn't Think"

TOM ARRIVED AT HOME in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt

said to him showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an

unpromising market:

"Tom, I've a notion to skin you alive!"

"Auntie, what have I done?"

"Well, you've done enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper, like

an old softy, expecting I'm going to make her believe all that rubbage

about that dream, when lo and behold you she'd found out from Joe that

you was over here and heard all the talk we had that night. Tom I

don't know what is to become of a boy that will act like that. It

makes me feel so bad to think you could let me go to Sereny Harper and

make such a fool of myself and never say a word."

This was a new aspect of the thing. His smartness of the morning had

seemed to Tom a good joke before, and very ingenious. It merely looked

mean and shabby now. He hung his head and could not think of

anything to say for a moment. Then he said:

"Auntie, I wish I hadn't done it- but I didn't think."

"O, child you never think. You never think of anything but your

own selfishness. You could think to come all the way over here from

Jackson's Island in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you

could think to fool me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't ever

think to pity us and save us from sorrow."

"Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I didn't mean to be mean. I

didn't, honest. And besides I didn't come over here to laugh at you

that night."

"What did you come for, then?"

"It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got

drownded."

"Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul in this world if I could

believe you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never

did- and I know it, Tom."

"Indeed and 'deed I did, auntie- I wish I may never stir if I

didn't."

"O, Tom, don't lie- don't do it. It only makes things a hundred

times worse."

"It ain't a lie, auntie, it's the truth. I wanted to keep you from

grieving- that was all that made me come."

"I'd give the whole world to believe that- it would cover up a power

of sins, Tom. I'd most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. But

it ain't reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?"

"Why, you see, auntie, when you got to talking about the funeral,

I just got all full of the idea of our coming and hiding in the

church, and I couldn't somehow bear to spoil it. So I just put the

bark back in my pocket and kept mum."

"What bark?"

"The bark I had wrote on to tell you we'd gone pirating. I wish,

now, you'd waked up when I kissed you- I do, honest."

The hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a sudden tenderness

dawned in her eyes.

"Did you kiss me, Tom?"

"Why yes I did."

"Are you sure you did, Tom?"

"Why yes I did, auntie- certain sure."

"What did you kiss me for, Tom?"

"Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning and I was so

sorry."

The words sounded like truth. The old lady could not hide a tremor

in her voice when she said:

"Kiss me again, Tom!- and be off with you to school, now, and

don't bother me any more."

The moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin

of a jacket which Tom had gone pirating in. Then she stopped, with

it in her hand, and said to herself.

"No, I don't dare. Poor boy, I reckon he's lied about it- but it's a

blessed, blessed lie, there's such comfort come from it. I hope the

Lord- I know the Lord will forgive him, because it was such

good-heartedness in him to tell it. But I don't want to find out

it's a lie. I won't look."

She put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute. Twice she put

out her hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained.

Once more she ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the

thought: "It's a good lie- it's a good lie- I won't let it grieve me."

So she sought the jacket pocket. A moment later she was reading

Tom's piece of bark through flowing tears and saying: "I could forgive

the boy, now, if he'd committed a million sins!"

Chapter 20

Tom Takes Becky's Punishment

THERE WAS SOMETHING about Aunt Polly's manner, when she kissed

Tom, that swept away his low spirits and made him lighthearted and

happy again. He started to school and had the luck of coming upon

Becky Thatcher at the head of Meadow Lane. His mood always

determined his manner. Without a moment's hesitation he ran to her and

said:

"I acted mighty mean to-day, Becky, and I'm so sorry. I won't

ever, ever do that way again, as long as ever I live- please make

up, won't you?"

The girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face:

"I'll thank you to keep yourself to yourself, Mr. Thomas Sawyer.

I'll never speak to you again."

She tossed her head and passed on. Tom was so stunned that he had

not even presence of mind enough to say "Who cares, Miss Smarty?"

until the right time to say it had gone by. So he said nothing. But he

was in a fine rage, nevertheless. He moped into the school-yard

wishing she were a boy, and imagining how he would trounce her if

she were. He presently encountered her and delivered a stinging remark

as he passed. She hurled one in return, and the angry breach was

complete. It seemed to Becky, in her hot resentment, that she could

hardly wait for school to "take in," she was so impatient to see Tom

flogged for the injured spelling-book. If she had had lingering notion

of exposing Alfred Temple, Tom's offensive fling had driven it

entirely away.

Poor girl, she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble

herself. The master, Mr. Dobbins, had reached middle age with an

unsatisfied ambition. The darling of his desires was to be a doctor,

but poverty had decreed that he should be nothing higher than a

village schoolmaster. Every day he took a mysterious book out of his

desk and absorbed himself in it at times when no classes were

reciting. He kept that book under lock and key. There was not an

urchin in school but was perishing to have a glimpse of it, but the

chance never came. Every boy and girl had a theory about the nature of

that book; but no two theories were alike, and there was no way of

getting at the facts in the case. Now, as Becky was passing by the

desk, which stood near the door, she noticed that the key was in the

lock! It was a precious moment. She glanced around; found herself

alone, and the next instant she had the book in her hands. The title

page- Professor somebody's "Anatomy"- carried no information to her

mind; so she began to turn the leaves. She came at once upon a

handsomely engraved and colored frontispiece- a human figure, stark

naked. At that moment a shadow fell on the page and Tom Sawyer stepped

in at the door, and caught a glimpse of the picture. Becky snatched at

the book to close it, and had the hard luck to tear the pictured

page half down the middle. She thrust the volume into the desk, turned

the key, and burst out crying with shame and vexation.

"Tom Sawyer, you are just as mean as you can be, to sneak up on a

person and look at what they're looking at."

"How could I know you was looking at anything?"

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself Tom Sawyer; you know you're

going to tell on me, and O, what shall I do, what shall I do! I'll

be whipped, and I never was whipped in school."

Then she stamped her little foot and said:

"Be so mean if you want to! I know something that's going to happen.

You just wait and you'll see! Hateful, hateful, hateful!"- and she

flung out of the house with a new explosion of crying.

Tom stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught. Presently he

said to himself.

"What a curious kind of a fool a girl is. Never been licked in

school! Shucks, what's a licking! That's just like a girl- they're so

thin-skinned and chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain't going to

tell old Dobbins on this little fool, because there's other ways of

getting even on her, that ain't so mean; but what of it? Old Dobbins

will ask who it was tore his book. Nobody'll answer. Then he'll do

just the way he always does- ask first one and then t'other, and

when he comes to the right girl he'll know it, without any telling.

Girls' faces always tell on them. They ain't got any backbone.

She'll get licked. Well, it's a kind of a tight place for Becky

Thatcher, because there ain't any way out of it." Tom conned the thing

a moment longer and then added: "All right, though; she'd like to

see me in just such a fix- let her sweat it out!"

Tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. In a few

moments the master arrived and school "took in." Tom did not feel a

strong interest in his studies. Every time he stole a glance at the

girls' side of the room Becky's face troubled him. Considering all

things, he did not want to pity her, and yet it was all he could do to

help it. He could get up no exultation that was really worthy the

name. Presently the spelling-book discovery was made, and Tom's mind

was entirely full of his own matters for a while after that. Becky

roused up from her lethargy of distress and showed good interest in

the proceedings. She did not expect that Tom could get out of his

trouble by denying that he spilt the ink on the book himself, and

she was right. The denial only seemed to make the thing worse for Tom.

Becky supposed she would be glad of that, and she tried to believe she

was glad of it, but she found she was not certain. When the worst came

to the worst, she had an impulse to get up and tell on Alfred

Temple, but she made an effort and forced herself to keep still-

because, said she to herself, "he'll tell about me tearing the

picture, sure. I wouldn't say a word, not to save his life!"

Tom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all

brokenhearted, for he thought it was possible that he had

unknowingly upset the ink on the spelling-book himself, in some

skylarking bout- he had denied it for form's sake and because it was

custom, and had stuck to the denial from principle.

A whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the

air was drowsy with the hum of study. By and by, Mr. Dobbins

straightened himself up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached

for his book, but seemed undecided whether to take it out or leave it.

Most of the pupils glanced up languidly, but there were two among them

that watched his movements with intent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered

his book absently for a while, then took it out and settled himself in

his chair to read! Tom shot a glance at Becky. He had seen a hunted

and helpless rabbit look as she did, with a gun leveled at its head.

Instantly he forgot his quarrel with her. Quick- something must be

done! done in a flash, too! But the very imminence of the emergency

paralyzed his invention. Good!- he had an inspiration! He would run

and snatch the book, spring through the door and fly. But his

resolution shook for one little instant, and the chance was lost-

the master opened the volume. If Tom only had the wasted opportunity

back again! Too late; there was no help for Becky now, he said. The

next moment the master faced the school. Every eye sunk under his

gaze. There was that in it which smote even the innocent with fear.

There was silence while one might count ten; the master was

gathering his wrath. Then he spoke:

"Who tore this book?"

There was not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The

stillness continued; the master searched face after face for signs

of guilt.

"Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book?"

A denial. Another pause.

"Joseph Harper, did you?"

Another denial. Tom's uneasiness grew more and more intense under

the slow torture of these proceedings. The master scanned the ranks of

boys- considered a while, then turned to the girls:

"Amy Lawrence?"

A shake of the head.

"Gracie Miller?"

The same sign.

"Susan Harper, did you do this?"

Another negative. The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was

trembling from head to foot with excitement and a sense of the

hopelessness of the situation.

"Rebecca Thatcher," (Tom glanced at her face- it was white with

terror,)- "did you tear- no, look me in the face"- (her hands rose

in appeal)- "did you tear this book?"

A thought shot like lightning through Tom's brain. He sprang to

his feet and shouted-

"I done it!"

The school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom

stood a moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he

stepped forward to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude,

the adoration that shone upon him out of poor Becky's eyes seemed

pay enough for a hundred floggings. Inspired by the splendor of his

own act, he took without an outcry the most merciless flaying that

even Mr. Dobbins had ever administered; and also received with

indifference the added cruelty of a command to remain two hours

after school should be dismissed- for he knew who would wait for him

outside till his captivity was done, and not count the tedious time as

loss, either.

Tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple;

for with shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting

her own treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way,

soon, to pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last, with

Becky's latest words lingering dreamily in his ear-

"Tom, how could you be so noble!"

Chapter 21

Eloquence- and the Master's Gilded Dome

VACATION WAS APPROACHING. The schoolmaster, always sever, grew

severer and more exacting than ever, for he wanted the school to

make a good showing on "Examination" day. His rod and his ferule

were seldom idle now- at least among the smaller pupils. Only the

biggest boys, and young ladies of eighteen and twenty escaped lashing.

Mr. Dobbins's lashings were very vigorous ones, too; for although he

carried, under his wig, a perfectly bald and shiny head, he had only

reached middle age and there was no sign of feebleness in his

muscle. As the great day approached, all the tyranny that was in him

came to the surface; he seemed to take a vindictive pleasure in

punishing the least shortcomings. The consequence was, that the

smaller boys spent their days in terror and suffering and their nights

in plotting revenge. They threw away no opportunity to do the master a

mischief. But he kept ahead all the time. The retribution that

followed every vengeful success was so sweeping and majestic that

the boys always retired from the field badly worsted. At last they

conspired together and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling

victory. They swore-in the sign-painter's boy, told him the scheme,

and asked his help. He had his own reasons for being delighted, for

the master boarded in his father's family and had given the boy

ample cause to hate him. The master's wife would go on a visit to

the country in a few days, and there would be nothing to interfere

with the plan; the master always prepared himself for great

occasions by getting pretty well fuddled, and the sign-painter's boy

said that when the dominie had reached the proper condition on

Examination Evening he would "manage the thing" while he napped in his

chair; then he would have him awakened at the right time and hurried

away to school.

In the fullness of time the interesting occasion arrived. At eight

in the evening the school-house was brilliantly lighted, and adorned

with wreaths and festoons of foliage and flowers. The master sat

throned in his great chair upon a raised platform, with his blackboard

behind him. He was looking tolerably mellow. Three rows of benches

on each side and six rows in front of him were occupied by the

dignitaries of the town and by the parents of the pupils. To his left,

back of the rows of citizens, was a spacious temporary platform upon

which were seated the scholars who were to take part in the

exercises of the evening; rows of small boys, washed and dressed to an

intolerable state of discomfort; rows of gawky big boys; snow-banks of

girls and young ladies clad in lawn and muslin and conspicuously

conscious of their bare arms, their grandmothers' ancient trinkets,

their bits of pink and blue ribbon and the flowers in their hair.

All the rest of the house was filled with nonparticipating scholars.

The exercises began. A very little boy stood up and sheepishly

recited, "You'd scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on

the stage, etc"- accompanying himself with the painfully exact and

spasmodic gestures which a machine might have used- supposing the

machine to be a trifle out of order. But he got through safely, though

cruelly scared, and got a fine round of applause when he made his

manufactured bow and retired.

A little shame-faced girl lisped "Mary had a little lamb, etc.,"

performed a compassion-inspiring curtsy, got her meed of applause, and

sat down flushed and happy.

Tom Sawyer stepped forward with conceited confidence and soared into

the unquenchable and indestructible "Give me liberty or give me death"

speech, with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down in

the middle of it. A ghastly stage-fright seized him, his legs quaked

under him and he was like to choke. True, he had the manifest sympathy

of the house- but he had the house's silence, too, which was even

worse than its sympathy. The master frowned, and this completed the

disaster. Tom struggled a while and then retired, utterly defeated.

There was a weak attempt at applause, but it died early.

"The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck" followed; also "The Assyrian

Came Down," and other declaratory gems. Then there were reading

exercises, and a spelling fight. The meager Latin class recited with

honor. The prime feature of the evening was in order, now- original

"compositions" by the young ladies. Each in her turn stepped forward

to the edge of the platform, cleared her throat, held up her

manuscript (tied with dainty ribbon), and proceeded to read, with

labored attention to "expression" and punctuation. The themes were the

same that had been illuminated upon similar occasions by their mothers

before them, their grandmothers, and doubtless all their ancestors

in the female line clear back to the Crusades. "Friendship" was one;

"Memories of Other Days;" "Religion in History;" "Dream Land;" "The

Advantages of Culture;" "Forms of Political Government Compared and

Contrasted;" "Melancholy;" "Filial Love;" "Heart Longings," etc., etc.

A prevalent feature in these compositions was a nursed and petted

melancholy; another was a wasteful and opulent gush of "fine

language;" another was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly

prized words and phrases until they were worn entirely out; and a

peculiarity that conspicuously marked and marred them was the

inveterate and intolerable sermon that wagged its crippled tail at the

end of each and every one of them. No matter what the subject might

be, a brainracking effort was made to squirm it into some aspect or

other that the moral and religious mind could contemplate with

edification. The glaring insincerity of these sermons was not

sufficient to compass the banishment of the fashion from the

schools, and it is not sufficient to-day; it never will be sufficient

while the world stands, perhaps. There is no school in all our land

where the young ladies do not feel obliged to close their compositions

with a sermon; and you will find that the sermon of the most frivolous

and least religious girl in the school is always the longest and the

most relentlessly pious. But enough of this. Homely truth is

unpalatable.

Let us return to the "Examination." The first composition that was

read was one entitled "Is this, then, Life?" Perhaps the reader can

endure an extract from it:

In the common walks of life, with what delightful emotions does

the youthful mind look forward to some anticipated scene of festivity!

Imagination is busy sketching rose-tinted pictures of joy. In fancy,

the voluptuous votary of fashion sees herself amid the festive throng,

"the observed of all observers." Her graceful form, arrayed in snowy

robes, is whirling through the mazes of the joyous dance; her eye is

brightest, her step is lightest in the gay assembly.

In such delicious fancies time quickly glides by, and the welcome

hour arrives for her entrance into the elysian world, of which she has

had such bright dreams. How fairy-like does every thing appear to

her enchanted vision! Each new scene is more charming than the last.

But after a while she finds that beneath this goodly exterior, all

is vanity: the flattery which once charmed her soul, now grates

harshly upon her ear; the ball-room has lost its charms; and with

wasted health and embittered heart, she turns away with the conviction

that earthly pleasures cannot satisfy the longings of the soul!

And so forth and so on. There was a buzz of gratification from

time to time during the reading, accompanied by whispered ejaculations

of "How sweet!" "How eloquent!" "So true!" etc., and after the thing

had closed with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the applause was

enthusiastic.

Then arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the "interesting"

paleness that comes of pills and indigestion, and read a "poem." Two

stanzas of it will do:

A MISSOURI MAIDEN'S FAREWELL TO ALABAMA

ALABAMA, good-bye! I love thee well!

But yet for awhile do I leave thee now!

Sad, yes, sad thoughts of thee my heart doth swell,

And burning recollections throng my brow!

For I have wandered through thy flowery woods;

Have roamed and read near Tallapoosa's stream;

Have listened to Tallassee's warring floods,

And wooed on Coosa's side Aurora's beam.

Yet shame I not to bear an o'er-full heart,

Nor blush to turn behind my tearful eyes;

'Tis from no stranger land I now must part,

'Tis to no strangers left I yield these sighs.

Welcome and home were mine within this State,

Whose vales I leave- whose spires fade fast from me;

And cold must be mine eyes, and heart, and tete,

When, dear Alabama! they turn cold on thee!

There were very few there who knew what "tete" meant, but the poem

was very satisfactory, nevertheless.

Next appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, black-haired young

lady, who paused an impressive moment, assumed a tragic expression,

and began to read in a measured, solemn tone.

A VISION

Dark and tempestuous was night. Around the throne on high not a

single star quivered; but the deep intonations of the heavy thunder

constantly vibrated upon the ear; whilst the terrific lightning

revelled in angry mood through the cloudy chambers of heaven,

seeming to scorn the power exerted over its terror by the

illustrious Franklin! Even the boisterous winds unanimously came forth

from their mystic homes, and blustered about as if to enhance by their

aid the wildness of the scene.

At such a time, so dark, so dreary, for human sympathy my very

spirit sighed; but instead thereof,

"My dearest friend, my counsellor, my comforter and guide-

My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy," came to my side.

She moved like one of those bright beings pictured in the sunny

walks of fancy's Eden by the romantic and young, a queen of beauty

unadorned save by her own transcendent loveliness. So soft was her

step, it failed to make even a sound, and but for the magical thrill

imparted by her genial touch, as other unobtrusive beauties, she would

have glided away unperceived- unsought. A strange sadness rested

upon her features, like icy tears upon the robe of December, as she

pointed to the contending elements without, and bade me contemplate

the two beings presented.

This nightmare occupied some ten pages of manuscript and wound up

with a sermon so destructive of all hope to non-Presbyterians that

it took the first prize. This composition was considered to be the

very finest effort of the evening. The mayor of the village, in

delivering the prize to the author of it, made a warm speech in

which he said that it was by far the most "eloquent" thing he had ever

listened to, and that Daniel Webster himself might well be proud of

it.

It may be remarked, in passing, that the number of compositions in

which the word "beauteous" was over-fondled, and human experience

referred to as "life's page," was up to the usual average.

Now the master, mellow almost to the verge of geniality, put his

chair aside, turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a

map of America on the blackboard, to exercise the geography class

upon. But he made a sad business of it with his unsteady hand, and a

smothered titter rippled over the house. He knew what the matter was

and set himself to right it. He sponged out lines and re-made them;

but he only distorted them more than ever, and the tittering was

more pronounced. He threw his entire attention upon his work, now,

as if determined not to be put down by the mirth. He felt that all

eyes were fastened upon him; he imagined he was succeeding, and yet

the tittering continued; it even manifestly increased. And well it

might. There was a garret above, pierced with a scuttle over his head;

and down through this scuttle came a cat, suspended around the

haunches by a string; she had a rag tied about her head and jaws to

keep her from mewing; as she slowly descended she curved upward and

clawed at the string, she swung downward and clawed at the

intangible air. The tittering rose higher and higher- the cat was

within six inches of the absorbed teacher's head- down, down, a little

lower, and she grabbed his wig with her desperate claws, clung to it

and was snatched up into the garret in an instant with her trophy

still in her possession! And how the light did blaze abroad from the

master's bald pate- for the sign-painter's boy had gilded it!

That broke up the meeting. The boys were avenged. Vacation had come.

Chapter 22

Huck Finn Quotes Scripture

TOM JOINED THE NEW ORDER of Cadets of Temperance, being attracted by

the showy character of their "regalia." He promised to abstain from

smoking, chewing and profanity as long as he remained a member. Now he

found out a new thing- namely, that to promise not to do a thing is

the surest way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very

thing. Tom soon found himself tormented with a desire to drink and

swear; the desire grew to be so intense that nothing but the hope of a

chance to display himself in his red sash kept him from withdrawing

from the order. Fourth of July was coming; but he soon gave that up-

gave it up before he had worn his shackles over forty-eight hours- and

fixed his hopes upon old Judge Frazer, justice of the peace, who was

apparently on his death-bed and would have a big public funeral, since

he was so high an official. During three days Tom was deeply concerned

about the judge's condition and hungry for news of it. Sometimes his

hopes ran high- so high that he would venture to get out his regalia

and practice before the looking-glass. But the judge had a most

discouraging way of fluctuating. At last he was pronounced upon the

mend- and then convalescent. Tom was disgusted; and felt a sense of

injury, too. He handed in his resignation at once- and that night

the judge suffered a relapse and died. Tom resolved that he would

never trust a man like that again.

The funeral was a fine thing. The Cadets paraded in a style

calculated to kill the late member with envy. Tom was a free boy

again, however- there was something in that. He could drink and swear,

now- but found to his surprise that he did not want to. The simple

fact that he could, took the desire away, and the charm of it.

Tom presently wondered to find that his coveted vacation was

beginning to hang a little heavily on his hands.

He attempted a diary- but nothing happened during three days, and so

he abandoned it.

The first of all the negro minstrel shows came to town, and made a

sensation. Tom and Joe Harper got up a band of performers and were

happy for two days.

Even the Glorious Fourth was in some sense a failure, for it

rained hard, there was no procession in consequence, and the

greatest man in the world (as Tom supposed) Mr. Benton, an actual

United States Senator, proved an overwhelming disappointment- for he

was not twenty-five feet high, nor even anywhere in the neighborhood

of it.

A circus came. The boys played circus for three days afterward in

tents made of rag carpeting- admission, three pins for boys, two for

girls- and then circusing was abandoned.

A phrenologist and a mesmerizer came- and went again and left the

village duller and drearier than ever.

There were some boys-and-girls' parties, but they were so few and so

delightful that they only made the aching voids between ache the

harder.

Becky Thatcher was gone to her Constantinople home to stay with

her parents during vacation- so there was no bright side to life

anywhere.

The dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic misery. It was a

very cancer for permanency and pain.

Then came the measles.

During two long weeks Tom lay a prisoner, dead to the world and

its happenings. He was very ill, he was interested in nothing. When he

got upon his feet at last and moved feebly down town, a melancholy

change had come over everything and every creature. There had been a

"revival," and everybody had "got religion"; not only the adults,

but even the boys and girls. Tom went about, hoping against hope for

the sight of one blessed sinful face, but disappointment crossed him

everywhere. He found Joe Harper studying a Testament, and turned sadly

away from the depressing spectacle. He sought Ben Rogers, and found

him visiting the poor with a basket of tracts. He hunted up Jim

Hollis, who called his attention to the precious blessing of his

late measles as a warning. Every boy he encountered added another

ton to his depression; and when, in desperation, he flew for refuge at

last to the bosom of Huckleberry Finn and was received with a

scriptural quotation, his heart broke and he crept home and to bed

realizing that he alone of all the town was lost, forever and forever.

And that night there came on a terrific storm, with driving rain,

awful claps of thunder and blinding sheets of lightning. He covered

his head with the bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for

his doom; for he had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub

was about him. He believed he had taxed the forbearance of the

powers above to the extremity of endurance and that this was the

result. It might have seemed to him a waste of pomp and ammunition

to kill a bug with a battery of artillery, but there seemed nothing

incongruous about the getting up such an expensive thunderstorm as

this to knock the turf from under an insect like himself.

By and by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing

its object. The boy's first impulse was to be grateful, and reform.

His second was to wait- for there might not be any more storms.

The next day the doctors were back; Tom had relapsed. The three

weeks he spent on his back this time seemed an entire age. When he got

abroad at last he was hardly grateful that he had been spared,

remembering how lonely was his estate, how companionless and forlorn

he was. He drifted listlessly down the street and found Jim Hollis

acting as judge in a juvenile court that was trying a cat for

murder, in the presence of her victim, a bird. He found Joe Harper and

Huck Finn up an alley eating a stolen melon. Poor lads! they- like

Tom- had suffered a relapse.

Chapter 23

The Salvation of Muff Potter

AT LAST the sleepy atmosphere was stirred- and vigorously: the

murder trial came on in the court. It became the absorbing topic of

village talk immediately. Tom could not get away from it. Every

reference to the murder sent a shudder to his heart, for his

troubled conscience and fears almost persuaded him that these

remarks were put forth in his hearing as "feelers"; he did not see how

he could be suspected of knowing anything about the murder, but

still he could not be comfortable in the midst of this gossip. It kept

him in a cold shiver all the time. He took Huck to a lonely place to

have a talk with him. It would be some relief to unseal his tongue for

a little while; to divide his burden of distress with another

sufferer. Moreover, he wanted to assure himself that Huck had remained

discreet.

"Huck, have you ever told anybody about- that?"

"'Bout what?"

"You know what."

"O- 'course I haven't."

"Never a word?"

"Never a solitary word, so help me. What makes you ask?"

"Well, I was afeard."

"Why Tom Sawyer, we wouldn't be alive two days if that got found

out. You know that."

Tom felt more comfortable. After a pause:

"Huck, they couldn't anybody get you to tell, could they?"

"Get me to tell? Why if I wanted that half-breed devil to drownd

me they could get me to tell. They ain't no different way."

"Well, that's all right, then. I reckon we're safe as long as we

keep mum. But let's swear again, anyway. It's more surer."

"I'm agreed."

So they swore again with dread solemnities.

"What is the talk around, Huck? I've heard a power of it."

"Talk? Well, it's just Muff Potter, Muff Potter, Muff Potter all the

time. It keeps me in a sweat, constant, so's I want to hide som'ers."

"That's just the same way they go on round me. I reckon he's a

goner. Don't you feel sorry for him, sometimes?"

"Most always- most always. He ain't no account; but then he hain't

ever done anything to hurt anybody. Just fishes a little, to get money

to get drunk on- and loafs around considerable; but lord we all do

that- leastways most of us,- preachers and such like. But he's kind of

good- he give me half a fish, once, when there warn't enough for two;

and lots of times he's kind of stood by me when I was out of luck."

"Well, he's mended kites for me, Huck, and knitted hooks on to my

line. I wish we could get him out of there."

"My! we couldn't get him out Tom. And besides, It wouldn't do any

good; they'd ketch him again."

"Yes- so they would. But I hate to hear 'em abuse him so like the

dickens when he never done- that."

"I do too, Tom. Lord, I hear 'em say he's the bloodiest-looking

villain in this country, and they wonder he wasn't ever hung before."

"Yes, they talk like that, all the time. I've heard 'em say that

if he was to get free they'd lynch him."

"And they'd do it, too."

The boys had a long talk, but it brought them little comfort. As the

twilight drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood

of the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that

something would happen that might clear away their difficulties. But

nothing happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested

in this luckless captive.

The boys did as they had often done before- went to the cell grating

and gave Potter some tobacco and matches. He was on the ground floor

and there were no guards.

His gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences

before- it cut deeper than ever, this time. They felt cowardly and

treacherous to the last degree when Potter said:

"You've ben mighty good to me, boys- better'n anybody else in this

town. And I don't forget it, I don't. Often I says to myself, says

I, 'I used to mend all the boys' kites and things, and show 'em

where the good fishin' places was, and befriend 'em what I could, and

now they've all forgot old Muff when he's in trouble; but Tom don't,

and Huck don't- they don't forget him,' says I, 'and I don't forget

them.' Well, boys, I done an awful thing- drunk and crazy at the

time- that's the only way I account for it- and now I got to swing for

it, and it's right. Right, and best, too I reckon- hope so, anyway.

Well, we won't talk about that. I don't want to make you feel bad;

you've befriended me. But what I want to say, is, don't you ever get

drunk- then you won't ever get here. Stand a little furder west- so-

that's it; it's a prime comfort to see faces that's friendly when a

body's in such a muck of trouble, and there don't none come here but

yourn. Good friendly faces- good friendly faces. Git up on one

another's backs and let me touch 'em. That's it. Shake hands- yourn'll

come through the bars, but mine's too big. Little hands, and weak- but

they've helped Muff Potter a power, and they'd help him more if they

could."

Tom went home miserable, and his dreams that night were full of

horrors. The next day and the day after, he hung about the court room,

drawn by an almost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing

himself to stay out. Huck was having the same experience. They

studiously avoided each other. Each wandered away, from time to

time, but the same dismal fascination always brought them back

presently. Tom kept his ears open when idlers sauntered out of the

courtroom, but invariably heard distressing news- the toils were

closing more and more relentlessly around poor Potter. At the end of

the second day the village talk was to the effect that Injun Joe's

evidence stood firm and unshaken, and that there was not the slightest

question as to what the jury's verdict would be.

Tom was out late, that night, and came to bed through the window. He

was in a tremendous state of excitement. It was hours before he got to

sleep. All the village flocked to the courthouse the next morning, for

this was to be the great day. Both sexes were about equally

represented in the packed audience. After a long wait the jury filed

in and took their places; shortly afterward, Potter, pale and haggard,

timid and hopeless, was brought in, with chains upon him, and seated

where all the curious eyes could stare at him; no less conspicuous was

Injun Joe, stolid as ever. There was another pause, and then the judge

arrived and the sheriff proclaimed the opening of the court. The usual

whisperings among the lawyers and gathering together of papers

followed. These details and accompanying delays worked up an

atmosphere of preparation that was as impressive as it was

fascinating.

Now a witness was called who testified that he found Muff Potter

washing in the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the

murder was discovered, and that he immediately sneaked away. After

some further questioning, counsel for the prosecution said-

"Take the witness."

The prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again

when his own counsel said-

"I have no questions to ask him."

The next witness proved the finding of the knife near the corpse.

Counsel for the prosecution said:

"Take the witness."

"I have no questions to ask him." Potter's lawyer replied.

A third witness swore he had often seen the knife in Potter's

possession.

"Take the witness."

Counsel for Potter declined to question him. The faces of the

audience began to betray annoyance. Did this attorney mean to throw

away his client's life without an effort?

Several witnesses deposed concerning Potter's guilty behavior when

brought to the scene of the murder. They were allowed to leave the

stand without being cross-questioned.

Every detail of the damaging circumstances that occurred in the

graveyard upon that morning which all present remembered so well,

was brought out by credible witnesses, but none of them were

cross-examined by Potter's lawyer. The perplexity and

dissatisfaction of the house expressed itself in murmurs and

provoked a reproof from the bench. Counsel for the prosecution now

said:

"By the oaths of citizens whose simple word is above suspicion, we

have fastened this awful crime beyond all possibility of question,

upon the unhappy prisoner at the bar. We rest our case here."

A groan escaped from poor Potter, and he put his face in his hands

and rocked his body softly to and fro, while a painful silence reigned

in the courtroom. Many men were moved, and many women's compassion

testified itself in tears. Counsel for the defense rose and said:

"Your honor, in our remarks at the opening of this trial, we

foreshadowed our purpose to prove that our client did this fearful

deed while under the influence of a blind and irresponsible delirium

produced by drink. We have changed our mind. We shall not offer that

plea." [Then to the clerk]: "Call Thomas Sawyer!" A puzzled

amazement awoke in every face in the house, not even excepting

Potter's. Every eye fastened itself with wondering interest upon Tom

as he rose and took his place upon the stand. The boy looked wild

enough, for he was badly scared. The oath was administered.

"Thomas Sawyer, where were you on the seventeenth of June, about the

hour of midnight?"

Tom glanced at Injun Joe's iron face and his tongue failed him.

The audience listened breathless, but the words refused to come. After

a few moments, however, the boy got a little of his strength back, and

managed to put enough of it into his voice to make part of the house

hear:

"In the graveyard!"

"A little bit louder, please. Don't be afraid. You were-"

"In the graveyard."

A contemptuous smile flitted across Injun Joe's face.

"Were you anywhere near Horse Williams's grave?"

"Yes, sir."

"Speak up- just a trifle louder. How near were you?"

"Near as I am to you."

"Were you hidden, or not?"

"I was hid."

"Where?"

"Behind the elms that's on the edge of the grave."

Injun Joe gave a barely perceptible start.

"Any one with you?"

"Yes, sir. I went there with-"

"Wait- wait a moment. Never mind mentioning your companion's name.

We will produce him at the proper time. Did you carry anything there

with you?"

Tom hesitated and looked confused.

"Speak out my boy- don't be diffident. The truth is always

respectable. What did you take there?"

"Only a- a- dead cat."

There was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked.

"We will produce the skeleton of that cat. Now my boy, tell us

everything that occurred- tell it in your own way- don't skip

anything, and don't be afraid."

Tom began- hesitatingly at first, but as he warmed to his

subject his words flowed more and more easily; in a little while every

sound ceased but his own voice; every eye fixed itself upon him;

with parted lips and bated breath the audience hung upon his words,

taking no note of time, rapt in the ghastly fascinations of the

tale. The strain upon pent emotion reached its climax when the boy

said-

"-and as the doctor fetched the board around and Muff Potter fell,

Injun Joe jumped with the knife and-"

Crash! Quick as lightning the half-breed sprang for a window, tore

his way through all opposers, and was gone!

Chapter 24

Splendid Days and Fearsome Nights

TOM WAS A GLITTERING HERO once more- the pet of the old, the envy of

the young. His name even went into immortal print, for the village

paper magnified him. There were some that believed he would be

President, yet, if he escaped hanging.

As usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff Potter to its

bosom and fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before. But

that sort of conduct is to the world's credit; therefore it is not

well to find fault with it.

Tom's days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his

nights were seasons of horror. Injun Joe infested all his dreams,

and always with doom in his eye. Hardly any temptation could

persuade the boy to stir abroad after nightfall. Poor Huck was in

the same state of wretchedness and terror, for Tom had told the

whole story to the lawyer the night before the great day of the trial,

and Huck was sore afraid that his share in the business might leak

out, yet, notwithstanding Injun Joe's flight had saved him the

suffering of testifying in court. The poor fellow had got the attorney

to promise secrecy, but what of that? Since Tom's harassed

conscience had managed to drive him to the lawyer's house by night and

wring a dread tale from lips that had been sealed with the dismalest

and most formidable of oaths, Huck's confidence in the human race

was well-nigh obliterated. Daily Muff Potter's gratitude made Tom glad

he had spoken; but nightly he wished he had sealed up his tongue.

Half the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would never be captured;

the other half he was afraid he would be. He felt sure he never

could draw a safe breath again until that man was dead and he had seen

the corpse.

Rewards had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no Injun

Joe was found. One of those omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a

detective, came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his head,

looked wise, and made that sort of astounding success which members of

that craft usually achieve. That is to say he "found a clue." But

you can't hang a "clue" for murder and so after that detective had got

through and gone home, Tom felt just as insecure as he was before.

The slow days drifted on, and each left behind it a slightly

lightened weight of apprehension.

Chapter 25

Seeking the Buried Treasure

THERE COMES A TIME in every rightly constructed boy's life when he

has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure.

This desire suddenly came upon Tom one day. He sallied out to find Joe

Harper, but failed of success. Next he sought Ben Rogers; he had

gone fishing. Presently he stumbled upon Huck Finn the Red-Handed.

Huck would answer. Tom took him to a private place and opened the

matter to him confidentially. Huck was willing. Huck was always

willing to take a hand in any enterprise that offered entertainment

and required no capital, for he had a troublesome superabundance of

that sort of time which is not money.

"Where'll we dig?" said Huck.

"O, most anywhere."

"Why, is it hid all around?"

"No indeed it ain't. It's hid in mighty particular places, Huck-

sometimes on islands, sometimes in rotten chests under the end of a

limb of an old dead tree, just where the shadow falls at midnight; but

mostly under the floor in ha'nted houses."

"Who hides it?"

"Why robbers, of course- who'd you reckon? Sunday-school

sup'rintendents?"

"I don't know. If 'twas mine I wouldn't hide it; I'd spend it and

have a good time."

"So would I. But robbers don't do that way. They always hide it

and leave it there."

"Don't they come after it any more?"

"No, they think they will, but they generally forget the marks, or

else they die. Anyway it lays there a long time and gets rusty; and by

and by somebody finds an old yellow paper that tells how to find the

marks- a paper that's got to be ciphered over about a week because

it's mostly signs and hy'rogliphics."

"Hyro- which?"

"Hy'rogliphics- pictures and things, you know, that don't seem to

mean anything."

"Have you got one of them papers, Tom?"

"No."

"Well then, how you going to find the marks?"

"I don't want any marks. They always bury it under a ha'nted house

or on an island, or under a dead tree that's got one limb sticking

out. Well, we've tried Jackson's Island a little, and we can try it

again some time; and there's the old ha'nted house up the

Still-House branch, and there's lots of dead-limb trees- dead loads of

'em."

"Is it under all of them?"

"How you talk! No!"

"Then how you going to know which one to go for?"

"Go for all of 'em!"

"Why Tom, it'll take all summer."

"Well, what of that? Suppose you find a brass pot with a hundred

dollars in it, all rusty and gray, or a rotten chest full of di'monds.

How's that?"

Huck's eyes glowed.

"That's bully. Plenty bully enough for me. Just you gimme the

hundred dollars and I don't want no di'monds."

"All right. But I bet you I ain't going to throw off on di'monds.

Some of 'em's worth twenty dollars apiece- there ain't any, hardly,

but's worth six bits or a dollar."

"No! Is that so?"

"Cert'nly- anybody'll tell you so. Hain't you ever seen one, Huck?"

"Not as I remember."

"O, kings have slathers of them."

"Well, I don't know no kings, Tom."

"I reckon you don't. But if you was to go to Europe you'd see a raft

of 'em hopping around."

"Do they hop?"

"Hop?- you granny! No!"

"Well what did you say they did, for?"

"Shucks, I only meant you'd see 'em- not hopping, of course- what do

they want to hop for?- but I mean you'd just see 'em- scattered

around, you know, in a kind of a general way. Like that old

hump-backed Richard."

"Richard? What's his other name?"

"He didn't have any other name. Kings don't have any but a given

name."

"No?"

"But they don't."

"Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don't want to be a

king and have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say- where

you going to dig first?"

"Well, I don't know. S'pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree on the

hill t'other side of Still-House branch?"

So they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set out on their

three-mile tramp. They arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves

down in the shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke.

"I like this," said Tom.

"So do I."

"Say, Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with

your share?"

"Well I'll have pie and a glass of soda every day, and I'll go to

every circus that comes along. I bet I'll have a gay time."

"Well ain't you going to save any of it?"

"Save it? What for?"

"Why so as to have something to live on, by and by."

"O, that ain't any use. Pap would come back to thish-yer town some

day and get his claws on it if I didn't hurry up, and I tell you

he'd clean it out pretty quick. What you going to do with yourn, Tom?"

"I'm going to buy a new drum, and a sure-'nough sword, and a red

neck-tie and a bull pup, and get married."

"Married!"

"That's it."

"Tom, you- why you ain't in your right mind."

"Wait- you'll see."

"Well that's the foolishest thing you could do, Tom. Look at pap and

my mother. Fight? Why they used to fight all the time. I remember,

mighty well."

"That ain't anything. The girl I'm going to marry won't fight."

"Tom, I reckon they're all alike. They'll all comb a body. Now you

better think 'bout this a while. I tell you you better. What's the

name of the gal?"

"It ain't a gal at all- it's a girl."

"It's all the same, I reckon; some says gal, some says girl-

both's right, like enough. Anyway, what's her name, Tom?"

"I'll tell you some time- not now."

"All right- that'll do. Only if you get married I'll be more

lonesomer than ever."

"No you won't. You'll come and live with me. Now stir out of this

and we'll go to digging."

They worked and sweated for half an hour. No result. They toiled

another half-hour. Still no result. Huck said:

"Do they always bury it as deep as this?"

"Sometimes- not always. Not generally. I reckon we haven't got the

right place."

So they chose a new spot and began again. The labor dragged a

little, but still they made progress. They pegged away in silence

for some time. Finally Huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded

drops from his brow with his sleeve, and said:

"Where you going to dig next, after we get this one?"

"I reckon maybe we'll tackle the old tree that's over yonder on

Cardiff Hill back of the widow's."

"I reckon that'll be a good one. But won't the widow take it away

from us, Tom? It's on her land."

"She take it away! Maybe she'd like to try it once. Whoever finds

one of these hid treasures, it belongs to him. It don't make any

difference whose land it's on."

That was satisfactory. The work went on. By and by Huck said:-

"Blame it, we must be in the wrong place again. What do you think?"

"It is mighty curious Huck. I don't understand it. Sometimes witches

interfere. I reckon maybe that's what's the trouble now."

"Shucks, witches ain't got no power in the daytime."

"Well, that's so. I didn't think of that. Oh, I know what the matter

is! What a blamed lot of fools we are! You got to find out where the

shadow of the limb falls at midnight, and that's where you dig!"

"Then consound it, we've fooled away all this work for nothing.

Now hang it all, we got to come back in the night. It's an awful

long way. Can you get out?"

"I bet I will. We've got to do it to-night, too, because if somebody

sees these holes they'll know in a minute what's here and they'll go

for it."

"Well, I'll come around and meow to night."

"All right. Let's hide the tools in the bushes."

The boys were there that night, about the appointed time. They sat

in the shadow waiting. It was a lonely place, and an hour made

solemn by old traditions. Spirits whispered in the rustling leaves,

ghosts lurked in the murky nooks, the deep baying of a hound floated

up out of the distance, an owl answered with his sepulchral note.

The boys were subdued by these solemnities, and talked little. By

and by they judged that twelve had come; they marked where the

shadow fell, and began to dig. Their hopes commenced to rise. Their

interest grew stronger, and their industry kept pace with it. The hole

deepened and still deepened, but every time their hearts jumped to

hear the pick strike upon something, they only suffered a new

disappointment. It was only a stone or a chunk. At last Tom said:-

"It ain't any use, Huck, we're wrong again."

"Well but we can't be wrong. We spotted the shadder to a dot."

"I know it, but then there's another thing."

"What's that?"

"Why we only guessed at the time. Like enough it was too late or too

early."

Huck dropped his shovel.

"That's it," said he. "That's the very trouble. We got to give

this one up. We can't ever tell the right time, and besides this

kind of thing's too awful, here this time of night with witches and

ghosts a-fluttering around so. I feel as if something's behind me

all the time; and I'm afeard to turn around, becuz maybe there's

others in front a-waiting for a chance. I been creeping all over, ever

since I got here."

"Well, I've been pretty much so, too, Huck. They most always put

in a dead man when they bury a treasure under a tree, to look out

for it."

"Lordy!"

"Yes, they do. I've always heard that."

"Tom I don't like to fool around much where there's dead people. A

body's bound to get into trouble with 'em, sure."

"I don't like to stir 'em up, either, Huck. S'pose this one here was

to stick his skull out and say something!"

"Don't, Tom! It's awful."

"Well it just is. Huck, I don't feel comfortable a bit."

"Say, Tom, let's give this place up, and try somewheres else."

"All right, I reckon we better."

"What'll it be?"

Tom considered a while; and then said-

"The ha'nted house. That's it!"

"Blame it, I don't like ha'nted houses, Tom. Why they're a dem sight

worse'n dead people. Dead people might talk, maybe, but they don't

come sliding around in a shroud, when you ain't noticing, and peep

over your shoulder all of a sudden and grit their teeth, the way a

ghost does. I couldn't stand such a thing as that, Tom- nobody could."

"Yes, but Huck, ghosts don't travel around only at night. They won't

hender us from digging there in the daytime."

"Well that's so. But you know mighty well people don't go about that

ha'nted house in the day nor the night."

"Well, that's mostly because they don't like to go where a man's

been murdered, anyway- but nothing's ever been seen around that

house except in the night- just some blue lights slipping by the

windows- no regular ghosts."

"Well where you see one of them blue lights flickering around,

Tom, you can bet there's a ghost mighty close behind it. It stands

to reason. Becuz you know that they don't anybody but ghosts use 'em."

"Yes, that's so. But anyway they don't come around in the daytime,

so what's the use of our being afeared?"

"Well, all right. We'll tackle the ha'nted house if you say so-

but I reckon it's taking chances."

They had started down the hill by this time. There in the middle

of the moonlit valley below them stood the "ha'nted" house, utterly

isolated, its fences gone long ago, rank weeds smothering the very

doorsteps, the chimney crumbled to ruin, the window-sashes vacant, a

corner of the roof caved in. The boys gazed a while, half expecting to

see a blue light flit past a window; then talking in a low tone, as

befitted the time and the circumstances, they struck far off to the

right, to give the haunted house a wide berth, and took their way

homeward through the woods that adorned the rearward side of Cardiff

Hill.

Chapter 26

Real Robbers Seize the Box of Gold

ABOUT NOON THE NEXT DAY the boys arrived at the dead tree; they

had come for their tools. Tom was impatient to go to the haunted

house; Huck was measurably so, also- but suddenly said-

"Looky-here, Tom, do you know what day it is?"

Tom mentally ran over the days of the week, and then quickly

lifted his eyes with a startled look in them-

"My! I never once thought of it, Huck!"

"Well I didn't neither, but all at once it popped onto me that it

was Friday."

"Blame it, a body can't be too careful, Huck. We might a got into an

awful scrape, tackling such a thing on a Friday."

"Might! Better say we would! There's some lucky days, maybe, but

Friday ain't."

"Any fool knows that. I don't reckon you was the first that found it

out, Huck."

"Well, I never said I was, did I? And Friday ain't all, neither. I

had a rotten bad dream last night- dreampt about rats."

"No! Sure sign of trouble. Did they fight?"

"No."

"Well that's good, Huck. When they don't fight it's only a sign that

there's trouble around, you know. All we got to do is to look mighty

sharp and keep out of it. We'll drop this thing for to-day, and

play. Do you know Robin Hood, Huck?"

"No. Who's Robin Hood?"

"Why he was one of the greatest men that was ever in England- and

the best. He was a robber."

"Cracky, I wisht I was. Who did he rob?"

"Only sheriffs and bishops and rich people and kings, and such like.

But he never bothered the poor. He loved 'em. He always divided up

with 'em perfectly square."

"Well, he must 'a' ben a brick."

"I bet you he was, Huck. Oh, he was the noblest man that ever was.

They ain't any such men now, I can tell you. He could lick any man

in England, with one hand tied behind him; and he could take his yew

bow and plug a ten-cent piece every time, a mile and a half."

"What's a yew bow?"

"I don't know. It's some kind of a bow, of course. And if he hit

that dime only on the edge he would set down and cry- and curse. But

we'll play Robin Hood- it's noble fun. I'll learn you."

"I'm agreed."

So they played Robin Hood all the afternoon, now and then casting

a yearning eye down upon the haunted house and passing a remark

about the morrow's prospects and possibilities there. As the sun began

to sink into the west they took their way homeward athwart the long

shadows of the trees and soon were buried from sight in the forests of

Cardiff Hill.

On Saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were at the dead tree

again. They had a smoke and a chat in the shade, and then dug a little

in their last hole, not with great hope, but merely because Tom said

there were so many cases where people had given up a treasure after

getting down within six inches of it, and then somebody else had

come along and turned it up with a single thrust of a shovel. The

thing failed this time, however, so the boys shouldered their tools

and went away feeling that they had not trifled with fortune but had

fulfilled all the requirements that belong to the business of

treasure-hunting.

When they reached the haunted house there was something so weird and

grisly about the dead silence that reigned there under the baking sun,

and something so depressing about the loneliness and desolation of the

place, that they were afraid, for a moment, to venture in. Then they

crept to the door and took a trembling peep. They saw a weed grown,

floorless room, unplastered, an ancient fireplace, vacant windows, a

ruinous staircase; and here, there, and everywhere, hung ragged and

abandoned cobwebs. They presently entered, softly, with quickened

pulses; talking in whispers, ears alert to catch the slightest

sound, and muscles tense and ready for instant retreat.

In a little while familiarity modified their fears and they gave the

place a critical and interested examination, rather admiring their own

boldness, and wondering at it, too. Next they wanted to look upstairs.

This was something like cutting off retreat, but they got to daring

each other, and of course there could be but one result- they threw

their tools into a corner and made the ascent. Up there were the

same signs of decay. In one corner they found a closet that promised

mystery, but the promise was a fraud- there was nothing in it. Their

courage was up now and well in hand. They were about to go down and

begin work when-

"Sh!" said Tom.

"What is it?" whispered Huck, blanching with fright.

"Sh!....... There!...... Hear it?"

"Yes!..... O, my! Let's run!"

"Keep still! Don't you budge! They're coming right toward the door."

The boys stretched themselves upon the floor with their eyes to knot

holes in the planking, and lay waiting, in a misery of fear.

"They've stopped...... No- coming...... Here they are. Don't whisper

another word, Huck. My goodness, I wish I was out of this!"

Two men entered. Each boy said to himself. "There's the old deaf and

dumb Spaniard that's been about town once or twice lately- never saw

t'other man before."

"T'other" was a ragged, unkempt creature, with nothing very pleasant

in his face. The Spaniard was wrapped in a serape; he had bushy

white whiskers; long white hair flowed from under his sombrero, and he

wore green goggles. When they came in, "t'other" was talking in a

low voice; they sat down on the ground, facing the door, with their

backs to the wall, and the speaker continued his remarks. His manner

became less guarded and his words more distinct as he proceeded:

"No," said he, "I've thought it all over, and I don't like it.

It's dangerous."

"Dangerous!" grunted the "deaf and dumb" Spaniard,- to the vast

surprise of the boys. "Milksop!"

This voice made the boys gasp and quake. It was Injun Joe's! There

was silence for some time. Then Joe said:

"What's any more dangerous than that job up yonder- but nothing's

come of it."

"That's different. Away up the river so, and not another house

about. 'Twon't ever be known that we tried, anyway, long as we

didn't succeed."

"Well, what's more dangerous than coming here in the day time?-

anybody would suspicion us that saw us."

"I know that. But there warn't any other place as handy after that

fool of a job. I want to quit this shanty. I wanted to yesterday, only

it warn't any use trying to stir out of here, with those infernal boys

playing over there on the hill right in full view."

"Those infernal boys," quaked again under the inspiration of this

remark, and thought how lucky it was that they had remembered it was

Friday and concluded to wait a day. They wished in their hearts they

had waited a year.

The two men got out some food and made a luncheon. After a long

and thoughtful silence, Injun Joe said:

"Look here, lad- you go back up the river where you belong. Wait

there till you hear from me. I'll take the chances on dropping into

this town just once more, for a look. We'll do that 'dangerous' job

after I've spied around a little and think things look well for it.

Then for Texas! We'll leg it together!"

This was satisfactory. Both men presently fell to yawning, and Injun

Joe said:

"I'm dead for sleep! It's your turn to watch."

He curled down in the weeds and soon began to snore. His comrade

stirred him once or twice and he became quiet. Presently the watcher

began to nod; his head drooped lower and lower, both men began to

snore now.

The boys drew a long, grateful breath. Tom whispered-

"Now's our chance- come!"

Huck said:

"I cant- I'd die if they was to wake."

Tom urged- Huck held back. At last Tom rose slowly and softly, and

started alone. But the first step he made wrung such a hideous creak

from the crazy floor that he sank down almost dead with fright. He

never made a second attempt. The boys lay there counting the

dragging moments till it seemed to them that time must be done and

eternity growing gray; and then they were grateful to note that at

last the sun was setting.

Now one snore ceased. Injun Joe sat up, stared around- smiled grimly

upon his comrade, whose head was drooping upon his knees- stirred

him up with his foot and said-

"Here! You're a watchman, ain't you! All right, though-nothing's

happened."

"My! have I been asleep?"

"O, partly, partly. Nearly time for us to be moving, pard. What'll

we do with what little swag we've got left?"

"I don't know- leave it here as we've always done, I reckon. No

use to take it away till we start south. Six hundred and fifty in

silver's something to carry."

"Well- all right- it won't matter to come here once more."

"No- but I'd say come in the night as we used to do- it's better."

"Yes; but look here; it may be a good while before I get the right

chance at that job; accidents might happen; 'tain't in such a very

good place; we'll just regularly bury it- and bury it deep."

"Good idea," said the comrade, who walked across the room, knelt

down, raised one of the rearward hearthstones and took out a bag

that jingled pleasantly. He subtracted from it twenty or thirty

dollars for himself and as much for Injun Joe and passed the bag to

the latter, who was on his knees in the corner, now, digging with

his bowie knife.

The boys forgot all their fears, all their miseries in an instant.

With gloating eyes they watched every movement. Luck!- the splendor of

it was beyond all imagination! Six hundred dollars was money enough to

make half a dozen boys rich! Here was treasure-hunting under the

happiest auspices- there would not be any bothersome uncertainty as to

where to dig. They nudged each other every moment- eloquent nudges and

easily understood, for they simply meant- "O, but ain't you glad now

we're here!"

Joe's knife struck upon something.

"Hello!" said he.

"What is it?" said his comrade.

"Half-rotten plank- no it's a box, I believe. Here- bear a hand

and we'll see what it's here for. Never mind, I've broke a hole."

He reached his hand in and drew it out-

"Man, it's money!"

The two men examined the handful of coins. They were gold. The

boys above were as excited as themselves, and as delighted.

Joe's comrade said-

"We'll make quick work of this. There's an old rusty pick over

amongst the weeds in the corner the other side of the fire-place- I

saw it a minute ago."

He ran and brought the boys' pick and shovel. Injun Joe took the

pick, looked it over critically, shook his head, muttered something to

himself, and then began to use it. The box was soon unearthed. It

was not very large; it was iron bound and had been very strong

before the slow years had injured it. The men contemplated the

treasure a while in blissful silence.

"Pard, there's thousands of dollars here," said Injun Joe.

"'Twas always said that Murrel's gang used around here one

summer," the stranger observed.

"I know it," said Injun Joe; "and this looks like it, I should say."

"Now you won't need to do that job."

The half-breed frowned. Said he-

"You don't know me. Least you don't know all about that thing.

'Tain't robbery altogether- it's revenge!" and a wicked light flamed

in his eyes. "I'll need your help in it. When it's finished- then

Texas. Go home to your Nance, and your kids, and stand by till you

hear from me."

"Well- if you say so, what'll we do with this- bury it again?"

"Yes." [Ravishing delight overhead.] "No! by the great Sachem,

no!" [Profound distress overhead.] "I'd nearly forgot. That pick had

fresh earth on it!" [The boys were sick with terror in a moment.]

"What business has a pick and a shovel here? What business with

fresh earth on them? Who brought them here- and where are they gone?

Have you heard anybody?- seen anybody? What! bury it again and leave

them to come and see the ground disturbed? Not exactly- not exactly.

We'll take it to my den."

"Why of course! Might have thought of that before. You mean Number

One?"

"No- Number Two- under the cross. The other place is bad- too

common."

"All right. It's nearly dark enough to start."

Injun Joe got up and went about from window to window cautiously

peeping out. Presently he said:

"Who could have brought those tools here? Do you reckon they can

be upstairs?"

The boys' breath forsook them. Injun Joe put his hand on his

knife, halted a moment, undecided, and then turned toward the

stairway. The boys thought of the closet, but their strength was gone.

The steps came creaking up the stairs- the intolerable distress of the

situation woke the stricken resolution of the lads- they were about to

spring for the closet, when there was a crash of rotten timbers and

Injun Joe landed on the ground amid the debris of the ruined stairway.

He gathered himself up cursing, and his comrade said:

"Now what's the use of all that? If it's anybody, and they're up

there, let them stay there- who cares? If they want to jump down, now,

and get into trouble, who objects? It will be dark in fifteen minutes-

and then let them follow us if they want to. I'm willing. In my

opinion, whoever hove those things in here caught a sight of us and

took us for ghosts or devils or something. I'll bet they're running

yet."

Joe grumbled a while; then he agreed with his friend that what

daylight was left ought to be economized in getting things ready for

leaving. Shortly afterward they slipped out of the house in the

deepening twilight, and moved toward the river with their precious

box.

Tom and Huck rose up, weak but vastly relieved, and stared after

them through the chinks between the logs of the house. Follow? Not

they. They were content to reach ground again without broken necks,

and take the townward track over the hill. They did not talk much.

They were too much absorbed in hating themselves- hating the ill

luck that made them take the spade and the pick there. But for that,

Injun Joe never would have suspected. He would have hidden the

silver with the gold to wait there till his "revenge" was satisfied,

and then he would have had the misfortune to find that money turn up

missing. Bitter, bitter luck that the tools were ever brought there!

They resolved to keep a lookout for that Spaniard when he should

come to town spying out for chances to do his revengeful job, and

follow him to "Number Two," wherever that might be. Then a ghastly

thought occurred to Tom:

"Revenge? What if he means us, Huck!"

"O, don't!" said Huck, nearly fainting.

They talked it all over, and as they entered town they agreed to

believe that he might possibly mean somebody else- at least that he

might at least mean nobody but Tom, since only Tom had testified.

Very, very small comfort it was to Tom to be alone in danger!

Company would be a palpable improvement, he thought.

Chapter 27

Trembling on the Trail

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DAY mightily tormented Tom's dreams that night.

Four times he had his hands on that rich treasure and four times it

wasted to nothingness in his fingers as sleep forsook him and

wakefulness brought back the hard reality of his misfortune. As he lay

in the early morning recalling the incidents of his great adventure,

he noticed that they seemed curiously subdued and far away- somewhat

as if they had happened in another world, or in a time long gone by.

Then it occurred to him that the great adventure itself must be a

dream! There was one very strong argument in favor of this idea-

namely, that the quantity of coin he had seen was too vast to be real.

He had never seen as much as fifty dollars in one mass before, and

he was like all boys of his age and station in life, in that he

imagined that all references to "hundreds" and "thousands" were mere

fanciful forms of speech, and that no such sums really existed in

the world. He never had supposed for a moment that so large a sum as a

hundred dollars was to be found in actual money in anyone's

possession. If his notions of hidden treasure had been analyzed,

they would have been found to consist of a handful of real dimes and a

bushel of vague, splendid, ungraspable dollars.

But the incidents of his adventure grew sensibly sharper and clearer

under the attrition of thinking them over, and so he presently found

himself leaning to the impression that the thing might not have been a

dream, after all. This uncertainty must be swept away. He would snatch

a hurried breakfast and go and find Huck.

Huck was sitting on the gunwale of a flatboat, listlessly dangling

his feet in the water and looking very melancholy. Tom concluded to

let Huck lead up to the subject. If he did not do it, then the

adventure would be proved to have been only a dream.

"Hello, Huck!"

"Hello, yourself."

[Silence, for a minute.]

"Tom, if we'd a left the blame tools at the dead tree, we'd 'a'

got the money. O, ain't it awful!"

"'Tain't a dream, then, 'tain't a dream! Somehow I most wish it was.

Dog'd if I don't, Huck."

"What ain't a dream?"

"O, that thing yesterday. I been half thinking it was."

"Dream! If them stairs hadn't broke down you'd 'a' seen how much

dream it was! I've had dreams enough all night- with that patch-eyed

Spanish devil going for me all through 'em- rot him!"

"No, not rot him. Find him! Track the money!"

"Tom, we'll never find him. A feller don't have only one chance

for such a pile- and that one's lost. I'd feel mighty shaky if I was

to see him, anyway."

"Well, so'd I; but I'd like to see him, anyway- and track him out-

to his Number Two."

"Number Two- yes, that's it. I ben thinking 'bout that. But I

can't make nothing out of it. What do you reckon it is?"

"I dono. It's too deep. Say, Huck- maybe it's the number of a

house!"

"Goody!...... No, Tom, that ain't it. If it is, it ain't in this

onehorse town. They ain't no numbers here."

"Well, that's so. Lemme think a minute. Here- it's the number of a

room- in a tavern, you know!"

"O, that's the trick! They ain't only two taverns. We can find out

quick."

"You stay here, Huck, till I come."

Tom was off at once. He did not care to have Huck's company in

public places. He was gone half an hour. He found that in the best

tavern, No. 2 had long been occupied by a young lawyer, and was

still so occupied. In the less ostentatious house No. 2 was a mystery.

The tavern-keeper's young son said it was kept locked all the time,

and he never saw anybody go into it or come out of it except at night;

he did not know any particular reason for this state of things; had

had some little curiosity, but it was rather feeble; had made the most

of the mystery by entertaining himself with the idea that that room

was "ha'nted"; had noticed that there was a light in there the night

before.

"That's what I've found out, Huck. I reckon that's the very No. 2

we're after."

"I reckon it is, Tom. Now what you going to do?"

"Lemme think."

Tom thought a long time. Then he said:

"I'll tell you. The back door of that No. 2 is the door that comes

out into that little close alley between the tavern and the old

rattle-trap of a brick store. Now you get hold of all the door-keys

you can find, and I'll nip all of Auntie's and the first dark night

we'll go there and try 'em. And mind you keep a lookout for Injun Joe,

because he said he was going to drop into town and spy around once

more for a chance to get his revenge. If you see him, you just

follow him; and if he don't go to that No. 2, that ain't the place."

"Lordy I don't want to foller him by myself!"

"Why it'll be night, sure. He mightn't ever see you- and if he

did, maybe he'd never think anything."

"Well, if it's pretty dark I reckon I'll track him. I dono- I

dono. I'll try."

"You bet I'll follow him, if it's dark, Huck. Why he might 'a' found

out he couldn't get his revenge, and be going right after that money."

"It's so, Tom, it's so. I'll foller him; I will, by jingoes!"

"Now you're talking! Don't you ever weaken, Huck, and I won't."

Chapter 28

In the Lair of Injun Joe

THAT NIGHT Tom and Huck were ready for their adventure. They hung

about the neighborhood of the tavern until after nine, one watching

the alley at a distance and the other the tavern door. Nobody

entered the alley or left it; nobody resembling the Spaniard entered

or left the tavern door. The night promised to be a fair one; so Tom

went home with the understanding that if a considerable degree of

darkness came on, Huck was to come and "meow," whereupon he would slip

out and try the keys. But the night remained clear, and Huck closed

his watch and retired to bed in an empty sugar-hogshead about twelve.

Tuesday the boys had the same ill luck. Also Wednesday. But Thursday

night promised better. Tom slipped out in good season with his

aunt's old tin lantern, and a large towel to blindfold it with. He hid

the lantern in Huck's sugar-hogshead and the watch began. An hour

before midnight the tavern closed up and its lights (the only ones

thereabouts) were put out. No Spaniard had been seen. Nobody had

entered or left the alley. Everything was auspicious. The blackness of

darkness reigned, the perfect stillness was interrupted only by

occasional mutterings of distant thunder.

Tom got his lantern, lit it in the hogshead, wrapped it closely in

the towel, and the two adventurers crept in the gloom toward the

tavern. Huck stood sentry and Tom felt his way into the alley. Then

there was a season of waiting anxiety that weighed upon Huck's spirits

like a mountain. He began to wish he could see a flash from the

lantern- it would frighten him, but it would at least tell him that

Tom was alive yet. It seemed hours since Tom had disappeared. Surely

he must have fainted; maybe he was dead; maybe his heart had burst

under terror and excitement. In his uneasiness Huck found himself

drawing closer and closer to the alley; fearing all sorts of

dreadful things, and momentarily expecting some catastrophe to

happen that would take away his breath. There was not much to take

away, for he seemed only able to inhale it by thimblefuls, and his

heart would soon wear itself out, the way it was beating. Suddenly

there was a flash of light and Tom came tearing by him:

"Run!" said he; "run, for your life!"

He needn't have repeated it; once was enough; Huck was making thirty

or forty miles an hour before the repetition was uttered. The boys

never stopped till they reached the shed of a deserted slaughter-house

at the lower end of the village. Just as they got within its shelter

the storm burst and the rain poured down. As soon as Tom got his

breath he said:

"Huck, it was awful! I tried two of the keys, just as soft as I

could; but they seemed to make such a power of racket that I

couldn't hardly get my breath I was so scared. They wouldn't turn in

the lock, either. Well, without noticing what I was doing, I took hold

of the knob, and open comes the door! It warn't locked! I hopped in,

and shook off the towel, and, great Caesar's ghost!"

"What!- what'd you see, Tom!"

"Huck, I most stepped onto Injun Joe's hand!"

"No!"

"Yes! He was laying there, sound asleep on the floor, with his old

patch on his eye and his arms spread out."

"Lordy, what did you do? Did he wake up?"

"No, never budged. Drunk, I reckon. I just grabbed that towel and

started!"

"I'd never 'a' thought of the towel, I bet!"

"Well, I would. My aunt would make me mighty sick if I lost it."

"Say, Tom, did you see that box?"

"Huck, I didn't wait to look around. I didn't see the box, I

didn't see the cross. I didn't see anything but a bottle and a tin cup

on the floor by Injun joe; yes, and I saw two barrels and lots more

bottles in the room. Don't you see, now, what's the matter with that

ha'nted room?"

"How?"

"Why it's with whisky! Maybe all the Temperance Taverns have got a

ha'nted room, hey Huck?"

"Well I reckon maybe that's so. Who'd 'a' thought such a thing?

But say, Tom, now's a mighty good time to get that box, if Injun joe's

drunk."

"It is, that! You try it!"

Huck shuddered.

"Well, no- I reckon not."

"And I reckon not, Huck. Only one bottle alongside of Injun Joe

ain't enough. If there'd been three, he'd be drunk enough and I'd do

it."

There was a long pause for reflection, and then Tom said:

"Looky-here, Huck, less not try that thing any more till we know

Injun Joe's not in there. It's too scary. Now if we watch every night,

we'll be dead sure to see him go out, some time or other, and then

we'll snatch that box quicker'n lightning."

"Well, I'm agreed, I'll watch the whole night long, and I'll do it

every night, too, if you'll do the other part of the job."

"All right, I will. All you got to do is to trot up Hooper street

a block and meow- and if I'm asleep, you throw some gravel at the

window and that'll fetch me."

"Agreed, and good as wheat!"

"Now Huck, the storm's over, and I'll go home. It'll begin to be

daylight in a couple of hours. You go back and watch that long, will

you?"

"I said I would, Tom, and I will. I'll ha'nt that tavern every night

for a year! I'll sleep all day and I'll stand watch all night."

"That's all right. Now where you going to sleep?"

"In Ben Rogers's hayloft. He let's me, and so does his pap's

nigger man, Uncle Jake. I tote water for Uncle Jake whenever he

wants me to, and anytime I ask him he gives me a little something to

eat if he can spare it. That's a mighty good nigger, Tom. He likes me,

becuz I don't ever act as if I was above him. Sometimes I've set right

down and eat with him. But you needn't tell that. A body's got to do

things when he's awful hungry he wouldn't want to do as a steady

thing."

"Well, if I don't want you in the daytime, Huck, I'll let you sleep.

I won't come bothering around. Any time you see something's up, in the

night, just skip right around and meow."

Chapter 29

Huck Saves the Widow

THE FIRST THING Tom heard on Friday morning was a glad piece of

news- Judge Thatcher's family had come back to town the night

before. Both Injun Joe and the treasure sunk into secondary importance

for a moment, and Becky took the chief place in the boy's interest. He

saw her and they had an exhausting good time playing "hi-spy" and

"gully-keeper" with a crowd of their schoolmates. The day was

completed and crowned in a peculiarly satisfactory way: Becky teased

her mother to appoint the next day for the long-promised and

long-delayed picnic, and she consented. The child's delight was

boundless; and Tom's not more moderate. The invitations were sent

out before sunset, and straightway the young folks of the village were

thrown into a fever of preparation and pleasurable anticipation. Tom's

excitement enabled him to keep awake until a pretty late hour, and

he had good hopes of hearing Huck's "meow," and of having his treasure

to astonish Becky and the picnickers with, next day; but he was

disappointed. No signal came that night.

Morning came, eventually, and by ten or eleven o'clock a giddy and

rollicking company were gathered at Judge Thatcher's, and everything

was ready for a start. It was not the custom for elderly people to mar

picnics with their presence. The children were considered safe

enough under the wings of a few young ladies of eighteen and a few

young gentlemen of twenty-three or thereabouts. The old steam ferry

boat was chartered for the occasion; presently the gay throng filed up

the main street laden with provision baskets. Sid was sick and had

to miss the fun; Mary remained at home to entertain him. The last

thing Mrs. Thatcher said to Becky, was-

"You'll not get back till late. Perhaps you'd better stay all

night with some of the girls that live near the ferry landing, child."

"Then I'll stay with Susy Harper, mamma."

"Very well. And mind and behave yourself and don't be any trouble."

Presently, as they tripped along, Tom said to Becky:

"Say- I'll tell you what we'll do. 'Stead of going to Joe Harper's

we'll climb right up the hill and stop at the Widow Douglas's.

She'll have ice cream! She has it 'most every day- dead loads of it.

And she'll be awful glad to have us."

"O, that will be fun!"

Then Becky reflected a moment and said:

"But what will mamma say?"

"How'll she ever know?"

The girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said reluctantly:

"I reckon it's wrong- but-"

"But shucks! Your mother won't know, and so what's the harm? All she

wants is that you'll be safe; and I bet you she'd 'a' said go there if

she'd 'a' thought of it. I know she would!"

The widow Douglas's splendid hospitality was a tempting bait. It and

Tom's persuasions presently carried the day. So it was decided to

say nothing to anybody about the night's programme. Presently it

occurred to Tom that maybe Huck might come this very night and give

the signal. The thought took a deal of the spirit out of his

anticipations. Still he could not bear to give up the fun at Widow

Douglas's. And why should he give it up, he reasoned- the signal did

not come the night before, so why should it be any more likely to come

to-night? The sure fun of the evening outweighed the uncertain

treasure; and boy like, he determined to yield to the stronger

inclination and not allow himself to think of the box of money another

time that day.

Three miles below town the ferry boat stopped at the mouth of a

woody hollow and tied up. The crowd swarmed ashore and soon the forest

distances and craggy heights echoed far and near with shoutings and

laughter. All the different ways of getting hot and tired were gone

through with, and by and by the rovers straggled back to camp

fortified with responsible appetites, and then the destruction of

the good things began. After the feast there was a refreshing season

of rest and chat in the shade of spreading oaks. By and by somebody

shouted-

"Who's ready for the cave?"

Everybody was. Bundles of candles were produced, and straightway

there was a general scamper up the hill. The mouth of the cave was

up the hillside- an opening shaped like a letter A. Its massive

oaken door stood unbarred. Within was a small chamber, chilly as an

ice-house, and walled by Nature with solid limestone that was dewy

with a cold sweat. It was romantic and mysterious to stand here in the

deep gloom and look out upon the green valley shining in the sun.

But the impressiveness of the situation quickly wore off, and the

romping began again. The moment a candle was lighted there was a

general rush upon the owner of it; a struggle and a gallant defense

followed, but the candle was soon knocked down or blown out, and

then there was a glad clamor of laughter and a new chase. But all

things have an end. By and by the procession went filing down the

steep descent of the main avenue, the flickering rank of lights

dimly revealing the lofty walls of rock almost to their point of

junction sixty feet overhead. This main avenue was not more than eight

or ten feet wide. Every few steps other lofty and still narrower

crevices branched from it on either hand- for McDougal's cave was

but a vast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran into each other and

out again and led nowhere. It was said that one might wander days

and nights together through its intricate tangle of rifts and

chasms, and never find the end of the cave; and that he might go down,

and down, and still down, into the earth, and it was just the same-

labyrinth underneath labyrinth, and no end to any of them. No man

"knew" the cave. That was an impossible thing. Most of the young men

knew a portion of it, and it was not customary to venture much

beyond this known portion. Tom Sawyer knew as much of the cave as

any one.

The procession moved along the main avenue some three-quarters of

a mile, and then groups and couples began to slip aside into branch

avenues, fly along the dismal corridors, and take each other by

surprise at points where the corridors joined again. Parties were able

to elude each other for the space of half an hour without going beyond

the "known" ground.

By and by, one group after another came straggling back to the mouth

of the cave, panting, hilarious, smeared from head to foot with tallow

drippings, daubed with clay, and entirely delighted with the success

of the day. Then they were astonished to find that they had been

taking no note of time and that night was about at hand. The

clanging bell had been calling for half an hour. However, this sort of

close to the day's adventures was romantic and therefore satisfactory.

When the ferry boat with her wild freight pushed into the stream,

nobody cared sixpence for the wasted time but the captain of the

craft.

Huck was already upon his watch when the ferry boat's lights went

glinting past the wharf. He heard no noise on board, for the young

people were as subdued and still as people usually are who are

nearly tired to death. He wondered what boat it was, and why she did

not stop at the wharf- and then he dropped her out of his mind and put

his attention upon his business. The night was growing cloudy and

dark. Ten o'clock came, and the noise of vehicles ceased, scattered

lights began to wink out, all straggling foot passengers

disappeared, the village betook itself to its slumbers and left the

small watcher alone with the silence and the ghosts. Eleven o'clock

came, and the tavern lights were put out; darkness everywhere, now.

Huck waited what seemed a weary long time, but nothing happened. His

faith was weakening. Was there any use? Was there really any use?

Why not give it up and turn in?

A noise fell upon his ear. He was all attention in an instant. The

alley door closed softly. He sprang to the corner of the brick

store. The next moment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to

have something under his arm. It must be that box! So they were

going to remove the treasure. Why call Tom now? It would be absurd-

the men would get away with the box and never be found again. No, he

would stick to their wake and follow them; he would trust to the

darkness for security from discovery. So communing with himself,

Huck stepped out and glided along behind the men, cat-like, with

bare feet, allowing them to keep just far enough ahead not to be

invisible.

They moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left

up a cross street. They went straight ahead, then, until they came

to the path that led up Cardiff Hill; this they took. They passed by

the old Welchman's house, half way up the hill without hesitating, and

still climbed upward. Good, thought Huck, they will bury it in the old

quarry. But they never stopped at the quarry. They passed on, up the

summit. They plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumach

bushes, and were at once hidden in the gloom. Huck closed up and

shortened his distance, now, for they would never be able to see

him. He trotted along a while; then slackened his pace, fearing he was

gaining too fast; moved on a piece, then stopped altogether; listened;

no sound; none, save that he seemed to hear the beating of his own

heart. The hooting of an owl came from over the hill- ominous sound!

But no footsteps. Heavens, was everything lost! He was about to spring

with winged feet, when a man cleared his throat not four feet from

him! Huck's heart shot into his throat, but he swallowed it again; and

then he stood there shaking as if a dozen agues had taken charge of

him at once, and so weak that he thought he must surely fall to the

ground. He knew where he was. He knew he was within five steps of

the stile leading into Widow Douglas's grounds. Very well, he thought,

let them bury it there; it won't be hard to find.

Now there was a voice- a very low voice- Injun Joe's:

"Damn her, maybe she's got company- there's lights, late as it is."

"I can't see any."

This was that stranger's voice- the stranger of the haunted house. A

deadly chill went to Huck's heart- this, then, was the "revenge"

job! His thought was, to fly. Then he remembered that the Widow

Douglas had been kind to him more than once, and maybe these men

were going to murder her. He wished he dared venture to warn her;

but he knew he didn't dare- they might come and catch him. He

thought all this and more in the moment that elapsed between the

stranger's remark and Injun Joe's next- which was-

"Because the bush is in your way. Now- this way- now you see,

don't you?"

"Yes. Well there is company there, I reckon. Better give it up."

"Give it up, and I just leaving this country forever! Give it up and

maybe never have another chance. I tell you again, as I've told you

before, I don't care for her swag- you may have it. But her husband

was rough on me- many times he was rough on me- and mainly he was

the justice of the peace that jugged me for a vagrant. And that

ain't all. It ain't a millionth part of it! He had me horsewhipped!-

horsewhipped in front of the jail, like a nigger!- with all the town

looking on! HORSEWHIPPED!- do you understand? He took advantage of

me and died. But I'll take it out of her."

"O, don't kill her! Don't do that!"

"Kill? Who said anything about killing? I would kill him if he was

here; but not her. When you want to get revenge on a woman you don't

kill her- bosh! you go for her looks. You slit her nostrils- you notch

her ears like a sow's!"

"By God, that's-"

"Keep your opinion to yourself! It will be safest for you. I'll

tie her to the bed. If she bleeds to death, is that my fault? I'll not

cry, if she does. My friend, you'll help in this thing- for my sake-

that's why you're here- I mightn't be able alone. If you flinch, I'll

kill you. Do you understand that? And if I have to kill you, I'll kill

her- and then I reckon nobody'll ever know much about who done this

business."

"Well, if it's got to be done, let's get at it. The quicker the

better- I'm all in a shiver."

"Do it now? And company there? Look here- I'll get suspicious of

you, first thing you know. No- we'll wait till the lights are out-

there's no hurry."

Huck felt that a silence was going to ensue- a thing still more

awful than any amount of murderous talk; so he held his breath and

stepped gingerly back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after

balancing, one-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling over,

first on one side and then on the other. He took another step back,

with the same elaboration and the same risks; then another and

another, and- a twig snapped under his foot! His breath stopped and he

listened. There was no sound- the stillness was perfect. His gratitude

was measureless. Now he turned in his tracks, between the walls of

sumach bushes- turned himself as carefully as if he were a ship- and

then stepped quickly but cautiously along. When he emerged at the

quarry he felt secure, and so he picked up his nimble heels and

flew. Down, down he sped, till he reached the Welchman's. He banged at

the door, and presently the heads of the old man and his two

stalwart sons were thrust from windows.

"What's the row there? Who's banging? What do you want?"

"Let me in- quick! I'll tell everything."

"Why who are you?"

"Huckleberry Finn- quick, let me in!"

"Huckleberry Finn, indeed! It ain't a name to open many doors, I

judge! But let him in, lads, and let's see what's the trouble."

"Please don't ever tell I told you," were Huck's first words when he

got in. "Please dont- I'd be killed, sure- but the Widow's been good

friends to me sometimes, and I want to tell- I will tell if you'll

promise you won't ever say it was me."

"By George he has got something to tell, or he wouldn't act so!"

exclaimed the old man; "out with it and nobody here'll ever tell,

lad."

Three minutes later the old man and his sons, well armed, were up

the hill, and just entering the sumach path on tip-toe, their

weapons in their hands. Huck accompanied them no further. He hid

behind a great boulder and fell to listening. There was a lagging,

anxious silence, and then all of a sudden there was an explosion of

firearms and a cry.

Huck waited for no particulars. He sprang away and sped down the

hill as fast as his legs could carry him.

Chapter 30

Tom and Becky in the Cave

THE EARLIEST SUSPICION of dawn appeared on Sunday morning, Huck came

groping up the hill and rapped gently at the old Welchman's door.

The inmates were asleep but it was a sleep that was set on a

hair-trigger, on account of the exciting episode of the night. A

call came from a window-

"Who's there!"

Huck's scared voice answered in a low tone:

"Please let me in! It's only Huck Finn!"

"It's a name that can open this door night or day, lad!- and

welcome!"

These were strange words to the vagabond boy's ears, and the

pleasantest he had ever heard. He could not recollect that the closing

word had ever been applied in his case before. The door was quickly

locked, and he entered. Huck was given a seat and the old man and

his brace of tall sons speedily dressed themselves.

"Now my boy I hope you're good and hungry, because breakfast will be

ready as soon as the sun's up, and we'll have a piping hot one, too-

make yourself easy about that! I and the boys hoped you'd turn up

and stop here last night."

"I was awful scared," said Huck, "and I run. I took out when the

pistols went off, and I didn't stop for three mile. I've come now

becuz I wanted to know about it, you know; and I come before

daylight becuz I didn't want to run acrost them devils, even if they

was dead."

"Well, poor chap, you do look as if you'd had a hard night of it-

but there's a bed here for you when you've had your breakfast. No,

they ain't dead, lad- we are sorry enough for that. You see we knew

right where to put our hands on them, by your description; so we crept

along on tip-toe till we got within fifteen feet of them- dark as a

cellar that sumach path was- and just then I found I was going to

sneeze. It was the meanest kind of luck! I tried to keep it back,

but no use- 'twas bound to come, and it did come! I was in the lead

with my pistol raised, and when the sneeze started those scoundrels

a-rustling to get out of the path, I sung out, 'Fire, boys!' and

blazed away at the place where the rustling was. So did the boys.

But they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and we after them,

down through the woods. I judge we never touched them. They fired a

shot apiece as they started, but their bullets whizzed by and didn't

do us any harm. As soon as we lost the sound of their feet we quit

chasing, and went down and stirred up the constables. They got a posse

together, and went off to guard the river bank, and as soon as it is

light the sheriff and a gang are going to beat up the woods. My boys

will be with them presently. I wish we had some sort of description of

those rascals- 'twould help a good deal. But you couldn't see what

they were like, in the dark, lad, I suppose?"

"O, yes, I saw them down town and follered them."

"Splendid! Describe them- describe them, my boy!"

"One's the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that's ben around here once or

twice, and t'other's a mean looking ragged-"

"That's enough, lad, we know the men! Happened on them in the

woods back of the widow's one day, and they slunk away. Off with

you, boys, and tell the sheriff- get your breakfast to-morrow

morning!"

The Welchman's sons departed at once. As they were leaving the

room Huck sprang up and exclaimed:

"O, please don't tell anybody it was me that blowed on them! O,

please!"

"All right if you say it, Huck, but you ought to have the credit

of what you did."

"O, no, no! Please don't tell!"

When the young men were gone, the old Welchman said-

"They won't tell- and I won't. But why don't you want it known?"

Huck would not explain, further than to say that he already knew too

much about one of those men and would not have the man know that he

knew anything against him for the whole world- he would be killed

for knowing it, sure.

The old man promised secrecy once more, and said:

"How did you come to follow these fellows, lad? Were they looking

suspicious?"

Huck was silent while he framed a duly cautious reply. Then he said:

"Well, you see, I'm a kind of a hard lot,- least everybody says

so, and I don't see nothing agin it- and sometimes I can't sleep much,

on accounts of thinking about it and sort of trying to strike out a

new way of doing. That was the way of it last night. I couldn't sleep,

and so I come along up street 'bout midnight, a-turning it all over,

and when I got to that old shackly brick store by the Temperance

Tavern, I backed up agin the wall to have another think. Well, just

then along comes these two chaps slipping along close by me, with

something under their arm and I reckoned they'd stole it. One was

a-smoking, and t'other one wanted a light; so they stopped right

before me and the cigars lit up their faces and I see that the big one

was the deaf and dumb Spaniard, by his white whiskers and the patch on

his eye, and t'other one was a rusty, ragged looking devil."

"Could you see the rags by the light of the cigars?"

This staggered Huck for a moment. Then he said:

"Well, I don't know- but somehow it seems as if I did."

"Then they went on, and you-"

"Follered 'em- yes. That was it. I wanted to see what was up- they

sneaked along so. I dogged 'em to the widder's stile, and stood in the

dark and heard the ragged one beg for the widder, and the Spaniard

swear he'd spile her looks just as I told you and your two-"

"What! The deaf and dumb man said all that!"

Huck had made another terrible mistake! He was trying his best to

keep the old man from getting the faintest hint of who the Spaniard

might be, and yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble

in spite of all he could do. He made several efforts to creep out of

his scrape, but the old man's eye was upon him and he made blunder

after blunder. Presently the Welchman said:

"My boy, don't be afraid of me. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your

head for all the world. No- I'd protect you- I'd protect you. This

Spaniard is not deaf and dumb; you've let that slip without

intending it; you can't cover that up now. You know something about

that Spaniard that you want to keep dark. Now trust me- tell me what

it is, and trust me- I won't betray you."

Huck looked into the old man's honest eyes a moment, then bent

over and whispered in his ear-

"'Tain't a Spaniard- it's Injun Joe!"

The Welchman almost jumped out of his chair. In a moment he said:

"It's all plain enough, now. When you talked about notching ears and

slitting noses I judged that that was your own embellishment,

because white men don't take that sort of revenge. But an Injun!

That's a different matter altogether."

During breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old

man said that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before

going to bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its

vicinity for marks of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky

bundle of-

"Of WHAT?" If the words had been lightning they could not have

leaped with a more stunning suddenness from Huck's blanched lips.

His eyes were staring wide, now, and his breath suspended- waiting for

the answer. The Welchman started- stared in return- three seconds-

five seconds- ten- then replied-

"Of burglar's tools. Why what's the matter with you?"

Huck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful.

The Welchman eyed him gravely, curiously- and presently said-

"Yes, burglar's tools. That appears to relieve you a good deal.

But what did give you that turn? What were you expecting we'd found?"

Huck was in a close place- the inquiring eye was upon him- he would

have given anything for material for a plausible answer- nothing

suggested itself- the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper- a

senseless reply offered- there was no time to weigh it, so at a

venture he uttered it- feebly:

"Sunday-school books, maybe."

Poor Huck was too distressed to smile, but- the old man laughed

loud and joyously, shook up the details of his anatomy from head to

foot, and ended by saying that such a laugh was money in a man's

pocket, because it cut down the doctor's bills like everything. Then

he added:

"Poor old chap, you're white and jaded- you ain't well a bit- no

wonder you're a little flighty and off your balance. But you'll come

out of it. Rest and sleep will fetch you out all right, I hope."

Huck was irritated to think he had been such a goose and betrayed

such a suspicious excitement, for he had dropped the idea that the

parcel brought from the tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had

heard the talk at the widow's stile. He had only thought it was not

the treasure, however- he had not known that it wasn't- and so the

suggestion of a captured bundle was too much for his

self-possession. But on the whole he felt glad the little episode

had happened, for now he knew beyond all question that that bundle was

not the bundle, and so his mind was at rest and exceedingly

comfortable. In fact everything seemed to be drifting just in the

right direction, now; the treasure must be still in No. 2, the men

would be captured and jailed that day, and he and Tom could seize

the gold that night without any trouble or any fear of interruption.

Just as breakfast was completed there was a knock at the door.

Huck jumped for a hiding place, for he had no mind to be connected

even remotely with the late event. The Welchman admitted several

ladies and gentlemen, among them the widow Douglas, and noticed that

groups of citizens were climbing up the hill- to stare at the stile.

So the news had spread.

The Welchman had to tell the story of the night to the visitors. The

widow's gratitude for her preservation was outspoken.

"Don't say a word about it, madam. There's another that you're

more beholden to than you are to me and my boys, maybe, but he don't

allow me to tell his name. We wouldn't have been there but for him."

Of course this excited a curiosity so vast that it almost

belittled the main matter- but the Welchman allowed it to eat into the

vitals of his visitors, and through them be transmitted to the whole

town, for he refused to part with his secret. When all else had been

learned, the widow said:

"I went to sleep reading in bed and slept straight through all

that noise. Why didn't you come and wake me?"

"We judged it warn't worth while. Those fellows warn't likely to

come again- they hadn't any tools left to work with, and what was

the use of waking you up and scaring you to death? My three negro

men stood guard at your house all the rest of the night. They've

just come back."

More visitors came, and the story had to be told and re-told for a

couple of hours more.

There was no Sabbath-school during day-school vacation, but

everybody was early at church. The stirring event was well

canvassed. News came that not a sign of the two villains had been

yet discovered. When the sermon was finished, Judge Thatcher's wife

dropped alongside of Mrs. Harper as she moved down the aisle with

the crowd and said:

"Is my Becky going to sleep all day? I just expected she would be

tired to death."

"Your Becky?"

"Yes,"- with a startled look,- "didn't she stay with you last

night?"

"Why, no."

Mrs. Thatcher turned pale, and sank into a pew, just as Aunt

Polly, talking briskly with a friend, passed by. Aunt Polly said:

"Good morning, Mrs. Thatcher. Good morning, Mrs. Harper. I've got

a boy that's turned up missing. I reckon my Tom staid at your house

last night- one of you. And now he's afraid to come to church. I've

got to settle with him."

Mrs. Thatcher shook her head feebly and turned paler than ever.

"He didn't stay with us," said Mrs. Harper, beginning to look

uneasy. A marked anxiety came into Aunt Polly's face.

"Joe Harper, have you seen my Tom this morning?"

"No'm."

"When did you see him last?"

Joe tried to remember, but was not sure he could say. The people had

stopped moving out of church. Whispers passed along, and a boding

uneasiness took possession of every countenance. Children were

anxiously questioned, and young teachers. They all said they had not

noticed whether Tom and Becky were on board the ferry boat on the

homeward trip; it was dark; no one thought of inquiring if any one was

missing. One young man finally blurted out his fear that they were

still in the cave! Mrs. Thatcher swooned away; Aunt Polly fell to

crying and wringing her hands.

The alarm swept from lip to lip, from group to group, from street to

street, and within five minutes the bells were wildly clanging and the

whole town was up! The Cardiff Hill episode sank into instant

insignificance, the burglars were forgotten, horses were saddled,

skiffs were manned, the ferry boat ordered out, and before the

horror was half an hour old, two hundred men were pouring down

high-road and river toward the cave.

All the long afternoon the village seemed empty and dead. Many women

visited Aunt Polly and Mrs. Thatcher and tried to comfort them. They

cried with them, too, and that was still better than words. All the

tedious night the town waited for news; but when the morning dawned at

last, all the word that came was, "Send more candles- and send

food." Mrs. Thatcher was almost crazed; and Aunt Polly also. Judge

Thatcher sent messages of hope and encouragement from the cave, but

they conveyed no real cheer.

The old Welchman came home toward daylight, spattered with candle

grease, smeared with clay, and almost worn out. He found Huck still in

the bed that had been provided for him, and delirious with fever.

The physicians were all at the cave, so the Widow Douglas came and

took charge of the patient. She said she would do her best by him,

because, whether he was good, bad, or indifferent, he was the

Lord's, and nothing that was the Lord's was a thing to be neglected.

The Welchman said Huck had good spots in him, and the widow said-

"You can depend on it. That's the Lord's mark. He don't leave it

off. He never does. Puts it somewhere on every creature that comes

from His hands."

Early in the forenoon parties of jaded men began to straggle into

the village, but the strongest of the citizens continued searching.

All the news that could be gained was that remotenesses of the

cavern were being ransacked that had never been visited before; that

every corner and crevice was going to be thoroughly searched; that

wherever one wandered through the maze of passages, lights were to

be seen flitting hither and thither in the distance, and shoutings and

pistol shots sent their hollow reverberations to the ear down the

somber aisles. In one place, far from the section usually traversed by

tourists, the names "BECKY & TOM" had been found traced upon the rocky

wall with candle smoke, and near at hand a grease-soiled bit of

ribbon. Mrs. Thatcher recognized the ribbon and cried over it. She

said it was the last relic she should ever have of her child; and that

no other memorial of her could ever be so precious, because this one

parted latest from the living body before the awful death came. Some

said that now and then, in the cave, a far-away speck of light would

glimmer, and then a glorious shout would burst forth and a score of

men go trooping down the echoing aisle- and then a sickening

disappointment always followed; the children were not there; it was

only a searcher's light.

Three dreadful days and nights dragged their tedious hours along,

and the village sank into a hopeless stupor. No one had heart for

anything. The accidental discovery, just made, that the proprietor

of the Temperance Tavern kept liquor on his premises, scarcely

fluttered the public pulse, tremendous as the fact was. In a lucid

interval, Huck feebly led up to the subject of taverns, and finally

asked- dimly dreading the worst- if anything had been discovered at

the Temperance Tavern since he had been ill?

"Yes." said the widow.

Huck started up in bed, wild-eyed:

"What! What was it?"

"Liquor!- and the place has been shut up. Lie down, child- what a

turn you did give me!"

"Only tell me just one thing- only just one- please! Was it Tom

Sawyer that found it?"

The widow burst into tears.

"Hush, hush, child, hush! I've told you before, you must not talk.

You are very, very sick!"

Then nothing but liquor had been found; there would have been a

great powwow if it had been the gold. So the treasure was gone

forever- gone forever! But what could she be crying about? Curious

that she should cry.

These thoughts worked their dim way through Huck's mind, and under

the weariness they gave him he fell asleep. The widow said to herself:

"There- he's asleep, poor wreck. Tom Sawyer find it! Pity but

somebody could find Tom Sawyer! Ah, there aint many left, now,

that's got hope enough, or strength enough, either, to go on

searching."

Chapter 31

Found and Lost Again

NOW TO RETURN to Tom and Becky's share in the picnic. They tripped

along the murky aisles with the rest of the company, visiting the

familiar wonders of the cave- wonders dubbed with rather

over-descriptive names, such as "The Drawing-Room," "The Cathedral,"

"Aladdin's Palace," and so on. Presently the hide-and-seek

frolicking began, and Tom and Becky engaged in it with zeal until

the exertion began to grow a trifle wearisome; then they wandered down

a sinuous avenue holding their candles aloft and reading the tangled

web-work of names, dates, post-office addresses and mottoes with which

the rocky walls had been frescoed (in candle smoke). Still drifting

along and talking, they scarcely noticed that they were now in a

part of the cave whose walls were not frescoed. They smoked their

own names under an overhanging shelf and moved on. Presently they came

to a place where a little stream of water, trickling over a ledge

and carrying a limestone sediment with it, had, in the slow-dragging

ages, formed a laced and ruffled Niagara in gleaming and

imperishable stone. Tom squeezed his small body behind it in order

to illuminate it for Becky's gratification. He found that it curtained

a sort of steep natural stairway which was enclosed between narrow

walls, and at once the ambition to be a discoverer seized him. Becky

responded to his call, and they made a smoke-mark for future guidance,

and started upon their quest. They wound this way and that, far down

into the secret depths of the cave, made another mark, and branched

off in search of novelties to tell the upper world about. In one place

they found a spacious cavern, from whose ceiling depended a

multitude of shining stalactites of the length and circumference of

a man's leg; they walked all about it, wondering and admiring, and

presently left it by one of the numerous passages that opened into it.

This shortly brought them to a bewitching spring, whose basin was

encrusted with a frost work of glittering crystals; it was in the

midst of a cavern whose walls were supported by many fantastic pillars

which had been formed by the joining of great stalactites and

stalagmites together, the result of the ceaseless water-drip of

centuries. Under the roof vast knots of bats had packed themselves

together, thousands in a bunch; the lights disturbed the creatures and

they came flocking down by hundreds, squeaking and darting furiously

at the candles. Tom knew their ways and the danger of this sort of

conduct. He seized Becky's hand and hurried her into the first

corridor that offered; and none too soon, for a bat struck Becky's

light out with its wing while she was passing out of the cavern. The

bats chased the children a good distance; but the fugitives plunged

into every new passage that offered, and at last got rid of the

perilous things. Tom found a subterranean lake, shortly, which

stretched its dim length away until its shape was lost in the shadows.

He wanted to explore its borders, but concluded that it would be

best to sit down and rest a while, first. Now, for the first time, the

deep stillness of the place laid a clammy hand upon the spirits of the

children. Becky said-

"Why, I didn't notice, but it seems ever so long since I heard any

of the others."

"Come to think, Becky, we are away down below them- and I don't know

how far away north, or south, or east, or whichever it is. We couldn't

hear them here."

Becky grew apprehensive.

"I wonder how long we've been down here, Tom. We better start back."

"Yes, I reckon we better. P'raps we better."

"Can you find the way, Tom? It's all a mixed-up crookedness to me."

"I reckon I could find it- but then the bats. If they put both our

candles out it will be an awful fix. Let's try some other way, so as

not to go through there."

"Well. But I hope we won't get lost. It would be so awful!" and

the girl shuddered at the thought of the dreadful possibilities.

They started through a corridor, and traversed it in silence a

long way, glancing at each new opening, to see if there was anything

familiar about the look of it; but they were all strange. Every time

Tom made an examination, Becky would watch his face for an encouraging

sign, and he would say cheerily-

"O, it's all right. This ain't the one, but we'll come to it right

away!"

But he felt less and less hopeful with each failure, and presently

began to turn off into diverging avenues at sheer random, in the

desperate hope of finding the one that was wanted. He still said it

was "all right," but there was such a leaden dread at his heart,

that the words had lost their ring and sounded just as if he had said,

"All is lost!" Becky clung to his side in an anguish of fear, and

tried hard to keep back the tears, but they would come. At last she

said:

"O, Tom, never mind the bats, let's go back that way! We seem to get

worse and worse off all the time."

Tom stopped.

"Listen!" said he.

Profound silence; silence so deep that even their breathings were

conspicuous in the hush. Tom shouted. The call went echoing down the

empty aisles and died out in the distance in a faint sound that

resembled a ripple of mocking laughter.

"O, don't do it again, Tom, it is too horrid," said Becky.

"It is horrid, but I better, Becky; they might hear us, you know;"

and he shouted again.

The "might" was even a chillier horror than the ghostly laughter, it

so confessed a perishing hope. The children stood still and

listened; but there was no result. Tom turned upon the back track at

once, and hurried his steps. It was but a little while before a

certain indecision in his manner revealed another fearful fact to

Becky- he could not find his way back!

"O, Tom, you didn't make any marks!"

"Becky I was such a fool! Such a fool! I never thought we might want

to come back! No- I can't find the way. It's all mixed up."

"Tom, Tom, we're lost! we're lost! We never can get out of this

awful place! O, why did we ever leave the others!"

She sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of crying that

Tom was appalled with the idea that she might die, or lose her reason.

He sat down by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in

his bosom, she clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her

unavailing regrets, and the far echoes turned them all to jeering

laughter. Tom begged her to pluck up hope again, and she said she

could not. He fell to blaming and abusing himself for getting her into

this miserable situation; this had a better effect. She said she would

try to hope again, she would get up and follow wherever he might

lead if only he would not talk like that any more. For he was no

more to blame than she, she said.

So they moved on, again- aimlessly- simply at random- all they could

do was to move, keep moving. For a little while, hope made a show of

reviving- not with any reason to back it, but only because it is its

nature to revive when the spring has not been taken out of it by age

and familiarity with failure.

By and by Tom took Becky's candle and blew it out. This economy

meant so much! Words were not needed. Becky understood, and her hope

died again. She knew that Tom had a whole candle and three or four

pieces in his pockets- yet he must economize.

By and by, fatigue began to assert its claims; the children tried to

pay no attention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when

time was grown to be so precious; moving, in some direction, in any

direction, was at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down

was to invite death and shorten its pursuit.

At last Becky's frail limbs refused to carry her farther. She sat

down. Tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends

there, and the comfortable beds and above all, the light! Becky cried,

and Tom tried to think of some way of comforting her, but all his

encouragements were grown threadbare with use, and sounded like

sarcasms. Fatigue bore so heavily upon Becky that she drowsed off to

sleep. Tom was grateful. He sat looking into her drawn face and saw it

grow smooth and natural under the influence of pleasant dreams; and by

and by a smile dawned and rested there. The peaceful face reflected

somewhat of peace and healing into his own spirit, and his thoughts

wandered away to bygone times and dreamy memories. While he was deep

in his musings, Becky woke up with a breezy little laugh- but it was

stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan followed it.

"O, how could I sleep! I wish I never never had waked! No! No, I

don't, Tom! Don't look so! I won't say it again."

"I'm glad you've slept, Becky; you'll feel rested, now, and we'll

find the way out."

"We can try, Tom; but I've seen such a beautiful country in my

dream. I reckon we are going there."

"Maybe not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and let's go on trying."

They rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless. They

tried to estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they

knew was that it seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this

could not be, for their candles were not gone yet. A long time after

this- they could not tell how long- Tom said they must go softly and

listen for dripping water- they must find a spring. They found one

presently, and Tom said it was time to rest again. Both were cruelly

tired, yet Becky said she thought she could go on a little farther.

She was surprised to hear Tom dissent. She could not understand it.

They sat down, and Tom fastened his candle to the wall in front of

them with some clay. Thought was soon busy; nothing was said for

some time. Then Becky broke the silence:

"Tom, I am so hungry!"

Tom took something out of his pocket.

"Do you remember this?" said he.

Becky almost smiled.

"It's our wedding cake, Tom."

"Yes- I wish it was as big as a barrel, for it's all we've got."

"I saved it from the picnic for us to dream on, Tom, the way

grown-up people do with wedding cake- but it'll be our-"

She dropped the sentence where it was. Tom divided the cake and

Becky ate with good appetite, while Tom nibbled at his moiety. There

was abundance of cold water to finish the feast with. By and by

Becky suggested that they move on again. Tom was silent a moment. Then

he said:

"Becky, can you bear it if I tell you something?"

Becky's face paled, but she said she thought she could.

"Well then, Becky, we must stay here, where there's water to

drink. That little piece is our last candle!"

Becky gave loose to tears and wailings. Tom did what he could to

comfort her but with little effect. At length Becky said:

"Tom!"

"Well, Becky?"

"They'll, miss us and hunt for us!"

"Yes they will! Certainly they will!"

"Maybe they're hunting for us now, Tom?"

"Why I reckon maybe they are. I hope they are."

"When would they miss us, Tom?"

"When they get back to the boat, reckon."

"Tom, it might be dark, then- would they notice we hadn't come?"

"I don't know. But anyway, your mother would miss you as soon as

they got home."

A frightened look in Becky's face brought Tom to his senses and he

saw that he had made a blunder. Becky was not to have gone home that

night! The children became silent and thoughtful. In a moment a new

burst of grief from Becky showed Tom that the thing in his mind had

struck hers also- that the Sabbath morning might be half spent

before Mrs. Thatcher discovered that Becky was not at Mrs. Harper's.

The children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and

watched it melt slowly and pitilessly away; saw the half inch of

wick stand alone at last; saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb

the thin column of smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then- the

horror of utter darkness reigned!

How long afterward it was that Becky came to a slow consciousness

that she was crying in Tom's arms, neither could tell. All that they

knew was, that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both

awoke out of a dead stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once

more. Tom said it might be Sunday, now- maybe Monday. He tried to

get Becky to talk, but her sorrows were too oppressive, all her

hopes were gone. Tom said that they must have been missed long ago,

and no doubt the search was going on. He would shout and maybe some

one would come. He tried it; but in the darkness the distant echoes

sounded so hideously that he tried it no more.

The hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives

again. A portion of Tom's half of the cake was left; they divided

and ate it. But they seemed hungrier than before. The poor morsel of

food only whetted desire.

By and by Tom said:

"Sh! Did you hear that?"

Both held their breath and listened. There was a sound like the

faintest, far-off shout. Instantly Tom answered it, and leading

Becky by the hand, started groping down the corridor in its direction.

Presently he listened again; again the sound was heard, and apparently

a little nearer.

"It's them!" said Tom; "they're coming! Come along, Becky- we're all

right now!"

The joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. Their speed was

slow, however, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be

guarded against. They shortly came to one and had to stop. It might be

three feet deep, it might be a hundred- there was no passing it, at

any rate. Tom got down on his breast and reached as far down as he

could. No bottom. They must stay there and wait until the searchers

came. They listened; evidently the distant shoutings were growing more

distant! a moment or two more and they had gone altogether. The

heartsinking misery of it! Tom whooped until he was hoarse, but it was

of no use. He talked hopefully to Becky; but an age of anxious waiting

passed and no sounds came again.

The children groped their way back to the spring. The weary time

dragged on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom

believed it must be Tuesday by this time.

Now an idea struck him. There were some side passages near at

hand. It would be better to explore some of these than bear the weight

of the heavy time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket,

tied it to a projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the lead,

unwinding the line as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps

the corridor ended in a "jumping-off place." Tom got down on his knees

and felt below, and then as far around the corner as he could reach

with his hands conveniently; he made an effort to stretch yet a little

further to the right, and at that moment, not twenty yards away, a

human hand, holding a candle, appeared from behind a rock! Tom

lifted up a glorious shout, and instantly that hand was followed by

the body it belonged to- Injun Joe's! Tom was paralyzed; he could

not move. He was vastly gratified, the next moment, to see the

"Spaniard" take to his heels and get himself out of sight. Tom

wondered that Joe had not recognized his voice and come over and

killed him for testifying in court. But the echoes must have disguised

the voice. Without doubt, that was it, he reasoned. Tom's fright

weakened every muscle in his body. He said to himself that if he had

strength enough to get back to the spring he would stay there, and

nothing should tempt him to run the risk of meeting Injun Joe again.

He was careful to keep from Becky what it was he had seen. He told her

he had only shouted "for luck."

But hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears in the long

run. Another tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought

changes. The children awoke tortured with a raging hunger. Tom

believed that it must be Wednesday or Thursday or even Friday or

Saturday, now, and that the search had been given over. He proposed to

explore another passage. He felt willing to risk Injun Joe and all

other terrors. But Becky was very weak. She had sunk into a dreary

apathy and would not be roused. She said she would wait, now, where

she was, and die- it would not be long. She told Tom to go with the

kite-line and explore if he chose; but she implored him to come back

every little while and speak to her; and she made him promise that

when the awful time came, he would stay by her and hold her hand until

all was over.

Tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his throat, and made a

show of being confident of finding the searchers or an escape from the

cave; then he took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one

of the passages on his hands and knees, distressed with hunger and

sick with bodings of coming doom.

Chapter 32

"Turn Out! They're Found!"

TUESDAY AFTERNOON CAME, and waned to the twilight. The village of

St. Petersburg still mourned. The lost children had not been found.

Public prayers had been offered up for them, and many and many a

private prayer that had the petitioner's whole heart in it; but

still no good news came from the cave. The majority of the searchers

had given up the quest and gone back to their daily avocations, saying

that it was plain the children could never be found. Mrs. Thatcher was

very ill, and a great part of the time delirious. People said it was

heart-breaking to hear her call her child, and raise her head and

listen a whole minute at a time, then lay it wearily down again with a

moan. Aunt Polly had drooped into a settled melancholy, and her gray

hair had grown almost white. The village went to its rest on Tuesday

night, sad and forlorn.

Away in the middle of the night a wild peal burst from the village

bells, and in a moment the streets were swarming with frantic

half-clad people, who shouted, "Turn out! turn out! they're found!

they're found!" Tin pans and horns were added to the din, the

population massed itself and moved toward the river, met the

children coming in an open carriage drawn by shouting citizens,

thronged around it, joined its homeward march, and swept magnificently

up the main street roaring huzzah after huzzah!

The village was illuminated; nobody went to bed again; it was the

greatest night the little town had ever seen. During the first half

hour a procession of villagers filed through Judge Thatcher's house,

seized the saved ones and kissed them, squeezed Mrs. Thatcher's

hand, tried to speak but couldn't- and drifted out raining tears all

over the place.

Aunt Polly's happiness was complete, and Mrs. Thatcher's nearly

so. It would be complete, however, as soon as the messenger dispatched

with the great news to the cave should get the word to her husband.

Tom lay upon a sofa with an eager auditory about him and told the

history of the wonderful adventure, putting in many striking additions

to adorn it withal; and closed with a description of how he left Becky

and went on an exploring expedition; how he followed two avenues as

far as his kite-line would reach; how he followed a third to the

fullest stretch of the kite-line, and was about to turn back when he

glimpsed a far-off speck that looked like daylight; dropped the line

and groped toward it, pushed his head and shoulders through a small

hole and saw the broad Mississippi rolling by! And if it had only

happened to be night he would not have seen that speck of daylight and

would not have explored that passage any more! He told how he went

back for Becky and broke the good news and she told him not to fret

her with such stuff, for she was tired, and knew she was going to die,

and wanted to. He described how he labored with her and convinced her;

and how she almost died for joy when she had groped to where she

actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how he pushed his way out

at the hole and then helped her out; how they sat there and cried

for gladness; how some men came along in a skiff and Tom hailed them

and told them their situation and their famished condition; how the

men didn't believe the wild tale at first, "because," said they,

"you are five miles down the river below the valley the cave is in"-

then took them aboard, rowed to a house, gave them supper, made them

rest till two or three hours, after dark and then brought them home.

Before day-dawn, Judge Thatcher and the handful of searchers with

him were tracked out, in the cave, by the twine clues they had

strung behind them, and informed of the great news.

Three days and nights of toil and hunger in the cave were not to

be shaken off at once, as Tom and Becky soon discovered. They were

bedridden all of Wednesday and Thursday, and seemed to grow more and

more tired and worn, all the time. Tom got about, a little, on

Thursday, was downtown Friday, and nearly as whole as ever Saturday;

but Becky did not leave her room until Sunday, and then she looked

as if she had passed through a wasting illness.

Tom learned of Huck's sickness and went to see him on Friday, but

could not be admitted to the bedroom; neither could he on Saturday

or Sunday. He was admitted daily after that, but was warned to keep

still about his adventure and introduce no exciting topic. The widow

Douglas stayed by to see that he obeyed. At home Tom learned of the

Cardiff Hill event; also that the "ragged man's" body had eventually

been found in the river near the ferry landing; he had been drowned

while trying to escape, perhaps.

About a fortnight after Tom's rescue from the cave, he started off

to visit Huck, who had grown plenty strong enough, now, to hear

exciting talk, and Tom had some that would interest him, he thought.

Judge Thatcher's house was on Tom's way, and he stopped to see

Becky. The Judge and some friends set Tom to talking, and some one

asked him ironically if he wouldn't like to go to the cave again.

Tom said yes, he thought he wouldn't mind it. The judge said:

"Well, there are others just like you, Tom, I've not the least

doubt. But we have taken care of that. Nobody will get lost in that

cave any more."

"Why?"

"Because I had its big door sheathed with boiler iron two weeks ago,

and triple-locked- and I've got the keys."

Tom turned as white as a sheet.

"What's the matter, boy! Here, run, somebody! Fetch a glass of

water!"

The water was brought and thrown into Tom's face.

"Ah, now you're all right. What was the matter with you, Tom?"

"O, judge, Injun Joe's in the cave!"

Chapter 33

The Fate of Injun Joe

WITHIN A FEW MINUTES the news had spread, and a dozen were on

their way to McDougal's cave, at, well filled with passengers, soon

followed. Tom Sawyer was in the skiff that bore Judge Thatcher.

When the cave door was unlocked a sorrowful sight presented itself

in the dim twilight of the place. Injun Joe lay stretched upon the

ground, dead, with his face close to the crack of the door, as if

his longing eyes had been fixed, to the latest moment, upon the

light and the cheer of the free world outside. Tom was touched, for he

knew by his own experience how this wretch had suffered. His pity

was moved, but nevertheless he felt an abounding sense of relief and

security, now, which revealed to him in a degree which he had not

fully appreciated before how vast a weight of dread had been lying

upon him since the day he lifted his voice against this

bloody-minded outcast.

Injun Joe's bowie knife lay close by, its blade broken in two. The

great foundation-beam of the door had been chipped and hacked through,

with tedious labor; useless labor, too, it was, for the native rock

formed a sill outside it, and upon that stubborn material the knife

had wrought no effect; the only damage done was to the knife itself.

But if there had been no stony obstruction there the labor would

have been useless still, for if the beam had been wholly cut away

Injun joe could not have squeezed his body under the door, and he knew

it. So he had only hacked that place in order to be doing something-

in order to pass the weary time- in order to employ his tortured

faculties. Ordinarily one could find half a dozen bits of candle stuck

around in the crevices of this vestibule, left there by tourists;

but there were none now. The prisoner had searched them out and

eaten them. He had also contrived to catch a few bats, and these,

also, he had eaten, leaving only their claws. The poor unfortunate had

starved to death. In one place near at hand, a stalagmite had been

slowly growing up from the ground for ages, builded by the

water-drip from a stalactite overhead. The captive had broken off

the stalagmite, and upon the stump had placed a stone, wherein he

had scooped a shallow hollow to catch the precious drop that fell once

in every three minutes with the dreary regularity of a clock-tick- a

dessert spoonful once in four and twenty hours. That drop was

falling when the Pyramids were new; when Troy fell; when the

foundations of Rome were laid; when Christ was crucified; when the

Conqueror created the British empire; when Columbus sailed; when the

massacre at Lexington was "news." It is falling now; it will still

be falling when all these things shall have sunk down the afternoon of

history, and the twilight of history, and the twilight of tradition,

and been swallowed up in the thick night of oblivion. Has everything a

purpose and a mission? Did this drop fall patiently during five

thousand years to be ready for this flitting human insect's need?

and has it another important object to accomplish ten thousand years

to come? No matter. It is many and many a year since the hapless

half-breed scooped out the stone to catch the priceless drops, but

to this day the tourist stares longest at that pathetic stone and that

slow dropping water when he comes to see the wonders of McDougal's

cave. Injun Joe's Cup stands first in the list of the cavern's

marvels; even "Aladdin's Palace" cannot rival it.

Injun Joe was buried near the mouth of the cave; and people

flocked there in boats and wagons from the towns and from all the

farms and hamlets for seven miles around; they brought their children,

and all sorts of provisions, and confessed that they had had almost as

satisfactory a time at the funeral as they could have had at the

hanging.

This funeral stopped the further growth of one thing- the petition

to the Governor for Injun Joe's pardon. The petition had been

largely signed; many tearful and eloquent meetings had been held,

and a committee of sappy women been appointed to go in deep mourning

and wail around the governor and implore him to be a merciful ass

and trample his duty under foot. Injun Joe was believed to have killed

five citizens of the village, but what of that? If he had been Satan

himself there would have been plenty of weaklings ready to scribble

their names to a pardon-petition, and drip a tear on it from their

permanently impaired and leaky water-works.

The morning after the funeral Tom took Huck to a private place to

have an important talk. Huck had learned all about Tom's adventure

from the Welchman and the widow Douglas, by this time, but Tom said he

reckoned there was one thing they had not told him; that thing was

what he wanted to talk about now. Huck's face saddened. He said:

"I know what it is. You got into No. 2 and never found anything

but whisky. Nobody told me it was you; but I just knowed it must 'a'

ben you, soon as I heard 'bout that whisky business; and I knowed

you hadn't got the money becuz you'd 'a' got at me some way or other

and told me even if you was mum to everybody else. Tom, something's

always told me we'd never get holt of that swag."

"Why Huck, I never told on that tavern-keeper. You know his You know

his tavern was all right the Saturday I went to the picnic. Don't

you remember you was to watch there that night?"

"O, yes! Why it seems 'bout a year ago. It was that very night

that I follered Injun Joe to the widder's."

"You followed him?"

"Yes- but you keep mum. I reckon Injun Joe's left friends behind

him, and I don't want souring on me and doing me mean tricks. If it

hadn't ben for me he'd be down in Texas now, all right."

Then Huck told his entire adventure in confidence to Tom, who had

only heard of the Welchman's part of it before.

"Well," said Huck, presently, coming back to the main question,

"whoever nipped the whisky in No. 2, nipped the money too, I reckon-

anyways it's a goner for us, Tom."

"Huck, that money wasn't ever in No. 2!"

"What!" Huck searched his comrade's face keenly. "Tom, have you

got on the track of that money again?"

"Huck, it's in the cave!"

Huck's eyes blazed.

"Say it again, Tom!"

"The money's in the cave!"

"Tom,- honest injun, now- is it fun, or earnest?"

"Earnest, Huck- just as earnest as ever I was in my life. Will you

go in there with me and help get it out?"

"I bet I will! I will if it's where we can blaze our way to it and

not get lost."

"Huck, we can do that without the least little bit of trouble in the

world."

"Good as wheat! What makes you think the money's-"

"Huck, you just wait till we get in there. If we don't find it

I'll agree to give you my drum and everything I've got in the world. I

will, by jings."

"All right- it's a whiz. When do you say?"

"Right now, if you say it. Are you strong enough?"

"Is it far in the cave? I ben on my pins a little, three or four

days, now, but I can't walk more'n a mile, Tom- least I don't think

I could."

"It's about five mile into there the way anybody but me would go,

Huck, but there's a mighty short cut that they don't anybody but me

know about. Huck, I'll take you right to it in a skiff. I'll float the

skiff down there, and I'll pull it back again all by myself. You

needn't ever turn your hand over."

"Less start right off, Tom."

"All right. We want some bread and meat, and our pipes, and a little

bag or two, and two or three kite-strings, and some of these

newfangled things they call lucifer matches. I tell you many's the

time I wished I had some when I was in there before."

A trifle after noon the boys borrowed a small skiff from a citizen

who was absent, and got under way at once. When they were several

miles below "Cave Hollow," Tom said:

"Now you see this bluff here looks all alike all the way down from

the cave hollow- no houses, no wood-yards, bushes all alike. But do

you see that white place up yonder where there's been a landslide?

Well that's one of my marks. We'll get ashore, now."

They landed.

"Now Huck, where we're a-standing you could touch that hole I got

out of with a fishing-pole. See if you can find it."

Huck searched all the place about, and found nothing. Tom proudly

marched into a thick clump of sumach bushes and said-

"Here you are! Look at it, Huck; it's the snuggest hole in this

country. You just keep mum about it. All along I've been wanting to be

a robber, but I knew I'd got to have a thing like this, and where to

run across it was the bother. We've got it now, and we'll keep it

quiet, only we'll let Joe Harper and Ben Rogers in- because of

course there's got to be a Gang, or else there wouldn't be any style

about it. Tom Sawyer's Gang- it sounds splendid, don't it, Huck?"

"Well it just does, Tom. And who'll we rob?"

"O, most anybody. Waylay people- that's mostly the way."

"And kill them?"

"No- not always. Hide them in the cave till they raise a ransom."

"What's a ransom?"

"Money. You make them raise all they can, off'n their friends; and

after you've kept them a year, if it ain't raised then you kill

them. That's the general way. Only you don't kill the women. You

shut up the women, but you don't kill them. They're always beautiful

and rich, and awfully scared. You take their watches and things, but

you always take your hat off and talk polite. They ain't anybody as

polite as robbers- you'll see that in any book. Well the women get

to loving you, and after they've been in the cave a week or two

weeks they stop crying and after that you couldn't get them to

leave. If you drove them out they'd turn right around and come back.

It's so in all the books."

"Why it's real bully, Tom. I b'lieve it's better'n to be a pirate."

"Yes, it's better in some ways, because it's close to home and

circuses and all that."

By this time everything was ready and the boys entered the hole, Tom

in the lead. They toiled their way to the farther end of the tunnel,

then made their spliced kite-strings fast and moved on. A few steps

brought them to the spring and Tom felt a shudder quiver all through

him. He showed Huck the fragment of candle-wick perched on a lump of

clay against the wall, and described how he and Becky had watched

the flame struggle and expire.

The boys began to quiet down to whispers, now, for the stillness and

gloom of the place oppressed their spirits. They went on, and

presently entered and followed Tom's other corridor until they reached

the "jumping-off place." The candles revealed the fact that it was not

really a precipice, but only a steep clay hill twenty or thirty feet

high. Tom whispered-

"Now I'll show you something, Huck."

He held his candle aloft and said-

"Look as far around the corner as you can. Do you see that? There-

on the big rock over yonder- done with candle smoke."

"Tom, it's a cross!"

"Now where's your Number Two? 'Under the cross,' hey? Right yonder's

where I saw Injun joe poke up his candle, Huck!"

Huck stared at the mystic sign a while, and then said with a shaky

voice-

"Tom, less git out of here!"

"What! and leave the treasure?"

"Yes- leave it. Injun Joe's ghost is round about there, certain."

"No it ain't, Huck, no it ain't. It would ha'nt the place where he

died- away out at the mouth of the cave- five mile from here."

"No, Tom, it wouldn't. It would hang round the money. I know the

ways of ghosts, and so do you."

Tom began to fear that Huck was right. Misgivings gathered in his

mind. But presently an idea occurred to him-

"Looky-here Huck, what fools we're making of ourselves! Injun

Joe's ghost ain't a-going to come around where there's a cross!"

The point was well taken. It had its effect.

"Tom I didn't think of that. But that's so. It's luck for us, that

cross is. I reckon we'll climb down there and have a hunt for that

box."

Tom went first, cutting rude steps in the clay hill as he descended.

Huck followed. Four avenues opened out of the small cavern which the

great rock stood in. The boys examined three of them with no result.

They found a small recess in the one nearest the base of the rock,

with a pallet of blankets spread down in it; also an old suspender,

some bacon rind, and the well gnawed bones of two or three fowls.

But there was no money box. The lads searched and re-searched this

place, but in vain. Tom said:

"He said under the cross. Well, this comes nearest to being under

the cross. It can't be under the rock itself, because that sets

solid on the ground."

They searched everywhere once more, and then sat down discouraged.

Huck could suggest nothing. By and by Tom said:

"Looky-here, Huck, there's foot-prints and some candle grease on the

clay about one side of this rock, but not on the other sides. Now

what's that for? I bet you the money is under the rock. I'm going to

dig in the clay."

"That ain't no bad notion, Tom!" said Huck with animation.

Tom's "real Barlow" was out at once, and he had not dug four

inches before he struck wood.

"Hey, Huck!- you hear that?"

Huck began to dig and scratch now. Some boards were soon uncovered

and removed. They had concealed a natural chasm which led under the

rock. Tom got into this and held his candle as far under the rock as

he could, but said he could not see to the end of the rift. He

proposed to explore. He stooped and passed under; the narrow way

descended gradually. He followed its winding course, first to the

right, then to the left, Huck at his heels. Tom turned a short

curve, by and by, and exclaimed-

"My goodness, Huck, looky-here!"

It was the treasure box, sure enough, occupying a snug little

cavern, along with an empty powder keg, a couple of guns in leather

cases, two or three pairs of old moccasins, a leather belt, and some

other rubbish well soaked with the water-drip.

"Got it at last!" said Huck, plowing among the tarnished coins

with his hand. "My, but we're rich, Tom!"

"Huck, I always reckoned we'd get it. It's just too good to believe,

but we have got it, sure! Say- let's not fool around here. Let's snake

it out. Lemme see if I can lift the box."

It weighed about fifty pounds. Tom could lift it, after an awkward

fashion, but could not carry it conveniently.

"I thought so," he said; "they carried it like it was heavy, that

day at the ha'nted house. I noticed that. I reckon I was right to

think of fetching the little bags along."

The money was soon in the bags and the boys took it up to the

cross-rock.

"Now less fetch the guns and things," said Huck.

"No, Huck- leave them there. They're just the tricks to have when we

go to robbing. We'll keep them there all the time, and we'll hold

our orgies there, too. It's an awful snug place for orgies."

"What's orgies?"

"I dono. But robbers always have orgies, and of course we've got

to have them, too. Come along, Huck, we've been in here a long time.

It's getting late, I reckon. I'm hungry, too. We'll eat and smoke when

we get to the skiff."

They presently emerged into the clump of sumach bushes, looked

warily out, found the coast clear, and were soon lunching and

smoking in the skiff. As the sun dipped toward the horizon they pushed

out and got under way. Tom skimmed up the shore through the long

twilight, chatting cheerily with Huck, and landed shortly after dark.

"Now Huck," said Tom, "we'll hide the money in the loft of the

widow's wood-shed, and I'll come up in the morning and we'll count

it and divide, and then we'll hunt up a place out in the woods for

it where it will be safe. Just you lay quiet here and watch the

stuff till I run and hook Benny Taylor's little wagon; I won't be gone

a minute."

He disappeared, and presently returned with the wagon, put the two

small sacks into it, threw some old rags on top of them, and started

off, dragging his cargo behind him. When the boys reached the

Welchman's house, they stopped to rest. Just as they were about to

move on, the Welchman stepped out and said:

"Hallo, who's that?"

"Huck and Tom Sawyer."

"Good! Come along with me, boys, you keeping everybody waiting.

Here- hurry up, trot ahead- I'll haul the wagon for you. Why, it's not

as light as it might be. Got bricks in it?- or old metal?"

"Old metal," said Tom.

"I judged so; the boys in this town will take more trouble and

fool away more time, hunting up six bits' worth of old iron to sell to

the foundry than they would to make twice the money at regular work.

But that's human nature- hurry along, hurry along!"

The boys wanted to know what the hurry was about.

"Never mind; you'll see, when we get to the Widow Douglas's."

Huck said with some apprehension- for he was long used to being

falsely accused-

"Mr. Jones, we haven't been doing nothing."

The Welchman laughed.

"Well, I don't know, Huck, my boy. I don't know about that. Ain't

you and the widow good friends?"

"Yes. Well, she's ben good friends to me, any ways."

"All right, then. What do you want to be afraid for?"

This question was not entirely answered in Huck's slow mind before

he found himself pushed, along with Tom, into Mrs. Douglas's

drawing-room. Mr. Jones left the wagon near the door and followed.

The place was grandly lighted, and everybody that was of any

consequence in the village was there. The Thatchers were there, the

Harpers, the Rogerses, Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, the minister, the

editor, and a great many more, and all dressed in their best. The

widow received the boys as heartily as any one could well receive

two such looking beings. They were covered with clay and candle

grease. Aunt Polly blushed crimson with humiliation, and frowned and

shook her head at Tom. Nobody suffered half as much as the two boys

did, however. Mr. Jones said:

"Tom wasn't at home, yet, so I gave him up; but I stumbled on him

and Huck right at my door, and so I just brought them along in a

hurry."

"And you did just right," said the widow:- "Come with me, boys."

She took them to a bed chamber and said:

"Now wash and dress yourselves. Here are two new suits of clothes-

shirts, socks, everything complete. They're Huck's- no, no thanks,

Huck- Mr. Jones bought one and I the other. But they'll fit both of

you. Get into them. We'll wait- come down when you are slicked up

enough."

Then she left.

Chapter 34

Floods of Gold

HUCK SAID:

"Tom, we can slope, if we can find a rope. The window ain't high

from the ground."

"Shucks, what do you want to slope for?"

"Well I ain't used to that kind of a crowd. I can't stand it. I

ain't going down there, Tom."

"O, bother! It ain't anything. I don't mind it a bit. I'll take care

of you."

Sid appeared.

"Tom," said he, "Auntie has been waiting for you all the

afternoon. Mary got your Sunday clothes ready, and everybody's been

fretting about you. Say- ain't this grease and clay, on your clothes?"

"Now Mr. Siddy, you just 'tend to your own business. What's all this

blow-out about, anyway?"

"It's one of the widow's parties that she's always having. This time

it's for the Welchman and his sons, on account of that scrape they

helped her out of the other night. And say- I can tell you something,

if you want to know."

"Well, what?"

"Why old Mr. Jones is going to try to spring something on the people

here to-night, but I overheard him tell auntie to-day about it, as a

secret, but I reckon it's not much of a secret now. Everybody knows-

the widow, too, for all she tries to let on she don't. Oh, Mr. Jones

was bound Huck should be here- couldn't get along with his grand

secret without Huck, you know!"

"Secret about what, Sid?"

"About Huck tracking the robbers to the widow's. I reckon Mr.

Jones was going to make a grand time over his surprise, but I bet

you it will drop pretty flat."

Sid chuckled in a very contented and satisfied way.

"Sid, was it you that told?"

"O, never mind who it was. Somebody told- that's enough."

"Sid, there's only one person in this town mean enough to do that,

and that's you. If you had been in Huck's place you'd 'a' sneaked down

the hill and never told anybody on the robbers. You can't do any but

mean things, and you can't bear to see anybody praised for doing

good ones. There- no thanks, as the widow says"- and Tom cuffed

Sid's ears and helped him to the door with several kicks. "Now go

and tell auntie if you dare- and to-morrow you'll catch it!"

Some minutes later the widow's guests were at the supper table,

and a dozen children were propped up at little side tables in the same

room, after the fashion of that country and that day. At the proper

time Mr. Jones made his little speech, in which he thanked the widow

for the honor she was doing himself and his sons, but said that

there was another person whose modesty-

And so forth and so on. He sprung his secret about Huck's share in

the adventure in the finest dramatic manner he was master of, but

the surprise it occasioned was largely counterfeit and not as

clamorous and effusive as it might have been under happier

circumstances. However, the widow made a pretty fair show of

astonishment, and heaped so many compliments and so much gratitude

upon Huck that he almost forgot the nearly intolerable discomfort of

his new clothes in the entirely intolerable discomfort of being set up

as a target for everybody's gaze and everybody's laudations.

The widow said she meant to give Huck a home under her roof and have

him educated; and that when she could spare the money she would

start him in business in a modest way. Tom's chance was come. He said:

"Huck don't need it. Huck's rich!"

Nothing but a heavy strain upon the good manners of the company kept

back the due and proper complimentary laugh at this pleasant joke. But

the silence was a little awkward. Tom broke it-

"Huck's got money. Maybe you don't believe it, but he's got lots

of it. O, you needn't smile- I reckon I can show you. You just wait

a minute."

Tom ran out of doors. The company looked at each other with a

perplexed interest- and inquiringly at Huck, who was tongue-tied.

"Sid, what ails Tom?" said Aunt Polly. "He- well, there ain't ever

any making of that boy out. I never-"

Tom entered, struggling with the weight of his sacks, and Aunt Polly

did not finish her sentence. Tom poured the mass of yellow coin upon

the table and said-

"There- what did I tell you? Half of it's Huck's and half of it's

mine!"

The spectacle took the general breath away. All gazed, nobody

spoke for a moment. Then there was a unanimous call for an

explanation. Tom said he could furnish it, and he did. The tale was

long, but brim full of interest. There was scarcely an interruption

from anyone to break the charm of its flow. When he had finished,

Mr. Jones said-

"I thought I had fixed up a little surprise for this occasion, but

it don't amount to anything now. This one makes it sing mighty

small, I'm willing to allow."

The money was counted. The sum amounted to a little over twelve

thousand dollars. It was more than any one present had ever seen at

one time before, though several persons were there who were worth

considerably more than that in property.

Chapter 35

Respectable Huck Joins the Gang

THE READER MAY REST SATISFIED that Tom's and Huck's windfall made

a mighty stir in the poor little village of St. Petersburg. So vast

a sum, all in actual cash, seemed next to incredible. It was talked

about, gloated over, glorified, until the reason of many of the

citizens tottered under the strain of the unhealthy excitement.

Every "haunted" house in St. Petersburg and the neighboring villages

was dissected, plank by plank, and its foundations dug up and

ransacked for hidden treasure- and not by boys, but men- pretty grave,

unromantic men, too, some of them. Wherever Tom and Huck appeared they

were courted, admired, stared at. The boys were not able to remember

that their remarks had possessed weight before; but now their

sayings were treasured and repeated; everything they did seemed

somehow to be regarded as remarkable; they had evidently lost the

power of doing and saying commonplace things; moreover, their past

history was raked up and discovered to bear marks of conspicuous

originality. The village paper published biographical sketches of

the boys.

The widow Douglas put Huck's money out at six per cent, and Judge

Thatcher did the same with Tom's at Aunt Polly's request. Each lad had

an income, now, that was simply prodigious- a dollar for every

week-day in the year and half of the Sundays. It was just what the

minister got- no, it was what he was promised- he generally couldn't

collect it. A dollar and a quarter a week would board, lodge and

school a boy in those old simple days- and clothe him and wash him,

too, for that matter.

Judge Thatcher had conceived a great opinion of Tom. He said that no

commonplace boy would ever have got his daughter out of the cave. When

Becky told her father, in strict confidence, how Tom had taken her

whipping at school, the Judge was visibly moved; and when she

pleaded grace for the mighty lie which Tom had told in order to

shift that whipping from her shoulders to his own, the Judge said with

a fine outburst that it was a noble, a generous, a magnanimous lie-

a lie that was worthy to hold up its head and march down through

history breast to breast with George Washington's lauded Truth about

the hatchet! Becky thought her father had never looked so tall and

so superb as when he walked the floor and stamped his foot and said

that. She went straight off and told Tom about it.

Judge Thatcher hoped to see Tom a great lawyer or a great soldier

some day. He said he meant to look to it that Tom should be admitted

to the National Military Academy and afterwards trained in the best

law school in the country, in order that he might be ready for

either career or both.

Huck Finn's wealth and the fact that he was now under the widow

Douglas's protection, introduced him into society- no, dragged him

into it, hurled him into it- and his sufferings were almost more

then he could bear. The widow's servants kept him clean and neat,

combed and brushed, and they bedded him nightly in unsympathetic

sheets that had not one little spot or stain which he could press to

his heart and know for a friend. He had to eat with knife and fork; he

had to use napkin, cup and plate; he had to learn his book, he had

to go to church; he had to talk so properly that speech was become

insipid in his mouth; whithersoever he turned, the bars and shackles

of civilization shut him in and bound him hand and foot.

He bravely bore his miseries three weeks, and then one day turned up

missing. For forty-eight hours the widow hunted for him everywhere

in great distress. The public were profoundly concerned; they searched

high and low, they dragged the river for his body. Early the third

morning Tom Sawyer wisely went poking among some old empty hogsheads

down behind the abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them he found

the refugee. Huck had slept there; he had just breakfasted upon some

stolen odds and ends of food, and was lying off, now, in comfort

with his pipe. He was unkempt, uncombed, and clad in the same old ruin

of rags that had made him picturesque in the days when he was free and

happy. Tom routed him out, told him the trouble he had been causing,

and urged him to go home. Huck's face lost its tranquil content, and

took a melancholy cast. He said:

"Don't talk about it, Tom. I've tried it, and it don't work; it

don't work, Tom. It ain't for me; I ain't used to it. The widder's

good to me, and friendly; but I can't stand them ways. She makes me

git up just at the same time every morning; she makes me wash, they

comb me all to thunder; she won't let me sleep in the wood-shed; I got

to wear them blamed clothes that just smothers me, Tom; they don't

seem to any air git through 'em, somehow; and they're so rotten nice

that I can't set down, nor lay down, nor roll around anywher's; I

hain't slid on a cellar-door for- well, it 'pears to be years; I got

to go to church and sweat and sweat- I hate them ornery sermons! I

can't ketch a fly in there, I can't chaw, I got to wear shoes all

Sunday. The widder eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she gits

up by a bell- everything's so awful reg'lar a body can't stand it."

"Well, everybody does that way, Huck."

"Tom, it don't make no difference. I ain't everybody, and I can't

stand it. It's awful to be tied up so. And grub comes too easy- I

don't take no interest in vittles, that way. I got to ask, to go

a-fishing; I got to ask, to go in a-swimming- dern'd if I hain't got

to ask to do everything. Well, I'd got to talk so nice it wasn't no

comfort- I'd got to go up in the attic and rip out a while, every day,

to git a taste in my mouth, or I'd a died, Tom. The widder wouldn't

let me smoke; she wouldn't let me yell, she wouldn't let me gape,

nor stretch, nor scratch, before folks-" [Then with a spasm of special

irritation and injury],- "And dad fetch it, she prayed all the time! I

never see such a woman! I had to shove, Tom- I just had to. And

besides, that school's going to open, and I'd a had to go to it- well,

I wouldn't stand that, Tom. Looky-here, Tom, being rich ain't what

it's cracked up to be. It's just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat,

and a-wishing you was dead all the time. Now these clothes suits me,

and this bar'l suits me, and I ain't ever going to shake 'em any more.

Tom, I wouldn't ever got into all this trouble if it hadn't 'a' ben

for that money; now you just take my sheer of it along with your'n,

and gimme a ten-center sometimes- not many times, becuz I don't give a

dem for a thing 'thout it's tollable hard to git- and you go and beg

off for me with the widder."

"O, Huck, you know I can't do that. 'Tain't fair; and besides if

you'll try this thing just a while longer you'll come to like it."

"Like it! Yes- the way I'd like a hot stove if I was to set on it

long enough. No, Tom, I won't be rich, and I won't live in them cussed

smothery houses. I like the woods, and the river, and hogsheads, and

I'll stick to 'em, too. Blame it all! just as we'd got guns, and a

cave, and all just fixed to rob, here this dem foolishness has got

to come up and spile it all!"

Tom saw his opportunity-

"Looky-here, Huck, being rich ain't going to keep me back from

turning robber."

"No! O, good-licks, are you in real dead-wood earnest, Tom?"

"Just as dead earnest as I'm a-sitting here. But Huck, we can't

let you into the gang if you ain't respectable, you know."

Huck's joy was quenched.

"Can't let me in, Tom? Didn't you let me go for a pirate?"

"Yes, but that's different. A robber is more high-toned than what

a pirate is- as a general thing. In most countries they're awful

high up in the nobility- dukes and such."

"Now Tom, hain't you always ben friendly to me? You wouldn't shet me

out, would you, Tom? You wouldn't do that, now, would you, Tom?"

"Huck, I wouldn't want to, and I don't want to- but what would

people say? Why they'd say, 'Mph! Tom Sawyer's Gang! pretty low

characters in it!' They'd mean you, Huck. You wouldn't like that,

and I wouldn't."

Huck was silent for some time, engaged in a mental struggle. Finally

he said:

"Well, I'll go back to the widder for a month and tackle it and

see if I can come to stand it, if you'll let me b'long to the gang,

Tom."

"All right, Huck, it's a whiz! Come along, old chap, and I'll ask

the widow to let up on you a little, Huck."

"Will you Tom- now will you? That's good. If she'll let up on some

of the roughest things, I'll smoke private and cuss private, and crowd

through or bust. When you going to start the gang and turn robbers?"

"O, right off. We'll get the boys together and have the initiation

to-night, maybe."

"Have the which?"

"Have the initiation."

"What's that?"

"It's to swear to stand by one another, and never tell the gang's

secrets, even if you're chopped all to flinders, and kill anybody

and all his family that hurts one of the gang."

"That's gay- that's mighty gay, Tom, I tell you."

"Well I bet it is. And all that swearing's got to be done at

midnight, in the lonesomest, awfulest place you can find- a ha'nted

house is the best, but they're all ripped up now."

"Well, midnight's good, anyway, Tom."

"Yes, so it is. And you've got to swear on a coffin, and sign it

with blood."

"Now that's something like! Why it's a million times bullier than

pirating. I'll stick to the widder till I rot, Tom; and if I git to be

a reg'lar ripper of a robber, and everybody talking 'bout it, I reckon

she'll be proud she snaked me in out of the wet."

CONCLUSION

Conclusion.

SO ENDETH THIS CHRONICLE. It being strictly a history of a boy, it

must stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming

the history of a man. When one writes a novel about grown people, he

knows exactly where to stop- that is, with a marriage; but when he

writes of juveniles, he must stop where he best can.

Most of the characters that perform in this book still live, and are

prosperous and happy. Some day it may seem worth while to take up

the story of the younger ones again and see what sort of men and women

they turned out to be; therefore it will be wisest not to reveal any

of that part of their lives at present.

THE END