1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
|
<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" />
<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" />
<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Tragedy of Pudd’nhead Wilson by Mark Twain</title>
<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" />
<style type="text/css">
body { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify;}
p { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
a {text-decoration:none;}
h1, h2 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
h3 { text-align: center; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;
font-variant:small-caps; font-weight:normal; font-size:large;}
h4 { text-align: left; font-weight:bold; font-size:small;
margin-bottom:0em;}
ul { margin-top:0; margin-left:1%; margin-right:4%;}
hr { width: 40%; margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:2em;}
hr.break { width: 20%; margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:2em;}
blockquote { font-size: 90%; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;}
ins { text-decoration:none; border-bottom: thin dotted gray;}
/* simple function classes */
.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;}
.small {font-size:small;}
.large {font-size:large;}
.noindent {text-indent: 0%; }
.double-space-top {margin-top:2em;}
/* pagenumber classes */
.pagenum { right: 1%; font-size: x-small; background-color: inherit; color: gray;
text-indent: 0em; text-align: right; position: absolute;
/* To remove the page-numbers, use the hidden visibilty feature */
/* visibility:hidden; */
border: 1px solid silver; padding: 1px 2px;
font-style: normal;
font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;}
/* table common styling */
table {margin:0 auto;}
caption {font-variant:small-caps; font-weight:bold;
margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1.5em;}
th {font-size:small;}
tr td {vertical-align:top;}
/* table of contents styling */
table.toc tr td:first-child {text-align:right; padding-right:.5em; }
table.toc tr td:last-child {text-align:right; padding-left:.5em; }
/* table of dialect styling */
table.dialect tr th {border-bottom:3px solid gray;}
table.dialect tr td {font-size:small;}
table.dialect tr td:first-child {padding-right:.5em; }
/* poem classes */
p.poem1 { text-indent:-3em; padding-left:20%;
margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;}
p.poem2 { text-indent:-1.5em; padding-left:20%;
margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;}
div.poem1 {margin-left:3em; font-size:small;}
p.author { text-indent:0; text-align: center;
font-weight:bold; font-size:large;}
p.buscard { text-indent:0; text-align:center;
margin-top:1.5em; margin-bottom:1.5em;}
p.pullquote { text-indent:0; margin-top:1em; font-size:small;
margin-left:15%; margin-right:25%; margin-bottom:0em; }
p.chaptertitle
{ text-indent:0; text-align: center;
font-variant:small-caps;
font-weight:bold; font-size:1.2em;
margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;
margin-bottom:2em;}
p.signature { text-indent:0; text-align:right; margin-top:0em;}
div.contents { margin-right:5%;
margin-left:5%;}
div.chapterhead { padding-top:4em; }
div.titlepage { padding-top:5%; padding-bottom:5%;
margin-right:15%; margin-left:15%;
text-align: center;}
div.titlepage p { text-indent:0; margin-bottom: .25em;
margin-top:1em; }
</style>
</head>
<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 102 ***</div>
<div class="titlepage">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_001" id="Page_001">1</a></span>
<h1>The Tragedy of Pudd’nhead Wilson</h1>
<p class="author">By Mark Twain</p>
<p class="small smcap">Samuel L. Clemens</p>
<p><br/></p>
<p class="small">
1894<br />
HARTFORD, CONN.<br />
AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY
</p>
<p><br /><br /></p>
<p class="small">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_008" id="Page_008">8</a></span>
Copyright, 1894,<br />
by OLIVIA L. CLEMENS<br />
All Rights Reserved <br />
The right of dramatization and translation reserved.<br />
</p>
<p><br /><br /></p>
<p class="small">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_010" id="Page_010">10</a></span>
Copyright, 1893-1894, by the Century Company, in the Century Magazine.<br />
Copyright, 1894, by Olivia L. Clemens<br />
(All Rights Reserved)<br />
</p>
</div>
<div class="contents"><a id="Contents" name="Contents"></a>
<hr />
<h2>Contents</h2>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_012" id="Page_012">12</a></span>
</div>
<table class="toc" summary="Table of Contents for Puddnhead Wilson" >
<caption>Pudd’nhead Wilson</caption>
<thead>
<tr>
<th>Chapter</th>
<th>Chapter Title</th>
<th>Page</th>
</tr>
</thead>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td></td>
<td class="smcap">A Whisper to the Reader</td>
<td><a href="#link2H_4_0001">15</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>I.</td>
<td class="smcap">Pudd’nhead Wins His Name</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0001">17</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>II.</td>
<td class="smcap">Driscoll Spares His Slaves</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0002">27</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>III.</td>
<td class="smcap">Roxy Plays a Shrewd Trick</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0003">41</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>IV.</td>
<td class="smcap">The Ways of the Changelings</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0004">52</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>V.</td>
<td class="smcap">The Twins Thrill Dawson’s Landing</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0005">67</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>VI.</td>
<td class="smcap">Swimming in Glory</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0006">77</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>VII.</td>
<td class="smcap">The Unknown Nymph</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0007">86</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>VIII.</td>
<td class="smcap">Marse Tom Tramples His Chance</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0008">93</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>IX.</td>
<td class="smcap">Tom Practises Sycophancy</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0009">111</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>X.</td>
<td class="smcap">The Nymph Revealed</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0010">121</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XI.</td>
<td class="smcap">Pudd’nhead’s Startling Discovery </td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0011">130</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XII.</td>
<td class="smcap">The Shame of Judge Driscoll</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0012">155</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XIII.</td>
<td class="smcap">Tom Stares at Ruin </td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0013">166</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XIV.</td>
<td class="smcap">Roxana Insists Upon Reform</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0014">179</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XV.</td>
<td class="smcap">The Robber Robbed</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0015">197</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XVI.</td>
<td class="smcap">Sold Down the River</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0016">214</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XVII.</td>
<td class="smcap">The Judge Utters Dire Prophecy</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0017">221</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XVIII.</td>
<td class="smcap">Roxana Commands</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0018">225</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XIX.</td>
<td class="smcap">The Prophecy Realized</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0019">246</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XX.</td>
<td class="smcap">The Murderer Chuckles</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0020">263</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XXI.</td>
<td class="smcap">Doom</td>
<td><a href="#link2HCH0021">278</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td></td>
<td class="smcap">Conclusion</td>
<td><a href="#link2H_CONC">300</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p><br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_015" id="Page_015">15</a></span>
<a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a>
<br /> <br /> <br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">A Whisper</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">to the Reader.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
There is no character, howsoever good and fine, but it can
be destroyed by ridicule, howsoever poor and witless.
Observe the ass, for instance: his character is about
perfect, he is the choicest spirit among all the humbler
animals, yet see what ridicule has brought him to. Instead
of feeling complimented when we are called an ass, we are
left in doubt.<i>—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">A person</span> who is ignorant of legal matters is
always liable to make mistakes when he tries to photograph a court scene
with his pen; and so I was not willing to let the law chapters in this
book go to press without first subjecting them to rigid and exhausting
revision and correction by a trained barrister—if that is what they
are called. These chapters are right, now, in every detail, for they were
rewritten under the immediate eye of William Hicks, who studied law part
of a while in southwest Missouri thirty-five years ago and then came over
here to Florence for his health and is still helping for exercise and
board in Macaroni Vermicelli’s horse-feed shed which is up the
back alley as you turn around the corner out of the Piazza del Duomo just
beyond the house where that stone that Dante used to sit on six hundred
years ago is let into the wall
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_016" id="Page_016">16</a></span>
when he let on to be watching them build
Giotto’s campanile and yet always got tired looking as soon as
Beatrice passed along on her way to get a chunk of chestnut cake to defend
herself with in case of a Ghibelline outbreak before she got to school, at
the same old stand where they sell the same old cake to this day and it is
just as light and good as it was then, too, and this is not flattery, far
from it. He was a little rusty on his law, but he rubbed up for this book,
and those two or three legal chapters are right and straight, now.
He told me so himself.
</p>
<p>
Given under my hand this second day of January, 1893, at the Villa
Viviani, village of Settignano, three miles back of Florence, on the
hills—the same certainly affording the most charming view to be
found on this planet, and with it the most dreamlike and enchanting
sunsets to be found in any planet or even in any solar system—and
given, too, in the swell room of the house, with the busts of Cerretani
senators and other grandees of this line looking approvingly down upon
me as they used to look down upon Dante, and mutely asking me to adopt
them into my family, which I do with pleasure, for my remotest ancestors
are but spring chickens compared with these robed and stately antiques,
and it will be a great and satisfying lift for me, that six hundred
years will.
</p>
<p class="signature">
<i>Mark Twain.</i>
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_017" id="Page_017">17</a></span>
<a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"></a>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER I.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">Pudd’nhead Wins His Name.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Tell the truth or trump—but get the trick.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">The</span> scene of this chronicle is the town of
Dawson’s Landing, on the Missouri side of the Mississippi, half a
day’s journey, per steamboat, below St. Louis.
</p>
<p>
In 1830 it was a snug little collection of modest one- and two-story frame
dwellings whose whitewashed exteriors were almost concealed from sight by
climbing tangles of rose-vines, honeysuckles, and morning-glories. Each of
these pretty homes had a garden in front fenced with white palings and
opulently stocked with hollyhocks, marigolds, touch-me-nots,
prince’s-feathers and other old-fashioned flowers; while on the
window-sills of the houses stood wooden boxes containing moss-rose
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_018" id="Page_018">18</a></span>
plants
and terra-cotta pots in which grew a breed of geranium whose spread of
intensely red blossoms accented the prevailing pink tint of the rose-clad
house-front like an explosion of flame. When there was room on the ledge
outside of the pots and boxes for a cat, the cat was there—in sunny
weather—stretched at full length, asleep and blissful, with her
furry belly to the sun and a paw curved over her nose. Then that house was
complete, and its contentment and peace were made manifest to the world by
this symbol, whose testimony is infallible. A home without a cat—and
a well-fed, well-petted and properly revered cat—may be a perfect
home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?
</p>
<p>
All along the streets, on both sides, at the outer edge of the brick
sidewalks, stood locust-trees with trunks protected by wooden boxing, and
these furnished shade for summer and a sweet fragrance in spring when
the clusters of buds came forth. The main street, one block back from the
river, and running parallel with it, was the sole business street. It was
six blocks long, and in each block two
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_019" id="Page_019">19</a></span>
or three brick stores three stories high towered above interjected bunches
of little frame shops. Swinging signs creaked in the wind, the
street’s whole length. The candy-striped pole which indicates
nobility proud and ancient along the palace-bordered canals of Venice,
indicated merely the humble
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: barber-shop was transcribed as barber shop.">
barber shop</ins> along the main street of Dawson’s Landing. On a
chief corner stood a lofty unpainted pole wreathed from top to bottom
with tin pots and pans and cups, the chief tinmonger’s noisy notice
to the world (when the wind blew) that his shop was on hand for business
at that corner.
</p>
<p>
The hamlet’s front was washed by the clear waters of the great
river; its body stretched itself rearward up a gentle incline; its most
rearward border fringed itself out and scattered its houses about the
base-line of the hills; the hills rose high, inclosing the town in a
half-moon curve, clothed with forests from foot to summit.
</p>
<p>
Steamboats passed up and down every hour or so. Those belonging to the
little Cairo line and the little Memphis line always
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_020" id="Page_020">20</a></span>
stopped; the big Orleans liners stopped for hails only, or to land
passengers or freight; and this was the case also with the great
flotilla of “transients.” These latter came out of a
dozen rivers—the Illinois, the Missouri, the Upper Mississippi,
the Ohio, the Monongahela, the Tennessee, the Red River, the White River,
and so on; and were bound every whither and stocked with every imaginable
comfort or necessity which the Mississippi’s communities could want,
from the frosty Falls of St. Anthony down through nine climates to torrid
New Orleans.
</p>
<p>
Dawson’s Landing was a slaveholding town, with a rich
slave-worked grain and pork country back of it. The town was sleepy
and comfortable and contented. It was fifty years old, and was growing
slowly—very slowly, in fact, but still it was growing.
</p>
<p>
The chief citizen was York Leicester Driscoll, about forty years old,
judge of the county court. He was very proud of his old Virginian
ancestry, and in his hospitalities and his rather formal and stately
manners he kept up its traditions. He was fine and just
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_021" id="Page_021">21</a></span>
and generous. To be a gentleman—a gentleman without stain or
blemish—was his only religion, and to it he was always faithful.
He was respected, esteemed and beloved by all the community. He was
well off, and was gradually adding to his store. He and his wife were
very nearly happy, but not quite, for they had no children. The longing
for the treasure of a child had grown stronger and stronger as the years
slipped away, but the blessing never came—and was never to come.
</p>
<p>
With this pair lived the Judge’s widowed sister, Mrs. Rachel
Pratt, and she also was childless—childless, and sorrowful for
that reason, and not to be comforted. The women were good and commonplace
people, and did their duty and had their reward in clear consciences and
the community’s approbation. They were Presbyterians, the Judge
was a free-thinker.
</p>
<p>
Pembroke Howard, lawyer and bachelor, aged about forty, was another old
Virginian grandee with proved descent from the First Families. He was a
fine, brave, majestic
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_022" id="Page_022">22</a></span>
creature, a gentleman according to the nicest requirements of the Virginia
rule, a devoted Presbyterian, an authority on the “code,” and
a man always courteously ready to stand up before you in the field if any
act or word of his had seemed doubtful or suspicious to you, and explain
it with any weapon you might prefer from brad-awls to artillery. He was
very popular with the people, and was the Judge’s dearest friend.
</p>
<p>
Then there was Colonel Cecil Burleigh Essex, another F. F. V.
of formidable caliber—however, with him we have no concern.
</p>
<p>
Percy Northumberland Driscoll, brother to the Judge, and younger than he
by five years, was a married man, and had had children around his
hearthstone; but they were attacked in detail by measles, croup and
scarlet fever, and this had given the doctor a chance with his effective
antediluvian methods; so the cradles were empty. He was a prosperous man,
with a good head for speculations, and his fortune was growing. On the
1st of February, 1830, two boy babes were born in his house: one to him,
the other to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_023" id="Page_023">23</a></span>
one of his slave girls, Roxana by name. Roxana was twenty
years old. She was up and around the same day, with her hands full, for
she was tending both babies.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Percy Driscoll died within the week. Roxy remained in charge of the
children. She had her own way, for Mr. Driscoll soon absorbed himself in
his speculations and left her to her own devices.
</p>
<p>
In that same month of February, Dawson’s Landing gained a new
citizen. This was Mr. David Wilson, a young fellow of Scotch parentage.
He had wandered to this remote region from his birthplace in the interior
of the State of New York, to seek his fortune. He was twenty-five years
old, college-bred, and had finished a post-college course in an Eastern
law school a couple of years before.
</p>
<p>
He was a homely, freckled, sandy-haired young fellow, with an intelligent
blue eye that had frankness and comradeship in it and a covert twinkle of
a pleasant sort. But for an unfortunate remark of his, he would no doubt
have entered at once upon a successful career at Dawson’s Landing.
But he made his fatal remark
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_024" id="Page_024">24</a></span>
the first day he spent in the village, and it “gaged” him.
He had just made the acquaintance of a group of citizens when an invisible
dog began to yelp and snarl and howl and make himself very comprehensively
disagreeable, whereupon young Wilson said, much as one who is thinking
aloud—
</p>
<p>
“I wish I owned half of that dog.”
</p>
<p>
“Why?” somebody asked.
</p>
<p>
“Because I would kill my half.”
</p>
<p>
The group searched his face with curiosity, with anxiety even, but found
no light there, no expression that they could read. They fell away from
him as from something uncanny, and went into privacy to discuss him. One
said:
</p>
<p>
“’Pears to be a fool.”
</p>
<p>
“’Pears?” said another.
“<i>Is,</i> I reckon you better say.”
</p>
<p>
“Said he wished he owned <i>half</i> of the dog, the idiot,”
said a third. “What did he reckon would become of the other half
if he killed his half? Do you reckon he thought it would live?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, he must have thought it, unless he <i>is</i> the downrightest
fool in the world; because if
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_025" id="Page_025">25</a></span>
he hadn’t thought it, he would have wanted to own the whole dog,
knowing that if he killed his half and the other half died, he would be
responsible for that half just the same as if he had killed that half
instead of his own. Don’t it look that way to you, gents?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, it does. If he owned one half of the general dog, it would be
so; if he owned one end of the dog and another person owned the other
end, it would be so, just the same; particularly in the first case,
because if you kill one half of a general dog, there ain’t any man
that can tell whose half it was, but if he owned one end of the dog,
maybe he could kill his end of it and—”
</p>
<p>
“No, he couldn’t either; he couldn’t and not be
responsible if the other end died, which it would. In my opinion
the man ain’t in his right mind.”
</p>
<p>
“In my opinion he hain’t <i>got</i> any mind.”
</p>
<p>
No. 3 said: “Well, he’s a lummox, anyway.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s what he is,” said No. 4, “he’s
a labrick—just a Simon-pure labrick, if ever there was one.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_026" id="Page_026">26</a></span>
“Yes, sir, he’s a dam fool, that’s the way I put
him up,” said No. 5. “Anybody can think different that
wants to, but those are my sentiments.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m with you, gentlemen,” said No. 6. “Perfect
jackass—yes, and it ain’t going too far to say he is a
pudd’nhead. If he ain’t a pudd’nhead, I
ain’t no judge, that’s all.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wilson stood elected. The incident was told all over the town, and
gravely discussed by everybody. Within a week he had lost his first name;
Pudd’nhead took its place. In time he came to be liked, and well
liked too; but by that time the nickname had got well stuck on, and it
stayed. That first day’s verdict made him a fool, and he was not
able to get it set aside, or even modified. The nickname soon ceased to
carry any harsh or unfriendly feeling with it, but it held its place, and
was to continue to hold its place for twenty long years.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_027" id="Page_027">27</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER II.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">Driscoll Spares His Slaves.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Adam was but human—this explains it all. He did not want
the apple for the apple’s sake, he wanted it only because it
was forbidden. The mistake was in not forbidding the
serpent; then he would have eaten the serpent.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">Pudd’nhead Wilson</span> had a trifle of money
when he arrived, and he bought a small house on the extreme western verge
of the town. Between it and Judge Driscoll’s house there was only a
grassy yard, with a paling fence dividing the properties in the middle. He
hired a small office down in the town and hung out a tin sign with these
words on it:
</p>
<p class="buscard small">
<span class="large">DAVID WILSON.</span><br /><br />
ATTORNEY AND COUNSELOR-AT-LAW. <br />
SURVEYING, CONVEYANCING, ETC.<br />
</p>
<p>
But his deadly remark had ruined his chance—at least in the law. No
clients came. He
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_028" id="Page_028">28</a></span>
took down his sign, after a while, and put it up on his own house with the
law features knocked out of it. It offered his services now in the humble
capacities of land-surveyor and expert accountant. Now and then he got a
job of surveying to do, and now and then a merchant got him to straighten
out his books. With Scotch patience and pluck he resolved to live down his
reputation and work his way into the legal field yet. Poor fellow, he
could not foresee that it was going to take him such a weary long time
to do it.
</p>
<p>
He had a rich abundance of idle time, but it never hung heavy on his
hands, for he interested himself in every new thing that was born into the
universe of ideas, and studied it and experimented upon it at his house.
One of his pet fads was palmistry. To another one he gave no name, neither
would he explain to anybody what its purpose was, but merely said it was
an amusement. In fact he had found that his fads added to his reputation
as a pudd’nhead; therefore he was growing chary of being too
communicative about them. The fad without a name was one which dealt
with
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_029" id="Page_029">29</a></span>
people’s finger-marks. He carried in his coat pocket a shallow
box with grooves in it, and in the grooves strips of glass five inches
long and three inches wide. Along the lower edge of each strip was pasted
a slip of white paper. He asked people to pass their hands through their
hair (thus collecting upon them a thin coating of the natural oil) and
then make a thumb-mark on a glass strip, following it with the mark of
the ball of each finger in succession. Under this row of faint
grease-prints he would write a record on the strip of white
paper—thus:
</p>
<p class="buscard">
<span class="smcap">John Smith</span>, <i>right hand</i>—
</p>
<p class="noindent">
and add the day of the month and the year, then take Smith’s
left hand on another glass strip, and add name and date and the words
“left hand.” The strips were now returned to the grooved box,
and took their place among what Wilson called his “records.”
</p>
<p>
He often studied his records, examining and poring over them with
absorbing interest until far into the night; but what he found
there—if
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_030" id="Page_030">30</a></span>
he found anything—he revealed to no one. Sometimes
he copied on paper the involved and delicate pattern left by the ball
of a finger, and then vastly enlarged it with a pantograph so that
he could examine its web of curving lines with ease and convenience.
</p>
<p>
One sweltering afternoon—it was the first day of July, 1830—he
was at work over a set of tangled account-books in his work-room, which
looked westward over a stretch of vacant lots, when a conversation outside
disturbed him. It was carried on in yells, which showed that the people
engaged in it were not close together:
</p>
<p>
“Say, Roxy, how does yo’ baby come on?”
This from the distant voice.
</p>
<p>
“Fust-rate; how does <i>you</i> come on, Jasper?”
This yell was from close by.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I’s middlin’; hain’t got
noth’n’ to complain of. I’s gwine to come
a-court’n’ you bimeby, Roxy.”
</p>
<p>
“<i>You</i> is, you black mud-cat! Yah—yah—yah!
I got somep’n’ better to do den ’sociat’n’
wid niggers as black as you is. Is ole Miss Cooper’s Nancy done give
you de mitten?”
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_031" id="Page_031">31</a></span>
Roxy followed this sally with another discharge of care-free laughter.
</p>
<p>
“You’s jealous, Roxy, dat’s what’s de
matter wid <i>you</i>, you hussy—yah—yah—yah!
Dat’s de time I got you!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes, <i>you</i> got me, hain’t you. ’Clah to
goodness if dat conceit o’ yo’n strikes in, Jasper,
it gwine to kill you sho’. If you b’longed to
me I’d sell you down de river ’fo’ you git
too fur gone. Fust time I runs acrost yo’ marster,
I’s gwine to tell him so.”
</p>
<p>
This idle and aimless jabber went on and on, both parties enjoying the
friendly duel and each well satisfied with his own share of the wit
exchanged—for wit they considered it.
</p>
<p>
Wilson stepped to the window to observe the combatants; he could not work
while their chatter continued. Over in the vacant lots was Jasper, young,
coal-black and of magnificent build, sitting on a wheelbarrow in the
pelting sun—at work, supposably, whereas he was in fact only
preparing for it by taking an hour’s rest before beginning. In
front of Wilson’s porch stood Roxy, with a local hand-made
baby-wagon, in which sat her two charges—one
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_032" id="Page_032">32</a></span>
at each end and facing each other. From Roxy’s manner of speech,
a stranger would have expected her to be black, but she was not. Only
one sixteenth of her was black, and that sixteenth did not show. She was
of majestic form and stature, her attitudes were imposing and statuesque,
and her gestures and movements distinguished by a noble and stately grace.
Her complexion was very fair, with the rosy glow of vigorous health in
the cheeks, her face was full of character and expression, her eyes were
brown and liquid, and she had a heavy suit of fine soft hair which was
also brown, but the fact was not apparent because her head was bound about
with a checkered handkerchief and the hair was concealed under it. Her
face was shapely, intelligent and comely—even beautiful. She had an
easy, independent carriage—when she was among her own
caste—and a high and “sassy” way, withal; but of course
she was meek and humble enough where white people were.
</p>
<p>
To all intents and purposes Roxy was as white as anybody, but the one
sixteenth of her which was black outvoted the other fifteen
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_033" id="Page_033">33</a></span>
parts and made her a negro. She was a slave, and salable as such. Her
child was thirty-one parts white, and he, too, was a slave, and by a
fiction of law and custom a negro. He had blue eyes and flaxen curls
like his white comrade, but even the father of the white child was able
to tell the children apart—little as he had commerce with
them—by their clothes: for the white babe wore ruffled soft muslin
and a coral necklace, while the other wore merely a coarse tow-linen
shirt which barely reached to its knees, and no jewelry.
</p>
<p>
The white child’s name was Thomas à Becket Driscoll,
the other’s name was Valet de Chambre: no surname—slaves
hadn’t the privilege. Roxana had heard that phrase somewhere,
the fine sound of it had pleased her ear, and as she had supposed it
was a name, she loaded it on to her darling. It soon got shorted to
“Chambers,” of course.
</p>
<p>
Wilson knew Roxy by sight, and when the duel of wit began to play out, he
stepped outside to gather in a record or two. Jasper went to work
energetically, at once, perceiving
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_034" id="Page_034">34</a></span>
that his leisure was observed. Wilson inspected the children and
asked—
</p>
<p>
“How old are they, Roxy?”
</p>
<p>
“Bofe de same age, sir—five months.
Bawn de fust o’ Feb’uary.”
</p>
<p>
“They’re handsome little chaps.
One’s just as handsome as the other, too.”
</p>
<p>
A delighted smile exposed the girl’s white teeth, and she said:
</p>
<p>
“Bless yo’ soul, Misto Wilson, it’s pow’ful
nice o’ you to say dat, ’ca’se one of ’em
ain’t on’y a nigger. Mighty prime little nigger,
<i>I</i> al’ays says, but dat’s
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: change ca'se to 'ca'se.">
’ca’se</ins> it’s mine, o’ course.”
</p>
<p>
“How do you tell them apart, Roxy, when they
haven’t any clothes on?”
</p>
<p>
Roxy laughed a laugh proportioned to her size, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, <i>I</i> kin tell ’em ’part, Misto Wilson,
but I bet Marse Percy couldn’t, not to save his life.”
</p>
<p>
Wilson chatted along for awhile, and presently got Roxy’s
finger-prints for his collection—right hand and left—on a
couple of his glass strips; then labeled and dated them, and took
the “records” of both children, and labeled and dated them
also.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_035" id="Page_035">35</a></span>
Two months later, on the 3d of September, he took this trio of
finger-marks again. He liked to have a “series,” two or
three “takings” at intervals during the period of childhood,
these to be followed by others at intervals of several years.
</p>
<p>
The next day—that is to say, on the 4th of September—something
occurred which profoundly impressed Roxana. Mr. Driscoll missed another
small sum of money—which is a way of saying that this was not a new
thing, but had happened before. In truth it had happened three times
before. Driscoll’s patience was exhausted. He was a fairly humane
man toward slaves and other animals; he was an exceedingly humane man
toward the erring of his own race. Theft he could not abide, and plainly
there was a thief in his house. Necessarily the thief must be one of his
negroes. Sharp measures must be taken. He called his servants before him.
There were three of these, besides Roxy: a man, a woman, and a boy twelve
years old. They were not related. Mr. Driscoll said:
</p>
<p>
“You have all been warned before. It has
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_036" id="Page_036">36</a></span>
done no good. This time I will teach you a lesson. I will sell the thief.
Which of you is the guilty one?”
</p>
<p>
They all shuddered at the threat, for here they had a good home, and a new
one was likely to be a change for the worse. The denial was general. None
had stolen anything—not money, anyway—a little sugar, or cake,
or honey, or something like that, that “Marse Percy wouldn’t
mind or miss,” but not money—never a cent of money. They were
eloquent in their protestations, but Mr. Driscoll was not moved by them.
He answered each in turn with a stern “Name the thief!”
</p>
<p>
The truth was, all were guilty but Roxana; she suspected that the others
were guilty, but she did not know them to be so. She was horrified to
think how near she had come to being guilty herself; she had been saved in
the nick of time by a revival in the colored Methodist Church, a fortnight
before, at which time and place she “got religion.” The very
next day after that gracious experience, while her change of style was
fresh upon her and she was vain of her purified
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_037" id="Page_037">37</a></span>
condition, her master left a couple dollars lying unprotected on his desk,
and she happened upon that temptation when she was polishing around with
a dust-rag. She looked at the money awhile with a steady rising
resentment, then she burst out with—
</p>
<p>
“Dad blame dat revival, I wisht it had ’a’
be’n put off till to-morrow!”
</p>
<p>
Then she covered the tempter with a book, and another member of the
kitchen cabinet got it. She made this sacrifice as a matter of religious
etiquette; as a thing necessary just now, but by no means to be wrested
into a precedent; no, a week or two would limber up her piety, then she
would be rational again, and the next two dollars that got left out in the
cold would find a comforter—and she could name the comforter.
</p>
<p>
Was she bad? Was she worse than the general run of her race? No. They had
an unfair show in the battle of life, and they held it no sin to take
military advantage of the enemy—in a small way; in a small way, but
not in a large one. They would smouch provisions from the pantry whenever
they got a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_038" id="Page_038">38</a></span>
chance; or a brass thimble, or a cake of wax, or an emery-bag, or a paper
of needles, or a silver spoon, or a dollar bill, or small articles of
clothing, or any other property of light value; and so far were they from
considering such reprisals sinful, that they would go to church and shout
and pray the loudest and sincerest with their plunder in their pockets. A
farm smoke-house had to be kept heavily padlocked, for even the colored
deacon himself could not resist a ham when Providence showed him in a
dream, or otherwise, where such a thing hung lonesome and longed for some
one to love. But with a hundred hanging before him the deacon would not
take two—that is, on the same night. On frosty nights the humane
negro prowler would warm the end of a plank and put it up under
the cold claws of chickens roosting in a tree; a drowsy hen would step on
to the comfortable board, softly clucking her gratitude, and the prowler
would dump her into his bag, and later into his stomach, perfectly sure
that in taking this trifle from the man who daily robbed
him of an inestimable treasure—his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_039" id="Page_039">39</a></span>
liberty—he was not committing any sin that God would remember
against him in the Last Great Day.
</p>
<p>
“Name the thief!”
</p>
<p>
For the fourth time Mr. Driscoll had said it, and always in the same hard
tone. And now he added these words of awful import:
</p>
<p>
“I give you one minute”—he took out his watch.
“If at the end of that time you have not confessed, I will
not only sell all four of you, <i>but</i>—I
will sell you <span class="smcap">down the river</span>!”
</p>
<p>
It was equivalent to condemning them to hell! No Missouri negro doubted
this. Roxy reeled in her tracks and the color vanished out of her face;
the others dropped to their knees as if they had been shot; tears gushed
from their eyes, their supplicating hands went up, and three answers came
in the one instant:
</p>
<p>
“I done it!”
</p>
<p>
“I done it!”
</p>
<p>
“I done it!—have mercy, marster—Lord have
mercy on us po’ niggers!”
</p>
<p>
“Very good,” said the master, putting up his watch,
“I will sell you <i>here</i> though you don’t
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_040" id="Page_040">40</a></span>
deserve it. You ought to be sold down the river.”
</p>
<p>
The culprits flung themselves prone, in an ecstasy of gratitude, and
kissed his feet, declaring that they would never forget his goodness and
never cease to pray for him as long as they lived. They were sincere, for
like a god he had stretched forth his mighty hand and closed the gates of
hell against them. He knew, himself, that he had done a noble and gracious
thing, and was privately well pleased with his magnanimity; and that night
he set the incident down in his diary, so that his son might read it in
after years, and be thereby moved to deeds of gentleness and humanity
himself.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_041" id="Page_041">41</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER III.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">Roxy Plays a Shrewd Trick.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Whoever has lived long enough to find out what life is,
knows how deep a debt of gratitude we owe to Adam, the first
great benefactor of our race. He brought death into the
world.<i>—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">Percy Driscoll</span> slept well the night he saved
his house-minions from going down the river, but no wink of sleep visited
Roxy’s eyes. A profound terror had taken possession of her. Her
child could grow up and be sold down the river! The thought crazed her
with horror. If she dozed and lost herself for a moment, the next moment
she was on her feet flying to her child’s cradle to see if it was
still there. Then she would gather it to her heart and pour out her love
upon it in a frenzy of kisses, moaning, crying, and saying, “Dey
sha’n’t, oh, dey <i>sha’n’t!</i>—yo’
po’ mammy will kill you fust!”
</p>
<p>
Once, when she was tucking it back in its
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_042" id="Page_042">42</a></span>
cradle again, the other child nestled in its sleep and attracted her
attention. She went and stood over it a long time communing with herself:
</p>
<p>
“What has my po’ baby done, dat he couldn’t have
yo’ luck? He hain’t done noth’n’. God was good
to you; why warn’t he good to him? Dey can’t sell <i>you</i>
down de river. I hates yo’ pappy; he hain’t got no
heart—for niggers he hain’t, anyways. I hates him, en I
could kill him!” She paused awhile, thinking; then she burst into
wild sobbings again, and turned away, saying, “Oh, I got to
kill my chile, dey ain’t no yuther way,—killin’
<i>him</i> wouldn’t save de chile fum goin’ down de river.
Oh, I got to do it, yo’ po’ mammy’s got to kill you
to save you, honey”—she gathered her baby to her bosom, now,
and began to smother it with caresses—“Mammy’s got
to kill you—how <i>kin</i> I do it! But yo’ mammy ain’t
gwine to desert you—no, no; <i>dah</i>, don’t cry—she
gwine <i>wid</i> you, she gwine to kill herself too. Come along, honey,
come along wid mammy; we gwine to jump in de river, den de troubles
o’ dis worl’
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_043" id="Page_043">43</a></span>
is all over—dey don’t sell po’ niggers down the river
over <i>yonder</i>.”
</p>
<p>
She started toward the door, crooning to the child and hushing it; midway
she stopped, suddenly. She had caught sight of her new Sunday gown—a
cheap curtain-calico thing, a conflagration of gaudy colors and fantastic
figures. She surveyed it wistfully, longingly.
</p>
<p>
“Hain’t ever wore it yet,” she said, “en
it’s jist lovely.” Then she nodded her head in response to a
pleasant idea, and added, “No, I ain’t gwine to be fished out,
wid everybody lookin’ at me, in dis mis’able ole
linsey-woolsey.”
</p>
<p>
She put down the child and made the change. She looked in the glass and
was astonished at her beauty. She resolved to make her death-toilet
perfect. She took off her handkerchief-turban and dressed her glossy
wealth of hair “like white folks”; she added
some odds and ends of rather lurid ribbon and a spray of atrocious
artificial flowers; finally she threw over her shoulders a fluffy thing
called a “cloud” in that day, which was of a blazing red
complexion. Then she was ready for the
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: insert missing period after tomb.">
tomb.</ins>
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_044" id="Page_044">44</a></span>
She gathered up her baby once more; but when her eye fell upon its
miserably short little gray tow-linen shirt and noted the contrast between
its pauper shabbiness and her own volcanic irruption of infernal
splendors, her mother-heart was touched, and she was ashamed.
</p>
<p>
“No, dolling, mammy ain’t gwine to treat you so. De angels
is gwine to ’mire you jist as much as dey does yo’ mammy.
Ain’t gwine to have ’em putt’n’ dey han’s
up ’fo’ dey eyes en sayin’ to David en Goliah en dem
yuther prophets, ‘Dat chile is dress’ too indelicate
fo’ dis place.’”
</p>
<p>
By this time she had stripped off the shirt. Now she clothed the naked
little creature in one of Thomas à Becket’s snowy long
baby-gowns, with its bright blue bows and dainty flummery of ruffles.
</p>
<p>
“Dah—now you’s fixed.” She propped the child
in a chair and stood off to inspect it. Straightway her eyes began to
widen with astonishment and admiration, and she clapped her hands and
cried out, “Why, it do beat all!—I <i>never</i> knowed
you was so lovely.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_045" id="Page_045">45</a></span>
Marse Tommy ain’t a bit puttier—not a single bit.”
</p>
<p>
She stepped over and glanced at the other infant; she flung a glance back
at her own; then one more at the heir of the house. Now a strange light
dawned in her eyes, and in a moment she was lost in thought. She seemed in
a trance; when she came out of it she muttered, “When I ’uz
a-washin’ ’em in de tub, yistiddy, his own pappy asked me
which of ’em was his’n.”
</p>
<p>
She began to move about like one in a dream. She undressed Thomas
à Becket, stripping him of everything, and put the tow-linen
shirt on him. She put his coral necklace on her own child’s neck.
Then she placed the children side by side, and after earnest inspection
she muttered—
</p>
<p>
“Now who would b’lieve clo’es could do de like
o’ dat? Dog my cats if it ain’t all <i>I</i> kin do to
tell t’other fum which, let alone his pappy.”
</p>
<p>
She put her cub in Tommy’s elegant cradle and said—
</p>
<p>
“You’s young Marse <i>Tom</i> fum dis out, en
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_046" id="Page_046">46</a></span>
I got to practise and git used to ’memberin’ to call you dat,
honey, or I’s gwine to make a mistake some time en git us bofe into
trouble. Dah—now you lay still en don’t fret no mo’,
Marse Tom—oh, thank de good Lord in heaven, you’s saved,
you’s saved!—dey ain’t no man kin ever sell
mammy’s po’ little honey down de river now!”
</p>
<p>
She put the heir of the house in her own child’s unpainted pine
cradle, and said, contemplating its slumbering form uneasily—
</p>
<p>
“I’s sorry for you, honey; I’s sorry, God knows I
is,—but what <i>kin</i> I do, what <i>could</i> I do? Yo’
pappy would sell him to somebody, some time, en den he’d go down
de river, sho’, en I couldn’t, couldn’t,
<i>couldn’t</i> stan’ it.”
</p>
<p>
She flung herself on her bed and began to think and toss, toss and think.
By and by she sat suddenly upright, for a comforting thought had flown
through her worried mind—
</p>
<p>
“’Tain’t no sin—<i>white</i> folks has done it!
It ain’t no sin, glory to goodness it ain’t no sin!
<i>Dey’s</i> done it—yes, en dey was de biggest quality
in de whole bilin’, too—<i>kings!</i>”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_047" id="Page_047">47</a></span>
She began to muse; she was trying to gather out of her memory the dim
particulars of some tale she had heard some time or other. At last she
said—
</p>
<p>
“Now I’s got it; now I ’member. It was dat ole nigger
preacher dat tole it, de time he come over here fum Illinois en preached
in de nigger church. He said dey ain’t nobody kin save his own
self—can’t do it by faith, can’t do it by works,
can’t do it no way at all. Free grace is de <i>on’y</i>
way, en dat don’t come fum nobody but jis’ de Lord;
en <i>he</i> kin give it to anybody he please,
saint or sinner—<i>he</i> don’t kyer. He do jis’ as
he’s a mineter. He s’lect out anybody dat suit him, en
put another one in his place, and make de fust one happy forever en leave
t’other one to burn wid Satan. De preacher said it was jist like
dey done in Englan’ one time, long time ago. De queen she
lef’ her baby layin’ aroun’ one day, en went out
callin’; en one o’ de niggers roun’-’bout de
place dat was ’mos’ white, she come in en see de chile
layin’ aroun’, en tuck en put her own chile’s
clo’es on de queen’s chile, en put de queen’s
chile’s clo’es on her own
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_048" id="Page_048">48</a></span>
chile, en den lef’ her own chile layin’ aroun’ en tuck
en toted de queen’s chile home to de nigger-quarter, en nobody ever
foun’ it out, en her chile was de king bimeby, en sole de
queen’s chile down de river one time when dey had to settle up de
estate. Dah, now—de preacher said it his own self, en it
ain’t no sin, ’ca’se white folks done it. <i>Dey</i>
done it—yes, <i>dey</i> done it; en not on’y jis’
common white folks nuther, but de biggest quality dey is in de whole
bilin’. Oh, I’s <i>so</i> glad I ’member ’bout
dat!”
</p>
<p>
She got up light-hearted and happy, and went to the cradles and spent what
was left of the night “practising.” She would give her
own child a light pat and say humbly, “Lay still, Marse
Tom,” then give the real Tom a pat and say with severity,
“Lay <i>still</i>, Chambers!—does you want me to
take somep’n’ <i>to</i> you?”
</p>
<p>
As she progressed with her practice, she was surprised to see how steadily
and surely the awe which had kept her tongue reverent and her manner
humble toward her young master was transferring itself to her speech
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_049" id="Page_049">49</a></span>
and manner toward the usurper, and how similarly handy she was becoming in
transferring her motherly curtness of speech and peremptoriness of manner
to the unlucky heir of the ancient house of Driscoll.
</p>
<p>
She took occasional rests from practising, and absorbed herself in
calculating her chances.
</p>
<p>
“Dey’ll sell dese niggers to-day fo’ stealin’
de money, den dey’ll buy some mo’ dat don’t know
de chillen—so <i>dat’s</i> all right. When I takes
de chillen out to git de air, de minute I’s roun’ de
corner I’s gwine to gaum dey mouths all roun’ wid jam,
den dey can’t <i>nobody</i> notice dey’s changed. Yes,
I gwineter do dat till I’s safe, if it’s a year.
</p>
<p>
“Dey ain’t but one man dat I’s afeard of, en
dat’s dat Pudd’nhead Wilson. Dey calls him a pudd’nhead,
en says he’s a fool. My lan’, dat man ain’t no
mo’ fool den I is! He’s de smartes’ man in dis town,
less’n it’s Jedge Driscoll or maybe Pem Howard. Blame dat man,
he worries me wid dem ornery glasses o’ hisn; <i>I</i>
b’lieve he’s a witch. But nemmine, I’s gwine to
happen aroun’ dah one o’ dese days en let on dat I reckon
he wants to print
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_050" id="Page_050">50</a></span>
de chillen’s fingers ag’in; en if <i>he</i>
don’t notice dey’s changed, I bound dey ain’t nobody
gwine to notice it, en den I’s safe, sho’. But I
reckon I’ll tote along a hoss-shoe to keep off de witch-work.”
</p>
<p>
The new negroes gave Roxy no trouble, of course. The master gave her none,
for one of his speculations was in jeopardy, and his mind was so occupied
that he hardly saw the children when he looked at them, and all Roxy had
to do was to get them both into a gale of laughter when he came about;
then their faces were mainly cavities exposing gums, and he was gone again
before the spasm passed and the little creatures resumed a human aspect.
</p>
<p>
Within a few days the fate of the speculation became so dubious that Mr.
Percy went away with his brother the Judge, to see what could be done
with it. It was a land speculation as usual, and it had gotten
complicated with a lawsuit. The men were gone seven weeks. Before they
got back Roxy had paid her visit to Wilson, and was satisfied. Wilson took
the finger-prints,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_051" id="Page_051">51</a></span>
labeled them with the names and with the date—October
the first—put them carefully away and continued his chat with Roxy,
who seemed very anxious that he should admire the great advance in flesh
and beauty which the babies had made since he took their finger-prints a
month before. He complimented their improvement to her contentment; and as
they were without any disguise of jam or other stain, she trembled all the
while and was miserably frightened lest at any moment he—
</p>
<p>
But he didn’t. He discovered nothing; and she went home jubilant,
and dropped all concern about the matter permanently out of her mind.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_052" id="Page_052">52</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER IV.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">The Ways of the Changelings.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Adam and Eve had many advantages, but the principal one
was, that they escaped teething.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
There is this trouble about special providences—namely,
there is so often a doubt as to which party was intended to
be the beneficiary. In the case of the children, the bears
and the prophet, the bears got more real satisfaction out of
the episode than the prophet did, because they got the
children.<i>—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">This</span> history must henceforth accommodate
itself to the change which Roxana has consummated, and call the real
heir “Chambers” and the usurping little slave
“Thomas à Becket”—shortening this latter name to
“Tom,” for daily use, as the people about him did.
</p>
<p>
“Tom” was a bad baby, from the very beginning of his
usurpation. He would cry for nothing; he would burst into storms of
devilish temper without notice, and let go
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_053" id="Page_053">53</a></span>
scream after scream and squall after squall, then climax
the thing with “holding his breath”—that frightful
specialty of the teething nursling, in the throes of which the creature
exhausts its lungs, then is convulsed with noiseless squirmings and
twistings and kickings in the effort to get its breath, while the lips
turn blue and the mouth stands wide and rigid, offering for inspection
one wee tooth set in the lower rim of a hoop of red gums; and when the
appalling stillness has endured until one is sure the lost breath will
never return, a nurse comes flying, and dashes water in the child’s
face, and—presto! the lungs fill, and instantly discharge a shriek,
or a yell, or a howl which bursts the listening ear and surprises the
owner of it into saying words which would not go well with a halo if he
had one. The baby Tom would claw anybody who came within reach of his
nails, and pound anybody he could reach with his rattle. He would scream
for water until he got it, and then throw cup and all on the floor and
scream for more. He was indulged in all his caprices, howsoever
troublesome and exasperating they
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_054" id="Page_054">54</a></span>
might be; he was allowed to eat anything he wanted, particularly things
that would give him the stomach-ache.
</p>
<p>
When he got to be old enough to begin to toddle about and say broken words
and get an idea of what his hands were for, he was a more consummate pest
than ever. Roxy got no rest while he was awake. He would call for anything
and everything he saw, simply saying “Awnt it!” (want it),
which was a command. When it was brought, he said in a frenzy, and
motioning it away with his hands, “Don’t awnt it!
don’t awnt it!” and the moment it was gone
he set up frantic yells of “Awnt it! awnt it! awnt it!”
and Roxy had to give wings to her heels to get that thing back to him
again before he could get time to carry out his intention of going into
convulsions about it.
</p>
<p>
What he preferred above all other things was the tongs. This was because
his “father” had forbidden him to have them lest he break
windows and furniture with them. The moment Roxy’s back was turned
he would toddle to the presence of the tongs and say
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_055" id="Page_055">55</a></span>
“Like it!” and cock his eye to one side to see if Roxy was
observing; then, “Awnt it!” and cock his eye again; then,
“Hab it!” with another furtive glance; and finally,
“Take it!”—and the prize was his. The next moment
the heavy implement was raised aloft; the next, there was a
crash and a squall, and the cat was off on three legs to meet
an engagement; Roxy would arrive just as the lamp or a window
went to irremediable smash.
</p>
<p>
Tom got all the petting, Chambers got none. Tom got all the delicacies,
Chambers got mush and milk, and clabber without sugar. In consequence Tom
was a sickly child and Chambers wasn’t. Tom was
“fractious,” as Roxy called it, and overbearing;
Chambers was meek and docile.
</p>
<p>
With all her splendid common sense and practical every-day ability, Roxy
was a doting fool of a mother. She was this toward her child—and she
was also more than this: by the fiction created by herself, he was become
her master; the necessity of recognizing this relation outwardly and of
perfecting
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_056" id="Page_056">56</a></span>
herself in the forms required to express the recognition, had moved her
to such diligence and faithfulness in practicing these forms that this
exercise soon concreted itself into habit; it became automatic and
unconscious; then a natural result followed: deceptions intended solely
for others gradually grew practically into self-deceptions as well; the
mock reverence became real reverence, the mock obsequiousness real
obsequiousness, the mock homage real homage; the little counterfeit rift
of separation between imitation-slave and imitation-master widened and
widened, and became an abyss, and a very real one—and on one side
of it stood Roxy, the dupe of her own deceptions, and on the other stood
her child, no longer a usurper to her, but her accepted and recognized
master. He was her darling, her master, and her deity all in one, and in
her worship of him she forgot who she was and what he had been.
</p>
<p>
In babyhood Tom cuffed and banged and scratched Chambers unrebuked, and
Chambers early learned that between meekly bearing it and resenting it,
the advantage all lay
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_057" id="Page_057">57</a></span>
with the former policy. The few times that his persecutions had moved
him beyond control and made him fight back had cost him very dear at
headquarters; not at the hands of Roxy, for if she ever went beyond
scolding him sharply for “forgitt’n’ who his young
marster was,” she at least never extended her punishment
beyond a box on the ear. No, Percy Driscoll was the person. He told
Chambers that under no provocation whatever was he privileged to lift
his hand against his little master. Chambers overstepped the line three
times, and got three such convincing canings from the man who was his
father and didn’t know it, that he took Tom’s cruelties in
all humility after that, and made no more experiments.
</p>
<p>
Outside of the house the two boys were together all through their boyhood.
Chambers was strong beyond his years, and a good fighter; strong because
he was coarsely fed and hard worked about the house, and a good fighter
because Tom furnished him plenty of practice—on white boys whom he
hated and was afraid of. Chambers was his constant
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_058" id="Page_058">58</a></span>
body-guard, to and from school; he was present on the playground at recess
to protect his charge. He fought himself into such a formidable
reputation, by and by, that Tom could have changed clothes with him, and
“ridden in peace,” like Sir Kay in Launcelot’s armor.
</p>
<p>
He was good at games of skill, too. Tom staked him with marbles to play
“keeps” with, and then took all the winnings away from him.
In the winter season Chambers was on hand, in Tom’s worn-out
clothes, with “holy” red mittens, and “holy”
shoes, and pants “holy” at the knees and seat, to drag
a sled up the hill for Tom, warmly clad, to ride down on; but he never got
a ride himself. He built snow men and snow fortifications under
Tom’s directions. He was Tom’s patient target when Tom
wanted to do some snowballing, but the target couldn’t fire back.
Chambers carried Tom’s skates to the river and strapped them on
him, then trotted around after him on the ice, so as to be on hand when
wanted; but he wasn’t ever asked to try the skates himself.
</p>
<p>
In summer the pet pastime of the boys of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_059" id="Page_059">59</a></span>
Dawson’s Landing was to
steal apples, peaches, and melons from the farmers’
fruit-wagons,—mainly on account of the risk they ran of getting their
heads laid open with the butt of the farmer’s whip. Tom was a
distinguished adept at these thefts—by proxy. Chambers did his
stealing, and got the peach-stones, apple-cores, and melon-rinds for
his share.
</p>
<p>
Tom always made Chambers go in swimming with him, and stay by him as a
protection. When Tom had had enough, he would slip out and tie knots in
Chambers’s shirt, dip the knots in the water and make them hard to
undo, then dress himself and sit by and laugh while the naked shiverer
tugged at the stubborn knots with his teeth.
</p>
<p>
Tom did his humble comrade these various ill turns partly out of native
viciousness, and partly because he hated him for his superiorities of
physique and pluck, and for his manifold cleverness. Tom couldn’t
dive, for it gave him splitting headaches. Chambers could dive without
inconvenience, and was fond of doing it. He excited so much admiration,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_060" id="Page_060">60</a></span>
one day, among a crowd of white boys, by throwing back somersaults from
the stern of a canoe, that it wearied Tom’s spirit, and at last he
shoved the canoe underneath Chambers while he was in the air—so he
came down on his head in the canoe-bottom; and while he lay unconscious,
several of Tom’s ancient adversaries saw that their long-desired
opportunity was come, and they gave the false heir such a drubbing that
with Chambers’s best help he was hardly able to drag himself home
afterward.
</p>
<p>
When the boys were fifteen and upward, Tom was “showing
off” in the river one day, when he was taken with a cramp, and
shouted for help. It was a common trick with the boys—particularly
if a stranger was present—to pretend a cramp and howl for help;
then when the stranger came tearing hand over hand to the rescue, the
howler would go on struggling and howling till he was close at hand,
then replace the howl with a sarcastic smile and swim blandly away,
while the town boys assailed the dupe with a volley of jeers and laughter.
Tom had never tried this joke as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_061" id="Page_061">61</a></span>
yet, but was supposed to be trying it
now, so the boys held warily back; but Chambers believed his master was
in earnest, therefore he swam out, and arrived in time, unfortunately,
and saved his life.
</p>
<p>
This was the last feather. Tom had managed to endure everything else, but
to have to remain publicly and permanently under such an obligation as
this to a nigger, and to this nigger of all niggers—this was too
much. He heaped insults upon Chambers for “pretending”
to think he was in earnest in calling for help, and said that anybody
but a block-headed nigger would have known he was funning and left him
alone.
</p>
<p>
Tom’s enemies were in strong force here, so they came out with their
opinions quite freely. They laughed at him, and called him coward, liar,
sneak, and other sorts of pet names, and told him they meant to call
Chambers
by a new name after this, and make it common in the
town—“Tom Driscoll’s niggerpappy,”—to
signify that he had had a second birth into this life, and that
Chambers was the author of his new being. Tom grew frantic under
these taunts, and shouted—
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_062" id="Page_062">62</a></span>
“Knock their heads off, Chambers! knock their heads off! What
do you stand there with your hands in your pockets for?”
</p>
<p>
Chambers expostulated, and said, “But, Marse Tom, dey’s
too many of ’em—dey’s—”
</p>
<p>
“Do you hear me?”
</p>
<p>
“Please, Marse Tom, don’t make me! Dey’s so many of
’em dat—”
</p>
<p>
Tom sprang at him and drove his pocket-knife into him two or three times
before the boys could snatch him away and give the wounded lad a chance to
escape. He was considerably hurt, but not seriously. If the blade had been
a little longer his career would have ended there.
</p>
<p>
Tom had long ago taught Roxy “her place.” It had been
many a day now since she had ventured a caress or a fondling epithet
in his quarter. Such things, from a “nigger,” were
repulsive to him, and she had been warned to keep her distance and
remember who she was. She saw her darling gradually cease from being
her son, she saw <i>that</i> detail perish utterly; all that was
left was master—master, pure and simple, and it was not a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_063" id="Page_063">63</a></span>
gentle mastership, either. She saw herself sink from the sublime height
of motherhood to the somber depths of unmodified slavery. The abyss of
separation between her and her boy was complete. She was merely his
chattel, now, his convenience, his dog, his cringing and helpless slave,
the humble and unresisting victim of his capricious temper and vicious
nature.
</p>
<p>
Sometimes she could not go to sleep, even when worn out with fatigue,
because her rage boiled so high over the day’s experiences with
her boy. She would mumble and mutter to herself—
</p>
<p>
“He struck me, en I warn’t no way to blame—struck
me in de face, right before folks. En he’s al’ays
callin’ me nigger-wench, en hussy, en all dem mean names,
when I’s doin’ de very bes’ I kin. Oh, Lord,
I done so much for him—I lift’ him away up to what
he is—en dis is what I git for it.”
</p>
<p>
Sometimes when some outrage of peculiar offensiveness stung her to the
heart, she would plan schemes of vengeance and revel in the fancied
spectacle of his exposure to the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_064" id="Page_064">64</a></span>
world as an imposter and a slave; but in the midst of these joys fear
would strike her: she had made him too strong; she could prove nothing,
and—heavens, she might get sold down the river for her pains!
So her schemes always went for nothing, and she laid them aside in
impotent rage against the fates, and against herself for playing the
fool on that fatal September day in not providing herself with a
witness for use in the day when such a thing might be needed for the
appeasing of her vengeance-hungry heart.
</p>
<p>
And yet the moment Tom happened to be good to her, and kind,—and
this occurred every now and then,—all her sore places were healed,
and she was happy; happy and proud, for this was her son, her nigger son,
lording it among the whites and securely avenging their crimes against her
race.
</p>
<p>
There were two grand funerals in Dawson’s Landing that
fall—the fall of 1845. One was that of Colonel Cecil Burleigh
Essex, the other that of Percy Driscoll.
</p>
<p>
On his death-bed Driscoll set Roxy free and delivered his idolized
ostensible son
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_065" id="Page_065">65</a></span>
solemnly into the keeping of his brother, the Judge and
his wife. Those childless people were glad to get him. Childless people
are not difficult to please.
</p>
<p>
Judge Driscoll had gone privately to his brother, a month before, and
bought Chambers. He had heard that Tom had been trying to get his father
to sell the boy down the river, and he wanted to prevent the
scandal—for public sentiment did not approve of that way of
treating family servants for light cause or for no cause.
</p>
<p>
Percy Driscoll had worn himself out in trying to save his great
speculative landed estate, and had died without succeeding. He was hardly
in his grave before the boom collapsed and left his hitherto envied young
devil of an heir a pauper. But that was nothing; his uncle told him he
should be his heir and have all his fortune when he died; so Tom was
comforted.
</p>
<p>
Roxy had no home, now; so she resolved to go around and say good-by to her
friends and then clear out and see the world—that is to say, she
would go chambermaiding on a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_066" id="Page_066">66</a></span>
steamboat, the darling ambition of her race and sex.
</p>
<p>
Her last call was on the black giant, Jasper. She found him chopping
Pudd’nhead Wilson’s winter provision of wood.
</p>
<p>
Wilson was chatting with him when Roxy arrived. He asked her how she could
bear to go off chambermaiding and leave her boys; and chaffingly offered
to copy off a series of their finger-prints, reaching up to their twelfth
year, for her to remember them by; but she sobered in a moment, wondering
if he suspected anything; then she said she believed she didn’t
want them. Wilson said to himself, “The drop of black blood in
her is superstitious; she thinks there’s some devilry, some
witch-business about my glass mystery somewhere; she used to come here
with an old horseshoe in her hand; it could have been an accident, but I
doubt it.”
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_067" id="Page_067">67</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER V.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">The Twins Thrill Dawson’s Landing.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond;
cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college
education.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Remark of Dr. Baldwin’s, concerning upstarts:
We don’t care to eat toadstools that think they
are truffles.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">Mrs. York Driscoll</span> enjoyed two years of bliss
with that prize, Tom—bliss that was troubled a little at times, it
is true, but bliss nevertheless; then she died, and her husband and his
childless sister, Mrs. Pratt, continued the bliss-business at the old
stand. Tom was petted and indulged and spoiled to his entire
content—or nearly that. This went on till he was nineteen, then he
was sent to Yale. He went handsomely equipped with
“conditions,” but otherwise he was not an object of
distinction there. He remained at Yale two years, and then threw up the
struggle. He came
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_068" id="Page_068">68</a></span>
home with his manners a good deal improved; he had lost his surliness and
brusqueness, and was rather pleasantly soft and smooth, now; he was
furtively, and sometimes openly, ironical of speech, and given to
gently touching people on the raw, but he did it with a good-natured
semiconscious air that carried it off safely, and kept him from getting
into trouble. He was as indolent as ever and showed no very strenuous
desire to hunt up an occupation. People argued from this that he preferred
to be supported by his uncle until his uncle’s shoes should become
vacant. He brought back one or two new habits with him, one of which he
rather openly practised—tippling—but concealed another which
was gambling. It would not do to gamble where his uncle could hear of it;
he knew that quite well.
</p>
<p>
Tom’s Eastern polish was not popular among the young people. They
could have endured it, perhaps, if Tom had stopped there; but he wore
gloves, and that they couldn’t stand, and wouldn’t; so he was
mainly without society. He brought home with him a suit of clothes of such
exquisite style and cut
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_069" id="Page_069">69</a></span>
and fashion,—Eastern fashion, city fashion,—that it filled
everybody with anguish and was regarded as a peculiarly wanton affront.
He enjoyed the feeling which he was exciting, and paraded the town
serene and happy all day; but the young fellows set a tailor to work
that night, and when Tom started out on his parade next morning he found
the old deformed negro bell-ringer straddling along in his wake tricked
out in a flamboyant curtain-calico exaggeration of his finery, and
imitating his fancy Eastern graces as well as he could.
</p>
<p>
Tom surrendered, and after that clothed himself in the local fashion. But
the dull country town was tiresome to him, since his acquaintanceship with
livelier regions, and it grew daily more and more so. He began to make
little trips to St. Louis for refreshment. There he found companionship to
suit him, and pleasures to his taste, along with more freedom, in some
particulars, than he could have at home. So, during the next two years
his visits to the city grew in frequency and his tarryings there grew
steadily longer in duration.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_070" id="Page_070">70</a></span>
He was getting into deep waters. He was taking chances, privately, which
might get him into trouble some day—in fact, <i>did</i>.
</p>
<p>
Judge Driscoll had retired from the bench and from all business activities
in 1850, and had now been comfortably idle three years. He was president
of the Free-thinkers’ Society, and Pudd’nhead Wilson was the
other member. The society’s weekly discussions were now the old
lawyer’s main interest in life. Pudd’nhead was still toiling
in obscurity at the bottom of the ladder, under the blight of that unlucky
remark which he had let fall twenty-three years before about the dog.
</p>
<p>
Judge Driscoll was his friend, and claimed that he had a mind above the
average, but that was regarded as one of the Judge’s whims, and it
failed to modify the public opinion. Or rather, that was one of the
reasons why it failed, but there was another and better one. If the Judge
had stopped with bare assertion, it would have had a good deal of effect;
but he made the mistake of trying to prove his position. For some years
Wilson had been privately at work on a whimsical almanac, for
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_071" id="Page_071">71</a></span>
his amusement—a calendar, with a little dab of ostensible
philosophy, usually in ironical form, appended to each date; and the Judge
thought that these quips and fancies of Wilson’s were neatly turned
and cute; so he carried a handful of them around, one day, and read them
to some of the chief citizens. But irony was not for those people; their
mental vision was not focussed for it. They read those playful trifles in
the solidest earnest, and decided without hesitancy that if there had ever
been any doubt that Dave Wilson was a pudd’nhead—which there
hadn’t—this revelation removed that doubt for good and all.
That is just the way in this world; an enemy can partly ruin a man, but
it takes a good-natured injudicious friend to complete the thing and
make it perfect. After this the Judge felt tenderer than ever toward
Wilson, and surer than ever that his calendar had merit.
</p>
<p>
Judge Driscoll could be a free-thinker and still hold his place in
society because he was the person of most consequence in the community,
and therefore could venture to go
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_072" id="Page_072">72</a></span>
his own way and follow out his own notions. The other member
of his pet organization was allowed the like liberty
because he was a cipher in the estimation of the public, and nobody
attached any importance to what he thought or did. He was liked, he was
welcome enough all around, but he simply didn’t count for anything.
</p>
<p>
The widow Cooper—affectionately called “aunt
Patsy” by everybody—lived in a snug and comely cottage with
her daughter Rowena, who was nineteen, romantic, amiable, and very
pretty, but otherwise of no consequence. Rowena had a couple of young
brothers—also of no consequence.
</p>
<p>
The widow had a large spare room which she let to a lodger, with board,
when she could find one, but this room had been empty for a year now, to
her sorrow. Her income was only sufficient for the family support, and she
needed the lodging-money for trifling luxuries. But now, at last, on a
flaming June day, she found herself happy; her tedious wait was ended; her
year-worn advertisement had been answered; and not by a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_073" id="Page_073">73</a></span>
village applicant, oh, no!—this letter was from away off yonder in
the dim great world to the North: it was from St. Louis. She sat on her
porch gazing out with unseeing eyes upon the shining reaches of the
mighty Mississippi, her thoughts steeped in her good fortune. Indeed, it
was specially good fortune, for she was to have two lodgers instead of
one.
</p>
<p>
She had read the letter to the family, and Rowena had danced away to see
to the cleaning and airing of the room by the slave woman Nancy, and the
boys had rushed abroad in the town to spread the great news, for it was
matter of public interest, and the public would wonder and not be pleased
if not informed. Presently Rowena returned, all ablush with joyous
excitement, and begged for a re-reading of the letter. It was framed thus:
</p>
<blockquote>
<p>
<span class="smcap">Honored Madam:</span> My brother and I have seen your
advertisement, by chance, and beg leave to take the room you offer. We
are twenty-four years of age and twins. We are Italians by birth, but have
lived long in the various countries of Europe, and several years in the
United States. Our names are Luigi and Angelo Capello. You desire but one
guest; but dear Madam, if you will
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_074" id="Page_074">74</a></span>
allow us to pay for two, we will not incommode you. We shall be down
Thursday.
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>
“Italians! How romantic! Just think, ma—there’s
never been one in this town, and everybody will be dying to see
them, and they’re all <i>ours</i>! Think of
that!”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I reckon they’ll make a grand stir.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, indeed they will. The whole town will be on its head!
Think—they’ve been in Europe and everywhere!
There’s never been a traveler in this town before.
Ma, I shouldn’t wonder if they’ve seen kings!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, a body can’t tell, but they’ll make stir
enough, without that.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, that’s of course. Luigi—Angelo.
They’re lovely names; and so grand and foreign—not like
Jones and Robinson and such. Thursday they are coming, and this is
only Tuesday; it’s a cruel long time to wait. Here comes Judge
Driscoll in at the gate. He’s heard about it. I’ll go and
open the door.”
</p>
<p>
The Judge was full of congratulations and curiosity. The letter was read
and discussed. Soon Justice Robinson arrived with more
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_075" id="Page_075">75</a></span>
congratulations, and there was a new reading and a new discussion. This
was the beginning. Neighbor after neighbor, of both sexes, followed, and
the procession drifted in and out all day and evening and all Wednesday
and Thursday. The letter was read and re-read until it was nearly worn
out; everybody admired its courtly and gracious tone, and smooth and
practised style, everybody was sympathetic and excited, and the Coopers
were steeped in happiness all the while.
</p>
<p>
The boats were very uncertain in low water, in these primitive times. This
time the Thursday boat had not arrived at ten at night—so the people
had waited at the landing all day for nothing; they were driven to their
homes by a heavy storm without having had a view of the illustrious
foreigners.
</p>
<p>
Eleven o’clock came; and the Cooper house was the only one in the
town that still had lights burning. The rain and thunder were booming
yet, and the anxious family were still waiting, still hoping. At last
there was a knock at the door and the family jumped to open it. Two
negro men entered,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_076" id="Page_076">76</a></span>
each carrying a trunk, and proceeded up-stairs toward the guest-room.
Then entered the twins—the handsomest, the best dressed, the most
distinguished-looking pair of young fellows the West had ever seen.
One was a little fairer than the other, but otherwise they were exact
duplicates.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_077" id="Page_077">77</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER VI.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">Swimming in Glory.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Let us endeavor so to live that when we come to die even
the undertaker will be sorry.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Habit is habit, and not to be flung out of the window by any man,
but coaxed down-stairs a step at a time.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">At</span> breakfast in the morning the twins’
charm of manner and easy and polished bearing made speedy conquest of the
family’s good graces.
All constraint and formality quickly disappeared, and the friendliest
feeling succeeded. Aunt Patsy called them by their Christian names almost
from the beginning. She was full of the keenest curiosity about them, and
showed it; they responded by talking about themselves, which pleased her
greatly. It presently appeared that in their early youth they had known
poverty and hardship. As the talk wandered along
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_078" id="Page_078">78</a></span>
the old lady watched for the right place to drop in a question or two
concerning that matter, and when she found it she said to the blond
twin who was now doing the biographies in his turn while the brunette
one rested—
</p>
<p>
“If it ain’t asking what I ought not to ask, Mr. Angelo, how
did you come to be so friendless and in such trouble when you were
little? Do you mind telling? But don’t if you do.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, we don’t mind it at all, madam; in our case it was
merely misfortune, and nobody’s fault. Our parents were well to do,
there in Italy, and we were their only child. We were of the old
Florentine nobility”—Rowena’s heart gave a great bound,
her nostrils expanded, and a fine light played in her
eyes—“and when the war broke out my father was on the
losing side and had to fly for his life. His estates were confiscated, his
personal property seized, and there we were, in Germany, strangers,
friendless, and in fact paupers. My brother and I were ten years old, and
well educated for that age, very studious,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_079" id="Page_079">79</a></span>
very fond of our books, and
well grounded in the German, French, Spanish, and English languages. Also,
we were marvelous musical prodigies—if you will allow me to say it,
it being only the truth.
</p>
<p>
“Our father survived his misfortunes only a month, our mother
soon followed him, and we were alone in the world. Our parents could
have made themselves comfortable by exhibiting us as a show, and they
had many and large offers; but the thought revolted their pride, and
they said they would starve and die first. But what they wouldn’t
consent to do we had to do without the formality of consent. We were
seized for the debts occasioned by their illness and their funerals,
and placed among the attractions of a cheap museum in Berlin to earn
the liquidation money. It took us two years to get out of that slavery.
We traveled all about Germany receiving no wages, and not even our keep.
We had to be exhibited for nothing, and beg our bread.
</p>
<p>
“Well, madam, the rest is not of much consequence. When we escaped
from that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_080" id="Page_080">80</a></span>
slavery at twelve years of age, we were in some respects men.
Experience had taught us some valuable things; among others, how to take
care of ourselves, how to avoid and defeat sharks and sharpers, and how to
conduct our own business for our own profit and without other
people’s help. We traveled everywhere—years and
years—picking up smatterings of strange tongues, familiarizing
ourselves with strange sights and strange customs, accumulating an
education of a wide and varied and curious sort. It was a pleasant life.
We went to Venice—to London, Paris, Russia, India, China,
Japan—”
</p>
<p>
At this point Nancy the slave woman thrust her head in at the door and
exclaimed:
</p>
<p>
“Ole Missus, de house is plum’ jam full o’ people, en
dey’s jes a-spi’lin’ to see de gen’lmen!”
She indicated the twins with a nod of her head, and tucked it back out
of sight again.
</p>
<p>
It was a proud occasion for the widow, and she promised herself high
satisfaction in showing off her fine foreign birds before her neighbors
and friends—simple folk who had hardly
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_081" id="Page_081">81</a></span>
ever seen a foreigner of any kind, and never one of any distinction or
style. Yet her feeling was moderate indeed when contrasted with
Rowena’s. Rowena was in the clouds, she walked on air; this was to
be the greatest day, the most romantic episode, in the colorless history
of that dull country town. She was to be familiarly near the source of
its glory and feel the full flood of it pour over her and about her; the
other girls could only gaze and envy, not partake.
</p>
<p>
The widow was ready, Rowena was ready, so also were the foreigners.
</p>
<p>
The party moved along the hall, the twins in advance, and entered the open
parlor door, whence issued a low hum of conversation. The twins took a
position near the <ins title="Transcriber's Note: add comma after door.">
door,</ins> the widow stood at Luigi’s side, Rowena
stood beside Angelo, and the march-past and the introductions began. The
widow was all smiles and contentment. She received the procession and
passed it on to Rowena.
</p>
<p>
“Good mornin’, Sister Cooper”—hand-shake.
</p>
<p>
“Good morning, Brother Higgins—Count
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_082" id="Page_082">82</a></span>
Luigi Capello, Mr. Higgins”—hand-shake, followed by a
devouring stare and “I’m glad to see ye,” on the
part of Higgins, and a courteous inclination of the head and a
pleasant “Most happy!” on the part of Count Luigi.
</p>
<p>
“Good mornin’, Roweny”—hand-shake.
</p>
<p>
“Good morning, Mr. Higgins—present you to Count Angelo
Capello.” Hand-shake, admiring stare, “Glad to see
ye,”—courteous nod, smily “Most happy!”
and Higgins passes on.
</p>
<p>
None of these visitors was at ease, but, being honest people, they
didn’t pretend to be. None of them had ever seen a person
bearing a title of nobility before, and none had been expecting to
see one now, consequently the title came upon them as a kind of
pile-driving surprise and caught them unprepared. A few tried to
rise to the emergency, and got out an awkward “My
lord,” or “Your lordship,” or something of that sort,
but the great majority were overwhelmed by the unaccustomed word
and its dim and awful associations with gilded courts and stately
ceremony and anointed kingship, so they only
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_083" id="Page_083">83</a></span>
fumbled through the hand-shake and passed on, speechless. Now and then,
as happens at all receptions everywhere, a more than ordinary friendly
soul blocked the procession and kept it waiting while he inquired how
the brothers liked the village, and how long they were going to stay,
and if their families were well, and dragged in the weather, and hoped
it would get cooler soon, and all that sort of thing, so as to be able
to say, when they got home, “I had quite a long talk with
them”; but nobody did or said anything of a regrettable kind,
and so the great affair went through to the end in a creditable and
satisfactory fashion.
</p>
<p>
General conversation followed, and the twins drifted about from group to
group, talking easily and fluently and winning approval, compelling
admiration and achieving favor from all. The widow followed their
conquering march with a proud eye, and every now and then Rowena said to
herself with deep satisfaction, “And to think they are
ours—all ours!”
</p>
<p>
There were no idle moments for mother or
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_084" id="Page_084">84</a></span>
daughter. Eager inquiries concerning the twins were pouring into their
enchanted ears all the time; each was the constant center of a group of
breathless listeners; each recognized that she knew now for the first
time the real meaning of that great word Glory, and perceived the
stupendous value of it, and understood why men in all ages had been
willing to throw away meaner happinesses, treasure, life itself, to get a
taste of its sublime and supreme joy. Napoleon and all his kind stood
accounted for—and justified.
</p>
<p>
When Rowena had at last done all her duty by the people in the parlor, she
went up-stairs to satisfy the longings of an overflow-meeting there, for
the parlor was not big enough to hold all the comers. Again she was
besieged by eager questioners and again she swam in sunset seas of glory.
When the forenoon was nearly gone, she recognized with a pang that this
most splendid episode of her life was almost over, that nothing could
prolong it, that nothing quite its equal could ever fall to her fortune
again. But never mind, it was sufficient unto itself, the grand
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_085" id="Page_085">85</a></span>
occasion had moved on an ascending scale from the start, and was a noble
and memorable success. If the twins could but do some crowning act, now,
to climax it, something unusual, something startling, something to
concentrate upon themselves the company’s loftiest admiration,
something in the nature of an electric surprise—
</p>
<p>
Here a prodigious slam-banging broke out below, and everybody rushed down
to see. It was the twins knocking out a classic four-handed piece on the
piano, in great style. Rowena was satisfied—satisfied down to the
bottom of her heart.
</p>
<p>
The young strangers were kept long at the piano. The villagers were
astonished and enchanted with the magnificence of their performance, and
could not bear to have them stop. All the music that they had ever heard
before seemed spiritless prentice-work and barren of grace or charm when
compared with these intoxicating floods of melodious sound. They realized
that for once in their lives they were hearing masters.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_086" id="Page_086">86</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER VII.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">The Unknown Nymph.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
One of the most striking differences between a cat and a
lie is that a cat has only nine lives.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">The</span> company broke up reluctantly, and drifted
toward their several homes, chatting with vivacity, and all agreeing
that it would be many a long day before Dawson’s Landing would
see the equal of this one again. The twins had accepted several
invitations while the reception was in progress, and had also
volunteered to play some duets at an amateur entertainment for the
benefit of a local charity. Society was eager to receive them to its
bosom. Judge Driscoll had the good fortune to secure them for an
immediate drive, and to be the first to display them in public. They
entered his buggy with him, and were paraded down the main street,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_087" id="Page_087">87</a></span>
everybody flocking to the windows and sidewalks to see.
</p>
<p>
The Judge showed the strangers the new graveyard, and the jail, and where
the richest man lived, and the Freemasons’ hall, and the
Methodist church, and the Presbyterian church, and where the Baptist
church was going to be when they got some money to build it with, and
showed them the town hall and the slaughter-house, and got out the
independent fire company in uniform and had them put out an imaginary
fire; then he let them inspect the muskets of the militia company, and
poured out an exhaustless stream of enthusiasm over all these splendors,
and seemed very well satisfied with the responses he got, for the twins
admired his admiration, and paid him back the best they could, though
they could have done better if some fifteen or sixteen hundred thousand
previous experiences of this sort in various countries had not already
rubbed off a considerable part of the novelty of it.
</p>
<p>
The Judge laid himself out hospitably to make them have a good time, and
if there
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_088" id="Page_088">88</a></span>
was a defect anywhere it was not his
<ins title="Place period after fault.">fault.</ins>
He told them a good
many humorous anecdotes, and always forgot the nub, but they were always
able to furnish it, for these yarns were of a pretty early vintage, and
they had had many a rejuvenating pull at them before. And he told them all
about his several dignities, and how he had held this and that and the
other place of honor or profit, and had once been to the legislature, and
was now president of the Society of Free-thinkers. He said the society had
been in existence four
years, and already had two members, and was firmly established. He would
call for the brothers in the evening if they would like to attend a
meeting of it.
</p>
<p>
Accordingly he called for them, and on the way he told them all about
Pudd’nhead Wilson, in order that they might get a favorable
impression of him in advance and be prepared to like him. This scheme
succeeded—the favorable impression was achieved. Later it was
confirmed and solidified when Wilson proposed that out of courtesy to
the strangers the usual topics be put aside and the hour be
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_089" id="Page_089">89</a></span>
devoted to conversation upon ordinary subjects and the cultivation of
friendly relations and good-fellowship,—a proposition which was
put to vote and carried.
</p>
<p>
The hour passed quickly away in lively talk, and when it was ended the
lonesome and neglected Wilson was richer by two friends than he had been
when it began. He invited the twins to look in at his lodgings, presently,
after disposing of an intervening engagement, and they accepted with
pleasure.
</p>
<p>
Toward the middle of the evening they found themselves on the road to his
house. Pudd’nhead was at home waiting for them and putting in his
time puzzling over a thing which had come under his notice that morning.
The matter was this: He happened to be up very early—at dawn, in
fact; and he crossed the hall which divided his cottage through the
center, and entered a room to get something there. The window of the
room had no curtains, for that side of the house had long been unoccupied,
and through this window he caught sight of something which surprised and
interested him. It was a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_090" id="Page_090">90</a></span>
young woman—a young woman where properly
no young woman belonged; for she was in Judge Driscoll’s house, and
in the bedroom over the Judge’s private study or sitting-room.
This was young Tom Driscoll’s bedroom. He and the Judge, the
Judge’s widowed sister Mrs. Pratt and three negro servants were
the only people who belonged in the house. Who, then, might this young
lady be? The two houses were separated by an ordinary yard, with a low
fence running back through its middle from the street in front to the
lane in the rear. The distance was not great, and Wilson was able to see
the girl very well, the window-shades of the room she was in being up,
and the window also. The girl had on a neat and trim summer dress,
patterned in broad stripes of pink and white, and her bonnet was equipped
with a pink veil. She was practising steps, gaits and attitudes,
apparently; she was doing the thing gracefully, and was very much absorbed
in her work. Who could she be, and how came she to be in
young Tom Driscoll’s room?
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_091" id="Page_091">91</a></span>
Wilson had quickly chosen a position from which he could watch the girl
without running much risk of being seen by her, and he remained there
hoping she would raise her veil and betray her face. But she disappointed
him. After a matter of twenty minutes she disappeared, and although he
stayed at his post half an hour longer, she came no more.
</p>
<p>
Toward noon he dropped in at the Judge’s and talked with Mrs.
Pratt about the great event of the day, the levee of the distinguished
foreigners at Aunt Patsy Cooper’s. He asked after her nephew Tom,
and she said he was on his way home, and that she was expecting him to
arrive a little before night; and added that she and the Judge were
gratified to gather from his letters that he was conducting himself
very nicely and creditably—at which Wilson winked to himself
privately. Wilson did not ask if there was a newcomer in the house,
but he asked questions that would have brought light-throwing answers
as to that matter if Mrs. Pratt had had any light to throw; so he went
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_092" id="Page_092">92</a></span>
away satisfied that he knew of things that were going
on in her house of which she herself was not aware.
</p>
<p>
He was now waiting for the twins, and still puzzling over the problem of
who that girl might be, and how she happened to be in that young
fellow’s room at daybreak in the morning.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_093" id="Page_093">93</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">Marse Tom Tramples His Chance.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
The holy passion of Friendship is of so sweet and steady
and loyal and enduring a nature that it will last through a
whole lifetime, if not asked to lend money.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Consider well the proportions of things. It is better to be
a young June-bug than an old bird of paradise.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">It</span> is necessary now, to hunt up Roxy.
</p>
<p>
At the time she was set free and went away chambermaiding, she was
thirty-five. She got a berth as second chambermaid on a Cincinnati boat
in the New Orleans trade, the <i>Grand Mogul</i>. A couple of trips made
her wonted and easy-going at the work, and infatuated her with the stir
and adventure and independence of steamboat life. Then she was promoted
and became head chambermaid. She was a favorite with the officers, and
exceedingly proud of their joking and friendly way with her.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_094" id="Page_094">94</a></span>
During eight years she served three parts of the year on that boat, and
the winters on a Vicksburg packet. But now for two months she had had
rheumatism in her arms, and was obliged to let the wash-tub alone. So she
resigned. But she was well fixed—rich, as she would have described
it; for she had lived a steady life, and had banked four dollars every
month in New
Orleans as a provision for her old age. She said in the start
that she had “put shoes on one bar’footed nigger to tromple
on her with,” and that one mistake like that was enough; she
would be independent of the human race thenceforth forevermore if hard
work and economy could accomplish it. When the boat touched the levee at
New Orleans she bade good-by to her comrades on the <i>Grand Mogul</i>
and moved her kit ashore.
</p>
<p>
But she was back in a hour. The bank had gone to smash and carried her
four hundred dollars with it. She was a pauper, and homeless. Also disabled
bodily, at least for the present. The officers were full of sympathy for
her in her trouble, and made up a little purse for her. She resolved to go
to her birthplace;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_095" id="Page_095">95</a></span>
she had friends there among the negroes, and the
unfortunate always help the unfortunate, she was well aware of that; those
lowly comrades of her youth would not let her starve.
</p>
<p>
She took the little local packet at Cairo, and now she was on the
home-stretch. Time had worn away her bitterness against her son, and she
was able to think of him with serenity. She put the vile side of him out
of her mind, and dwelt only on recollections of his occasional acts of
kindness to her. She gilded and otherwise decorated these, and made them
very pleasant to contemplate. She began to long to see him. She would go
and fawn upon him, slave-like—for this would have to be her attitude,
of course—and maybe she would find that time had modified him, and
that he would be glad to see his long-forgotten old nurse and treat her
gently. That would be lovely; that would make her forget her woes and her
poverty.
</p>
<p>
Her poverty! That thought inspired her to add another castle to her dream:
maybe he would give her a trifle now and then—maybe
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_096" id="Page_096">96</a></span>
a dollar, once a month, say; any little thing like that would help, oh,
ever so much.
</p>
<p>
By the time she reached Dawson’s Landing she was her old self
again; her blues were gone, she was in high feather. She would get along,
surely; there were many kitchens where the servants would share their
meals with her, and also steal sugar and apples and other dainties for
her to carry home—or give her a chance to pilfer them herself,
which would answer just as well. And there was the church. She was a
more rabid and devoted Methodist than ever, and her piety was no sham,
but was strong and sincere. Yes, with plenty of creature comforts and
her old place in the amen-corner in her possession again, she would be
perfectly happy and at peace thenceforward to the end.
</p>
<p>
She went to Judge Driscoll’s kitchen first of all. She was received
there in great form and with vast enthusiasm. Her wonderful travels, and
the strange countries she had seen and the adventures she had had, made
her a marvel, and a heroine of romance. The negroes hung enchanted upon
the great story of her experiences, interrupting her all along with eager
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_097" id="Page_097">97</a></span>
questions, with laughter, exclamations of delight and expressions of
applause; and she was obliged to confess to herself that if there was
anything better in this world
than steamboating, it was the glory to be got by telling about it.
The audience loaded her stomach with their dinners, and then stole
the pantry bare to load up her basket.
</p>
<p>
Tom was in St. Louis. The servants said he had spent the best part of his
time there during the previous two years. Roxy came every day, and had
many talks about the family and its affairs. Once she asked why Tom was
away so much. The ostensible “Chambers” said:
</p>
<p>
“De fac’ is, ole marster kin git along better when young
marster’s away den he kin when he’s in de town; yes,
en he love him better, too; so he gives him fifty dollahs a
month—”
</p>
<p>
“No, is dat so? Chambers, you’s a-jokin’,
ain’t you?”
</p>
<p>
“’Clah to goodness I ain’t, mammy;
Marse Tom tole me so his own self. But
nemmine, ’tain’t enough.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_098" id="Page_098">98</a></span>
“My lan’, what de reason ’tain’t enough?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I’s gwine to tell you, if you gimme a chanst,
mammy. De reason it ain’t enough is ’ca’se
Marse Tom gambles.”
</p>
<p>
Roxy threw up her hands in astonishment and Chambers went on—
</p>
<p>
“Ole marster found it out, ’ca’se he had to pay two
hundred dollahs for Marse Tom’s gamblin’ debts, en
dat’s true, mammy, jes as dead certain as
you’s bawn.”
</p>
<p>
“Two—hund’d—dollahs! Why, what is you
talkin’ ’bout? Two—hund’d—dollahs.
Sakes alive, it’s ’mos’ enough to buy a
tol’able good second-hand nigger wid. En you ain’t
lyin’, honey?—you wouldn’t lie to yo’
ole mammy?”
</p>
<p>
“It’s God’s own truth, jes as I tell you—two
hund’d dollahs—I wisht I may never stir outen my tracks
if it ain’t so. En, oh, my lan’, ole Marse was jes
a-hoppin’! he was b’ilin’ mad, I tell you!
He tuck ’n’ dissenhurrit him.”
</p>
<p>
He licked his chops with relish after that stately word. Roxy struggled
with it a moment, then gave it up and said—
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_099" id="Page_099">99</a></span>
“Dissen<i>whiched</i> him?”
</p>
<p>
“Dissenhurrit him.”
</p>
<p>
“What’s dat? What do it mean?”
</p>
<p>
“Means he bu’sted de will.”
</p>
<p>
“Bu’s—ted de will! He wouldn’t
<i>ever</i> treat him so! Take it back, you mis’able
imitation nigger dat I bore in sorrow en tribbilation.”
</p>
<p>
Roxy’s pet castle—an occasional dollar from Tom’s
pocket—was tumbling to ruin before her eyes. She could not
abide such a disaster as that; she couldn’t endure the thought
of it. Her remark amused Chambers:
</p>
<p>
“Yah-yah-yah! jes listen to dat! If I’s imitation,
what is you? Bofe of us is imitation <i>white</i>—dat’s
what we is—en pow’ful good imitation,
too—yah-yah-yah!—we don’t ’mount to noth’n
as imitation <i>niggers</i>; en as for—”
</p>
<p>
“Shet up yo’ foolin’, ’fo’ I knock you side
de head, en tell me ’bout de will. Tell me ’tain’t
bu’sted—do, honey, en I’ll never forgit you.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, <i>’tain’t</i>—’ca’se
dey’s a new one made, en Marse Tom’s all right ag’in.
But what is
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">100</a></span>
you in sich a sweat ’bout it for, mammy?
’Tain’t none o’ your business I don’t
reckon.”
</p>
<p>
“’Tain’t none o’ my business? Whose
business is it den, I’d like to know?
Wuz I his mother tell he was fifteen years old, or wusn’t
I?—you answer me dat. En you speck I could see him turned
out po’ en ornery on de worl’ en never care
noth’n’ ’bout it? I reckon if you’d
ever be’n a mother yo’self, Valet de Chambers, you
wouldn’t talk sich foolishness as dat.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, den, ole Marse forgive him en fixed up de will
ag’in—do dat satisfy you?”
</p>
<p>
Yes, she was satisfied now, and quite happy and sentimental over it. She
kept coming daily, and at last she was told that Tom had come home. She
began to tremble with emotion, and straightway sent to beg him to let his
“po’ ole nigger mammy have jes one sight of him
en die for joy.”
</p>
<p>
Tom was stretched at his lazy ease on a sofa when Chambers brought the
petition. Time had not modified his ancient detestation of the humble
drudge and protector of his boyhood; it was still bitter and
uncompromising.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">101</a></span>
He sat up and bent a severe gaze upon the fair face of the
young fellow whose name he was unconsciously using and whose family rights
he was enjoying. He maintained the gaze until the victim of it had become
satisfactorily pallid with terror, then he said—
</p>
<p>
“What does the old rip want with me?”
</p>
<p>
The petition was meekly repeated.
</p>
<p>
“Who gave you permission to come and disturb me with the
social attentions of niggers?”
</p>
<p>
Tom had risen. The other young man was trembling now, visibly. He saw what
was coming, and bent his head sideways, and put up his left arm to shield
it. Tom rained cuffs upon the head and its shield, saying no word: the
victim received each blow with a beseeching, “Please,
Marse Tom!—oh, please, Marse Tom!” Seven blows—then
Tom said, “Face the door—march!” He followed behind with
one, two, three solid kicks. The last one helped the pure-white slave
over the door-sill, and he limped away mopping his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">102</a></span>
eyes with his old
ragged sleeve. Tom shouted after him, “Send her in!”
</p>
<p>
Then he flung himself panting on the sofa again, and rasped out the
remark, “He arrived just at the right moment; I was full to
the brim with bitter thinkings, and nobody to take it out of.
How refreshing it was! I feel better.”
</p>
<p>
Tom’s mother entered now, closing the door behind her, and
approached her son with all the wheedling and supplicating servilities
that fear and interest can impart to the words and attitudes of the born
slave. She stopped a yard from her boy and made two or three admiring
exclamations over his manly stature and general handsomeness, and Tom
put an arm under his head and hoisted a leg over the sofa-back in order
to look properly indifferent.
</p>
<p>
“My lan’, how you is growed, honey! ’Clah to goodness,
I wouldn’t a-knowed you, Marse Tom! ’deed I wouldn’t!
Look at me good; does you ’member old Roxy?—does you know
yo’ old nigger mammy, honey? Well, now, I kin lay down en die in
peace, ’ca’se I’se seed—”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">103</a></span>
“Cut it short, ——— it, cut it short!
What is it you want?”
</p>
<p>
“You heah dat? Jes the same old Marse Tom, al’ays so gay
and funnin’ wid de ole mammy. I ’uz jes as shore—”
</p>
<p>
“Cut it short, I tell you, and get along! What do you want?”
</p>
<p>
This was a bitter disappointment. Roxy had for so many days nourished and
fondled and petted her notion that Tom would be glad to see his old nurse,
and would make her proud and happy to the marrow with a cordial word or
two, that it took two rebuffs to convince her that he was not funning, and
that her beautiful dream was a fond and foolish vanity, a shabby and
pitiful mistake. She was hurt to the heart, and so ashamed that for a
moment she did not quite know what to do or how to act. Then her breast
began to heave, the tears came, and in her forlornness she was moved to
try that other dream of hers—an appeal to her boy’s charity;
and so, upon the impulse, and without reflection, she offered her
supplication:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Marse Tom, de po’ ole mammy is in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">104</a></span>
sich hard luck dese days; en she’s kinder crippled in de arms en
can’t work, en if you could gimme a dollah—on’y jes one
little dol—”
</p>
<p>
Tom was on his feet so suddenly that the supplicant was startled into a
jump herself.
</p>
<p>
“A dollar!—give you a dollar! I’ve a notion to
strangle you! Is <i>that</i> your errand here? Clear out! and be
quick about it!”
</p>
<p>
Roxy backed slowly toward the door. When she was half-way she stopped,
and said mournfully:
</p>
<p>
“Marse Tom, I nussed you when you was a little baby, en I
raised you all by myself tell you was ’most a young man; en now
you is young en rich, en I is po’ en gitt’n ole, en I come
heah b’lievin’ dat you would he’p de ole mammy
’long down de little road dat’s lef’ ’twix’
her en de grave, en—”
</p>
<p>
Tom relished this tune less than any that had preceded it, for it began
to wake up a sort of echo in his conscience; so he interrupted and said
with decision, though without asperity, that he was not in a situation to
help her, and wasn’t going to do it.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">105</a></span>
“Ain’t you ever gwine to he’p me, Marse Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“No! Now go away and don’t bother me any more.”
</p>
<p>
Roxy’s head was down, in an attitude of humility. But now the
fires of her old wrongs flamed up in her breast and began to burn
fiercely. She raised her head slowly, till it was well up, and at the
same time her great frame unconsciously assumed an erect and masterful
attitude, with all the majesty and grace of her vanished youth in it.
She raised her finger and punctuated with it:
</p>
<p>
“You has said de word. You has had yo’ chance, en you has
trompled it under yo’ foot. When you git another one, you’ll
git down on yo’ knees en <i>beg</i> for it!”
</p>
<p>
A cold chill went to Tom’s heart, he didn’t know why;
for he did not reflect that such words, from such an incongruous
source, and so solemnly delivered, could not easily fail of that
effect. However, he did the natural thing: he replied with bluster
and mockery:
</p>
<p>
“<i>You’ll</i> give me a chance—<i>you</i>!
Perhaps I’d better get down on my knees now! But
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">106</a></span>
in case I don’t—just for argument’s
sake—what’s going to happen, pray?”
</p>
<p>
“Dis is what is gwine to happen. I’s gwine as straight to
yo’ uncle as I kin walk, en tell him every las’
thing I knows ’bout you.”
</p>
<p>
Tom’s cheek blenched, and she saw it. Disturbing thoughts began
to chase each other through his head. “How can she know? And yet
she must have found out—she looks it. I’ve had the will back
only three months, and am already deep in debt again, and moving heaven
and earth to save myself from exposure and destruction, with a reasonably
fair show of getting the thing covered up if I’m let alone, and
now this fiend has gone and found me out somehow or other. I wonder how
much she knows? Oh, oh, oh, it’s enough to break a body’s
heart! But I’ve got to humor her—there’s
no other way.”
</p>
<p>
Then he worked up a rather sickly sample of a gay laugh and a hollow
chipperness of manner, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Well, well, Roxy dear, old friends like
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">107</a></span>
you and me mustn’t quarrel. Here’s your dollar—now
tell me what you know.”
</p>
<p>
He held out the wild-cat bill; she stood as she was, and made no movement.
It was her turn to scorn persuasive foolery, now, and she did not waste
it. She said, with a grim implacability in voice and manner which made Tom
almost realize that even a former slave can remember for ten minutes
insults and injuries returned for compliments and flatteries received, and
can also enjoy taking revenge for them when the opportunity offers:
</p>
<p>
“What does I know? I’ll tell you what I knows. I knows enough
to bu’st dat will to flinders—en more, mind you,
<i>more!</i>”
</p>
<p>
Tom was aghast.
</p>
<p>
“More?” he said. “What do you call more?
Where’s there any room for more?”
</p>
<p>
Roxy laughed a mocking laugh, and said scoffingly, with a toss of her
head, and her hands on her hips—
</p>
<p>
“Yes!—oh, I reckon! <i>Co’se</i> you’d like
to know—wid yo’ po’ little ole rag dollah. What you
reckon I’s gwine to tell <i>you</i> for?—you ain’t
got no money. I’s gwine to tell yo’
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">108</a></span>
uncle—en I’ll do it dis minute, too—he’ll
gimme <i>five</i> dollahs for de news, en mighty glad, too.”
</p>
<p>
She swung herself around disdainfully, and started away. Tom was in a
panic. He seized her skirts, and implored her to wait. She turned and
said, loftily—
</p>
<p>
“Look-a-heah, what ’uz it I tole you?”
</p>
<p>
“You—you—I don’t remember anything.
What was it you told me?”
</p>
<p>
“I tole you dat de next time I give you a chance you’d git
down on yo’ knees en beg for it.”
</p>
<p>
Tom was stupefied for a moment. He was panting with excitement. Then he
said:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Roxy, you wouldn’t require your young master to do
such a horrible thing. You can’t mean it.”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll let you know mighty quick whether I means it or not!
You call me names, en as good as spit on me when I comes here po’
en ornery en ’umble, to praise you for bein’ growed up so
fine en handsome, en tell you how I used to nuss you en tend you en
watch you when you ’uz sick en hadn’t no mother
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">109</a></span>
but me in de whole worl’, en beg you to give de po’ ole
nigger a dollah for to git her som’n’ to eat, en you call
me names—<i>names</i>, dad blame you! Yassir, I gives you jes
one chance mo’, and dat’s <i>now</i>, en it las’
on’y a half a second—you hear?”
</p>
<p>
Tom slumped to his knees and began to beg, saying—
</p>
<p>
“You see, I’m begging, and it’s honest begging, too!
Now tell me, Roxy, tell me.”
</p>
<p>
The heir of two centuries of unatoned insult and outrage looked down on
him and seemed to drink in deep draughts of satisfaction. Then she
said—
</p>
<p>
“Fine nice young white gen’l’man kneelin’ down
to a nigger-wench! I’s wanted to see dat jes once befo’
I’s called. Now, Gabr’el, blow de hawn, I’s
ready … Git up!”
</p>
<p>
Tom did it. He said, humbly—
</p>
<p>
“Now, Roxy, don’t punish me any more. I deserved what
I’ve got, but be good and let me off with that. Don’t go
to uncle. Tell me—I’ll give you the five dollars.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I bet you will; en you won’t stop dah, nuther.
But I ain’t gwine to tell you heah—”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">110</a></span>
“Good gracious, no!”
</p>
<p>
“Is you ’feared o’ de ha’nted
house?”
</p>
<p>
“N-no.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, den, you come to de ha’nted house ’bout ten
or ’leven to-night, en climb up de ladder, ’ca’se de
sta’r-steps is broke down, en you’ll find me. I’s
a-roostin’ in de ha’nted house ’ca’se I
can’t ’ford to roos’ nowhers’ else.”
She started toward the door, but stopped and said, “Gimme
de dollah bill!” He gave it to her. She examined it and said,
“H’m—like enough de bank’s
bu’sted.” She started again, but halted again.
“Has you got any whisky?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, a little.”
</p>
<p>
“Fetch it!”
</p>
<p>
He ran to his room overhead and brought down a bottle which was two-thirds
full. She tilted it up and took a drink. Her eyes sparkled with
satisfaction, and she tucked the bottle under her shawl, saying,
“It’s prime. I’ll take it along.”
</p>
<p>
Tom humbly held the door for her, and she marched out as grim and erect as
a grenadier.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">111</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER IX.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">Tom Practises Sycophancy.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a
funeral? It is because we are not the person
involved.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
It is easy to find fault, if one has that disposition.
There was once a man who, not being able to find any other
fault with his coal, complained that there were too many
prehistoric toads in it.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">Tom</span> flung himself on the sofa, and put his
throbbing head in his hands, and rested his elbows on his knees. He
rocked himself back and forth and moaned.
</p>
<p>
“I’ve knelt to a nigger wench!” he muttered.
“I thought I had struck the deepest depths of degradation before,
but oh, dear, it was nothing to this.… Well, there is one
consolation, such as it is—I’ve struck bottom this time;
there’s nothing lower.”
</p>
<p>
But that was a hasty conclusion.
</p>
<p>
At ten that night he climbed the ladder in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">112</a></span>
the haunted house, pale, weak and wretched. Roxy was standing in the
door of one of the rooms, waiting, for she had heard him.
</p>
<p>
This was a two-story log house which had acquired the reputation a few
years before of being haunted, and that was the end of its usefulness.
Nobody would live in it afterward, or go near it by night, and most
people even gave it a wide berth in the daytime. As it had no competition,
it was called <i>the</i> haunted house. It was getting crazy and ruinous,
now, from long neglect. It stood three hundred yards beyond
Pudd’nhead Wilson’s house, with nothing between but vacancy.
It was the last house in the town at that end.
</p>
<p>
Tom followed Roxy into the room. She had a pile of clean straw in the
corner for a bed, some cheap but well-kept clothing was hanging on the
wall, there was a tin lantern freckling the floor with little spots of
light, and there were various soap-and-candle boxes scattered about,
which served for chairs. The two sat down. Roxy said—
</p>
<p>
“Now den, I’ll tell you straight off, en I’ll begin
to k’leck de money later on; I ain’t in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">113</a></span>
no hurry. What does you reckon I’s gwine to tell you?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, you—you—oh, Roxy, don’t make it too hard
for me! Come right out and tell me you’ve found out somehow what
a shape I’m in on account of dissipation and foolishness.”
</p>
<p>
“Disposition en foolishness! <i>No</i> sir, dat ain’t it.
Dat jist ain’t nothin’ at all, ’longside o’
what <i>I</i> knows.”
</p>
<p>
Tom stared at her, and said—
</p>
<p>
“Why, Roxy, what do you mean?”
</p>
<p>
She rose, and gloomed above him like a Fate.
</p>
<p>
“I means dis—en it’s de Lord’s truth. You
ain’t no more kin to ole Marse Driscoll den I
is!—<i>dat’s</i> what I means!” and her eyes
flamed with triumph.
</p>
<p>
“What!”
</p>
<p>
“Yassir, en <i>dat</i> ain’t all! You’s a
<i>nigger!</i>—<i>bawn</i> a nigger en a
<i>slave!</i>—en you’s a nigger en a slave dis
minute; en if I opens my mouf ole Marse Driscoll’ll sell
you down de river befo’ you is two days older den what
you is now!”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">114</a></span>
“It’s a thundering lie, you miserable old blatherskite!”
</p>
<p>
“It ain’t no lie, nuther. It’s jes de truth, en
nothin’ <i>but</i> de truth, so he’p me.
Yassir—you’s my <i>son</i>—”
</p>
<p>
“You devil!”
</p>
<p>
“En dat po’ boy dat you’s be’n a-kickin’ en
a-cuffin’ to-day is Percy Driscoll’s son en yo’
<i>marster</i>—”
</p>
<p>
“You beast!”
</p>
<p>
“En <i>his</i> name’s Tom Driscoll, en <i>yo’</i>
name’s Valet de Chambers, en you ain’t <i>got</i> no fambly
name, beca’se niggers don’t <i>have</i> em!”
</p>
<p>
Tom sprang up and seized a billet of wood and
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Missing word after raised in text; 'it'.">
raised it;</ins> but his mother only laughed at him, and said—
</p>
<p>
“Set down, you pup! Does you think you kin skyer me? It ain’t
in you, nor de likes of you. I reckon you’d shoot me in de back,
maybe, if you got a chance, for dat’s jist yo’
style—<i>I</i> knows you, throo en throo—but I don’t
mind gitt’n killed, beca’se all dis is down in writin’
en it’s in safe hands, too, en de man dat’s got it knows
whah to look for de right man when I gits killed. Oh, bless
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">115</a></span>
yo’ soul, if you puts yo’ mother up for as big a fool as
<i>you</i> is, you’s pow’ful mistaken, I kin tell you!
Now den, you set still en behave yo’self; en don’t you git
up ag’in till I tell you!”
</p>
<p>
Tom fretted and chafed awhile in a whirlwind of disorganizing sensations
and emotions, and finally said, with something like settled
conviction—
</p>
<p>
“The whole thing is moonshine; now then, go ahead and do your worst;
I’m done with you.”
</p>
<p>
Roxy made no answer. She took the lantern and started toward the door.
Tom was in a cold panic in a moment.
</p>
<p>
“Come back, come back!” he wailed. “I didn’t mean
it, Roxy; I take it all back, and I’ll never say it again!
Please come back, Roxy!”
</p>
<p>
The woman stood a moment, then she said gravely:
</p>
<p>
“Dat’s one thing you’s got to stop, Valet de Chambers.
You can’t call me <i>Roxy</i>, same as if you was my equal.
Chillen don’t speak to dey mammies like dat. You’ll call me ma
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">116</a></span>
or mammy, dat’s what you’ll call me—leastways when dey
ain’t nobody aroun’. <i>Say</i> it!”
</p>
<p>
It cost Tom a struggle, but he got it out.
</p>
<p>
“Dat’s all right. Don’t you ever forgit it ag’in,
if you knows what’s good for you. Now den, you has said you
wouldn’t ever call it lies en moonshine ag’in. I’ll
tell you dis, for a warnin’: if you ever does say it ag’in,
it’s de <i>las’</i> time you’ll ever say it to me;
I’ll tramp as straight to de Judge as I kin walk, en tell him
who you is, en <i>prove</i> it. Does you b’lieve me when I
says dat?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh,” groaned Tom, “I more than believe it;
I <i>know</i> it.”
</p>
<p>
Roxy knew her conquest was complete. She could have proved nothing to
anybody, and her threat about the writings was a lie; but she knew the
person she was dealing with, and had made both statements without any
doubt as to the effect they would produce.
</p>
<p>
She went and sat down on her candle-box, and the pride and pomp of her
victorious attitude made it a throne. She said—
</p>
<p>
“Now den, Chambers, we’s gwine to talk
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">117</a></span>
business, en dey ain’t gwine to be no mo’ foolishness. In de
fust place, you gits fifty dollahs a month; you’s gwine to
han’ over half of it to yo’ ma. Plank it out!”
</p>
<p>
But Tom had only six dollars in the world. He gave her that, and promised
to start fair on next month’s pension.
</p>
<p>
“Chambers, how much is you in debt?”
</p>
<p>
Tom shuddered, and said—
</p>
<p>
“Nearly three hundred dollars.”
</p>
<p>
“How is you gwine to pay it?”
</p>
<p>
Tom groaned out—“Oh, I don’t know; don’t ask me
such awful questions.”
</p>
<p>
But she stuck to her point until she wearied a confession out of him: he
had been prowling about in disguise, stealing small valuables from private
houses; in fact, he made a good deal of a raid on his fellow-villagers a
fortnight before, when he was supposed to be in St. Louis; but he doubted
if he had sent away enough stuff to realize the required amount, and was
afraid to make a further venture in the present excited state of the town.
His mother approved of his conduct, and offered
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">118</a></span>
to help, but this frightened him. He tremblingly ventured to say that if
she would retire from the town he should feel better and safer, and could
hold his head higher—and was going on to make an argument, but she
interrupted and surprised him pleasantly by saying she was ready; it
didn’t make any difference to her where she stayed, so that
she got her share of the pension regularly. She said she would not go
far, and would call at the haunted house once a month for her money.
Then she said—
</p>
<p>
“I don’t hate you so much now, but I’ve hated you a
many a year—and anybody would. Didn’t I change you off, en
give you a good fambly en a good name, en made you a white
gen’l’man en rich, wid store clothes on—en
what did I git for it? You despised me all de time, en was al’ays
sayin’ mean hard things to me befo’ folks, en wouldn’t
ever let me forgit I’s a
nigger—en—en———”
</p>
<p>
She fell to sobbing, and broke down. Tom said—“But you
know I didn’t know you were my mother; and besides—”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">119</a></span>
“Well, nemmine ’bout dat, now; let it go. I’s gwine
to fo’git it.” Then she added fiercely, “En
don’t ever make me remember it ag’in, or you’ll be
sorry, <i>I</i> tell you.”
</p>
<p>
When they were parting, Tom said, in the most persuasive way he could
command—
</p>
<p>
“Ma, would you mind telling me who was my father?”
</p>
<p>
He had supposed he was asking an embarrassing question. He was mistaken.
Roxy drew herself up with a proud toss of her head, and said—
</p>
<p>
“Does I mine tellin’ you? No, dat I don’t!
You ain’t got no ’casion to be shame’
o’ yo’ father, <i>I</i> kin tell you. He wuz de highest
quality in dis whole town—ole Virginny stock. Fust famblies, he
wuz. Jes as good stock as de Driscolls en de Howards, de bes’ day
dey ever seed.” She put on a little prouder air, if possible, and
added impressively: “Does you ’member Cunnel Cecil Burleigh
Essex, dat died de same year yo’ young Marse Tom Driscoll’s
pappy died, en all de Masons en Odd Fellers en Churches
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">120</a></span>
turned out en give him de bigges’ funeral dis town ever seed?
Dat’s de man.”
</p>
<p>
Under the inspiration of her soaring complacency the departed graces of
her earlier days returned to her, and her bearing took to itself a dignity
and state that might have passed for queenly if her surroundings had been
a little more in keeping with it.
</p>
<p>
“Dey ain’t another nigger in dis town dat’s as
high-bawn as you is. Now den, go ’long! En jes you hold
yo’ head up as high as you want to—you
has de right, en dat I kin swah.”
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">121</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER X.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">The Nymph Revealed.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
All say, “How hard it is that we have to die”—a strange
complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to
live.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
When angry, count four; when very angry, swear.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">Every</span> now and then, after Tom went to bed,
he had sudden wakings out of his sleep, and his first thought was,
“Oh, joy, it was all a dream!” Then he laid himself heavily
down again, with a groan and the muttered words,
“A nigger! I am a nigger! Oh, I wish I was dead!”
</p>
<p>
He woke at dawn with one more repetition of this horror, and then he
resolved to meddle no more with that treacherous sleep. He began to think.
Sufficiently bitter thinkings they were. They wandered along something
after this fashion:
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">122</a></span>
“Why were niggers <i>and</i> whites made? What crime did the
uncreated first nigger commit that the curse of birth was decreed for him?
And why is this awful difference made between white and black? …
How hard the nigger’s fate seems, this morning!—yet until last
night such a thought never entered my head.”
</p>
<p>
He sighed and groaned an hour or more away. Then “Chambers”
came humbly in to say that breakfast was nearly ready. “Tom”
blushed scarlet to see this aristocratic white youth cringe to him, a
nigger, and call him “Young Marster.” He said roughly—
</p>
<p>
“Get out of my sight!” and when the youth was gone,
he muttered, “He has done me no harm, poor wretch, but he is
an eyesore to me now, for he is Driscoll the young gentleman,
and I am a—oh, I wish I was dead!”
</p>
<p>
A gigantic irruption, like that of Krakatoa a few years ago, with the
accompanying earthquakes, tidal waves, and clouds of volcanic dust,
changes the face of the surrounding landscape beyond recognition, bringing
down the high lands, elevating the low, making fair
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">123</a></span>
lakes where deserts had been, and deserts where green prairies had smiled
before. The tremendous catastrophe which had befallen Tom had changed his
moral landscape in much the same way. Some of his low places he found
lifted to ideals, some of his ideals had sunk to the valleys, and lay
there with the sackcloth and ashes of pumice-stone and sulphur on their
ruined heads.
</p>
<p>
For days he wandered in lonely places, thinking, thinking,
thinking—trying to get his bearings. It was new work. If he met a
friend, he found that the habit of a lifetime had in some mysterious way
vanished—his arm hung limp, instead of involuntarily extending the
hand for a shake. It was the “nigger”
in him asserting its humility, and he blushed and was abashed. And the
“nigger” in him was surprised when the white friend put out
his hand for a shake with him. He found the “nigger” in him
involuntarily giving the road, on the sidewalk, to a white rowdy and
loafer. When Rowena, the dearest thing his heart knew, the idol of his
secret worship, invited him in, the “nigger”
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">124</a></span>
in him made an embarrassed excuse and was afraid to enter and sit with
the dread white folks on equal terms. The “nigger” in him
went shrinking and skulking here and there and yonder, and fancying it
saw suspicion and maybe detection in all faces, tones, and gestures.
So strange and uncharacteristic was Tom’s conduct that people
noticed it, and turned to look after him when he passed on; and when
he glanced back—as he could not help doing, in spite of his best
resistance—and caught that puzzled expression in a person’s
face, it gave him a sick feeling, and he took himself out of view as
quickly as he could. He presently came to have a hunted sense and a
hunted look, and then he fled away to the hill-tops and the solitudes.
He said to himself that the curse of Ham was upon him.
</p>
<p>
He dreaded his meals; the “nigger” in him was ashamed
to sit at the white folks’ table, and feared discovery all the
time; and once when Judge Driscoll said, “What’s
the matter with you? You look as meek as a nigger,”
he felt as secret murderers are said to feel
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">125</a></span>
when the accuser says, “Thou art the man!” Tom said he was
not well, and left the table.
</p>
<p>
His ostensible “aunt’s” solicitudes and endearments
were become a terror to him, and he avoided them.
</p>
<p>
And all the time, hatred of his ostensible “uncle”
was steadily growing in his heart; for he said to himself,
“He is white; and I am his chattel, his property, his goods,
and he can sell me, just as he could his dog.”
</p>
<p>
For as much as a week after this, Tom imagined that his character had
undergone a pretty radical change. But that was because he did not know
himself.
</p>
<p>
In several ways his opinions were totally changed, and would never go back
to what they were before, but the main structure of his character was not
changed, and could not be changed. One or two very important features of
it were altered, and in time effects would result from this, if
opportunity offered—effects of a quite serious nature, too. Under
the influence of a great mental and moral upheaval his character and
habits had taken on the appearance of complete change,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">126</a></span>
but after a while with the subsidence of the storm both began to settle
toward their former places. He dropped gradually back into his old
frivolous and easy-going ways and conditions of feeling and manner of
speech, and no familiar of his could have detected anything in him that
differentiated him from the weak and careless Tom of other days.
</p>
<p>
The theft-raid which he had made upon the village turned out better than
he had ventured to hope. It produced the sum necessary to pay his
gaming-debts, and saved him from exposure to his uncle and another
smashing of the will. He and his mother learned to like each other fairly
well. She couldn’t love him, as yet, because there
“warn’t nothing <i>to</i> him,” as she expressed it,
but her nature needed something or somebody to rule over, and he was
better than nothing. Her strong character and aggressive and commanding
ways compelled Tom’s admiration in spite of the fact that he got
more illustrations of them than he needed for his comfort. However, as a
rule her conversation was made up of racy tattle about the privacies of
the chief
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">127</a></span>
families of the town (for she went harvesting among their kitchens every
time she came to the village), and Tom enjoyed this. It was just in his
line. She always collected her half of his pension punctually, and he was
always at the haunted house to have a chat with her on these occasions.
Every now and then she paid him a visit there on between-days also.
</p>
<p>
Occasionally he would run up to St. Louis for a few weeks, and at last
temptation caught him again. He won a lot of money, but lost it, and with
it a deal more besides, which he promised to raise as soon as possible.
</p>
<p>
For this purpose he projected a new raid on his town. He never meddled
with any other town, for he was afraid to venture into houses whose ins
and outs he did not know and the habits of whose households he was not
acquainted with. He arrived at the haunted house in disguise on the
Wednesday before the advent of the twins—after writing his aunt
Pratt that he would not arrive until two days after—and lay in
hiding there with his mother until toward daylight Friday morning, when he
went to his uncle’s house and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">128</a></span>
entered by the back way with his own key, and slipped up to his room,
where he could have the use of the mirror and toilet articles. He had
a suit of girl’s clothes with him in a bundle as a disguise for
his raid, and was wearing a suit of his mother’s clothing, with
black gloves and veil. By dawn he was tricked out for his raid, but he
caught a glimpse of Pudd’nhead Wilson through the window over the
way, and knew that Pudd’nhead had caught a glimpse of him. So he
entertained Wilson with some airs and graces and attitudes for a while,
then stepped out of sight and resumed the other disguise, and by and by
went down and out the back way and started down town to reconnoiter the
scene of his intended labors.
</p>
<p>
But he was ill at ease. He had changed back to Roxy’s dress,
with the stoop of age added to the disguise, so that Wilson would not
bother himself about a humble old woman leaving a neighbor’s
house by the back way in the early morning, in case he was still spying.
But supposing Wilson had seen him leave, and had thought it suspicious,
and had also followed him? The thought made Tom
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">129</a></span>
cold. He gave up the raid for the day, and hurried back
to the haunted house by the obscurest route he knew. His mother was gone;
but she came back, by and by, with the news of the grand reception at
Patsy Cooper’s, and soon persuaded him that the opportunity was
like a special providence, it was so inviting and perfect. So he went
raiding, after all, and made a nice success of it while everybody was
gone to Patsy Cooper’s. Success gave him nerve and even actual
intrepidity; insomuch, indeed, that after he had conveyed his harvest to
his mother in a back alley, he went to the reception himself, and added
several of the valuables of that house to his takings.
</p>
<p>
After this long digression we have now arrived once more at the point
where Pudd’nhead Wilson, while waiting for the arrival of the
twins on that same Friday evening, sat puzzling over the strange
apparition of that morning—a girl in young Tom Driscoll’s
bedroom; fretting, and guessing, and puzzling over it, and wondering
who the shameless creature might be.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">130</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER XI.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">Pudd’nhead’s Startling Discovery.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
There are three infallible ways of pleasing an author, and
the three form a rising scale of compliment:
1, to tell him you have read one of his books;
2, to tell him you have read all of his books;
3, to ask him to let you read the manuscript of his
forthcoming book.
No. 1 admits you to his respect; No. 2 admits you to his admiration;
No. 3 carries you clear into his heart.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
As to the Adjective: when in doubt,
strike it out.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">The</span> twins arrived presently, and talk began.
It flowed along chattily and sociably, and under its influence the new
friendship gathered ease and strength. Wilson got out his Calendar, by
request, and read a passage or two from it, which the twins praised
quite cordially. This pleased the author so much that he complied gladly
when they asked him to lend them a batch of the work to read at
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">131</a></span>
home.
In the course of their wide travels they had found out that there are
three sure ways of pleasing an author; they were now working the best
of the three.
</p>
<p>
There was an interruption, now. Young Tom Driscoll appeared, and joined
the party. He pretended to be seeing the distinguished strangers for the
first time when they rose to shake hands; but this was only a blind, as he
had already had a glimpse of them, at the reception, while robbing the
house. The twins made mental note that he was smooth-faced and rather
handsome, and smooth and undulatory in his movements—graceful, in
fact. Angelo thought he had a good eye; Luigi thought there was something
veiled and sly about it. Angelo thought he had a pleasant free-and-easy
way of talking; Luigi thought it was more so than was agreeable. Angelo
thought he was a sufficiently nice young man; Luigi reserved his
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: change dicision to decision.">
decision.</ins>
Tom’s first contribution to the conversation was a question which
he had put to Wilson a hundred times before. It was always cheerily and
good-naturedly put, and always inflicted a little pang,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">132</a></span>
for it touched a secret sore; but this time the pang was sharp, since
strangers were present.
</p>
<p>
“Well, how does the law come on? Had a case yet?”
</p>
<p>
Wilson bit his lip, but answered, “No—not yet,”
with as much indifference as he could assume. Judge Driscoll had
generously left the law feature out of the Wilson biography which
he had furnished to the twins. Young Tom laughed pleasantly, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Wilson’s a lawyer, gentlemen, but he doesn’t
practise now.”
</p>
<p>
The sarcasm bit, but Wilson kept himself under control, and said without
passion:
</p>
<p>
“I don’t practise, it is true. It is true that I have
never had a case, and have had to earn a poor living for twenty years
as an expert accountant in a town where I can’t get hold of a
set of books to untangle as often as I should like. But it is also
true that I did fit myself well for the practice of the law. By the
time I was your age, Tom, I had chosen a profession, and was soon
competent to enter upon it.” Tom winced. “I never got a
chance to try my hand at it, and I may never get
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">133</a></span>
a chance; and yet if I ever do get it I shall be found ready, for I have
kept up my law-studies all these
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Replace comma after years with a period.">
years.”</ins>
</p>
<p>
“That’s it; that’s good grit! I like to see it.
I’ve a notion to throw all my business your way. My business
and your law-practice ought to make a pretty gay team, Dave,”
and the young fellow laughed again.
</p>
<p>
“If you will throw—” Wilson had thought of the girl
in Tom’s bedroom, and was going to say, “If you will throw
the surreptitious and disreputable part of your business my way, it may
amount to something;” but thought better of it and said,
“However, this matter doesn’t fit well in a general
conversation.”
</p>
<p>
“All right, we’ll change the subject; I guess you
were about to give me another dig, anyway, so I’m willing to
change. How’s the Awful Mystery flourishing these days?
Wilson’s got a scheme for driving plain window-glass out of
the market by decorating it with greasy finger-marks, and getting
rich by selling it at famine prices to the crowned heads over
in Europe to outfit their palaces with. Fetch it out, Dave.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">134</a></span>
Wilson brought three of his glass strips, and said—
</p>
<p>
“I get the subject to pass the fingers of his right hand through
his hair, so as to get a little coating of the natural oil on them,
and then press the balls of them on the glass. A fine and delicate
print of the lines in the skin results, and is permanent, if it
doesn’t come in contact with something able to rub it off.
You begin, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, I think you took my finger-marks once or twice before.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes; but you were a little boy the last time,
only about twelve years old.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s so. Of course I’ve changed entirely since
then, and variety is what the crowned heads want, I guess.”
</p>
<p>
He passed his fingers through his crop of short hair, and pressed them one
at a time on the glass. Angelo made a print of his fingers on another
glass, and Luigi followed with the third. Wilson marked the glasses with
names and date, and put them away. Tom gave one of his little laughs, and
said—
</p>
<p>
“I thought I wouldn’t say anything, but if
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">135</a></span>
variety is what you are after, you have wasted a piece of glass.
The hand-print of one twin is the same as the hand-print of the
fellow-twin.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it’s done now, and I like to have them both,
anyway,” said Wilson, returning to his place.
</p>
<p>
“But look here, Dave,” said Tom, “you used to tell
people’s fortunes, too, when you took their finger-marks.
Dave’s just an all-round genius—a genius of the first
water, gentlemen; a great scientist running to seed here in this village,
a prophet with the kind of honor that prophets generally get at
home—for here they don’t give shucks for his scientifics,
and they call his skull a notion-factory—hey, Dave, ain’t it
so? But never mind; he’ll make his mark some day—finger-mark,
you know, he-he! But really, you want to let him take a shy at your palms
once; it’s worth twice the price of admission or your money’s
returned at the door. Why, he’ll read your wrinkles as easy as a
book, and not only tell you fifty or sixty things that’s going to
happen to you, but fifty or sixty thousand that ain’t. Come, Dave,
show the gentlemen
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">136</a></span>
what an inspired Jack-at-all-science we’ve got in this town,
and don’t know it.”
</p>
<p>
Wilson winced under this nagging and not very courteous chaff, and the
twins suffered with him and for him. They rightly judged, now, that the
best way to relieve him would be to take the thing in earnest and treat it
with respect, ignoring Tom’s rather overdone raillery; so
Luigi said—
</p>
<p>
“We have seen something of palmistry in our wanderings, and know
very well what astonishing things it can do. If it isn’t a
science, and one of the greatest of them, too, I don’t know what
its other name ought to be. In the Orient—”
</p>
<p>
Tom looked surprised and incredulous. He said—
</p>
<p>
“That juggling a science? But really, you ain’t
serious, are you?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, entirely so. Four years ago we had our hands read
out to us as if our palms had been covered with print.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, do you mean to say there was actually anything in it?”
asked Tom, his incredulity beginning to weaken a little.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">137</a></span>
“There was this much in it,” said Angelo: “what was
told us of our characters was minutely exact—we could not have
bettered it ourselves. Next, two or three memorable things that
had happened to us were laid bare—things which no one present
but ourselves could have known about.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, it’s rank sorcery!” exclaimed Tom, who was now
becoming very much interested. “And how did they make out with
what was going to happen to you in the future?”
</p>
<p>
“On the whole, quite fairly,” said Luigi. “Two
or three of the most striking things foretold have happened since;
much the most striking one of all happened within that same year.
Some of the minor prophecies have come true; some of the minor and
some of the major ones have not been fulfilled yet, and of course
may never be: still, I should be more surprised if they failed to
arrive than if they didn’t.”
</p>
<p>
Tom was entirely sobered, and profoundly impressed. He said,
apologetically—
</p>
<p>
“Dave, I wasn’t meaning to belittle that science; I was
only chaffing—chattering, I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">138</a></span>
reckon I’d better say. I wish you would look at their palms.
Come, won’t you?”
</p>
<p>
“Why certainly, if you want me to; but you know I’ve
had no chance to become an expert, and don’t claim to be one.
When a past event is somewhat prominently recorded in the palm I can
generally detect that, but minor ones often escape me,—not always,
of course, but often,—but I haven’t much confidence in myself
when it comes to reading the future. I am talking as if palmistry was a
daily study with me, but that is not so. I haven’t examined half
a dozen hands in the last half dozen years; you see, the people got to
joking about it, and I stopped to let the talk die down. I’ll
tell you what we’ll do, Count Luigi: I’ll make a try at your
past, and if I have any success there—no, on the whole, I’ll
let the future alone; that’s really the affair of an expert.”
</p>
<p>
He took Luigi’s hand. Tom said—
</p>
<p>
“Wait—don’t look yet, Dave! Count Luigi, here’s
paper and pencil. Set down that thing that you said was the most striking
one that was foretold to you, and happened less
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">139</a></span>
than a year afterward, and give it to me so I can see if Dave finds it
in your hand.”
</p>
<p>
Luigi wrote a line privately, and folded up the piece of paper, and handed
it to Tom, saying—
</p>
<p>
“I’ll tell you when to look at it, if he finds it.”
</p>
<p>
Wilson began to study Luigi’s palm, tracing life lines, heart
lines, head lines, and so on, and noting carefully their relations with
the cobweb of finer and more delicate marks and lines that enmeshed them
on all sides; he felt of the fleshy cushion at the base of the thumb, and
noted its shape; he felt of the fleshy side of the hand between the wrist
and the base of the little finger,
and noted its shape also; he painstakingly examined the fingers, observing
their form, proportions, and natural manner of disposing themselves when
in repose. All this process was watched by the three spectators with
absorbing interest, their heads bent together over Luigi’s palm,
and nobody disturbing the stillness with a word. Wilson now entered upon
a close survey of the palm again, and his revelations began.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">140</a></span>
He mapped out Luigi’s character and disposition, his tastes,
aversions, proclivities, ambitions, and eccentricities in a way which
sometimes made Luigi wince and the others laugh, but both twins declared
that the chart was artistically drawn and was correct.
</p>
<p>
Next, Wilson took up Luigi’s history. He proceeded cautiously
and with hesitation, now, moving his finger slowly along the great
lines of the palm, and now and then halting it at a
“star” or some such landmark, and examining that neighborhood
minutely. He proclaimed one or two past events, Luigi confirmed his
correctness, and the search went on. Presently Wilson glanced up suddenly
with a surprised expression—
</p>
<p>
“Here is a record of an incident which you would perhaps
not wish me to—”
</p>
<p>
“Bring it out,” said Luigi, good-naturedly;
“I promise you it sha’n’t embarrass me.”
</p>
<p>
But Wilson still hesitated, and did not seem quite to know what to do.
Then he said—
</p>
<p>
“I think it is too delicate a matter to—to—I
believe I would rather write it or whisper it to you, and let you
decide for yourself whether you want it talked out or not.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">141</a></span>
“That will answer,” said Luigi; “write it.”
</p>
<p>
Wilson wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to Luigi,
who read it to himself and said to Tom—
</p>
<p>
“Unfold your slip and read it, Mr. Driscoll.”
</p>
<p>
Tom read:
</p>
<p>
“<i>It was prophesied that I would kill a man.
It came true before the year was out.</i>”
</p>
<p>
Tom added, “Great Scott!”
</p>
<p>
Luigi handed Wilson’s paper to Tom, and said—
</p>
<p>
“Now read this one.”
</p>
<p>
Tom read:
</p>
<p>
“<i>You have killed some one, but whether man, woman or
child, I do not make out.</i>”
</p>
<p>
“Cæsar’s ghost!” commented Tom,
with astonishment. “It beats anything that was ever
heard of! Why, a man’s own hand is his deadliest enemy!
Just think of that—a man’s own hand keeps a record
of the deepest and fatalest secrets of his life, and is
treacherously ready to expose him to any black-magic stranger
that comes along. But what do you
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">142</a></span>
let a person look at your hand for, with that awful thing printed
on it?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh,” said Luigi, reposefully, “I
don’t mind it. I killed the man for good reasons, and
I don’t regret it.”
</p>
<p>
“What were the reasons?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, he needed killing.”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll tell you why he did it, since he won’t say
himself,” said Angelo, warmly. “He did it to save my life,
that’s what he did it for. So it was a noble act, and
not a thing to be hid in the dark.”
</p>
<p>
“So it was, so it was,” said Wilson; “to do such a
thing to save a brother’s life is a great and fine action.”
</p>
<p>
“Now come,” said Luigi, “it is very pleasant
to hear you say these things, but for unselfishness, or heroism, or
magnanimity, the circumstances won’t stand scrutiny. You
overlook one detail; suppose I hadn’t saved Angelo’s
life, what would have become of mine? If I had let the man kill him,
wouldn’t he have killed me, too? I saved my own life,
you see.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, that is your way of talking,” said
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">143</a></span>
Angelo,
“but I know you—I don’t believe you thought of
yourself at all. I keep that weapon yet that Luigi killed the man with,
and I’ll show it to you sometime. That incident makes it
interesting, and it had a history before it came into Luigi’s
hands which adds to its interest. It was given to Luigi by a great Indian
prince, the Gaikowar of Baroda, and it had been in his family two or three
centuries. It killed a good many disagreeable people who troubled that
hearthstone at one time and another. It isn’t much too look at,
except that it isn’t shaped like other knives, or dirks, or
whatever it may be called—here, I’ll draw it for
you.” He took a sheet of paper and made a rapid sketch.
“There it is—a broad and murderous blade, with edges
like a razor for sharpness. The devices engraved on it are the ciphers
or names of its long line of possessors—I had Luigi’s name
added in Roman letters myself with our coat of arms, as you see. You
notice what a curious handle the thing has. It is solid ivory,
polished like a mirror, and is four or five inches long—round,
and as thick as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">144</a></span>
a large man’s wrist, with the end squared off
flat, for your thumb to rest on; for you grasp it, with your thumb
resting on the blunt end—so—and lift it aloft and strike
downward. The Gaikowar showed us how the thing was done when he
gave it to Luigi, and before that night was ended Luigi had used the
knife, and the Gaikowar was a man short by reason of it. The sheath is
magnificently ornamented with gems of great value. You will find the
sheath more worth looking at than the knife itself, of course.”
</p>
<p>
Tom said to himself—
</p>
<p>
“It’s lucky I came here. I would have sold that knife
for a song; I supposed the jewels were glass.”
</p>
<p>
“But go on; don’t stop,” said Wilson. “Our
curiosity is up now, to hear about the homicide. Tell us about
that.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, briefly, the knife was to blame for that, all around.
A native servant slipped into our room in the palace in the night,
to kill us and steal the knife on account of the fortune incrusted
on its sheath, without a doubt. Luigi had it under his pillow;
we
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">145</a></span>
were in bed together. There was a dim night-light burning. I
was asleep, but Luigi was awake, and he thought he detected a vague
form nearing the bed. He slipped the knife out of the sheath and was
ready, and unembarrassed by hampering bed-clothes, for the weather was
hot and we hadn’t any. Suddenly that native rose at the
bedside, and bent over me with his right hand lifted and a dirk in it
aimed at my throat; but Luigi grabbed his wrist, pulled him downward, and
drove his own knife into the man’s neck. That is the whole
story.”
</p>
<p>
Wilson and Tom drew deep breaths, and after some general chat about the
tragedy, Pudd’nhead said, taking Tom’s hand—
</p>
<p>
“Now, Tom, I’ve never had a look at your palms, as it happens;
perhaps you’ve got some little questionable privacies that
need—hel-lo!”
</p>
<p>
Tom had snatched away his hand, and was looking a good deal confused.
</p>
<p>
“Why, he’s blushing!” said Luigi.
</p>
<p>
Tom darted an ugly look at him, and said sharply—
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">146</a></span>
“Well, if I am, it ain’t because I’m a
murderer!” Luigi’s dark face flushed, but before he
could speak or move, Tom added with anxious haste:
“Oh, I beg a thousand pardons. I didn’t mean that;
it was out before I thought, and I’m very, very
sorry—you must forgive me!”
</p>
<p>
Wilson came to the rescue, and smoothed things down as well as he could;
and in fact was entirely successful as far as the twins were concerned,
for they felt sorrier for the affront put upon him by his guest’s
outburst of ill manners than for the insult offered to Luigi. But the
success was not so pronounced with the offender. Tom tried to seem at
his ease, and he went through the motions fairly well, but at bottom
he felt resentful toward all the three witnesses of his exhibition;
in fact, he felt so annoyed at them for having witnessed it and noticed
it that he almost forgot to feel annoyed at himself for placing it
before them. However, something presently happened which made him almost
comfortable, and brought him nearly back to a state of charity and
friendliness.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">147</a></span>
This was a little spat between the twins; not much of a
spat, but still a spat; and before they got far with it they were in
a decided condition of irritation with each other. Tom was charmed;
so pleased, indeed, that he cautiously did what he could to increase the
irritation while pretending to be actuated by more respectable motives. By
his help the fire got warmed up to the blazing-point, and he might have
had the happiness of seeing the flames show up, in another moment, but for
the interruption of a knock on the door—an interruption which
fretted him as much as it gratified Wilson. Wilson opened the door.
</p>
<p>
The visitor was a good-natured, ignorant, energetic, middle-aged Irishman
named John Buckstone, who was a great politician in a small way, and
always took a large share in public matters of every sort. One of the
town’s chief excitements, just now, was over the matter of rum.
There was a strong rum party and a strong anti-rum party. Buckstone was
training with the rum party, and he had been sent to hunt up the twins
and invite
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">148</a></span>
them to attend a mass-meeting of that faction. He delivered his errand,
and said the clans were already gathering in the big hall over the
market-house. Luigi accepted the invitation cordially, Angelo less
cordially, since he disliked crowds, and did not drink the powerful
intoxicants of America. In fact, he was even a teetotaler
sometimes—when it was judicious to be one.
</p>
<p>
The twins left with Buckstone, and Tom Driscoll joined company with
them uninvited.
</p>
<p>
In the distance one could see a long wavering line of torches drifting
down the main street, and could hear the throbbing of the bass drum, the
clash of cymbals, the squeaking of a fife or two, and the faint roar of
remote hurrahs. The tail-end of this procession was climbing the
market-house stairs when the twins arrived in its neighborhood; when
they reached the hall it was full of people, torches, smoke, noise and
enthusiasm. They were conducted to the platform by Buckstone—Tom
Driscoll still following—and were delivered to the chairman in the
midst of a prodigious explosion of welcome. When
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">149</a></span>
the noise had moderated a little, the chair proposed that “our
illustrious guests be at once elected, by complimentary acclamation,
to membership in our ever-glorious organization, the paradise of the
free and the perdition of the slave.”
</p>
<p>
This eloquent discharge opened the flood-gates of enthusiasm again, and
the election was carried with thundering unanimity. Then arose a storm
of cries:
</p>
<p>
“Wet them down! Wet them down! Give them a drink!”
</p>
<p>
Glasses of whisky were handed to the twins. Luigi waved his aloft, then
brought it to his lips; but Angelo set his down. There was another storm
of cries:
</p>
<p>
“What’s the matter with the other one?”
“What is the blond one going back on us for?”
“Explain! Explain!”
</p>
<p>
The chairman inquired, and then reported—
</p>
<p>
“We have made an unfortunate mistake, gentlemen. I find that
the Count Angelo
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Change Cappello to Capello.">
Capello</ins> is opposed to our creed—is a teetotaler,
in fact, and was not intending to apply for membership with us. He
desires that we
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">150</a></span>
reconsider the vote by which he was elected. What is the
pleasure of the house?”
</p>
<p>
There was a general burst of laughter, plentifully accented with
whistlings and cat-calls, but the energetic use of the gavel presently
restored something like order. Then a man spoke from the crowd, and said
that while he was very sorry that the mistake had been made, it would not
be possible to rectify it at the present meeting. According to the
by-laws it must go over to the next regular meeting for action. He would
not offer a motion, as none was required. He desired to apologize to the
gentleman in the name of the house, and begged to assure him that as far
as it might lie in the power of the Sons of Liberty, his temporary
membership in the order would be made pleasant to him.
</p>
<p>
This speech was received with great applause, mixed with cries of—
</p>
<p>
“That’s the talk!” “He’s
a good fellow, anyway, if he <i>is</i> a
teetotaler!” “Drink his health!”
“Give him a rouser, and no heeltaps!”
</p>
<p>
Glasses were handed around, and everybody
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">151</a></span>
on the platform drank Angelo’s health, while the house bellowed
forth in song:
</p>
<div class="poem1">
<p class="poem1">
For he’s a jolly good fel-low,</p>
<p class="poem1">
For he’s a jolly good fel-low,</p>
<p class="poem1">
For he’s a jolly good fe-el-low,—</p>
<p class="poem2">
Which nobody can deny.</p>
</div>
<p>
Tom Driscoll drank. It was his second glass, for he had drunk
Angelo’s the moment that Angelo had set it down. The two drinks
made him very merry—almost idiotically so—and he began to
take a most lively and prominent part in the proceedings, particularly
in the music and cat-calls and side-remarks.
</p>
<p>
The chairman was still standing at the front, the twins at his side. The
extraordinarily close resemblance of the brothers to each other suggested
a witticism to Tom Driscoll, and just as the chairman began a speech he
skipped forward and said with an air of tipsy confidence to the
audience—
</p>
<p>
“Boys, I move that he keeps still and lets this human
philopena snip you out a speech.”
</p>
<p>
The descriptive aptness of the phrase caught the house, and a mighty burst
of laughter followed.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">152</a></span>
Luigi’s southern blood leaped to the boiling-point in a moment
under the sharp humiliation of this insult delivered in the presence
of four hundred strangers. It was not in the young man’s nature
to let the matter pass, or to delay the squaring of the account. He
took a couple of strides and halted behind the unsuspecting joker.
Then he drew back and delivered a kick of such titanic vigor that it
lifted Tom clear over the footlights and landed him on the heads of
the front row of the Sons of Liberty.
</p>
<p>
Even a sober person does not like to have a human being emptied on him
when he is not doing any harm; a person who is not sober cannot endure
such an attention at all. The nest of Sons of Liberty that Driscoll landed
in had not a sober bird in it; in fact there was probably not an entirely
sober one in the auditorium. Driscoll was promptly and indignantly flung
on to the heads of Sons in the next row, and these Sons passed him on
toward the rear, and then immediately began to pummel the front-row Sons
who had passed him to them. This course was strictly
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">153</a></span>
followed by bench after bench as Driscoll traveled in his tumultuous and
airy flight toward the door; so he left behind him an ever lengthening
wake of raging and plunging and fighting and swearing humanity. Down
went group after group of torches, and presently above the deafening
clatter of the gavel, roar of angry voices, and crash of succumbing
benches, rose the paralyzing cry of
“<span class="smcap">Fire!</span>”
</p>
<p>
The fighting ceased instantly; the cursing ceased; for one distinctly
defined moment there was a dead hush, a motionless calm, where the
tempest had been; then with one impulse the multitude awoke to life and
energy again, and went surging and struggling and swaying, this way and
that, its outer edges melting away through windows and doors and gradually
lessening the pressure and relieving the mass.
</p>
<p>
The fire-boys were never on hand so suddenly before; for there was no
distance to go, this time, their quarters being in the rear end of the
market-house. There was an engine company and a hook-and-ladder company.
Half of each was composed of rummies and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">154</a></span>
the other half of anti-rummies, after the moral and political
share-and-share-alike fashion of the frontier town of the period.
Enough anti-rummies were loafing in quarters to man the engine and the
ladders. In two minutes they had their red shirts and helmets
on—they never stirred officially in unofficial costume—and
as the mass meeting overhead smashed through the long row of windows and
poured out upon the roof of the arcade, the deliverers were ready for
them with a powerful stream of water which washed some of them off the
roof and nearly drowned the rest. But water was preferable to fire, and
still the stampede from the windows continued, and still the pitiless
drenching assailed it until the building was empty; then the fire-boys
mounted to the hall and flooded it with water enough to annihilate forty
times as much fire as there was there; for a village fire-company does
not often get a chance to show off, and so when it does get a chance it
makes the most of it. Such citizens of that village as were of a
thoughtful and judicious temperament did not insure against fire; they
insured against the fire-company.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">155</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER XII.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">The Shame of Judge Driscoll.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence
of fear. Except a creature be part coward it is not a compliment to
say it is brave; it is merely a loose misapplication of the word.
Consider the flea!—incomparably the bravest of all the
creatures of God, if ignorance of fear were courage. Whether you
are asleep or awake he will attack you, caring nothing for the fact
that in bulk and strength you are to him as are the massed armies
of the earth to a sucking child; he lives both day and night and
all days and nights in the very lap of peril and the immediate presence
of death, and yet is no more afraid than is the man who walks the streets
of a city that was threatened by an earthquake ten centuries before.
When we speak of Clive, Nelson, and Putnam as men who
“didn’t know what fear was,” we ought always to add
the flea—and put him at the head of the
procession.<i>—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">Judge Driscoll</span> was in bed and asleep by ten
o’clock on Friday night, and he was up and gone a-fishing before
daylight in the morning with his friend Pembroke Howard. These two had
been boys together in Virginia
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">156</a></span>
when that State still ranked as the chief
and most imposing member of the Union, and they still coupled the proud
and affectionate adjective “old” with her name when they
spoke of her. In Missouri a recognized superiority attached to any
person who hailed from Old Virginia; and this superiority was exalted
to supremacy when a person of such nativity could also prove descent
from the First Families of that great commonwealth. The Howards and
Driscolls were of this aristocracy. In their eyes it was a nobility.
It had its unwritten laws, and they were as clearly defined and as
strict as any that could be found among the printed statutes of the
land. The F. F. V. was born a gentleman; his highest duty in
life was to watch over that great inheritance and keep it unsmirched. He
must keep his honor spotless. Those laws were his chart; his course was
marked out on it; if he swerved from it by so much as half a point
of the compass it meant shipwreck to his honor; that is to say,
degradation from his rank as a gentleman. These laws required certain
things of him which his religion might
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">157</a></span>
forbid: then his religion must yield—the laws could not be relaxed
to accommodate religions or anything else. Honor stood first; and the
laws defined what it was and wherein it differed in certain details from
honor as defined by church creeds and by the social laws and customs
of some of the minor divisions of the globe that had got crowded out when
the sacred boundaries of Virginia were staked out.
</p>
<p>
If Judge Driscoll was the recognized first citizen of Dawson’s
Landing, Pembroke Howard was easily its recognized second citizen. He
was called “the great lawyer”—an earned title.
He and Driscoll were of the same age—a year or two past sixty.
</p>
<p>
Although Driscoll was a free-thinker and Howard a strong and determined
Presbyterian, their warm intimacy suffered no impairment in consequence.
They were men whose opinions were their own property and not subject to
revision and amendment, suggestion or criticism, by anybody, even their
friends.
</p>
<p>
The day’s fishing finished, they came floating
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">158</a></span>
down stream in their skiff, talking national politics and other high
matters, and presently met a skiff coming up from town, with a man in
it who said:
</p>
<p>
“I reckon you know one of the new twins gave your nephew a
kicking last night, Judge?”
</p>
<p>
“Did <i>what</i>?”
</p>
<p>
“Gave him a kicking.”
</p>
<p>
The old Judge’s lips paled, and his eyes began to flame. He
choked with anger for a moment, then he got out what he was trying to
say—
</p>
<p>
“Well—well—go on! give me the details!”
</p>
<p>
The man did it. At the finish the Judge was silent a minute, turning over
in his mind the shameful picture of Tom’s flight over the
footlights; then he said, as if musing
aloud—“H’m—I don’t understand it.
I was asleep at home. He didn’t wake me. Thought he was competent
to manage his affair without my help, I reckon.” His face lit up
with pride and pleasure at that thought, and he said with a cheery
complacency, “I like that—it’s the true old
blood—hey, Pembroke?”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">159</a></span>
Howard smiled an iron smile, and nodded his head approvingly. Then the
news-bringer spoke again—
</p>
<p>
“But Tom beat the twin on the trial.”
</p>
<p>
The Judge looked at the man wonderingly, and said—
</p>
<p>
“The trial? What trial?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, Tom had him up before Judge Robinson for assault
and battery.”
</p>
<p>
The old man shrank suddenly together like one who has received a
death-stroke. Howard sprang for him as he sank forward in a swoon, and
took him in his arms, and bedded him on his back in the boat. He sprinkled
water in his face, and said to the startled visitor—
</p>
<p>
“Go, now—don’t let him come to and find you here.
You see what an effect your heedless speech has had; you ought to have
been more considerate than to blurt out such a cruel piece of
slander as that.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m right down sorry I did it now, Mr. Howard, and I
wouldn’t have done it if I had thought: but it ain’t slander;
it’s perfectly true, just as I told him.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">160</a></span>
He rowed away. Presently the old Judge came out of his faint and looked up
piteously into the sympathetic face that was bent over him.
</p>
<p>
“Say it ain’t true, Pembroke; tell me it ain’t
true!” he said in a weak voice.
</p>
<p>
There was nothing weak in the deep organ-tones that responded—
</p>
<p>
“You know it’s a lie as well as I do, old friend. He is of the
best blood of the Old Dominion.”
</p>
<p>
“God bless you for saying it!” said the old gentleman,
fervently. “Ah, Pembroke, it was such a blow!”
</p>
<p>
Howard stayed by his friend, and saw him home, and entered the house with
him. It was dark, and past supper-time, but the Judge was not thinking of
supper; he was eager to hear the slander refuted from headquarters, and as
eager to have Howard hear it, too. Tom was sent for, and he came
immediately. He was bruised and lame, and was not a happy-looking object.
His uncle made him sit down, and said—
</p>
<p>
“We have been hearing about your adventure,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">161</a></span>
Tom, with a handsome lie added to it for embellishment. Now pulverize that
lie to dust! What measures have you taken? How does the thing
stand?”
</p>
<p>
Tom answered guilelessly: “It don’t stand at all;
it’s all over. I had him up in court and beat him.
Pudd’nhead Wilson defended him—first case
he ever had, and lost it. The judge fined the miserable
hound five dollars for the assault.”
</p>
<p>
Howard and the Judge sprang to their feet with the opening
sentence—why, neither knew; then they stood gazing vacantly at
each other. Howard stood a moment, then sat mournfully down without
saying anything. The Judge’s wrath began to kindle, and
he burst out—
</p>
<p>
“You cur! You scum! You vermin! Do you mean to tell me that blood
of my race has suffered a blow and crawled to a court of law about
it? Answer me!”
</p>
<p>
Tom’s head drooped, and he answered with an eloquent silence.
His uncle stared at him with a mixed expression of amazement and
shame and incredulity that was sorrowful to see. At last he said—
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">162</a></span>
“Which of the twins was it?”
</p>
<p>
“Count Luigi.”
</p>
<p>
“You have challenged him?”
</p>
<p>
“N—no,” hesitated Tom, turning pale.
</p>
<p>
“You will challenge him to-night. Howard will carry it.”
</p>
<p>
Tom began to turn sick, and to show it. He turned his hat round and round
in his hand, his uncle glowering blacker and blacker upon him as the heavy
seconds drifted by; then at last he began to stammer, and said
piteously—
</p>
<p>
“Oh, please don’t ask me to do it, uncle! He is a
murderous devil—I never could—I—I’m
afraid of him!”
</p>
<p>
Old Driscoll’s mouth opened and closed three times before
he could get it to perform its office; then he stormed out—
</p>
<p>
“A coward in my family! A Driscoll a coward! Oh, what have I done
to deserve this infamy!” He tottered to his secretary in the
corner repeating that lament again and again in heartbreaking tones,
and got out of a drawer a paper, which he slowly tore to bits
scattering the bits absently in his track as he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">163</a></span>
walked up and down the room, still grieving and lamenting. At last he
said—
</p>
<p>
“There it is, shreds and fragments once more—my will.
Once more you have forced me to disinherit you, you base son
of a most noble father! Leave my sight! Go—before
I spit on you!”
</p>
<p>
The young man did not tarry. Then the Judge turned to Howard:
</p>
<p>
“You will be my second, old friend?”
</p>
<p>
“Of course.”
</p>
<p>
“There is pen and paper. Draft the cartel, and lose no time.”
</p>
<p>
“The Count shall have it in his hands in fifteen
minutes,” said Howard.
</p>
<p>
Tom was very heavy-hearted. His appetite was gone with his property
and his self-respect. He went out the back way and wandered down the
obscure lane grieving, and wondering if any course of future
conduct, however discreet and carefully perfected and watched over,
could win back his uncle’s favor and persuade him to
reconstruct once more that generous will which had just gone to ruin
before his eyes. He finally concluded
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">164</a></span>
that it could. He said to himself that he had accomplished this sort of
triumph once already, and that what had been done once could be done
again. He would set about it. He would bend every energy to the task,
and he would score that triumph once more, cost what it might to his
convenience, limit as it might his frivolous and liberty-loving life.
</p>
<p>
“To begin,” he said to himself, “I’ll square
up with the proceeds of my raid, and then gambling has got to be
stopped—and stopped short off. It’s the worst vice
I’ve got—from my standpoint, anyway, because
it’s the one he can most easily find out, through the impatience
of my creditors. He thought it expensive to have to pay two hundred
dollars to them for me once. Expensive—<i>that!</i> Why, it
cost me the whole of his fortune—but of course he never thought
of that; some people can’t think of any but their own side of a
case. If he had known how deep I am in, now, the will would have gone
to pot without waiting for a duel to help. Three hundred dollars!
It’s a pile! But he’ll never hear of it, I’m
thankful to say. The minute I’ve
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">165</a></span>
cleared it off, I’m safe; and I’ll never touch a card again.
Anyway, I won’t while he lives, I make oath to that. I’m
entering on my last reform—I know it—yes, and I’ll win;
but after that, if I ever slip again I’m gone.”
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">166</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER XIII.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">Tom Stares at Ruin.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
When I reflect upon the number of disagreeable people who I
know have gone to a better world, I am moved to lead a
different life.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
October. This is one of the peculiarly dangerous months to
speculate in stocks in. The others are July, January,
September, April, November, May, March, June, December,
August, and February.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">Thus</span> mournfully communing with himself Tom
moped along the lane past Pudd’nhead Wilson’s
house, and still
on and on between fences inclosing vacant country on each hand till he
neared the haunted house, then he came moping back again, with many sighs
and heavy with trouble. He sorely wanted cheerful company. Rowena! His
heart gave a bound at the thought, but the next thought quieted
it—the detested twins would be there.
</p>
<p>
He was on the inhabited side of Wilson’s
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">167</a></span>
house, and now as he approached it he noticed that the sitting-room was
lighted. This would do; others made him feel unwelcome sometimes, but
Wilson never failed in courtesy toward him, and a kindly courtesy does
at least save one’s feelings, even if it is not professing to stand
for a welcome. Wilson heard footsteps at his threshold, then the clearing
of a throat.
</p>
<p>
“It’s that fickle-tempered, dissipated young
goose—poor devil, he find friends pretty scarce to-day,
likely, after the disgrace of carrying a personal-assault case
into a law-court.”
</p>
<p>
A dejected knock. “Come in!”
</p>
<p>
Tom entered, and drooped into a chair, without saying anything. Wilson
said kindly—
</p>
<p>
“Why, my boy, you look desolate. Don’t take it so hard.
Try and forget you have been
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Change single quote after kicked to a double quote.">
kicked.”</ins>
</p>
<p>
“Oh, dear,” said Tom, wretchedly, “it’s
not that, Pudd’nhead—it’s not that. It’s a
thousand times worse than that—oh, yes, a million
times worse.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">168</a></span>
“Why, Tom, what do you mean? Has Rowena—”
</p>
<p>
“Flung me? No, but the old man has.”
</p>
<p>
Wilson said to himself, “Aha!” and thought of the
mysterious girl in the bedroom. “The Driscolls have been
making discoveries!” Then he said aloud, gravely:
</p>
<p>
“Tom, there are some kinds of dissipation which—”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, shucks, this hasn’t got anything to do with
dissipation. He wanted me to challenge that derned Italian savage,
and I wouldn’t do it.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, of course he would do that,” said Wilson in a meditative
matter-of-course way, “but the thing that puzzled me was, why
he didn’t look to that last night, for one thing, and why he
let you carry such a matter into a court of law at all, either
before the duel or after it. It’s no place for it. It was not
like him. I couldn’t understand it. How did it happen?”
</p>
<p>
“It happened because he didn’t know anything about it.
He was asleep when I got home last night.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">169</a></span>
“And you didn’t wake him? Tom, is that possible?”
</p>
<p>
Tom was not getting much comfort here. He fidgeted a moment, then said:
</p>
<p>
“I didn’t choose to tell him—that’s all.
He was going a-fishing before dawn, with Pembroke Howard, and if I
got the twins into the common calaboose—and I thought sure I
could—I never dreamed of their slipping out on a paltry fine
for such an outrageous offense—well, once in the calaboose
they would be disgraced, and uncle wouldn’t want any
duels with that sort of characters, and wouldn’t allow any.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, I am ashamed of you! I don’t see how you could treat
your good old uncle so. I am a better friend of his than you are; for
if I had known the circumstances I would have kept that case out of
court until I got word to him and let him have a gentleman’s
chance.”
</p>
<p>
“You would?” exclaimed Tom, with lively surprise.
“And it your first case! And you know perfectly well there
never would have <i>been</i> any case if he had got that chance,
don’t
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">170</a></span>
you? And you’d have finished your days a pauper
nobody, instead of being an actually launched and recognized lawyer
to-day. And you would really have done that, would you?”
</p>
<p>
“Certainly.”
</p>
<p>
Tom looked at him a moment or two, then shook his head sorrowfully and
said—
</p>
<p>
“I believe you—upon my word I do. I don’t know
why I do, but I do. Pudd’nhead Wilson, I think you’re
the biggest fool I ever saw.”
</p>
<p>
“Thank you.”
</p>
<p>
“Don’t mention it.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, he has been requiring you to fight the Italian and you have
refused. You degenerate remnant of an honorable line! I’m thoroughly
ashamed of you, Tom!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, that’s nothing! I don’t care for anything, now
that the will’s torn up again.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, tell me squarely—didn’t he find any fault with
you for anything but those two things—carrying the case into
court and refusing to fight?”
</p>
<p>
He watched the young fellow’s face narrowly, but it was entirely
reposeful, and so also was the voice that answered:
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">171</a></span>
“No, he didn’t find any other fault with me. If he had
had any to find, he would have begun yesterday, for he was just in the
humor for it. He drove that jack-pair around town and showed them the
sights, and when he came home he couldn’t find his father’s
old silver watch that don’t keep time and he thinks so much of,
and couldn’t remember what he did with it three or four days ago
when he saw it last, and so when I arrived he was all in a sweat about it,
and when I suggested that it probably wasn’t lost but stolen, it put
him in a regular passion and he said I was a fool—which convinced
me, without any trouble, that that was just what he was afraid
<i>had</i> happened, himself, but did not want to believe it, because
lost things stand a better chance of being found again than stolen
ones.”
</p>
<p>
“Whe-ew!” whistled Wilson;
“score another on the list.”
</p>
<p>
“Another what?”
</p>
<p>
“Another theft!”
</p>
<p>
“Theft?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, theft. That watch isn’t lost, it’s
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">172</a></span>
stolen. There’s been another raid on the town—and just the
same old mysterious sort of thing that has happened once before, as you
remember.”
</p>
<p>
“You don’t mean it!”
</p>
<p>
“It’s as sure as you are born! Have you missed anything
yourself?”
</p>
<p>
“No. That is, I did miss a silver pencil-case that Aunt Mary
Pratt gave me last birthday—”
</p>
<p>
“You’ll find it stolen—that’s what
you’ll find.”
</p>
<p>
“No, I sha’n’t; for when I suggested theft about
the watch and got such a rap, I went and examined my room, and the
pencil-case was missing, but it was only mislaid, and I found
it again.”
</p>
<p>
“You are sure you missed nothing else?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, nothing of consequence. I missed a small plain gold
ring worth two or three dollars, but that will turn up.
I’ll look again.”
</p>
<p>
“In my opinion you’ll not find it. There’s been
a raid, I tell you. Come <i>in!</i>”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Justice Robinson entered, followed by
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">173</a></span>
Buckstone and the town-constable, Jim Blake. They sat down, and after
some wandering and aimless weather-conversation Wilson said—
</p>
<p>
“By the way, we’ve just added another to the list of
thefts, maybe two. Judge Driscoll’s old silver watch is gone,
and Tom here has missed a gold ring.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it is a bad business,” said the Justice,
“and gets worse the further it goes. The Hankses, the Dobsons,
the Pilligrews, the Ortons, the Grangers, the Hales, the Fullers, the
Holcombs, in fact everybody that lives around about Patsy Cooper’s
has been robbed of little things like trinkets and teaspoons and
such-like small valuables that are easily carried off. It’s
perfectly plain that the thief took advantage of the reception at Patsy
Cooper’s when all the neighbors were in her house and all their
niggers hanging around her fence for a look at the show, to raid the
vacant houses undisturbed. Patsy is miserable about it; miserable on
account of the neighbors, and particularly miserable on account of her
foreigners, of course; so miserable
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">174</a></span>
on their account that she hasn’t any room to worry about her own
little losses.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s the same old raider,” said Wilson. “I
suppose there isn’t any doubt about that.”
</p>
<p>
“Constable Blake doesn’t think so.”
</p>
<p>
“No, you’re wrong there,” said Blake;
“the other times it was a man; there was plenty of signs of that,
as we know, in the profession, though we never got hands on him;
but this time it’s a woman.”
</p>
<p>
Wilson thought of the mysterious girl straight off. She was always in his
mind now. But she failed him again. Blake continued:
</p>
<p>
“She’s a stoop-shouldered old woman with a covered basket
on her arm, in a black veil, dressed in mourning. I saw her going
aboard the ferry-boat yesterday. Lives in Illinois, I reckon; but
I don’t care where she lives, I’m going to get
her—she can make herself sure of that.”
</p>
<p>
“What makes you think she’s the thief?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, there ain’t any other, for one thing; and for
another, some nigger draymen that happened to be driving along saw
her coming out of or going into houses, and told
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">175</a></span>
me so—and it just happens that they was <i>robbed</i> houses,
every time.”
</p>
<p>
It was granted that this was plenty good enough circumstantial evidence.
A pensive silence followed, which lasted some moments, then Wilson
said—
</p>
<p>
“There’s one good thing, anyway. She can’t either
pawn or sell Count Luigi’s costly Indian dagger.”
</p>
<p>
“My!” said Tom, “is <i>that</i> gone?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, that was a haul! But why can’t she pawn it or
sell it?”
</p>
<p>
“Because when the twins went home from the Sons of Liberty
meeting last night, news of the raid was sifting in from everywhere,
and Aunt Patsy was in distress to know if they had lost anything.
They found that the dagger was gone, and they notified the police and
pawnbrokers everywhere. It was a great haul, yes, but the old woman
won’t get anything out of it, because she’ll get
caught.”
</p>
<p>
“Did they offer a reward?” asked Buckstone.
</p>
<p>
“Yes; five hundred dollars for the knife, and five hundred
more for the thief.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">176</a></span>
“What a leather-headed idea!” exclaimed the constable.
“The thief da’sn’t go near them, nor send anybody.
Whoever goes is going to get himself nabbed, for their ain’t
any pawnbroker that’s going to lose the chance to—”
</p>
<p>
If anybody had noticed Tom’s face at that time, the gray-green
color of it might have provoked curiosity; but nobody did. He said to
himself: “I’m gone! I never can square up; the rest of the
plunder won’t pawn or sell for half of the bill. Oh, I know
it—I’m gone, I’m gone—and this time it’s
for good. Oh, this is awful—I don’t know what to do,
nor which way to turn!”
</p>
<p>
“Softly, softly,” said Wilson to Blake. “I
planned their scheme for them at midnight last night, and it was all
finished up shipshape by two this morning. They’ll get their
dagger back, and then I’ll explain to you how
the thing was done.”
</p>
<p>
There were strong signs of a general curiosity, and Buckstone said—
</p>
<p>
“Well, you have whetted us up pretty sharp, Wilson, and I’m
free to say that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">177</a></span>
if you don’t mind telling us in confidence—”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I’d as soon tell as not, Buckstone, but as long as
the twins and I agreed to say nothing about it, we must let it stand so.
But you can take my word for it you won’t be kept waiting three
days. Somebody will apply for that reward pretty promptly, and
I’ll show you the thief and the dagger both very soon
afterward.”
</p>
<p>
The constable was disappointed, and also perplexed. He said—
</p>
<p>
“It may all be—yes, and I hope it will, but I’m blamed
if I can see my way through it. It’s too many for yours
truly.”
</p>
<p>
The subject seemed about talked out. Nobody seemed to have anything
further to offer. After a silence the justice of the peace informed Wilson
that he and Buckstone and the constable had come as a committee, on the
part of the Democratic party, to ask him to run for mayor—for the
little town was about to become a city and the first charter election was
approaching. It was the first attention which Wilson had ever received at
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">178</a></span>
the hands of any party; it was a sufficiently humble one, but it was a
recognition of his début into the town’s life and activities
at last; it was a step upward, and he was deeply gratified. He accepted,
and the committee departed, followed by young Tom.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">179</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER XIV.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">Roxana Insists Upon Reform.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
The true Southern watermelon is a boon apart, and not to be
mentioned with commoner things. It is chief of this world’s
luxuries, king by the grace of God over all the fruits of
the earth. When one has tasted it, he knows what the angels
eat. It was not a Southern watermelon that Eve took: we know
it because she repented.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">About</span> the time that Wilson was bowing the
committee out, Pembroke Howard was entering the next house to report.
He found the old Judge sitting grim and straight in his chair, waiting.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Howard—the news?”
</p>
<p>
“The best in the world.”
</p>
<p>
“Accepts, does he?” and the light of battle gleamed
joyously in the Judge’s eye.
</p>
<p>
“Accepts? Why, he jumped at it.”
</p>
<p>
“Did, did he? Now that’s fine—that’s very fine.
I like that. When is it to be?”
</p>
<p>
“Now! Straight off! To-night! An admirable
fellow—admirable!”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">180</a></span>
“Admirable? He’s a darling! Why, it’s an honor
as well as a pleasure to stand up before such a man. Come—off
with you! Go and arrange everything—and give him my heartiest
compliments. A rare fellow, indeed; an admirable fellow, as you have
said!”
</p>
<p>
Howard hurried away, saying—
</p>
<p>
“I’ll have him in the vacant stretch between Wilson’s
and the haunted house within the hour, and I’ll bring my own
pistols.”
</p>
<p>
Judge Driscoll began to walk the floor in a state of pleased excitement;
but presently he stopped, and began to think—began to think of Tom.
Twice he moved toward the secretary, and twice he turned away again; but
finally he said—
</p>
<p>
“This may be my last night in the world—I must not take the
chance. He is worthless and unworthy, but it is largely my fault. He was
intrusted to me by my brother on his dying bed, and I have indulged him
to his hurt, instead of training him up severely, and making a man of
him. I have violated my trust, and I must not add the sin of desertion
to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">181</a></span>
that. I have forgiven him once already, and would subject him to a
long and hard trial before forgiving him again, if I could live; but I
must not run that risk. No, I must restore the will. But if I survive the
duel, I will hide it away, and he will not know, and I will not tell him
until he reforms, and I see that his reformation is going to be
permanent.”
</p>
<p>
He re-drew the will, and his ostensible nephew was heir to a fortune again.
As he was finishing his task, Tom, wearied with another brooding tramp,
entered the house and went tiptoeing past the sitting-room door. He
glanced in, and hurried on, for the sight of his uncle had nothing but
terrors for him to-night. But his uncle was writing! That was unusual at
this late hour. What could he be writing? A chill of anxiety settled down
upon Tom’s heart. Did that writing concern him? He was afraid so.
He reflected that when ill luck begins, it does not come in sprinkles,
but in showers. He said he would get a glimpse of that document or know
the reason why. He heard some one coming, and stepped out of sight and
hearing. It was
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">182</a></span>
Pembroke Howard. What could be
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Change period after hatching to question mark.">
hatching?</ins>
</p>
<p>
Howard said, with great satisfaction:
</p>
<p>
“Everything’s right and ready. He’s gone to the
battle-ground with his second and the surgeon—also with his brother.
I’ve arranged it all with Wilson—Wilson’s his second.
We are to have three shots apiece.”
</p>
<p>
“Good! How is the moon?”
</p>
<p>
“Bright as day, nearly. Perfect, for the distance—fifteen
yards. No wind—not a breath; hot and still.”
</p>
<p>
“All good; all first-rate. Here, Pembroke, read this, and witness
it.”
</p>
<p>
Pembroke read and witnessed the will, then gave the old man’s hand a
hearty shake and said:
</p>
<p>
“Now that’s right, York—but I knew you would do it.
You couldn’t leave that poor chap to fight along without means or
profession, with certain defeat before him, and I knew you
wouldn’t, for his father’s sake if not for his own.”
</p>
<p>
“For his dead father’s sake I couldn’t, I know;
for poor Percy—but you know what
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">183</a></span>
Percy was to me. But mind—Tom is not to know of this unless I
fall to-night.”
</p>
<p>
“I understand. I’ll keep the secret.”
</p>
<p>
The Judge put the will away, and the two started for the battle-ground. In
another minute the will was in Tom’s hands. His misery vanished, his
feelings underwent a tremendous revulsion. He put the will carefully back
in its place, and spread his mouth and swung his hat once, twice, three
times around his head, in imitation of three rousing huzzas, no sound
issuing from his lips. He fell to communing with himself excitedly and
joyously, but every now and then he let off another volley of dumb
hurrahs.
</p>
<p>
He said to himself: “I’ve got the fortune again, but
I’ll not let on that I know about it. And this time I’m going
to hang on to it. I take no more risks. I’ll gamble no more,
I’ll drink no more, because—well, because I’ll not go
where there is any of that sort of thing going on, again. It’s the
sure way, and the only sure way; I might have thought of that
sooner—well, yes, if I had wanted to. But now—dear me,
I’ve had a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">184</a></span>
scare this time, and I’ll take no more chances. Not a single chance
more. Land! I persuaded myself this evening that I could fetch him around
without any great amount of effort, but I’ve been getting more and
more heavy-hearted and doubtful straight along, ever since. If he tells
me about this thing, all right; but if he doesn’t, I
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Remove comma after sha'n't."
>sha’n’t</ins> let on. I—well, I’d like to tell
Pudd’nhead Wilson, but—no, I’ll think about that;
perhaps I won’t.” He whirled off another dead huzza, and
said, “I’m reformed, and this time I’ll stay so,
sure!”
</p>
<p>
He was about to close with a final grand silent demonstration, when he
suddenly recollected that Wilson had put it out of his power to pawn or
sell the Indian knife, and that he was once more in awful peril of
exposure by his creditors for that reason. His joy collapsed utterly, and
he turned away and moped toward the door moaning and lamenting over the
bitterness of his luck. He dragged himself up-stairs, and brooded in his
room a long time disconsolate and forlorn, with Luigi’s Indian
knife for a text. At last he sighed and said:
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">185</a></span>
“When I supposed these stones were glass and this ivory bone,
the thing hadn’t any interest for me because it hadn’t
any value, and couldn’t help me out of my trouble. But
now—why, now it is full of interest; yes, and of a sort to break
a body’s heart. It’s a bag of gold that has turned
to dirt and ashes in my hands. It could save me, and save me so easily,
and yet I’ve got to go to ruin. It’s like drowning with a
life-preserver in my reach. All the hard luck comes to me, and all the
good luck goes to other people—Pudd’nhead Wilson, for
instance; even his career has got a sort of a little start at last, and
what has he done to deserve it, I should like to know? Yes, he has opened
his own road, but he isn’t content with that, but must block mine.
It’s a sordid, selfish world, and I wish I was out of
it.” He allowed the light of the candle to play upon the jewels of
the sheath, but the flashings and sparklings had no charm for his eye;
they were only just so many pangs to his heart. “I must not say
anything to Roxy about this thing,” he said, “she is too
daring. She would be for
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">186</a></span>
digging these stones out and selling them, and then—why, she would
be arrested and the stones traced, and then—” The thought
made him quake, and he hid the knife away, trembling all over and
glancing furtively about, like a criminal who fancies that the accuser
is already at hand.
</p>
<p>
Should he try to sleep? Oh, no, sleep was not for him; his trouble was too
haunting, too afflicting for that. He must have somebody to mourn with. He
would carry his despair to Roxy.
</p>
<p>
He had heard several distant gunshots, but that sort of thing was not
uncommon, and they had made no impression upon him. He went out at the
back door, and turned westward. He passed Wilson’s house and
proceeded along the lane, and presently saw several figures approaching
Wilson’s place through the vacant lots. These were the duelists
returning from the fight; he thought he recognized them, but as he had
no desire for white people’s company, he stooped down behind the
fence until they were out of his way.
</p>
<p>
Roxy was feeling fine. She said:
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">187</a></span>
“Whah was you, child? Warn’t you in it?”
</p>
<p>
“In what?”
</p>
<p>
“In de duel.”
</p>
<p>
“Duel? Has there been a duel?”
</p>
<p>
“’Co’se dey has. De ole Jedge has be’n
havin’ a duel wid one o’ dem twins.”
</p>
<p>
“Great Scott!” Then he added to himself: “That’s
what made him re-make the will; he thought he might get killed, and it
softened him toward me. And that’s what he and Howard were so
busy about.… Oh dear, if the twin had only killed him,
I should be out of my—”
</p>
<p>
“What is you mumblin’ bout, Chambers? Whah was you?
Didn’t you know dey was gwyne to be a duel?”
</p>
<p>
“No, I didn’t. The old man tried to get me to fight one with
Count Luigi, but he didn’t succeed, so I reckon he concluded to
patch up the family honor himself.”
</p>
<p>
He laughed at the idea, and went rambling on with a detailed account of
his talk with the Judge, and how shocked and ashamed the Judge was to find
that he had a coward in his family. He glanced up at last, and got a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">188</a></span>
shock himself. Roxana’s bosom was heaving with suppressed passion,
and she was glowering down upon him with measureless contempt written
in her face.
</p>
<p>
“En you refuse’ to fight a man dat kicked you,
’stid o’ jumpin’ at de chance! En you ain’t
got no mo’ feelin’ den to come en tell me, dat fetched sich
a po’ low-down ornery rabbit into de worl’! Pah! it make me
sick! It’s de nigger in you, dat’s what it is. Thirty-one
parts o’ you is white, en on’y one part nigger, en dat
po’ little one part is yo’ <i>soul</i>.
Tain’t wuth savin’; tain’t wuth totin’ out on a
shovel en throwin’ in de gutter. You has disgraced yo’ birth.
What would yo’ pa think o’ you? It’s enough to make him
turn in his grave.”
</p>
<p>
The last three sentences stung Tom into a fury, and he said to himself
that if his father were only alive and in reach of assassination his
mother would soon find that he had a very clear notion of the size of his
indebtedness to that man, and was willing to pay it up in full, and would
do it too, even at risk of his life; but he kept this thought to himself;
that was safest in his mother’s present state.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">189</a></span>
“Whatever has come o’ yo’ Essex blood? Dat’s
what I can’t understan’. En it ain’t on’y jist
Essex blood dat’s in you, not by a long sight—’deed
it ain’t! My great-great-great-gran’father en yo’
great-great-great-great-gran’father was Ole Cap’n John Smith,
de highest blood dat Ole Virginny ever turned out, en <i>his</i>
great-great-gran’mother or somers along back dah, was Pocahontas
de Injun queen, en her husbun’ was a nigger king outen
Africa—en yit here you is, a slinkin’ outen a duel en
disgracin’ our whole line like a ornery low-down hound! Yes,
it’s de nigger in you!”
</p>
<p>
She sat down on her candle-box and fell into a reverie. Tom did not
disturb her; he sometimes lacked prudence, but it was not in circumstances
of this kind, Roxana’s storm went gradually down, but it died hard,
and even when it seemed to be quite gone, it would now and then break out
in a distant rumble, so to speak, in the form of muttered ejaculations.
One of these was, “Ain’t nigger enough in him to show in
his finger-nails, en dat takes mighty little—yit dey’s enough
to paint his soul.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">190</a></span>
Presently she muttered. “Yassir, enough to paint a whole
thimbleful of ’em.” At last her ramblings ceased
altogether, and her countenance began to clear—a welcome sign to
Tom, who had learned her moods, and knew she was on the threshold of
good-humor, now. He noticed that from time to time she unconsciously
carried her finger to the end of her nose. He looked closer and said:
</p>
<p>
“Why, mammy, the end of your nose is skinned.
How did that come?”
</p>
<p>
She sent out the sort of whole-hearted peal of laughter which God had
vouchsafed in its perfection to none but the happy angels in heaven and
the bruised and broken black slave on the earth, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Dad fetch dat duel, I be’n in it myself.”
</p>
<p>
“Gracious! did a bullet do that?”
</p>
<p>
“Yassir, you bet it did!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I declare! Why, how did that happen?”
</p>
<p>
“Happened dis-away. I ’uz a-sett’n’ here kinder
dozin’ in de dark, en <i>che-bang!</i> goes a gun, right out dah.
I skips along out towards t’other end o’ de house to see
what’s gwyne
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">191</a></span>
on, en stops by de ole winder on de side towards
Pudd’nhead Wilson’s house dat ain’t got no sash in
it,—but dey ain’t none of ’em got any sashes, fur as
dat’s concerned,—en I stood dah in de dark en look out, en
dar in de moonlight, right down under me ’uz one o’ de
twins a-cussin’—not much, but jist a-cussin’
soft—it ’uz de brown one dat ’uz cussin’,
’ca’se he ’uz hit in de shoulder. En Doctor Claypool
he ’uz a-workin’ at him, en Pudd’nhead Wilson he
’uz a-he’pin’, en ole Jedge Driscoll en Pem Howard
’uz a-standin’ out yonder a little piece waitin’
for ’em to git ready agin. En treckly dey squared off en
give de word, en <i>bang-bang</i> went de pistols, en de twin he say,
‘Ouch!’—hit him on de han’ dis time,—en I
hear dat same bullet go <i>spat!</i> ag’in, de logs under de
winder; en de nex’ time dey shoot, de twin say, ‘Ouch!’
ag’in, en I done it too, ’ca’se de bullet glance’
on his cheek-bone en skip up here en glance on de side o’
de winder en whiz right acrost my face en tuck de hide off’n my
nose—why, if I’d ’a’ be’n jist a
inch or a inch en a half furder ’t would ’a’ tuck de
whole nose en disfiggered me. Here’s de bullet; I hunted her
up.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">192</a></span>
“Did you stand there all the time?”
</p>
<p>
“Dat’s a question to ask, ain’t it? What else would
I do? Does I git a chance to see a duel every day?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, you were right in range! Weren’t you afraid?”
</p>
<p>
The woman gave a sniff of scorn.
</p>
<p>
“’Fraid! De Smith-Pocahontases ain’t
’fraid o’ nothin’, let alone bullets.”
</p>
<p>
“They’ve got pluck enough, I suppose; what they lack is
judgment. <i>I</i> wouldn’t have stood there.”
</p>
<p>
“Nobody’s accusin’ you!”
</p>
<p>
“Did anybody else get hurt?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, we all got hit ’cep’ de blon’ twin en de
doctor en de seconds. De Jedge didn’t git hurt, but I hear
Pudd’nhead say de bullet snip some o’ his
ha’r off.”
</p>
<p>
“’George!” said Tom to himself, “to come so
near being out of my trouble, and miss it by an inch. Oh dear, dear,
he will live to find me out and sell me to some nigger-trader
yet—yes, and he would do it in a minute.” Then he
said aloud, in a grave tone—
</p>
<p>
“Mother, we are in an awful fix.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">193</a></span>
Roxana caught her breath with a spasm, and said—
</p>
<p>
“Chile! What you hit a body so sudden for, like dat?
What’s be’n en gone en happen’?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, there’s one thing I didn’t tell you. When I
wouldn’t fight, he tore up the will again, and—”
</p>
<p>
Roxana’s face turned a dead white, and she said—
</p>
<p>
“Now you’s <i>done!</i>—done forever! Dat’s
de end. Bofe un us is gwyne to starve to—”
</p>
<p>
“Wait and hear me through, can’t you! I reckon that when he
resolved to fight, himself, he thought he might get killed and not
have a chance to forgive me any more in this life, so he made the will
again, and I’ve seen it, and it’s all right.
But—”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, thank goodness, den we’s safe ag’in!—safe!
en so what did you want to come here en talk sich
dreadful—”
</p>
<p>
“Hold <i>on</i>, I tell you, and let me finish. The swag I
gathered won’t half square me up, and the first thing we know, my
creditors—well, you know what’ll happen.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">194</a></span>
Roxana dropped her chin, and told her son to leave her alone—she
must think this matter out. Presently she said impressively:
</p>
<p>
“You got to go mighty keerful now, I tell you! En here’s
what you got to do. He didn’t git killed, en if you gives him de
least reason, he’ll bust de will ag’in, en dat’s de
<i>las’</i> time, now you hear me! So—you’s got to
show him what you kin do in de nex’ few days. You’s got to be
pison good, en let him see it; you got to do everything dat’ll
make him b’lieve in you, en you got to sweeten aroun’
ole Aunt Pratt, too,—she’s pow’ful strong wid de
Jedge, en de bes’ frien’ you got. Nex’, you’ll
go ’long away to Sent Louis, en dat’ll <i>keep</i> him in
yo’ favor. Den you go en make a bargain wid dem people. You tell
’em he ain’t gwyne to live long—en dat’s de
fac’, too,—en tell ’em you’ll pay ’em
intrust, en big intrust, too,—ten per—what you call it?”
</p>
<p>
“Ten per cent. a month?”
</p>
<p>
“Dat’s it. Den you take and sell yo’ truck aroun’,
a little at a time, en pay de intrust. How long will it
las’?”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">195</a></span>
“I think there’s enough to pay the interest five or six
months.”
</p>
<p>
“Den you’s all right. If he don’t die in six months,
dat don’t make no diff’rence—Providence’ll
provide. You’s gwyne to be safe—if you
behaves.” She bent an austere eye on him and added,
“En you <i>is</i> gwyne to behave—does you know dat?”
</p>
<p>
He laughed and said he was going to try, anyway. She did not unbend. She
said gravely:
</p>
<p>
“Tryin’ ain’t de thing. You’s gwyne to
<i>do</i> it. You ain’t gwyne to steal a
pin—’ca’se it ain’t safe no mo’;
en you ain’t gwyne into no bad comp’ny—not even
once, you understand; en you ain’t gwyne to drink a
drop—nary single drop; en you ain’t gwyne to gamble
one single gamble—not one! Dis ain’t what you’s
gwyne to <i>try</i> to do, it’s what you’s gwyne to
<i>do</i>. En I’ll tell you how I knows it. Dis is how.
I’s gwyne to foller along to Sent Louis my own self;
en you’s gwyne to come to me every day o’ yo’ life,
en I’ll look you over; en if you fails in one single one
o’ dem things—jist <i>one</i>—I take my oath
I’ll
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">196</a></span>
come straight down to dis town en tell de Jedge you’s a nigger en a
slave—en <i>prove</i> it!” She paused to let her words sink
home. Then she added, “Chambers, does you b’lieve me when I
says dat?”
</p>
<p>
Tom was sober enough now. There was no levity in his voice when he
answered:
</p>
<p>
“Yes, mother, I know, now, that I am reformed—and permanently.
Permanently—and beyond the reach of any human temptation.”
</p>
<p>
“Den g’ long home en begin!”
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">197</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER XV.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">The Robber Robbed.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Nothing so needs reforming as other people’s
habits.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Behold, the fool saith, “Put not all thine eggs in the one
basket”—which is but a manner of saying, “Scatter your
money and your attention;” but the wise man saith, “Put all
your eggs in the one basket and—<span class="smcap">watch that
basket</span>”<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">What</span> a time of it Dawson’s Landing was
having! All its life it had been asleep, but now it hardly got a chance
for a nod, so swiftly did big events and crashing surprises come along
in one another’s wake: Friday morning, first glimpse of Real
Nobility, also grand reception at Aunt Patsy Cooper’s, also great
robber-raid; Friday evening, dramatic kicking of the heir of the chief
citizen in presence of four hundred people; Saturday morning, emergence
as practising lawyer of the long-submerged Pudd’nhead Wilson;
Saturday
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">198</a></span>
night, duel between chief citizen and titled stranger.
</p>
<p>
The people took more pride in the duel than in all the other
events put together, perhaps. It was a glory to their town to have such
a thing happen there. In their eyes the principals had reached
the summit of human honor. Everybody paid homage to their names;
their praises were in all mouths. Even the duelists’
subordinates came in for a handsome share of the public
approbation: wherefore Pudd’nhead Wilson was suddenly
become a man of consequence. When asked to run for the mayoralty
Saturday night he was risking defeat, but Sunday morning found
him a made man and his success assured.
</p>
<p>
The twins were prodigiously great, now; the town took them to its bosom
with enthusiasm. Day after day, and night after night, they went dining
and visiting from house to house, making friends, enlarging and
solidifying their popularity, and charming and surprising all with their
musical prodigies, and now and then heightening the effects with samples
of what they could do in other directions,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">199</a></span>
out of their stock of rare and curious accomplishments. They were so
pleased that they gave the regulation thirty days’ notice, the
required preparation for citizenship, and resolved to finish their days
in this pleasant place. That was the climax. The delighted community
rose as one man and applauded; and when the twins were asked to stand
for seats in the forthcoming aldermanic board, and consented, the
public contentment was rounded and complete.
</p>
<p>
Tom Driscoll was not happy over these things; they sunk deep, and hurt all
the way down. He hated the one twin for kicking him, and the other one for
being the kicker’s brother.
</p>
<p>
Now and then the people wondered why nothing was heard of the raider, or
of the stolen knife or the other plunder, but nobody was able to throw any
light on that matter. Nearly a week had drifted by, and still the thing
remained a vexed mystery.
</p>
<p>
On Saturday Constable Blake and Pudd’nhead Wilson met on the street,
and Tom Driscoll joined them in time to open their
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">200</a></span>
conversation for them. He said to Blake—“You are not looking
well, Blake; you seem to be annoyed about something. Has anything gone
wrong in the detective business? I believe you fairly and justifiably
claim to have a pretty good reputation in that line, isn’t it
so?”—which made Blake feel good, and look it; but Tom added,
“for a country detective”—which made Blake feel the
other way, and not only look it, but betray it in his voice—
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sir, I <i>have</i> got a reputation; and it’s as good
as anybody’s in the profession, too, country or no country.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I beg pardon; I didn’t mean any offense. What I
started out to ask was only about the old woman that raided the
town—the stoop-shouldered old woman, you know, that you said you
were going to catch; and I knew you would, too, because you have the
reputation of never boasting, and—well, you—you’ve
caught the old woman?”
</p>
<p>
“D——— the old woman!”
</p>
<p>
“Why, sho! you don’t mean to say you haven’t
caught her?”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">201</a></span>
“No; I haven’t caught her. If anybody could have caught her,
I could; but nobody couldn’t, I don’t care who he is.”
</p>
<p>
“I am sorry, real sorry—for your sake; because, when it
gets around that a detective has expressed himself so confidently,
and then—”
</p>
<p>
“Don’t you worry, that’s all—don’t you
worry; and as for the town, the town needn’t worry, either.
She’s my meat—make yourself easy about that. I’m
on her track; I’ve got clues that—”
</p>
<p>
“That’s good! Now if you could get an old veteran detective
down from St. Louis to help you find out what the clues mean, and
where they lead to, and then—”
</p>
<p>
“I’m plenty veteran enough myself, and I don’t need
anybody’s help. I’ll have her inside of a we—inside
of a month. That I’ll swear to!”
</p>
<p>
Tom said carelessly—
</p>
<p>
“I suppose that will answer—yes, that will answer.
But I reckon she is pretty old, and old people don’t often
outlive the cautious pace of the professional detective when
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">202</a></span>
he
has got his clues together and is out on his still-hunt.”
</p>
<p>
Blake’s dull face flushed under this gibe, but before he
could set his retort in order Tom had turned to Wilson, and was
saying, with placid indifference of manner and voice—
</p>
<p>
“Who got the reward, Pudd’nhead?”
</p>
<p>
Wilson winced slightly, and saw that his own turn was come.
</p>
<p>
“What reward?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, the reward for the thief,
and the other one for the knife.”
</p>
<p>
Wilson answered—and rather uncomfortably, to judge by his hesitating
fashion of delivering himself—
</p>
<p>
“Well, the—well, in fact, nobody has claimed it yet.”
</p>
<p>
Tom seemed surprised.
</p>
<p>
“Why, is that so?”
</p>
<p>
Wilson showed a trifle of irritation when he replied—
</p>
<p>
“Yes, it’s so. And what of it?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, nothing. Only I thought you had struck out a new idea,
and invented a scheme that was going to revolutionize the time-worn
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">203</a></span>
and ineffectual methods of the—” He stopped, and
turned to Blake, who was happy now that another had taken his
place on the gridiron: “Blake, didn’t you understand him
to intimate that it wouldn’t be necessary for you to hunt
the old woman down?”
</p>
<p>
“B’George, he said he’d have thief and swag both
inside of three days—he did, by hokey! and that’s just
about a week ago. Why, I said at the time that no thief and no
thief’s pal was going to try to pawn or sell a thing where
he knowed the pawnbroker could get both rewards by taking
<i>him</i> into camp <i>with</i> the swag. It was the blessedest idea
that ever <i>I</i> struck!”
</p>
<p>
“You’d change your mind,” said Wilson, with
irritated bluntness, “if you knew the entire scheme
instead of only part of it.”
</p>
<p>
“Well,” said the constable, pensively, “I had the idea
that it wouldn’t work, and up to now I’m right anyway.”
</p>
<p>
“Very well, then, let it stand at that, and give it a further
show. It has worked at least as well as your own methods,
you perceive.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">204</a></span>
The constable hadn’t anything handy to hit back with,
so he discharged a discontented sniff, and said nothing.
</p>
<p>
After the night that Wilson had partly revealed his scheme at his house,
Tom had tried for several days to guess out the secret of the rest of it,
but had failed. Then it occurred to him to give Roxana’s smarter
head a chance at it. He made up a supposititious case, and laid it before
her. She thought it over, and delivered her verdict upon it. Tom said to
himself, “She’s hit it, sure!” He thought he would
test that verdict, now, and watch Wilson’s face;
so he said reflectively—
</p>
<p>
“Wilson, you’re not a fool—a fact of recent discovery.
Whatever your scheme was, it had sense in it, Blake’s opinion to
the contrary notwithstanding. I don’t ask you to reveal it, but I
will suppose a case—a case which will answer as a
starting-point for the real thing I am going to come at, and that’s
all I want. You offered five hundred dollars for the knife, and five
hundred for the thief. We will suppose, for argument’s sake, that
the first reward is <i>advertised</i> and the second
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">205</a></span>
offered by <i>private letter</i> to pawnbrokers and—”
</p>
<p>
Blake slapped his thigh, and cried out—
</p>
<p>
“By Jackson, he’s got you, Pudd’nhead! Now why
couldn’t I or <i>any</i> fool have thought of that?”
</p>
<p>
Wilson said to himself, “Anybody with a reasonably good head
would have thought of it. I am not surprised that Blake didn’t
detect it; I am only surprised that Tom did. There is more to him than I
supposed.” He said nothing aloud, and Tom went on:
</p>
<p>
“Very well. The thief would not suspect that there was a trap,
and he would bring or send the knife, and say he bought it for a song,
or found it in the road, or something like that, and try to collect the
reward, and be arrested—wouldn’t he?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes,” said Wilson.
</p>
<p>
“I think so,” said Tom. “There can’t be any
doubt of it. Have you ever seen that knife?”
</p>
<p>
“No.”
</p>
<p>
“Has any friend of yours?”
</p>
<p>
“Not that I know of.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">206</a></span>
“Well, I begin to think I understand why your scheme failed.”
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean, Tom? What are you driving at?”
asked Wilson, with a dawning sense of discomfort.
</p>
<p>
“Why, that there <i>isn’t</i> any such knife.”
</p>
<p>
“Look here, Wilson,” said Blake,
“Tom Driscoll’s right, for a thousand
dollars—if I had it.”
</p>
<p>
Wilson’s blood warmed a little, and he wondered if he had been
played upon by those strangers; it certainly had something of that
look. But what could they gain by it? He threw out that suggestion.
Tom replied:
</p>
<p>
“Gain? Oh, nothing that you would value, maybe. But they
are strangers making their way in a new community. Is it nothing to
them to appear as pets of an Oriental prince—at no expense?
Is it nothing to them to be able to dazzle this poor little town with
thousand-dollar rewards—at no expense? Wilson, there isn’t
any such knife, or your scheme would have fetched it to light. Or if
there is any such knife, they’ve got it yet. I believe, myself,
that they’ve seen such a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">207</a></span>
knife, for Angelo pictured it out with his pencil too swiftly and
handily for him to have been inventing it, and of course I can’t
swear that they’ve never had it; but this I’ll go bail
for—if they had it when they came to this town,
they’ve got it yet.”
</p>
<p>
Blake said—
</p>
<p>
“It looks mighty reasonable, the way Tom puts it; it
most certainly does.”
</p>
<p>
Tom responded, turning to leave—
</p>
<p>
“You find the old woman, Blake, and if she can’t furnish
the knife, go and search the twins!”
</p>
<p>
Tom sauntered away. Wilson felt a good deal depressed. He hardly knew what
to think. He was loath to withdraw his faith from the twins, and was
resolved not to do it on the present indecisive evidence; but—well,
he would think, and then decide how to act.
</p>
<p>
“Blake, what do you think of this matter?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Pudd’nhead, I’m bound to say I put it up
the way Tom does. They hadn’t the knife; or if they had it,
they’ve got it yet.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">208</a></span>
The men parted. Wilson said to himself:
</p>
<p>
“I believe they had it; if it had been stolen, the scheme
would have restored it, that is certain. And so I believe
they’ve got it yet.”
</p>
<p>
Tom had no purpose in his mind when he encountered those two men. When he
began his talk he hoped to be able to gall them a little and get a trifle
of malicious entertainment out of it. But when he left, he left in great
spirits, for he perceived that just by pure luck and no troublesome labor
he had accomplished several delightful things: he had touched both men on
a raw spot and seen them squirm; he had modified Wilson’s
sweetness for the twins with one small bitter taste that he wouldn’t
be able to get out of his mouth right away; and, best of all, he had taken
the hated twins down a peg with the community; for Blake would gossip
around freely, after the manner of detectives, and within a week the town
would be laughing at them in its sleeve for offering a gaudy reward for a
bauble which they either never possessed or hadn’t lost. Tom was
very well satisfied with himself.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">209</a></span>
Tom’s behavior at home had been perfect during the entire week.
His uncle and aunt had seen nothing like it before. They could find no
fault with him anywhere.
</p>
<p>
Saturday evening he said to the Judge—
</p>
<p>
“I’ve had something preying on my mind, uncle, and as I am
going away, and might never see you again, I can’t bear it any
longer. I made you believe I was afraid to fight that Italian adventurer.
I had to get out of it on some pretext or other, and maybe I chose badly,
being taken unawares, but no honorable person could consent to meet him
in the field, knowing what I knew about him.”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed? What was that?”
</p>
<p>
“Count Luigi is a confessed assassin.”
</p>
<p>
“Incredible!”
</p>
<p>
“It’s perfectly true. Wilson detected it in his hand,
by palmistry, and charged him with it, and cornered him up so close
that he had to confess; but both twins begged us on their knees to
keep the secret, and swore they would lead straight lives here; and
it was all so pitiful that we gave our word of honor never to expose
them while they kept that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">210</a></span>
promise. You would have done it yourself, uncle.”
</p>
<p>
“You are right, my boy; I would. A man’s secret is
still his own property, and sacred, when it has been surprised out of
him like that. You did well, and I am proud of you.” Then he
added mournfully, “But I wish I could have been saved the
shame of meeting an assassin on the field of honor.”
</p>
<p>
“It couldn’t be helped, uncle. If I had known you were
going to challenge him I should have felt obliged to sacrifice
my pledged word in order to stop it, but Wilson couldn’t be
expected to do otherwise than keep silent.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, no; Wilson did right, and is in no way to blame. Tom,
Tom, you have lifted a heavy load from my heart; I was stung
to the very soul when I seemed to have discovered that I had
a coward in my family.”
</p>
<p>
“You may imagine what it cost <i>me</i> to assume such a part,
uncle.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I know it, poor boy, I know it. And I can understand how
much it has cost you to remain under that unjust stigma to this time.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">211</a></span>
But it is all right now, and no harm is done. You have restored my
comfort of mind, and with it your own; and both of us had
suffered enough.”
</p>
<p>
The old man sat awhile plunged in thought; then he looked up with a
satisfied light in his eye, and said: “That this assassin
should have put the affront upon me of letting me meet him on the
field of honor as if he were a gentleman is a matter which I will
presently settle—but not now. I will not shoot him until
after election. I see a way to ruin them both before; I will attend
to that first. Neither of them shall be elected, that I promise.
You are sure that the fact that he is an assassin has not got
abroad?”
</p>
<p>
“Perfectly certain of it, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“It will be a good card. I will fling a hint at it from
the stump on the polling-day. It will sweep the ground from
under both of them.”
</p>
<p>
“There’s not a doubt of it. It will finish them.”
</p>
<p>
“That and outside work among the voters will, to a certainty.
I want you to come
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">212</a></span>
down here by and by and work privately among the rag-tag and bobtail.
You shall spend money among them; I will furnish it.”
</p>
<p>
Another point scored against the detested twins! Really it was a great day
for Tom. He was encouraged to chance a parting shot, now, at the same
target, and did it.
</p>
<p>
“You know that wonderful Indian knife that the twins have been
making such a to-do about? Well, there’s no track or trace of it
yet; so the town is beginning to sneer and gossip and laugh. Half the
people believe they never had any such knife, the other half believe
they had it and have got it still. I’ve heard twenty people
talking like that to-day.”
</p>
<p>
Yes, Tom’s blemishless week had restored him to the favor
of his aunt and uncle.
</p>
<p>
His mother was satisfied with him, too. Privately, she believed she was
coming to love him, but she did not say so. She told him to go along to
St. Louis, now, and she would get ready and follow. Then she smashed her
whisky bottle and said—
</p>
<p>
“Dah now! I’s a-gwyne to make you
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">213</a></span>
walk as straight as a string, Chambers, en so I’s bown’ you
ain’t gwyne to git no bad example out o’ yo’ mammy. I
tole you you couldn’t go into no bad comp’ny. Well,
you’s gwyne into my comp’ny, en I’s gwyne to
fill de bill. Now, den, trot along, trot along!”
</p>
<p>
Tom went aboard one of the big transient boats that night with his heavy
satchel of miscellaneous plunder, and slept the sleep of the unjust, which
is serener and sounder than the other kind, as we know by the hanging-eve
history of a million rascals. But when he got up in the morning, luck was
against him again: A brother-thief had robbed him while he slept, and gone
ashore at some intermediate landing.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">214</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER XVI.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">Sold Down the River.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he
will not bite you. This is the principal difference between
a dog and a man.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
We know all about the habits of the ant, we know all about
the habits of the bee, but we know nothing at all about the
habits of the oyster. It seems almost certain that we have
been choosing the wrong time for studying the
oyster.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">When</span> Roxana arrived, she found her son in such
despair and misery that her heart was touched and her motherhood rose up
strong in her. He was ruined past hope, now; his destruction would be
immediate and sure, and he would be an outcast and friendless. That was
reason enough for a mother to love a child; so she loved him, and told him
so. It made him wince, secretly—for she was a “nigger.”
That he was one himself was far from reconciling him to that despised
race.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">215</a></span>
Roxana poured out endearments upon him, to which he responded
uncomfortably, but as well as he could. And she tried to comfort him, but
that was not possible. These intimacies quickly became horrible to him,
and within the hour he began to try to get up courage enough to tell her
so, and require that they be discontinued or very considerably modified.
But he was afraid of her; and besides, there came a lull, now, for she had
begun to think. She was trying to invent a saving plan. Finally she
started up, and said she had found a way out. Tom was almost suffocated by
the joy of this sudden good news. Roxana said:
</p>
<p>
“Here is de plan, en she’ll win, sure. I’s a nigger,
en nobody ain’t gwyne to doubt it dat hears me talk. I’s
wuth six hund’d dollahs. Take en sell me, en pay off dese
gamblers.”
</p>
<p>
Tom was dazed. He was not sure he had heard aright. He was dumb for a
moment; then he said:
</p>
<p>
“Do you mean that you would be sold into slavery to save me?”
</p>
<p>
“Ain’t you my chile? En does you know
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">216</a></span>
anything dat a
mother won’t do for her chile? Day ain’t nothin’ a
white mother won’t do for her chile. Who made ’em so? De
Lord done it. En who made de niggers? De Lord made ’em. In
de inside, mothers is all de same. De good Lord he made ’em so.
I’s gwyne to be sole into slavery, en in a year you’s gwyne
to buy yo’ ole mammy free ag’in. I’ll show you how.
Dat’s de plan.”
</p>
<p>
Tom’s hopes began to rise, and his spirits along with them.
He said—
</p>
<p>
“It’s lovely of you, mammy—it’s just—”
</p>
<p>
“Say it ag’in! En keep on sayin’
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Changed ? to !">it!</ins>
It’s all de pay a body kin want in dis worl’, en it’s
mo’ den enough. Laws bless you, honey, when I’s slavin’
aroun’, en dey ’buses me, if I knows you’s
a-sayin’ dat, ’way off yonder somers, it’ll heal up all
de sore places, en I kin stan’ ’em.”
</p>
<p>
“I <i>do</i> say it again, mammy, and I’ll keep on
saying it, too. But how am I going to sell you?
You’re free, you know.”
</p>
<p>
“Much diff’rence dat make! White folks ain’t
partic’lar. De law kin sell me now if dey tell me to leave de State
in six months
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">217</a></span>
en I don’t go. You draw up a paper—bill
o’ sale—en put it ’way off yonder, down in de middle
o’ Kaintuck somers, en sign some names to it, en say you’ll
sell me cheap ’ca’se you’s hard up; you’ll find
you ain’t gwyne to have no trouble. You take me up de country a
piece, en sell me on a farm; dem people ain’t gwyne to ask no
questions if I’s a bargain.”
</p>
<p>
Tom forged a bill of sale and sold his mother to an Arkansas
cotton-planter for a trifle over six hundred dollars. He did not want to
commit this treachery, but luck threw the man in his way, and this saved
him the necessity of going up country to hunt up a purchaser, with the
added risk of having to answer a lot of questions, whereas this planter
was so pleased with Roxy that he asked next to none at all. Besides, the
planter insisted that Roxy wouldn’t know where she was, at first,
and that by the time she found out she would already have become
contented. And Tom argued with himself that it was an immense advantage
for Roxy to have a master who was so pleased with
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">218</a></span>
her, as this planter manifestly was. In almost no time his flowing
reasonings carried him to the point of even half believing he was
doing Roxy a splendid surreptitious service in selling her “down
the river.” And then he kept diligently saying to himself all the
time: “It’s for only a year. In a year I buy her free again;
she’ll keep that in mind, and it’ll reconcile her.”
Yes; the little deception could do no harm, and everything would come
out right and pleasant in the end, any way. By agreement, the
conversation in Roxy’s presence was all about the man’s
“upcountry” farm, and how pleasant a place it was, and how
happy the slaves were there; so poor Roxy was entirely deceived; and
easily, for she was not dreaming that her own son could be guilty of
treason to a mother who, in voluntarily going into slavery—slavery
of any kind, mild or severe, or of any duration, brief or long—was
making a sacrifice for him compared with which death would have been a
poor and commonplace one. She lavished tears and loving caresses upon
him privately, and then went away with
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">219</a></span>
her owner—went away broken-hearted, and yet proud of what she was
doing, and glad it was in her power to do it.
</p>
<p>
Tom squared his accounts, and resolved to keep to the very letter of his
reform, and never to put that will in jeopardy again. He had three hundred
dollars left. According to his mother’s plan, he was to put that
safely away, and add her half of his pension to it monthly. In one year
this fund would buy her free again.
</p>
<p>
For a whole week he was not able to sleep well, so much the villainy which
he had played upon his trusting mother preyed upon his rag of a
conscience; but after that he began to get comfortable again, and was
presently able to sleep like any other miscreant.
</p>
<hr class="break" />
<p>
The boat bore Roxy away from St. Louis at four in the afternoon, and she
stood on the lower guard abaft the paddle-box and watched Tom through a
blur of tears until he melted into the throng of people and disappeared;
then she looked no more, but
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">220</a></span>
sat there on a coil of cable crying till far into the night. When she
went to her foul steerage-bunk at last, between the clashing engines,
it was not to sleep, but only to wait for the morning, and, waiting,
grieve.
</p>
<p>
It had been imagined that she “would not know,” and
would think she was traveling up stream. She! Why, she had been
steamboating for years. At dawn she got up and went listlessly and
sat down on the cable-coil again. She passed many a snag whose
“break” could have told her a thing to break her
heart, for it showed a current moving in the same direction that
the boat was going; but her thoughts were elsewhere, and she did
not notice. But at last the roar of a bigger and nearer break than
usual brought her out of her torpor, and she looked up, and her
practised eye fell upon that telltale rush of water. For one
moment her petrified gaze fixed itself there. Then her head dropped
upon her breast, and she said—
</p>
<p>
“Oh, de good Lord God have mercy on po’ sinful
me—<i>I’s sole down de river!</i>”
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">221</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER XVII.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">The Judge Utters Dire Prophecy.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Even popularity can be overdone. In Rome, along at first,
you are full of regrets that Michelangelo died; but by and
by you only regret that you didn’t see him do
it.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
<i>July 4</i>. Statistics show that we lose more fools on this day
than in all the other days of the year put together. This
proves, by the number left in stock, that one Fourth of July
per year is now inadequate, the country has grown
so.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">The</span> summer weeks dragged by, and then the
political campaign opened—opened in pretty warm fashion, and waxed
hotter and hotter daily. The twins threw themselves into it with their
whole heart, for their self-love was engaged. Their popularity, so general
at first, had suffered afterward; mainly because they had been
<i>too</i> popular, and so a natural reaction had followed. Besides,
it had been diligently whispered around that it
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">222</a></span>
was curious—indeed, <i>very</i> curious—that that wonderful
knife of theirs did not turn up—<i>if</i> it was so valuable,
or <i>if</i> it had ever existed. And with the whisperings went
chucklings and nudgings and winks, and such things have an effect.
The twins considered that success in the election would reinstate them,
and that defeat would work them irreparable damage. Therefore they
worked hard, but not harder than Judge Driscoll and Tom worked against
them in the closing days of the canvas. Tom’s conduct had remained
so letter-perfect during two whole months, now, that his uncle not only
trusted him with money with which to persuade voters, but trusted him to
go and get it himself out of the safe in the private sitting-room.
</p>
<p>
The closing speech of the campaign was made by Judge Driscoll,
and he made it against both of the foreigners. It was disastrously
effective. He poured out rivers of ridicule upon them, and forced
the big mass-meeting to laugh and applaud. He scoffed at them as
adventurers, mountebanks, side-show riff-raff, dime museum freaks;
he assailed
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">223</a></span>
their showy titles with measureless derision; he said
they were back-alley barbers disguised as nobilities,
peanut peddlers masquerading as gentlemen, organ-grinders bereft
of their brother monkey. At last he stopped and stood still. He
waited until the place had become absolutely silent and expectant,
then he delivered his deadliest shot; delivered it
with ice-cold seriousness and deliberation, with a significant
emphasis upon the closing words: he said that he believed that
the reward offered for the lost knife was humbug and buncombe,
and that its owner would know where to find it whenever he
should have occasion <i>to assassinate somebody</i>.
</p>
<p>
Then he stepped from the stand, leaving a startled and impressive hush
behind him instead of the customary explosion of cheers and party cries.
</p>
<p>
The strange remark flew far and wide over the town and made an
extraordinary sensation. Everybody was asking, “What could he
mean by that?” And everybody went on asking that question,
but in vain; for the Judge only said he knew what he was talking
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">224</a></span>
about, and stopped there; Tom said he hadn’t any idea what his
uncle meant, and Wilson, whenever he was asked what he thought it meant,
parried the question by asking the questioner what <i>he</i> thought
it meant.
</p>
<p>
Wilson was elected, the twins were defeated—crushed, in fact, and
left forlorn and substantially friendless. Tom went back to St. Louis
happy.
</p>
<p>
Dawson’s Landing had a week of repose, now, and it needed it.
But it was in an expectant state, for the air was full of rumors of
a new duel. Judge Driscoll’s election labors had prostrated him,
but it was said that as soon as he was well enough to entertain a
challenge he would get one from Count Luigi.
</p>
<p>
The brothers withdrew entirely from society, and nursed their humiliation
in privacy. They avoided the people, and went out for exercise only late
at night, when the streets were deserted.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">225</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">Roxana Commands.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Gratitude and treachery are merely the two extremities of
the same procession. You have seen all of it that is worth
staying for when the band and the gaudy officials have gone
by.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
<i>Thanksgiving Day</i>. Let all give humble, hearty, and
sincere thanks, now, but the turkeys. In the island of Fiji
they do not use turkeys; they use plumbers. It does not
become you and me to sneer at Fiji.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">The</span> Friday after the election was a rainy one
in St. Louis. It rained all day long, and rained hard, apparently trying
its best to wash that soot-blackened town white, but of course not
succeeding. Toward midnight Tom Driscoll arrived at his lodgings from
the theatre in the heavy downpour, and closed his umbrella and let
himself in; but when he would have shut the door, he found that there was
another person entering—doubtless another lodger; this person
closed the door
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">226</a></span>
and tramped up-stairs behind Tom. Tom found his door in the dark, and
entered it and turned up the gas. When he faced about, lightly whistling,
he saw the back of a man. The man was closing and locking his door for
him. His whistle faded out and he felt uneasy. The man turned around, a
wreck of shabby old clothes, sodden with rain and all a-drip, and showed
a black face under an old slouch hat. Tom was frightened. He tried to
order the man out, but the words refused to come, and the other man got
the start. He said, in a low voice—
</p>
<p>
“Keep still—I’s yo’ mother!”
</p>
<p>
Tom sunk in a heap on a chair, and gasped out—
</p>
<p>
“It was mean of me, and base—I know it; but I meant it for
the best, I did indeed—I can swear it.”
</p>
<p>
Roxana stood awhile looking mutely down on him while he writhed in shame
and went on incoherently babbling self-accusations mixed with pitiful
attempts at explanation and palliation of his crime; then she seated
herself and took off her hat, and her unkept masses
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">227</a></span>
of long brown hair tumbled down about her shoulders.
</p>
<p>
“It ain’t no fault o’ yo’n dat dat
ain’t gray,” she said sadly, noticing the hair.
</p>
<p>
“I know it, I know it! I’m a scoundrel. But I swear I meant
it for the best. It was a mistake, of course, but I thought it was
for the best, I truly did.”
</p>
<p>
Roxana began to cry softly, and presently words began to find their way
out between her sobs. They were uttered lamentingly, rather than
angrily—
</p>
<p>
“Sell a pusson down de river—<i>down the
river!</i>—for de bes’! I wouldn’t treat a dog so!
I is all broke down en wore out, now, en so I reckon it ain’t in
me to storm aroun’ no mo’, like I used to when I ’uz
trompled on en ’bused. I don’t know—but maybe
it’s so. Leastways, I’s suffered so much dat mournin’
seem to come mo’ handy to me now den stormin’.”
</p>
<p>
These words should have touched Tom Driscoll, but if they did, that effect
was obliterated by a stronger one—one which removed the heavy weight
of fear which lay upon him,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">228</a></span>
and gave his crushed spirit a most grateful rebound, and filled all his
small soul with a deep sense of relief. But he kept prudently still, and
ventured no comment. There was a voiceless interval of some duration,
now, in which no sounds were heard but the beating of the rain upon the
panes, the sighing and complaining of the winds, and now and then a
muffled sob from Roxana. The sobs became more and more infrequent, and at
last ceased. Then the refugee began to talk again:
</p>
<p>
“Shet down dat light a little. More. More yit. A pusson dat
is hunted don’t like de light. Dah—dat’ll do. I kin see
whah you is, en dat’s enough. I’s gwine to tell you de tale,
en cut it jes as short as I kin, en den I’ll tell you what
you’s got to do. Dat man dat bought me ain’t a bad
man; he’s good enough, as planters goes; en if he could
’a’ had his way I’d ’a’ be’n a
house servant
in his fambly en be’n comfortable: but his wife she was a Yank, en
not right down good lookin’, en she riz up agin me straight off; so
den dey sent me out to de quarter
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">229</a></span>
’mongst de common fiel’
han’s. Dat woman warn’t satisfied even wid dat, but she
worked up de overseer ag’in’ me, she ’uz dat jealous
en hateful; so de overseer he had me out befo’ day in de
mawnin’s en worked me de whole long day as long as dey ’uz
any light to see by; en many’s de lashin’s I got
’ca’se I couldn’t come up to de work o’ de
stronges’. Dat overseer wuz a Yank, too, outen New Englan’, en
anybody down South kin tell you what dat mean. <i>Dey</i> knows how to
work a nigger to death, en
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Change day to dey.">
dey</ins> knows how to whale ’em,
too—whale ’em till dey backs is welted like a washboard.
’Long at fust my marster say de good word for me to de overseer,
but dat ’uz bad for me; for de mistis she fine it out, en arter
dat I jist ketched it at every turn—dey warn’t no mercy for
me no mo’.”
</p>
<p>
Tom’s heart was fired—with fury
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Change 'against to against.">
against</ins> the planter’s wife; and he said to himself,
“But for that meddlesome fool, everything would have gone
all right.” He added a deep and bitter curse against her.
</p>
<p>
The expression of this sentiment was fiercely written in his face, and
stood thus revealed to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">230</a></span>
Roxana by a white glare of lightning which turned
the somber dusk of the room into dazzling day at that moment. She was
pleased—pleased and grateful; for did not that expression show that
her child was capable of grieving for his mother’s wrongs and of
feeling resentment toward her persecutors?—a thing which she had
been doubting. But her flash of happiness was only a flash, and went out
again and left her spirit dark; for she said to herself, “He sole
me down de river—he can’t feel for a body long: dis’ll
pass en go.” Then she took up her tale again.
</p>
<p>
“’Bout ten days ago I ’uz sayin’ to myself dat
I couldn’t las’ many mo’ weeks I ’uz so wore out
wid de awful work en de lashin’s, en so downhearted en misable. En
I didn’t care no mo’, nuther—life warn’t
wuth noth’n’ to me, if I got to go on like dat. Well, when
a body is in a frame o’ mine like dat, what do a body care what a
body do? Dey was a little sickly nigger wench ’bout ten year ole
dat ’uz good to me, en hadn’t no mammy, po’ thing, en
I loved her en she loved me; en she come out whah I ’uz
workin ’en she had
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">231</a></span>
a roasted tater, en tried to slip it to me,—robbin’ herself,
you see, ’ca’se she knowed de overseer didn’t gimme
enough to eat,—en he ketched her at it, en give her a lick acrost
de back wid his stick, which ’uz as thick as a broom-handle, en
she drop’ screamin’ on de groun’, en squirmin’
en wallerin’ aroun’ in de dust like a spider dat’s
got crippled. I couldn’t stan’ it. All de hell-fire dat
’uz ever in my heart flame’ up, en I snatch de stick outen
his han’ en laid him flat. He laid dah moanin’ en
cussin’, en all out of his head, you know, en de niggers ’uz
plumb sk’yred to death. Dey gathered roun’ him to
he’p him, en I jumped on his hoss en took out for de river
as tight as I could go. I knowed what dey would do wid me. Soon as he got
well he would start in en work me to death if marster let him; en if
dey didn’t do dat, they’d sell me furder down de river,
en dat’s de same thing. So I ’lowed to drown myself en git
out o’ my troubles. It ’uz gitt’n’ towards dark.
I ’uz at de river in two minutes. Den I see a canoe, en I says dey
ain’t no use to drown myself tell I got to; so I ties de hoss in de
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">232</a></span>
edge o’ de timber en shove out down de river, keepin’ in
under de shelter o’ de bluff bank en prayin’ for de dark to
shet down quick. I had a pow’ful good start, ’ca’se de
big house ’uz three mile back f’om de river en on’y de
work-mules to ride dah on, en on’y niggers to ride ’em, en
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Change day to dey."><i>dey</i></ins>
warn’t gwine to hurry—dey’d gimme all de
chance dey could. Befo’ a body could go to de house en back it
would be long pas’ dark, en dey couldn’t track de
hoss en fine out which way I went tell mawnin’, en de niggers
would tell ’em all de lies dey could ’bout it.
</p>
<p>
“Well, de dark come, en I went on a-spinnin’ down de river.
I paddled mo’n two hours, den I warn’t worried no mo’,
so I quit paddlin, en floated down de current, considerin’
what I ’uz gwine to do if I didn’t have to drown myself. I
made up some plans, en floated along, turnin’ ’em over in my
mine. Well, when it ’uz a little pas’ midnight, as I reckoned,
en I had come fifteen or twenty mile, I see de lights o’ a steamboat
layin’ at de bank, whah dey warn’t no town en no woodyard,
en putty soon I ketched de shape
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">233</a></span>
o’ de chimbly-tops ag’in’ de stars, en
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Change de to den.">
den</ins>
good
gracious me, I ’most jumped out o’ my skin for joy! It
’uz de <i>Gran’ Mogul</i>—I ’uz chambermaid on her
for eight seasons in de Cincinnati en Orleans trade. I slid ’long
pas’—don’t see nobody stirrin’ nowhah—hear
’em a-hammerin’ away in de engine-room, den I knowed what de
matter was—some o’ de machinery’s broke. I got
asho’ below de boat and turn’ de canoe loose, den I goes
’long up, en dey ’uz jes one plank out, en I step’
’board de boat. It ’uz pow’ful hot, deckhan’s en
roustabouts ’uz sprawled aroun’ asleep on de
fo’cas’l’, de second mate, Jim Bangs, he sot dah on de
bitts wid his head down, asleep—’ca’se dat’s de
way de second mate stan’ de cap’n’s watch!—en de
ole watchman, Billy Hatch, he ’uz a-noddin’ on de
companionway;—en I knowed ’em all; ’en, lan’,
but dey did look good! I says to myself, I wished old marster’d
come along <i>now</i> en try to take me—bless yo’
heart, I’s ’mong frien’s, I is. So I tromped right
along ’mongst ’em, en went up on de b’iler deck en
’way back aft to de ladies’ cabin guard, en sot down dah in
de
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">234</a></span>
same cheer dat I’d sot in ’mos’ a hund’d
million times, I reckon; en it ’uz jist home ag’in,
I tell you!
</p>
<p>
“In ’bout an hour I heard de ready-bell jingle, en den de
racket begin. Putty soon I hear de gong strike. ‘Set her back on
de outside,’ I says to myself—‘I reckon I knows dat
music!’ I hear de gong ag’in. ‘Come ahead on
de inside,’ I says. Gong ag’in. ‘Stop de outside.’
Gong ag’in. ‘Come ahead on de outside—now we’s
pinted for Sent Louis, en I’s outer de woods en ain’t got to
drown myself at all.’ I knowed de <i>Mogul</i> ’uz in de Sent
Louis trade now, you see. It ’uz jes fair daylight when we passed
our plantation, en I seed a gang o’ niggers en white folks
huntin’ up en down de sho’, en troublin’ deyselves a
good deal ’bout me; but I warn’t troublin’ myself
none ’bout dem.
</p>
<p>
“’Bout dat time Sally Jackson, dat used to be my second
chambermaid en ’uz head chambermaid now, she come out on de guard,
en ’uz pow’ful glad to see me, en so ’uz all de
officers; en I tole ’em I’d got kidnapped en sole down de
river, en dey made me up
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">235</a></span>
twenty dollahs en give it to me, en Sally
she rigged me out wid good clo’es, en when I got here I went
straight to whah you used to wuz, en den I come to dis house, en dey say
you’s away but ’spected back every day; so I didn’t
dast to go down de river to Dawson’s, ’ca’se I might
miss you.
</p>
<p>
“Well, las’ Monday I ’uz pass’n’
by one o’ dem places in Fourth street whah deh sticks up
runaway-nigger bills, en he’ps to ketch ’em, en I
seed my marster! I ’mos’ flopped down on de
groun’, I felt so gone. He had his back to me, en
’uz talkin’ to de man en givin’ him some
bills—nigger-bills, I reckon, en I’se de nigger.
He’s offerin’ a reward—dat’s it.
Ain’t I right, don’t you reckon?”
</p>
<p>
Tom had been gradually sinking into a state of ghastly terror, and he said
to himself, now: “I’m lost, no matter what turn things
take! This man has said to me that he thinks there was something
suspicious about that sale. He said he had a letter from a passenger on
the <i>Grand Mogul</i> saying that Roxy came here on that boat and that
everybody on board knew all about the case; so
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">236</a></span>
he says that her coming here instead of flying to a free State looks bad
for me, and that if I don’t find her for him, and that pretty soon,
he will make trouble for me. I never believed that story; I couldn’t
believe she would be so dead to all motherly instincts as to come here,
knowing the risk she would run of getting me into irremediable trouble.
And after all, here she is! And I stupidly swore I would help him find
her, thinking it was a perfectly safe thing to promise. If I venture to
deliver her up, she—she—but how can I help myself? I’ve
got to do that or pay the money, and where’s the money to come from?
I—I—well, I should think that if he would swear to treat her
kindly hereafter—and she says, herself, that he is a good
man—and if he would swear to never allow her to be overworked,
or ill fed, or—”
</p>
<p>
A flash of lightning exposed Tom’s pallid face, drawn and rigid
with these worrying thoughts. Roxana spoke up sharply now, and there
was apprehension in her voice—
</p>
<p>
“Turn up dat light! I want to see yo’ face better.
Dah now—lemme look at you.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">237</a></span>
Chambers, you’s as white as
yo’ shirt! Has you see dat man? Has he be’n to
see you?”
</p>
<p>
“Ye-s.”
</p>
<p>
“When?”
</p>
<p>
“Monday noon.”
</p>
<p>
“Monday noon! Was he on my track?”
</p>
<p>
“He—well, he thought he was. That is, he hoped he was.
This is the bill you saw.” He took it out of his pocket.
</p>
<p>
“Read it to me!”
</p>
<p>
She was panting with excitement, and there was a dusky glow in her eyes
that Tom could not translate with certainty, but there seemed to be
something threatening about it. The handbill had the usual rude woodcut of
a turbaned negro woman running, with the customary bundle on a stick over
her shoulder, and the heading in bold type, “$100
<span class="smcap">Reward.</span>” Tom read the bill aloud—at
least the part that described Roxana and named the master and his St.
Louis address and the address of the Fourth-street agency; but he left out
the item that applicants for the reward might also apply to Mr.
Thomas Driscoll.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">238</a></span>
“Gimme de bill!”
</p>
<p>
Tom had folded it and was putting it in his pocket. He felt a chilly
streak creeping down his back, but said as carelessly as he could—
</p>
<p>
“The bill? Why, it isn’t any use to you, you can’t
read it. What do you want with it?”
</p>
<p>
“Gimme de bill!” Tom gave it to her, but with a reluctance
which he could not entirely disguise. “Did you read it
<i>all</i> to me?”
</p>
<p>
“Certainly I did.”
</p>
<p>
“Hole up yo’ han’ en swah to it.”
</p>
<p>
Tom did it. Roxana put the bill carefully away in her pocket, with her
eyes fixed upon Tom’s face all the while; then she said—
</p>
<p>
“Yo’s lyin’!”
</p>
<p>
“What would I want to lie about it for?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know—but you is. Dat’s my opinion,
anyways. But nemmine ’bout dat. When I seed dat man I ’uz
dat sk’yerd dat I could sca’cely wobble home. Den I give a
nigger man a dollar for dese clo’es, en I ain’t be’n
in a house sence, night ner day, till now. I blacked my face en laid
hid in de cellar of a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">239</a></span>
ole house dat’s burnt down,
daytimes, en robbed de sugar hogsheads en grain sacks on de
wharf, nights, to git somethin’ to eat, en never dast to try
to buy noth’n’, en I’s ’mos’ starved.
En I never dast to come near dis place till dis rainy night, when
dey ain’t no people roun’ sca’cely. But to-night I
be’n a-stannin’ in de dark alley ever sence
night come, waitin’ for you to go by. En here I is.”
</p>
<p>
She fell to thinking. Presently she said—
</p>
<p>
“You seed dat man at noon, las’ Monday?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
“I seed him de middle o’ dat arternoon. He
hunted you up, didn’t he?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
“Did he give you de bill dat time?”
</p>
<p>
“No, he hadn’t got it printed yet.”
</p>
<p>
Roxana darted a suspicious glance at him.
</p>
<p>
“Did you he’p him fix up de bill?”
</p>
<p>
Tom cursed himself for making that stupid blunder, and tried to rectify it
by saying he remembered, now, that it <i>was</i> at noon Monday that the
man gave him the bill. Roxana said—
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">240</a></span>
“You’s lyin’ ag’in, sho.”
Then she straightened up and raised her finger:
</p>
<p>
“Now den! I’s gwine to ask you a question, en I wants to
know how you’s gwine to git aroun’ it. You knowed he
’uz arter me; en if you run off, ’stid o’ stayin’
here to he’p him, he’d know dey ’uz somethin’
wrong ’bout dis business, en den he would inquire ’bout you,
en dat would take him to yo’ uncle, en yo’ uncle would read
de bill en see dat you be’n sellin’ a free nigger down de
river, en you know <i>him</i>, I reckon! He’d t’ar up de will
en kick you outen de house. Now, den, you answer me dis question:
hain’t you tole dat man dat I would be sho’ to come here,
en den you would fix it so he could set a trap en ketch me?”
</p>
<p>
Tom recognized that neither lies nor arguments could help him any
longer—he was in a vise, with the screw turned on, and out of
it there was no budging. His face began to take on an ugly look, and
presently he said, with a snarl—
</p>
<p>
“Well, what could I do? You see, yourself,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">241</a></span>
that I was in his grip
and couldn’t get out.”
</p>
<p>
Roxy scorched him with a scornful gaze awhile, then she said—
</p>
<p>
“What could you do? You could be Judas to yo’ own mother
to save yo’ wuthless hide! Would anybody b’lieve it?
No—a dog couldn’t! You is de low-downest orneriest
hound dat was ever pup’d into dis worl’—en
I’s ’sponsible for it!”—and she spat on him.
</p>
<p>
He made no effort to resent this. Roxy reflected a moment, then she
said—
</p>
<p>
“Now I’ll tell you what you’s gwine to do. You’s
gwine to give dat man de money dat you’s got laid up, en make
him wait till you kin go to de Judge en git de res’ en buy me
free agin.”
</p>
<p>
“Thunder! what are you thinking of? Go and ask him for three hundred
dollars and odd? What would I tell him I want with it, pray?”
</p>
<p>
Roxy’s answer was delivered in a serene and level voice—
</p>
<p>
“You’ll tell him you’s sole me to pay yo’
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">242</a></span>
gamblin’ debts en dat you lied to me en was a villain,
en dat I ’quires you to git dat money en buy me
back ag’in.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, you’ve gone stark mad! He would tear the will to shreds
in a minute—don’t you know that?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I does.”
</p>
<p>
“Then you don’t believe I’m
idiot enough to go to him, do you?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t b’lieve nothin’ ’bout
it—I <i>knows</i> you’s a-goin’. I knows it
’ca’se you knows dat if you don’t raise dat
money I’ll go to him myself, en den he’ll sell
<i>you</i> down de river, en you kin see how you like it!”
</p>
<p>
Tom rose, trembling and excited, and there was an evil light in his eye.
He strode to the door and said he must get out of this suffocating place
for a moment and clear his brain in the fresh air so that he could
determine what to do. The door wouldn’t open. Roxy smiled grimly,
and said—
</p>
<p>
“I’s got de key, honey—set down. You needn’t
cle’r up yo’ brain none to fine out what you gwine to
do—<i>I</i> knows what you’s gwine to do.”
Tom sat down and began to pass his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">243</a></span>
hands through his hair with a helpless and desperate air. Roxy said,
“Is dat man in dis house?”
</p>
<p>
Tom glanced up with a surprised expression, and asked—
</p>
<p>
“What gave you such an idea?”
</p>
<p>
“You done it. Gwine out to cle’r yo’ brain! In de fust
place you ain’t got none to cle’r, en in de second place
yo’ ornery eye tole on you. You’s de low-downest hound dat
ever—but I done tole you dat befo’. Now den, dis is Friday.
You kin fix it up wid dat man, en tell him you’s gwine away to git
de res’ o’ de money, en dat you’ll be back wid it
nex’ Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday. You understan’?”
</p>
<p>
Tom answered sullenly—
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
“En when you gits de new bill o’ sale dat sells me to my
own self, take en send it in de mail to Mr. Pudd’nhead Wilson,
en write on de back dat he’s to keep it tell I come.
You understan’?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">244</a></span>
“Dat’s all den. Take yo’ umbreller,
en put on yo’ hat.”
</p>
<p>
“Why?”
</p>
<p>
“Beca’se you’s gwine to see me home to de wharf.
You see dis knife? I’s toted it aroun’ sence de day I
seed dat man en bought dese clo’es en it. If he ketch me,
I’s gwine to kill myself wid it. Now start along, en go
sof’, en lead de way; en if you gives a sign in dis house,
or if anybody comes up to you in de street, I’s gwine to
jam it right into you. Chambers, does you b’lieve me when
I says dat?”
</p>
<p>
“It’s no use to bother me with that question.
I know your word’s good.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, it’s diff’rent from yo’n! Shet de light
out en move along—here’s de key.”
</p>
<p>
They were not followed. Tom trembled every time a late straggler brushed
by them on the street, and half expected to feel the cold steel in his
back. Roxy was right at his heels and always in reach. After tramping a
mile they reached a wide vacancy on the deserted wharves, and in this dark
and rainy desert they parted.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">245</a></span>
As Tom trudged home his mind was full of dreary thoughts and wild plans;
but at last he said to himself, wearily—
</p>
<p>
“There is but the one way out. I must follow her plan. But
with a variation—I will not ask for the money and ruin myself;
I will <i>rob</i> the old skinflint.”
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">246</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER XIX.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">The Prophecy Realized.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of
a good example.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
It were not best that we should all think alike; it is
difference of opinion that makes horse-races.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">Dawson’s Landing</span> was comfortably
finishing its season of dull repose and waiting patiently for the duel.
Count Luigi was waiting, too; but not patiently, rumor said. Sunday came,
and Luigi insisted on having his challenge conveyed. Wilson carried it.
Judge Driscoll declined to fight with an assassin—“that
is,” he added significantly, “in the field of honor.”
</p>
<p>
Elsewhere, of course, he would be ready. Wilson tried to convince him that
if he had been present himself when Angelo told about the homicide
committed by Luigi, he would not have considered the act discreditable to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">247</a></span>
Luigi; but the obstinate old man was not to be moved.
</p>
<p>
Wilson went back to his principal and reported the failure of his mission.
Luigi was incensed, and asked how it could be that the old gentleman, who
was by no means dull-witted, held his trifling nephew’s evidence
and inferences to be of more value than Wilson’s. But Wilson
laughed, and said—
</p>
<p>
“That is quite simple; that is easily explicable. I am not his
doll—his baby—his infatuation: his nephew is. The Judge and
his late wife never had any children. The Judge and his wife were past
middle age when this treasure fell into their lap. One must make
allowances for a parental instinct that has been starving for
twenty-five or thirty years. It is famished, it is crazed with hunger
by that time, and will be entirely satisfied with anything that comes
handy; its taste is atrophied, it can’t tell mud-cat from shad.
A devil born to a young couple is measurably recognizable by them as
a devil before long, but a devil adopted by an old couple is an angel
to them, and remains so, through thick
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">248</a></span>
and thin. Tom is this old man’s angel; he is infatuated with him.
Tom can persuade him into things which other people can’t—not
all things; I don’t mean that, but a good many—particularly
one class of things: the things that create or abolish personal
partialities or prejudices in the old man’s mind. The old man liked
both of you. Tom conceived a hatred for you. That was enough; it turned
the old man around at once. The oldest and strongest friendship must go
to the ground when one of these late-adopted darlings throws a brick at
it.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s a curious philosophy,” said Luigi.
</p>
<p>
“It ain’t a philosophy at all—it’s a fact. And
there is something pathetic and beautiful about it, too. I think there is
nothing more pathetic than to see one of these poor old childless
couples taking a menagerie of yelping little worthless dogs to their
hearts; and then adding some cursing and squawking parrots and a
jackass-voiced macaw; and next a couple of hundred screeching
song-birds, and presently some fetid guinea-pigs and rabbits, and a
howling colony of cats. It
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">249</a></span>
is all a groping and ignorant effort to construct out of base metal
and brass filings, so to speak, something to take the place of that
golden treasure denied them by Nature, a child. But this is a digression.
The unwritten law of this region requires you to kill Judge Driscoll on
sight, and he and the community will expect that attention at your
hands—though of course your own death by his bullet will answer
every purpose. Look out for him! Are you heeled—that is,
fixed?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, he shall have his opportunity. If he attacks me I will
respond.”
</p>
<p>
As Wilson was leaving, he said—
</p>
<p>
“The Judge is still a little used up by his campaign work,
and will not get out for a day or so; but when he does get out,
you want to be on the alert.”
</p>
<p>
About eleven at night the twins went out for exercise, and started on a
long stroll in the veiled moonlight.
</p>
<p>
Tom Driscoll had landed at Hackett’s Store, two miles below
Dawson’s, just about half an hour earlier, the only passenger
for that lonely spot, and had walked up the shore
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">250</a></span>
road and entered Judge Driscoll’s house without having
encountered any one either on the road or under the roof.
</p>
<p>
He pulled down his window-blinds and lighted his candle. He laid
off his coat and hat and began his preparations. He unlocked his
trunk and got his suit of girl’s clothes out from under the
male attire in it, and laid it by. Then he blacked his face with
burnt cork and put the cork in his pocket. His plan was, to slip
down to his uncle’s private sitting-room below, pass into
the bedroom, steal the safe-key from the old gentleman’s
clothes, and then go back and rob the safe. He took up his candle
to start. His courage and confidence were high, up to this point,
but both began to waver a little, now. Suppose he should make a
noise, by some accident, and get caught—say, in the act of
opening the safe? Perhaps it would be well to go armed. He took
the Indian knife from its hiding-place, and felt a pleasant
return of his wandering courage. He slipped stealthily down the
narrow stair, his hair rising and his pulses halting at the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">251</a></span>
slightest creak. When he was half-way down, he was disturbed to
perceive that the landing below was touched by a faint glow of
light. What could that mean? Was his uncle still up? No, that
was not likely; he must have left his night-taper there when he
went to bed. Tom crept on down,
pausing at every step to listen. He found the door standing open,
and glanced in. What he saw pleased him beyond measure. His uncle
was asleep on the sofa; on a small table at the head of the sofa
a lamp was burning low, and by it stood the old man’s small
tin cash-box, closed. Near the box was a pile of bank-notes and a
piece of paper covered with figures in pencil. The safe-door was
not open. Evidently the sleeper had wearied himself with work upon
his finances, and was taking a rest.
</p>
<p>
Tom set his candle on the stairs, and began to make his way toward
the pile of notes, stooping low as he went. When he was passing his
uncle, the old man stirred in his sleep, and Tom stopped
instantly—stopped, and softly drew the knife from its sheath,
with his heart thumping, and his eyes fastened upon
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">252</a></span>
his
benefactor’s face. After a moment or two he ventured forward
again—one step—reached for his prize and seized it,
dropping the knife-sheath. Then he felt the old man’s
strong grip upon him, and a wild cry of “Help! help!”
rang in his ear. Without hesitation he drove the knife home—and
was free. Some of the notes escaped from his left hand and fell in the
blood on the floor. He dropped the knife and snatched them up and started
to fly; transferred them to his left hand, and seized the knife again,
in his fright and confusion, but remembered himself and flung it from
him, as being a dangerous witness to carry away with him.
</p>
<p>
He jumped for the stair-foot, and closed the door behind him; and as he
snatched his candle and fled upward, the stillness of the night was broken
by the sound of urgent footsteps approaching the house. In another moment
he was in his room and the twins were standing aghast over the body of
the murdered man!
</p>
<p>
Tom put on his coat, buttoned his hat under it, threw on his suit of
girl’s clothes,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">253</a></span>
dropped the veil, blew out his light, locked the
room door by which he had just entered, taking the key, passed through
his other door into the back hall, locked that door and kept the key,
then worked his way along in the dark and descended the back stairs.
He was not expecting to meet anybody, for all interest was centered
in the other part of the house, now; his calculation proved correct.
By the time he was passing through the back-yard, Mrs. Pratt, her
servants, and a dozen half-dressed neighbors had joined the twins and
the dead, and accessions were still arriving at the front door.
</p>
<p>
As Tom, quaking as with a palsy, passed out at the gate, three women
came flying from the house on the opposite side of the lane. They
rushed by him and in at the gate, asking him what the trouble was
there, but not waiting for an answer. Tom said to himself,
“Those old maids waited to dress—they did the same thing
the night Stevens’s house burned down next door.” In a few
minutes he was in the haunted house. He lighted a candle and took off
his girl-clothes. There
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">254</a></span>
was blood on him all down his left side, and his right hand was red with
the stains of the blood-soaked notes which he had crushed in it; but
otherwise he was free from this sort of evidence. He cleansed his
hand on the straw, and cleaned most of the smut from his face. Then he
burned his male and female attire to ashes, scattered the ashes, and put
on a disguise proper for a tramp. He blew out his light, went below, and
was soon loafing down the river road with the intent to borrow and use one
of Roxy’s devices. He found a canoe and paddled off down-stream,
setting the canoe adrift as dawn approached, and making his way by land to
the next village, where he kept out of sight till a transient steamer came
along, and then took deck passage for St. Louis. He was ill at ease until
Dawson’s Landing was behind him; then he said to himself,
“All the detectives on earth couldn’t trace me now;
there’s not a vestige of a clue left in the world; that homicide
will take its place with the permanent mysteries, and people
won’t get done trying to guess out the secret of it for
fifty years.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">255</a></span>
In St. Louis, next morning, he read this brief telegram in the
papers—dated at Dawson’s Landing:
</p>
<blockquote>
<p>
Judge Driscoll, an old and respected citizen, was assassinated
here about midnight by a profligate Italian nobleman or
barber on account of a quarrel growing out of the recent
election. The assassin will probably be lynched.
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>
“One of the twins!” soliloquized Tom; “how lucky!
It is the knife that has done him this grace. We never know when fortune
is trying to favor us. I actually cursed Pudd’nhead Wilson in my
heart for putting it out of my power to sell that knife. I take it
back, now.”
</p>
<p>
Tom was now rich and independent. He arranged with the planter, and mailed
to Wilson the new bill of sale which sold Roxana to herself; then he
telegraphed his Aunt Pratt:
</p>
<blockquote>
<p>
Have seen the awful news in the papers and am almost
prostrated with grief. Shall start by packet to-day. Try to
bear up till I come.
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>
When Wilson reached the house of mourning and had gathered such details as
Mrs. Pratt and the rest of the crowd could tell him,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">256</a></span>
he took command as mayor, and gave orders that nothing should be touched,
but everything left as it was until Justice Robinson should arrive and
take the proper measures as coroner. He cleared everybody out of the
room but the twins and himself. The sheriff soon arrived and took the
twins away to jail. Wilson told them to keep heart, and promised to do
his best in their defense when the case should come to trial. Justice
Robinson came presently, and with him Constable Blake. They examined the
room thoroughly. They found the knife and the sheath. Wilson noticed that
there were finger-prints on the knife-handle. That pleased him, for the
twins had required the earliest comers to make a scrutiny of their hands
and clothes, and neither these people nor Wilson himself had found any
blood-stains upon them. Could there be a possibility that the twins had
spoken the truth when they said they found the man dead when they ran
into the house in answer to the cry for help? He thought of that
mysterious girl at once. But this was not the sort of work for a girl to
be engaged in. No
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">257</a></span>
matter; Tom Driscoll’s room must be examined.
</p>
<p>
After the coroner’s jury had viewed the body and its surroundings,
Wilson suggested a search up-stairs, and he went along. The jury forced an
entrance to Tom’s room, but found nothing, of course.
</p>
<p>
The coroner’s jury found that the homicide was committed by Luigi,
and that Angelo was accessory to it.
</p>
<p>
The town was bitter against the unfortunates, and for the first few days
after the murder they were in constant danger of being lynched. The grand
jury presently indicted Luigi for murder in the first degree, and Angelo
as accessory before the fact. The twins were transferred from the city
jail to the county prison to await trial.
</p>
<p>
Wilson examined the finger-marks on the knife-handle and said to himself,
“Neither of the twins made those marks.” Then
manifestly there was another person concerned, either in his own
interest or as hired assassin.
</p>
<p>
But who could it be? That, he must try to find out. The safe was not
open, the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">258</a></span>
cash-box was closed, and had three thousand dollars in it. Then
robbery was not the motive, and revenge was. Where had the murdered man an
enemy except Luigi? There was but that one person in the world with a deep
grudge against him.
</p>
<p>
The mysterious girl! The girl was a great trial to Wilson. If the motive
had been robbery, the girl might answer; but there wasn’t any girl
that would want to take this old man’s life for revenge. He had no
quarrels with girls; he was a gentleman.
</p>
<p>
Wilson had perfect tracings of the finger-marks of the knife-handle; and
among his glass-records he had a great array of finger-prints of women and
girls, collected during the last fifteen or eighteen years, but he scanned
them in vain, they successfully withstood every test; among them were no
duplicates of the prints on the knife.
</p>
<p>
The presence of the knife on the stage of the murder was a worrying
circumstance for Wilson. A week previously he had as good as admitted to
himself that he believed Luigi had possessed such a knife, and that he
still
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">259</a></span>
possessed it notwithstanding his pretense that it had been stolen. And
now here was the knife, and with it the twins. Half the town had said
the twins were humbugging when they claimed that they had lost their
knife, and now these people were joyful, and said,
“I told you so!”
</p>
<p>
If their finger-prints had been on the handle—but it was useless
to bother any further about that; the finger-prints on the handle were
<i>not</i> theirs—that he knew perfectly.
</p>
<p>
Wilson refused to suspect Tom; for first, Tom couldn’t murder
anybody—he hadn’t character enough; secondly, if he could
murder a person he wouldn’t select his doting benefactor and
nearest relative; thirdly, self-interest was in
the way; for while the uncle lived, Tom was sure of a free support and a
chance to get the destroyed will revived again, but with the uncle gone,
that chance was gone, too. It was true the will had really been revived,
as was now discovered, but Tom could not have been aware of it, or he
would have spoken of it, in his native talky, unsecretive way. Finally,
Tom was in St. Louis when
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">260</a></span>
the murder was done, and got the news out of the morning journals, as was
shown by his telegram to his aunt. These speculations were unemphasized
sensations rather than articulated thoughts, for Wilson would have
laughed at the idea of seriously connecting Tom with the murder.
</p>
<p>
Wilson regarded the case of the twins as desperate—in fact, about
hopeless. For he argued that if a confederate was not found, an
enlightened Missouri jury would hang them, sure; if a confederate was
found, that would not improve the matter, but simply furnish one more
person for the sheriff to hang. Nothing could save the twins but the
discovery of a person who did the murder on his sole personal
account—an undertaking which had all the aspect of the impossible.
Still, the person who made the finger-prints must be sought. The twins
might have no case <i>with</i> him, but they certainly would have none
without him.
</p>
<p>
So Wilson mooned around, thinking, thinking, guessing, guessing, day and
night, and arriving nowhere. Whenever he ran across a girl or a woman he
was not acquainted with,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">261</a></span>
he got her finger-prints, on one pretext or another; and they always cost
him a sigh when he got home, for they never tallied with the finger-marks
on the knife-handle.
</p>
<p>
As to the mysterious girl, Tom swore he knew no such girl, and did not
remember ever seeing a girl wearing a dress like the one described by
Wilson. He admitted that he did not always lock his room, and that
sometimes the servants forgot to lock the house doors; still, in his
opinion the girl must have made but few visits or she would have been
discovered. When Wilson tried to connect her with the stealing-raid, and
thought she might have been the old woman’s confederate, if not
the very thief herself disguised as an old woman, Tom seemed stuck, and
also much interested, and said he would keep a sharp eye out for this
person or persons, although he was afraid that she or they would be too
smart to venture again into a town where everybody would now be on the
watch for a good while to come.
</p>
<p>
Everybody was pitying Tom, he looked so quiet and sorrowful, and seemed to
feel his great loss so deeply. He was playing a part,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">262</a></span>
but it was not all a part. The picture of his alleged uncle, as he had
last seen him, was before him in the dark pretty frequently, when he was
awake, and called again in his dreams, when he was asleep. He
wouldn’t go into the room where the tragedy had happened. This
charmed the doting Mrs. Pratt, who realized now, “as she had never
done before,” she said, what a sensitive and delicate nature her
darling had, and how he adored his poor uncle.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">263</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER XX.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">The Murderer Chuckles.</p>
<p class="pullquote">
Even the clearest and most perfect circumstantial evidence
is likely to be at fault, after all, and therefore ought to
be received with great caution. Take the case of any pencil,
sharpened by any woman: if you have witnesses, you will find
she did it with a knife; but if you take simply the aspect
of the pencil, you will say she did it with her
teeth.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">The</span> weeks dragged along, no friend visiting the
jailed twins but their counsel and Aunt Patsy Cooper, and the day of trial
came at last—the heaviest day in Wilson’s life; for with all
his tireless diligence he had discovered no sign or trace of the missing
confederate. “Confederate” was the term he had long ago
privately accepted for that person—not as being unquestionably the
right term, but as being at least possibly the right one, though he was
never able to understand why the twins did not vanish and escape, as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">264</a></span>
the confederate had done, instead of remaining by the murdered man and
getting caught there.
</p>
<p>
The court-house was crowded, of course, and would remain so to the finish,
for not only in the town itself, but in the country for miles around, the
trial was the one topic of conversation among the people. Mrs. Pratt, in
deep mourning, and Tom with a weed on his hat, had seats near Pembroke
Howard, the public prosecutor, and back of them sat a great array of
friends of the family. The twins had but one friend present to keep their
counsel in countenance, their poor old sorrowing landlady. She sat near
Wilson, and looked her friendliest. In the “nigger corner”
sat Chambers; also Roxy, with good clothes on, and her bill of sale in
her pocket. It was her most precious possession, and she never parted
with it, day or night. Tom had allowed her thirty-five dollars a month
ever since he came into his property, and had said that he and she ought
to be grateful to the twins for making them rich; but had roused such a
temper in her by
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">265</a></span>
this speech that he did not repeat the argument
afterward. She said the old Judge had treated her child a thousand times
better than he deserved, and had never done her an unkindness in his life;
so she hated these outlandish devils for killing him, and shouldn’t
ever sleep satisfied till she saw them hanged for it. She was here to
watch the trial, now, and was going to lift up just one
“hooraw” over it if the County Judge put her in jail
a year for it. She gave her turbaned head a toss and said, “When
dat verdic’ comes, I’s gwine to lif’ dat <i>roof</i>,
now, I <i>tell</i> you.”
</p>
<p>
Pembroke Howard briefly sketched the State’s case. He said he
would show by a chain of circumstantial evidence without break or fault
in it anywhere, that the principal prisoner at the bar committed the
murder; that the motive was partly revenge, and partly a desire to take
his own life out of jeopardy, and that his brother, by his presence, was a
consenting accessory to the crime; a crime which was the basest known to
the calendar of human misdeeds—assassination; that it was conceived
by the blackest of hearts and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">266</a></span>
consummated by the cowardliest of hands; a
crime which had broken a loving sister’s heart, blighted the
happiness of a young nephew who was as dear as a son, brought
inconsolable grief to many friends, and sorrow and loss to the whole
community. The utmost penalty of the outraged law would be exacted, and
upon the accused, now present at the bar, that penalty would
unquestionably be executed. He would reserve further remark until his
closing speech.
</p>
<p>
He was strongly moved, and so also was the whole house; Mrs. Pratt and
several other women were weeping when he sat down, and many an eye that
was full of hate was riveted upon the unhappy prisoners.
</p>
<p>
Witness after witness was called by the State, and questioned at length;
but the cross-questioning was brief. Wilson knew they could furnish
nothing valuable for his side. People were sorry for Pudd’nhead;
his budding career would get hurt by this trial.
</p>
<p>
Several witnesses swore they heard Judge Driscoll say in his public speech
that the twins would be able to find their lost knife
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">267</a></span>
again when they needed it to assassinate somebody with. This was not
news, but now it was seen to have been sorrowfully prophetic, and a
profound sensation quivered through the hushed court-room when those
dismal words were repeated.
</p>
<p>
The public prosecutor rose and said that it was within his knowledge,
through a conversation held with Judge Driscoll on the last day of his
life, that counsel for the defense had brought him a challenge from the
person charged at this bar with murder; that he had refused to fight with
a confessed assassin—“that is, on the field of
honor,” but had added significantly, that he would be ready
for him elsewhere. Presumably the person here charged with murder was
warned that he must kill or be killed the first time he should meet
Judge Driscoll. If counsel for the defense chose to let the statement
stand so, he would not call him to the witness stand. Mr. Wilson said he
would offer no denial. [Murmurs in the house—“It is getting
worse and worse for Wilson’s case.”]
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Pratt testified that she heard no outcry,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">268</a></span>
and did not know what woke her up, unless it was the sound of rapid
footsteps approaching the front door. She jumped up and ran out in the
hall just as she was, and heard the footsteps flying up the front steps
and then following behind her as she ran to the sitting-room. There she
found the accused standing over her murdered brother. [Here she broke
down and sobbed. Sensation in the court.] Resuming, she said the persons
entering behind her were Mr. Rogers and Mr. Buckstone.
</p>
<p>
Cross-examined by Wilson, she said the twins proclaimed their innocence;
declared that they had been taking a walk, and had hurried to the house in
response to a cry for help which was so loud and strong that they had
heard it at a considerable distance; that they begged her and the
gentlemen just mentioned to examine their hands and clothes—which
was done, and no blood stains found.
</p>
<p>
Confirmatory evidence followed from Rogers and Buckstone.
</p>
<p>
The finding of the knife was verified, the advertisement minutely
describing it and offering
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">269</a></span>
a reward for it was put in evidence, and its exact correspondence with
that description proved. Then followed a few minor details, and the case
for the State was closed.
</p>
<p>
Wilson said that he had three witnesses, the Misses Clarkson, who would
testify that they met a veiled young woman leaving Judge Driscoll’s
premises by the back gate a few minutes after the cries for help were
heard, and that their evidence, taken with certain circumstantial evidence
which he would call the court’s attention to, would in his opinion
convince the court that there was still one person concerned in this crime
who had not yet been found, and also that a stay of proceedings ought to
be granted, in justice to his clients, until that person should be
discovered. As it was late, he would ask leave to defer the examination of
his three witnesses until the next morning.
</p>
<p>
The crowd poured out of the place and went flocking away in excited groups
and couples, talking the events of the session over with vivacity and
consuming interest, and everybody seemed to have had a satisfactory and
enjoyable
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">270</a></span>
day except the accused, their counsel, and their old-lady
friend. There was no cheer among these, and no substantial hope.
</p>
<p>
In parting with the twins Aunt Patsy did attempt a good-night with a gay
pretense of hope and cheer in it, but broke down without finishing.
</p>
<p>
Absolutely secure as Tom considered himself to be, the opening
solemnities of the trial had nevertheless oppressed him with a
vague uneasiness, his being a nature sensitive to even the
smallest alarms; but from the moment that the poverty and
weakness of Wilson’s case lay exposed to the court, he
was comfortable once more, even jubilant. He left the court-room
sarcastically sorry for Wilson. “The Clarksons met an
unknown woman in the back lane,” he said to
himself—“<i>that</i> is his case! I’ll give
him a century to find her in—a couple of them if he
likes. A woman who doesn’t exist any longer, and the clothes
that gave her her sex burnt up and the ashes thrown away—oh,
certainly, he’ll find <i>her</i> easy enough!” This
reflection set him to admiring, for the hundredth time, the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">271</a></span>
shrewd ingenuities by which he had insured himself against
detection—more, against even suspicion.
</p>
<p>
“Nearly always in cases like this there is some little detail
or other overlooked, some wee little track or trace left behind, and
detection follows; but here there’s not even the faintest suggestion
of a trace left. No more than a bird leaves when it flies through the
air—yes, through the night, you may say. The man that can track a
bird through the air in the dark and find that bird is the man to track
me out and find the Judge’s assassin—no other need apply.
And that is the job that has been laid out for poor Pudd’nhead
Wilson, of all people in the world! Lord, it will be pathetically funny
to see him grubbing and groping after that woman that don’t exist,
and the right person sitting under his very nose all the time!”
The more he thought the situation over, the more the humor of it struck
him. Finally he said, “I’ll never let him hear the last of
that woman. Every time I catch him in company, to his dying day,
I’ll ask him in the guileless affectionate way that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">272</a></span>
used to gravel him so when I inquired how his unborn law-business
was coming along, ‘Got on her track yet—hey,
Pudd’nhead?’” He wanted to laugh, but that
would not have answered; there were people about, and he was mourning
for his uncle. He made up his mind that it would be good entertainment
to look in on Wilson that night and watch him worry over his barren
law-case and goad him with an exasperating word or two of sympathy and
commiseration now and then.
</p>
<p>
Wilson wanted no supper, he had no appetite. He got out all the
finger-prints of girls and women in his collection of records and pored
gloomily over them an hour or more, trying to convince himself that that
troublesome girl’s marks were there somewhere and had been
overlooked. But it was not so. He drew back his chair, clasped his hands
over his head, and gave himself up to dull and arid musings.
</p>
<p>
Tom Driscoll dropped in, an hour after dark, and said with a pleasant
laugh as he took a seat—
</p>
<p>
“Hello, we’ve gone back to the amusements
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">273</a></span>
of our days of neglect and obscurity for consolation, have we?”
and he took up one of the glass strips and held it against the light
to inspect it. “Come, cheer up, old man; there’s no use
in losing your grip and going back to this child’s-play merely
because this big sunspot is drifting across your shiny new
disk. It’ll pass, and you’ll be all right
again,”—and he laid the glass down.
“Did you think you could win always?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, no,” said Wilson, with a sigh, “I
didn’t expect that, but I can’t believe Luigi killed your
uncle, and I feel very sorry for him. It makes me blue. And you would
feel as I do, Tom, if you were not prejudiced against those young
fellows.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know about that,” and Tom’s
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Change countenence to countenance.">
countenance</ins> darkened, for his memory reverted to his kicking;
“I owe them no good will, considering the brunette
one’s treatment of me that night. Prejudice or no prejudice,
Pudd’nhead, I don’t like them, and when they get their
deserts you’re not going to find me sitting on the
mourner’s bench.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">274</a></span>
He took up another strip of glass, and exclaimed—
</p>
<p>
“Why, here’s old Roxy’s label! Are you going to
ornament the royal palaces with nigger paw-marks, too? By the date here,
I was seven months old when this was done, and she was nursing me and her
little nigger cub. There’s a line straight across her thumb-print.
How comes that?” and Tom held out the piece of glass to Wilson.
</p>
<p>
“That is common,” said the bored man, wearily.
“Scar of a cut or a scratch, usually”—and he took
the strip of glass indifferently, and raised it toward the lamp.
</p>
<p>
All the blood sunk suddenly out of his face; his hand quaked, and he gazed
at the polished surface before him with the glassy stare of a corpse.
</p>
<p>
“Great Heavens, what’s the matter with you, Wilson?
Are you going to faint?”
</p>
<p>
Tom sprang for a glass of water and offered it, but Wilson shrank
shuddering from him and said—
</p>
<p>
“No, no!—take it away!” His breast was rising and
falling, and he moved his head
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">275</a></span>
about in a dull and wandering way, like a person who had been stunned.
Presently he said, “I shall feel better when I get to bed; I have
been overwrought to-day; yes, and over worked for many days.”
</p>
<p>
“Then I’ll leave you and let you to get to your rest.
Good-night, old man.” But as Tom went out he couldn’t deny
himself a small parting gibe: “Don’t take it so hard; a body
can’t win every time; you’ll hang somebody yet.”
</p>
<p>
Wilson muttered to himself, “It is no lie to say I am sorry
I have to begin with you, miserable dog though you are!”
</p>
<p>
He braced himself up with a glass of cold whisky, and went to work again.
He did not compare the new finger-marks unintentionally left by Tom a few
minutes before on Roxy’s glass with the tracings of the marks left
on the knife-handle, there being no need for that (for his trained eye),
but busied himself with another matter, muttering from time to time,
“Idiot that I was!—Nothing but a <i>girl</i> would do
me—a man in girl’s clothes never occurred to me.”
First, he hunted out the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">276</a></span>
plate containing the finger-prints made by Tom when he was twelve years
old, and laid it by itself; then he brought forth the marks made by
Tom’s baby fingers when he was a suckling of seven months, and
placed these two plates with the one containing this subject’s
newly (and unconsciously) made record.
</p>
<p>
“Now the series is complete,” he said with satisfaction,
and sat down to inspect these things and enjoy them.
</p>
<p>
But his enjoyment was brief. He stared a considerable time at the three
strips, and seemed stupefied with astonishment. At last he put them down
and said, “I can’t make it out at all—hang it,
the baby’s don’t tally with the others!”
</p>
<p>
He walked the floor for half an hour puzzling over his enigma, then he
hunted out two other glass plates.
</p>
<p>
He sat down and puzzled over these things a good while, but kept
muttering, “It’s no use; I can’t understand it.
They don’t tally right, and yet I’ll swear the names
and dates are right, and so of course they <i>ought</i> to tally.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">277</a></span>
I never labeled one of these thing carelessly in my life.
There is a most extraordinary mystery here.”
</p>
<p>
He was tired out, now, and his brains were beginning to clog. He said he
would sleep himself fresh, and then see what he could do with this riddle.
He slept through a troubled and unrestful hour, then unconsciousness began
to shred away, and presently he rose drowsily to a sitting posture.
“Now what was that dream?” he said, trying to recall it;
“what was that dream?—it seemed to unravel that
puz—”
</p>
<p>
He landed in the middle of the floor at a bound, without finishing the
sentence, and ran and turned up his light and seized his
“records.” He took a single swift glance at them and
cried out—
</p>
<p>
“It’s so! Heavens, what a revelation! And for twenty-three
years no man has ever suspected it!”
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">278</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">CHAPTER XXI.</a></h2>
<p class="chaptertitle">Doom.</p>
<p class="pullquote"> He is useless on top of the ground; he ought
to be under it, inspiring the cabbages.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
<i>April 1.</i> This is the day upon which we are reminded of what
we are on the other three hundred and
sixty-four.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">Wilson</span> put on enough clothes for business
purposes and went to work under a high pressure of steam. He was awake
all over. All sense of weariness had been swept away by the invigorating
refreshment of the great and hopeful discovery which he had made. He
made fine and accurate reproductions of a number of his
“records,” and then enlarged them on a scale of ten to one
with his pantograph. He did these pantograph enlargements on sheets of
white cardboard, and made each individual line of the bewildering maze
of whorls or curves or loops which constituted the “pattern,”
of a “record” stand out bold and black by reinforcing
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">279</a></span>
it with ink. To the untrained eye the collection of delicate originals
made by the human finger on the glass plates looked about alike; but when
enlarged ten times they resembled the markings of a block of wood that has
been sawed across the grain, and the dullest eye could detect at a glance,
and at a distance of many feet, that no two of the patterns were alike.
When Wilson had at last finished his tedious and difficult work, he
arranged its results according to a plan in which a progressive order and
sequence was a principal feature; then he added to the batch several
pantograph enlargements which he had made from time to time in bygone
years.
</p>
<p>
The night was spent and the day well advanced, now. By the time he had
snatched a trifle of breakfast it was nine o’clock, and the court
was ready to begin its sitting. He was in his place twelve minutes later
with his “records.”
</p>
<p>
Tom Driscoll caught a slight glimpse of the records, and nudged his
nearest friend and said, with a wink, “Pudd’nhead’s
got a rare eye to business—thinks that as long as he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">280</a></span>
can’t win his case it’s at least a noble good chance to
advertise his palace-window decorations without any expense.”
Wilson was informed that his witnesses had been delayed, but would
arrive presently; but he rose and said he should probably not have
occasion to make use of their testimony. [An amused murmur ran through
the room—“It’s a clean backdown! he gives up without
hitting a lick!”] Wilson continued—“I have other
testimony—and better. [This compelled interest, and evoked murmurs
of surprise that had a detectable ingredient of disappointment in them.]
If I seem to be springing this evidence upon the court, I offer as my
justification for this, that I did not discover its existence until late
last night, and have been engaged in examining and classifying it ever
since, until half an hour ago. I shall offer it presently; but first I
wish to say a few preliminary words.
</p>
<p>
“May it please the Court, the claim given the front place, the claim
most persistently urged, the claim most strenuously and I may even say
aggressively and defiantly insisted upon by the prosecution, is
this—that the person
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">281</a></span>
whose hand left the blood-stained finger-prints upon the handle of the
Indian knife is the person who committed the murder.” Wilson paused,
during several moments, to give impressiveness to what he was about to
say, and then added tranquilly, “<i>We grant that
claim.</i>”
</p>
<p>
It was an electrical surprise. No one was prepared for such an admission.
A buzz of astonishment rose on all sides, and people were heard to
intimate that the overworked lawyer had lost his mind. Even the veteran
judge, accustomed as he was to legal ambushes and masked batteries in
criminal procedure, was not sure that his ears were not deceiving him, and
asked counsel what it was he had said. Howard’s impassive face
betrayed no sign, but his attitude and bearing lost something of their
careless confidence for a moment. Wilson resumed:
</p>
<p>
“We not only grant that claim, but we welcome it and strongly
endorse it. Leaving that matter for the present, we will now proceed to
consider other points in the case which we propose to establish by
evidence,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">282</a></span>
and shall include that one in the chain in its proper place.”
</p>
<p>
He had made up his mind to try a few hardy guesses, in mapping out his
theory of the origin and motive of the murder—guesses designed to
fill up gaps in it—guesses which could help if they hit, and would
probably do no harm if they didn’t.
</p>
<p>
“To my mind, certain circumstances of the case before the court
seem to suggest a motive for the homicide quite different from the one
insisted on by the State. It is my conviction that the motive was not
revenge, but robbery. It has been urged that the presence of the accused
brothers in that fatal room, just after notification that one of them
must take the life of Judge Driscoll or lose his own the moment the
parties should meet, clearly signifies that the natural instinct of
self-preservation moved my clients to go there secretly and save Count
Luigi by destroying his adversary.
</p>
<p>
“Then why did they stay there, after the deed was done? Mrs.
Pratt had time, although she did not hear the cry for help, but woke up
some moments later, to run to that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">283</a></span>
room—and there she found these
men standing and making no effort to escape. If they were guilty, they
ought to have been running out of the house at the same time that she
was running to that room. If they had had such a strong instinct toward
self-preservation as to move them to kill that unarmed man, what had
become of it now, when it should have been more alert than ever? Would
any of us have remained there? Let us not slander our intelligence to
that degree.
</p>
<p>
“Much stress has been laid upon the fact that the accused
offered a very large reward for the knife with which this murder was
done; that no thief came forward to claim that extraordinary reward;
that the latter fact was good circumstantial evidence that the claim
that the knife had been stolen was a vanity and a fraud; that these
details taken in connection with the memorable and apparently prophetic
speech of the deceased concerning that knife, and the final discovery
of that very knife in the fatal room where no living person was found
present with the slaughtered man but the owner of the knife and his
brother,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">284</a></span>
form an indestructible chain of evidence which fixes the crime
upon those unfortunate strangers.
</p>
<p>
“But I shall presently ask to be sworn, and shall testify that
there was a large reward offered for the <i>thief</i>, also; and it
was offered secretly and not advertised; that this fact was indiscreetly
mentioned—or at least tacitly admitted—in what was supposed
to be safe circumstances, but may <i>not</i> have been. The thief may
have been present himself. [Tom Driscoll had been looking at the speaker,
but dropped his eyes at this point.] In that case he would retain the
knife in his possession, not daring to offer it for sale, or for pledge
in a pawn-shop. [There was a nodding of heads among the audience by way
of admission that this was not a bad stroke.] I shall prove to the
satisfaction of the jury that there <i>was</i> a person in Judge
Driscoll’s room several minutes before the accused entered it.
[This produced a strong sensation; the last drowsy-head in the court-room
roused up, now, and made preparation to listen.] If it shall seem
necessary, I will prove by the Misses Clarkson
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">285</a></span>
that they met a veiled person—ostensibly a woman—coming out
of the back gate a few minutes after the cry for help was heard. This
person was not a woman, but a man dressed in woman’s clothes.”
Another sensation. Wilson had his eye on Tom when he hazarded this
guess, to see what effect it would produce. He was satisfied with the
result, and said to himself, “It was a
success—he’s hit!”
</p>
<p>
“The object of that person in that house was robbery, not murder.
It is true that the safe was not open, but there was an ordinary tin
cash-box on the table, with three thousand dollars in it. It is easily
supposable that the thief was concealed in the house; that he knew of
this box, and of its owner’s habit of counting its contents and
arranging his accounts at night—if he had that habit, which I do
not assert, of course;—that he tried to take the box while its owner
slept, but made a noise and was seized, and had to use the knife to save
himself from capture; and that he fled without his booty because he
heard help coming.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">286</a></span>
“I have now done with my theory, and will proceed to the
evidences by which I propose to try to prove its soundness.”
Wilson took up several of his strips of glass. When the audience
recognized these familiar mementoes of Pudd’nhead’s
old-time childish “puttering” and folly, the tense and
funereal interest vanished out of their faces, and the house burst into
volleys of relieving and refreshing laughter, and Tom chirked up and
joined in the fun himself; but Wilson was apparently not disturbed. He
arranged his records on the table before him, and said—
</p>
<p>
“I beg the indulgence of the court while I make a few remarks in
explanation of some evidence which I am about to introduce, and which I
shall presently ask to be allowed to verify under oath on the
witness stand. Every human being carries with him from his cradle to his
grave certain physical marks which do not change their character, and by
which he can always be identified—and that without shade of doubt or
question. These marks are his signature, his physiological autograph, so
to speak, and this autograph
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">287</a></span>
can not be counterfeited, nor can he disguise
it or hide it away, nor can it become illegible by the wear and mutations
of time. This signature is not his face—age can change that beyond
recognition; it is not his hair, for that can fall out; it is not his
height, for duplicates of that exist; it is not his form, for duplicates
of that exist also, whereas this signature is each man’s very
own—there is no duplicate of it among the swarming populations
of the globe! [The audience were interested once more.]
</p>
<p>
“This autograph consists of the delicate lines or corrugations with
which Nature marks the insides of the hands and the soles of the feet. If
you will look at the balls of your fingers,—you that have very sharp
eyesight,—you will observe that these dainty curving lines lie close
together, like those that indicate the borders of oceans in maps, and that
they form various clearly defined patterns, such as arches, circles, long
curves, whorls, etc., and that these patterns differ on the different
fingers. [Every man in the room had his hand up
to the light, now, and his head canted to one side, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">288</a></span>
was minutely
scrutinizing the balls of his fingers; there were whispered ejaculations
of ‘Why, it’s so—I never noticed that before!’]
The patterns on the right hand are not the same as those on the left.
[Ejaculations of ‘Why, that’s so, too!’] Taken finger
for finger, your patterns differ from your neighbor’s. [Comparisons
were made all over the house—even the judge and jury were absorbed
in this curious work.] The patterns of a twin’s right hand are not
the same as those on his left. One twin’s patterns are never the
same as his fellow-twin’s patterns—the jury will find that
the patterns upon the finger-balls of the accused follow this rule.
[An examination of the twins’ hands was begun at once.] You have
often heard of twins who were so exactly alike that when dressed alike
their own parents could not tell them apart. Yet there was never a twin
born into this world that did not carry from birth to death a sure
identifier in this mysterious and marvelous natal autograph. That once
known to you, his fellow-twin could never personate him and deceive
you.”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">289</a></span>
Wilson stopped and stood silent. Inattention dies a quick and sure death
when a speaker does that. The stillness gives warning that something is
coming. All palms and finger-balls went down, now, all slouching forms
straightened, all heads came up, all eyes were fastened upon
Wilson’s face. He waited yet one, two, three moments, to let his
pause complete and perfect its spell upon the house; then, when through
the profound hush he could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, he
put out his hand and took the Indian knife by the blade and held it aloft
where all could see the sinister spots upon its ivory handle; then he
said, in a level and passionless voice—
</p>
<p>
“Upon this haft stands the assassin’s natal autograph, written
in the blood of that helpless and unoffending old man who loved you and
whom you all loved. There is but one man in the whole earth whose hand can
duplicate that crimson sign,”—he paused and raised his eyes
to the pendulum swinging back and forth,—“and please God
we will produce
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">290</a></span>
that man in this room before the clock strikes noon!”
</p>
<p>
Stunned, distraught, unconscious of its own movement, the house half rose,
as if expecting to see the murderer appear at the door, and a breeze of
muttered ejaculations swept the place. “Order in the
court!—sit down!” This from the sheriff. He was obeyed, and
quiet reigned again. Wilson stole a glance at Tom, and said to himself,
“He is flying signals of distress, now; even people who despise him
are pitying him; they think this is a hard ordeal for a young fellow who
has lost his benefactor by so cruel a stroke—and they are
right.” He resumed his speech:
</p>
<p>
“For more than twenty years I have amused my compulsory leisure with
collecting these curious physical signatures in this town. At my house I
have hundreds upon hundreds of them. Each and every one is labelled with
name and date; not labelled the next day or even the next hour, but in the
very minute that the impression was taken. When I go upon the witness
stand I will repeat under oath the things which I am now saying. I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">291</a></span>
have the finger-prints of the court, the sheriff, and every member of the
jury. There is hardly a person in this room, white or black, whose natal
signature I cannot produce, and not one of them can so disguise himself
that I cannot pick him out from a multitude of his fellow-creatures and
unerringly identify him by his hands. And if he and I should live to be a
hundred I could still do it. [The interest of the audience was steadily
deepening, now.]
</p>
<p>
“I have studied some of these signatures so much that I know them
as well as the bank cashier knows the autograph of his oldest customer.
While I turn my back now, I beg that several persons will be so good as
to pass their fingers through their hair, and then press them upon one
of the panes of the window near the jury, and that among them the accused
may set <i>their</i> finger-marks. Also, I beg that these experimenters,
or others, will set their finger-marks upon another pane, and add again
the marks of the accused, but not placing them in the same order or
relation to the other signatures as before—for, by one
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">292</a></span>
chance in a million, a person might happen upon the right marks by pure
guess-work <i>once</i>, therefore I wish to be tested twice.”
</p>
<p>
He turned his back, and the two panes were quickly covered with
delicately-lined oval spots, but visible only to such persons as could
get a dark background for them—the foliage of a tree, outside, for
instance. Then, upon call, Wilson went to the window, made his
examination, and said—
</p>
<p>
“This is Count Luigi’s right hand; this one, three signatures
below, is his left. Here is Count Angelo’s right; down here is his
left. Now for the other pane: here and here are Count Luigi’s,
here and here are his brother’s.” He faced about.
“Am I right?”
</p>
<p>
A deafening explosion of applause was the answer. The Bench said—
</p>
<p>
“This certainly approaches the miraculous!”
</p>
<p>
Wilson turned to the window again and remarked, pointing with his
finger—
</p>
<p>
“This is the signature of Mr. Justice Robinson. [Applause.] This, of
Constable Blake. [Applause.] This, of John Mason, juryman. [Applause.]
This, of the sheriff. [Applause.]
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">293</a></span>
I cannot name the others, but I have them all at home, named and dated,
and could identify them all by my finger-print records.”
</p>
<p>
He moved to his place through a storm of applause—which the sheriff
stopped, and also made the people sit down, for they were all standing and
struggling to see, of course. Court, jury, sheriff, and everybody had been
too absorbed in observing Wilson’s performance to attend to the
audience earlier.
</p>
<p>
“Now, then,” said Wilson, “I have here the natal
autographs of two children—thrown up to ten times the natural size
by the pantograph, so that any one who can see at all can tell the
markings apart at a glance. We will call the children <i>A</i> and
<i>B</i>. Here are <i>A</i>’s finger-marks, taken at the age of
five months. Here they are again, taken at seven months. [Tom started.]
They are alike, you see. Here are <i>B</i>’s at five months, and
also at seven months. They, too, exactly copy each other, but the patterns
are quite different from <i>A</i>’s, you observe. I shall refer to
these again presently, but we will turn them face down, now.
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">294</a></span>
“Here, thrown up ten sizes, are the natal autographs of the two
persons who are here before you accused of murdering Judge Driscoll. I
made these pantograph copies last night, and will so swear when I go upon
the witness stand. I ask the jury to compare them with the finger-marks
of the accused upon the window panes, and tell the court if they are
the same.”
</p>
<p>
He passed a powerful magnifying-glass to the foreman.
</p>
<p>
One juryman after another took the cardboard and the glass and made the
comparison. Then the foreman said to the judge—
</p>
<p>
“Your honor, we are all agreed that they are identical.”
</p>
<p>
Wilson said to the foreman—
</p>
<p>
“Please turn that cardboard face down, and take this one, and
compare it searchingly, by the magnifier, with the fatal signature
upon the knife-handle, and report your finding to the court.”
</p>
<p>
Again the jury made minute examinations, and again reported—
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">295</a></span>
“We find them to be exactly identical, your honor.”
</p>
<p>
Wilson turned toward the counsel for the prosecution, and there was a
clearly recognizable note of warning in his voice when he said—
</p>
<p>
“May it please the court, the State has claimed, strenuously
and persistently, that the blood-stained finger-prints upon that
knife-handle were left there by the assassin of Judge Driscoll. You
have heard us grant that claim, and welcome it.” He turned to
the jury: “Compare the finger-prints of the accused with the
finger-prints left by the assassin—and report.”
</p>
<p>
The comparison began. As it proceeded, all movement and all sound ceased,
and the deep silence of an absorbed and waiting suspense settled upon the
house; and when at last the words came—
</p>
<p>
“<i>They do not even resemble</i>,” a thunder-crash of
applause followed and the house sprang to its feet, but was quickly
repressed by official force and brought to order again. Tom was altering
his position every few minutes,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">296</a></span>
now, but none of his changes brought repose nor any small trifle of
comfort. When the house’s attention was become fixed once more,
Wilson said gravely, indicating the twins with a gesture—
</p>
<p>
“These men are innocent—I have no further concern with
them. [Another outbreak of applause began, but was promptly checked.]
We will now proceed to find the guilty. [Tom’s eyes were starting
from their sockets—yes, it was a cruel day for the bereaved youth,
everybody thought.] We will return to the infant autographs of <i>A</i>
and <i>B</i>. I will ask the jury to take these large pantograph
facsimilies of <i>A</i>’s marked five months and seven months.
Do they tally?”
</p>
<p>
The foreman responded—
</p>
<p>
“Perfectly.”
</p>
<p>
“Now examine this pantograph, taken at eight months, and also
marked <i>A</i>. Does it tally with the other two?”
</p>
<p>
The surprised response was—
</p>
<p>
“<i>No—they differ widely</i>!”
</p>
<p>
“You are quite right. Now take these two pantographs of
<i>B</i>’s autograph, marked
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">297</a></span>
five months and seven months. Do they tally with each other?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes—perfectly.”
</p>
<p>
“Take this third pantograph marked <i>B</i>, eight months. Does it
tally with <i>B</i>’s other two?”
</p>
<p>
“<i>By no means</i>!”
</p>
<p>
“Do you know how to account for those strange discrepancies? I
will tell you. For a purpose unknown to us, but probably a selfish one,
somebody changed those children in the cradle.”
</p>
<p>
This produced a vast sensation, naturally; Roxana was astonished at this
admirable guess, but not disturbed by it. To guess the exchange was one
thing, to guess who did it quite another. Pudd’nhead Wilson could do
wonderful things, no doubt, but he couldn’t do impossible ones.
Safe? She was perfectly safe. She smiled privately.
</p>
<p>
“Between the ages of seven months and eight months those children
were changed in the cradle”—he made one of his
effect-collecting pauses, and added—“and the
person who did it is in this house!”
</p>
<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">298</a></span>
Roxy’s pulses stood still! The house was thrilled as with an
electric shock, and the people half rose as if to seek a glimpse of the
person who had made that exchange. Tom was growing limp; the life seemed
oozing out of him. Wilson resumed:
</p>
<p>
“<i>A</i> was put into <i>B</i>’s cradle in the nursery;
<i>B</i> was transferred to the kitchen and became a negro and a slave,
[Sensation—confusion of angry ejaculations]—but within a
quarter of an hour he will stand before you white and free! [Burst of
applause, checked by the officers.] From seven months onward until now,
<i>A</i> has still been a usurper, and in my finger-record he bears
<i>B</i>’s name. Here is his pantograph at the age of twelve.
Compare it with the assassin’s signature upon the knife-handle.
Do they tally?”
</p>
<p>
The foreman answered—
</p>
<p>
“<i>To the minutest detail!</i>”
</p>
<p>
Wilson said, solemnly—
</p>
<p>
“The murderer of your friend and mine—York Driscoll of the
generous hand and the kindly spirit—sits in among you.
Valet de Chambre, negro and slave,—falsely called
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">299</a></span>
Thomas à Becket Driscoll,—make upon the window the
finger-prints that will hang you!”
</p>
<p>
Tom turned his ashen face imploring toward the speaker, made some impotent
movements with his white lips, then slid limp and lifeless to the floor.
</p>
<p>
Wilson broke the awed silence with the words—
</p>
<p>
“There is no need. He has confessed.”
</p>
<p>
Roxy flung herself upon her knees, covered her face with her hands, and
out through her sobs the words struggled—
</p>
<p>
“De Lord have mercy on me, po’ misable sinner dat I is!”
</p>
<p>
The clock struck twelve.
</p>
<p>
The court rose; the new prisoner, handcuffed, was removed.
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<a name="link2H_CONC" id="link2H_CONC"></a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">300</a></span>
<br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2><a href="#Contents">Conclusion</a></h2>
<p class="pullquote">
It is often the case that the man who can’t tell a lie
thinks he is the best judge of one.<i>—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="pullquote">
<i>October 12, the Discovery</i>. It was wonderful to find
America, but it would have been more wonderful to miss
it.<i>—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar.</i>
</p>
<p class="double-space-top">
<span class="smcap">The</span> town sat up all night to discuss the
amazing events of the day and swap guesses as to when Tom’s trial
would begin. Troop after troop of citizens came to serenade Wilson, and
require a speech, and shout themselves hoarse over every sentence that
fell from his lips—for all his sentences were golden, now, all
were marvelous. His long fight against hard luck and prejudice was
ended; he was a made man for good.
</p>
<p>
And as each of these roaring gangs of enthusiasts marched away, some
remorseful
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">301</a></span>
member of it was quite sure to raise his voice and say—
</p>
<p>
“And this is the man the likes of us have called a
pudd’nhead for more than twenty years. He has resigned from
that position, friends.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, but it isn’t vacant—we’re elected.”
</p>
<hr class="break" />
<p>
The twins were heroes of romance, now, and with rehabilitated reputations.
But they were weary of Western adventure, and straightway retired to
Europe.
</p>
<p>
Roxy’s heart was broken. The young fellow upon whom she had
inflicted twenty-three years of slavery continued the false heir’s
pension of thirty-five dollars a month to her, but her hurts were too
deep for money to heal; the spirit in her eye was quenched, her martial
bearing departed with it, and the voice of her laughter ceased in the
land. In her church and its affairs she found her only solace.
</p>
<p>
The real heir suddenly found himself rich and free, but in a most
embarrassing
situation. He could neither read nor write, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">302</a></span>
his speech
was the basest dialect of the negro quarter. His gait, his attitudes, his
gestures, his bearing, his laugh—all were vulgar and uncouth; his
manners were the manners of a slave. Money and fine clothes could not mend
these defects or cover them up; they only made them the more glaring and
the more pathetic. The poor fellow could not endure the terrors of the
white man’s parlor, and felt at home and at peace nowhere but in the
kitchen. The family pew was a misery to him, yet he could nevermore enter
into the solacing refuge of the “nigger gallery”—that
was closed to him for good and all. But we cannot follow his curious fate
further—that
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: Remove in after that.">
would</ins> be a long story.
</p>
<p>
The false heir made a full confession and was sentenced to
imprisonment for life. But now a complication came up. The
Percy Driscoll estate was in such a crippled shape when its
owner died that it could pay only sixty per cent. of its
great indebtedness, and was settled at that rate. But the
creditors came forward, now, and complained that inasmuch
as through an error for which <i>they</i> were
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">303</a></span>
in no way to blame the false heir was not inventoried at the time with the
rest of the property, great wrong and loss had thereby been
inflicted upon them. They rightly claimed that “Tom”
was lawfully their property and had been so for eight years;
that they had already lost sufficiently in being deprived of
his services during that long period, and ought not to be
required to add anything to that loss; that if he had been
delivered up to them in the first place, they would have sold
him and he could not have murdered Judge Driscoll; therefore
it was not he that had really committed the murder, the guilt
lay with the erroneous inventory. Everybody saw that there was
reason in this. Everybody granted that if “Tom”
were white and free it would be unquestionably right to punish
him—it would be no loss to anybody; but to shut up a
valuable slave for life—that was quite another matter.
</p>
<p>
As soon as the Governor understood the case, he pardoned Tom
at once, and the creditors sold him down the river.
</p>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapterhead">
<br />
<br /><br /><br />
<h2><a href="#Contents">Transcriber's Notes</a></h2>
<p><br /></p>
<h3>Introduction:</h3>
</div>
<h4>1. Background.</h4>
<p>
Welcome to <span class="smcap">Project Gutenberg</span>'s presentation
of <i>Pudd'nhead Wilson</i>. The Italian twins in this novel, Luigi and
Angelo, were inspired by a real pair of Italian conjoined twins who toured
America in the 1890s. These were Giacomo and Giovanni Battista Tocci.
</p>
<p>
Homer Plessy was arrested for sitting in a whites-only passenger car on
June 7, 1892, and one month later he stood before Judge John Howard
Ferguson to plead his case. Plessy was an octaroon who could easily
"pass white." Four years later, the Supreme Court condoned "Separate but
Equal" laws in the famous <i>Plessy vs. Ferguson</i> case, which affirmed
the decision of Justice Ferguson in local court. These events in 1892
unfolded as Twain wrote this story, and changed the tale that he ended up
telling.
</p>
<p>
Arthur Conan Doyle released his best-selling collection of short stories,
<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48320">The Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes</a>, on October 14, 1892. The stories had already appeared in
<i>The Strand Magazine</i>, one each month, from July 1891 to June 1892.
Holmes inspired Twain to add a component of forensics to this story.
</p>
<h4>2. Dialect.</h4>
<p>
The soliloquies and conversations in the novel follow some general
rules. Twain introduced some variations in the spelling of dialect, and
sometimes the sound of dialect, but the end meaning seems to be the
same thing. Below is a table of some of these words, and alternatives
found in the text:
</p>
<table class="dialect" summary="Table of Common Dialect used in Puddnhead Wilson" >
<caption>Dialect used in<br /> Pudd’nhead Wilson</caption>
<tbody>
<tr>
<th>English</th>
<th>Dialect,</th>
<th>Alternative,</th>
<th>Another</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>and</td>
<td>en</td>
<td></td>
<td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>against</td>
<td>agin,</td>
<td>ag’in,</td>
<td>ag’in’</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>because</td>
<td>’ca’se</td>
<td></td>
<td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>going</td>
<td>gwine,</td>
<td>gwyne</td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>more</td>
<td>mo’</td>
<td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>that</td>
<td>dat</td>
<td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>the</td>
<td>de</td>
<td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>then</td>
<td>den</td>
<td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>there</td>
<td>dere,</td>
<td>dah</td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>these</td>
<td>dese</td>
<td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>they</td>
<td>dey,</td>
<td>deh</td>
<td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>this</td>
<td>dis</td>
<td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>was</td>
<td>’uz</td>
<td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>with</td>
<td>wid</td>
<td></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>where</td>
<td>whah</td>
<td></td>
<td></td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p>
The above table was presented as a foundation which played into the decision
to make some emendations, below, that were not authorized by Twain in
1899. One curious notation is that there was sometimes pronounced
dere, but also dah. Along the same lines, they most often
became dey, but in one case, deh.
</p>
<h4>3. This version.</h4>
<p>
Our version is based on the 1894 publication of this novel in Hartford.
This was Twain's original American release of the novel in book form.
A scanned copy of this book is available through Hathitrust. The book
contained some spaces in contractions: I 'll, dat 'll, had n't, could n't,
dis 'll, 't ain't / t ain't, and dey 'll are some examples. These spaces
were not retained in our transcription, and are not identified. We did make
a few other emendations. These emendations were checked with the 1899
version of <i>Pudd’nhead Wilson</i> published by Harper & Brothers.
</p>
<h4>4. Notes on emendations.</h4>
<p>
The errors on <a href="#unauthorizedNote1">Page 233</a> and
<a href="#unauthorizedNote3">Page 288</a>, were not changed in
the 1899 book, so the case for making those changes may be found in the
<i>Detailed Notes</i> section. The remaining errors were corrected in
the 1899 publication, presumably authorized by Twain, who essentially
made the case for those emendations.
</p>
<p>
In the HTML version of this e-book, you can place your cursor over the faint
silver dotted lines below the
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: The change is stated here.">changed
text</ins> to discover the original text. The <i>Detailed Notes</i>
section of these notes describe these emendations.
</p>
<h4>5. Other versions.</h4>
<p>
Please note that many print versions of <i>Pudd’nhead Wilson</i>
include the phrase ‘spelling and usage have been brought into
conformity with modern usage,’ and editors have been liberal with
their renditions of Twain's story.
</p>
<h4>6. Detailed notes.</h4>
<p>
The <i>Detailed Notes Section</i> also includes issues that have come up
during transcription. One common issue is that words are sometimes split
into two lines for spacing purposes in the original text. These words are
hyphenated in the physical book, but there is a question sometimes as to
whether the hyphen should be retained in transcription. The reasons
behind some of these decisions are itemized.
</p>
<p><br /></p>
<h3>Production Notes Section:</h3>
<h4>1. Chapter Titles.</h4>
<p>
The Chapter Titles, such as <i>Doom</i> in Chapter XXI., were not
part of Twain's book. They remain from another version of this book.
The chapter titles are used in PG's
<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28803">Mark Twain index</a>,
so we have retained them.
<a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"></a>
</p>
<h4>2. The Author's Note.</h4>
<p>
The <i>Author’s Note to Those Extraordinary Twins</i> is actually
the author's introduction to the novella, <i>Those Extraordinary Twins.</i>
Twain originally produced this book with two parts: <i>Pudd'nhead
Wilson</i> and <i>Those Extraordinary Twins</i>.
</p>
<p>
<span class="smcap">Project Gutenberg</span> offers both stories,
so we present the <i>Author's Note</i> as the Introduction to <i>Those
Extraordinary Twins,</i> as Twain intended. If you want to read the
Author's Note, please visit the Introduction of our production of the
novella,
<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3185">Those
Extraordinary Twins</a>.
</p>
<p><br /></p>
<h3>Detailed Notes Section:</h3>
<h4>Chapter 1.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_019">Page 19</a>, barber-shop was hyphenated between
two lines for spacing. The 1899 Harper & Brothers version
used "barber shop" in this spot. Even though barber-shop cannot
be transcribed as such, the assumption is that the 1894 version put in
the hyphen by mistake. We transcribed the word barber shop.
</p>
<h4>Chapter 2.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_034">Page 34</a>, changed ca’se to
’ca’se, used as dialect for because, in the clause:
"but dat’s <strong>ca’se</strong> it’s mine."
The author used ’ca’se eighteen other times as dialect
for because, and did not use ca’se again.
</p>
<h4>Chapter 3.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_043">Page 43</a>, insert missing period after tomb.
</p>
<h4>Chapter 6.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_081">Page 81</a>, add a comma after door: "The twins
took a position near the <strong>door</strong> the widow stood at
Luigi’s side, Rowena stood beside Angelo,..."
</p>
<h4>Chapter 7.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_088">Page 88</a>, add a period after fault in the
sentence: The Judge laid himself out hospitably to make them have a
good time, and if there was a defect anywhere it was not his
fault<strong>.</strong>
</p>
<h4>Chapter 9.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_114">Page 114</a>, there is a word missing before
the semicolon in the clause: Tom sprang up and seized a billet of wood
and raised <strong> ;</strong> the 1899 Harper & Brothers
version provided the missing word, "it."
</p>
<h4>Chapter 11.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_131">Page 131</a>, change dicision to decision in the
clause: Luigi reserved his <strong>dicision.</strong>
</p>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_133">Page 133</a>, change comma to a period after
years in the sentence: “I never got a chance to try my hand at it,
and I may never get a chance; and yet if I ever do get it I shall be
found ready, for I have kept up my law-studies all these
<strong>years,”</strong>
</p>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_149">Page 149</a>, Correct spelling of Cappello to
Capello. The surname of the twins was Capello in the letter on page
73, and two other times in Chapter 6.
</p>
<h4>Chapter 13.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_167">Page 167</a>, Change ’ to ” in
the sentence: “Why, my boy, you look desolate. Don’t take
it so hard. Try and forget you have been <strong>kicked.’</strong>
</p>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_176">Page 176</a>, ship-shape was hyphenated and
split between two lines for spacing. The 1899 Harper & Brothers
version of the novel used shipshape, and so will we.
</p>
<h4>Chapter 14.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_182">Page 182</a>, changed period after hatching to
question mark in the sentence: What could be hatching<strong>.</strong>
</p>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_184">Page 184</a>, remove comma after sha'n't, in
the clause: but if he doesn’t, I
sha’n’t<strong>,</strong> let on.
</p>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_189">Page 189</a>, low-down is hyphenated and split
between two lines for spacing. On Page 188, low-down is spelled with
a hyphen, and on pages 241 and 243 low-downest is also hyphenated.
There is no occurrence of lowdown. We transcribed low-down with a
hyphen: like a ornery <strong>low-down</strong> hound!
</p>
<h4>Chapter 16.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_216">Page 216</a>, Changed ? to ! in the sentence:
En keep on sayin’ it<strong>?</strong>
</p>
<h4>Chapter 18.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_229">Page 229</a>, Changed 'against to against in
the clause: with fury <strong>’against</strong> the
planter’s wife.
</p>
<p>
<a name="unauthorizedNote1" id="unauthorizedNote1"></a>
On <a href="#Page_233">Page 233</a>, Changed de to den in the clause
"en <strong>de</strong> good gracious me." The author always used
den for then, except in this case. De is dialect for the. Twain did
not correct this in the 1899 Harper & Brothers version of the novel,
but den makes more sense then de. Roxy was floating on the river,
and <strong>then</strong> she cried good gracious me,
because she spotted the <i>Grand Mogul</i>.
</p>
<p>
Changed day to dey in two places. The novel used dey as dialect for
they regularly, and almost consistently, except in two cases. Both
cases were presumed errata:
</p>
<ul>
<li>On <a href="#Page_232">Page 232</a>, en <strong><i>day</i></strong>
warn’t gwine to hurry</li>
<li>On <a href="#Page_229">Page 229</a>, en <strong>day</strong> knows how
to whale ’em, too. </li>
</ul>
<h4>Chapter 19.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_253">Page 253</a>, back-yard is hyphenated and split
between two lines for spacing. The 1899 Harper & Brothers version
of the novel used back-yard, and so will we.
</p>
<h4>Chapter 20.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_273">Page 273</a>, changed countenence to countenance
in the clause: “I don’t know about that,” and
Tom’s <strong>countenence</strong> darkened,...
</p>
<h4>Chapter 21.</h4>
<p>
<a name="unauthorizedNote3" id="unauthorizedNote3"></a>
On <a href="#Page_288">Page 288</a>, there are two quotes made by the
crowd in double quotes. Twain did not correct this in the 1899
version of the novel by Harper & Brothers. But these lines are
surrounded by Wilson's narrative, which is already in double quotes.
Therefore, we have used single quotes for the two remarks from the
gallery.
</p>
<ul>
<li>‘Why, it’s so—I never noticed that before!’</li>
<li>‘Why, that’s so, too!’</li>
</ul>
<h4>Conclusion.</h4>
<p>
On <a href="#Page_302">Page 302</a>, removed in from the sentence:
"But we cannot follow his curious fate further—that
<strong>in</strong> would be a long story."
</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 102 ***</div>
</body>
</html>
|
