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<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER ***</div>
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<h1>THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER</h1>
<div class='ph2'>
BY MARK TWAIN
</div>
<div class='ph3'>
(Samuel Langhorne Clemens)
</div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="frontispiece"></a>
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<div class='chapter'>
<h2>CONTENTS</h2></div>
<table summary='TOC'>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c1">CHAPTER I.</a><br>
Y-o-u-u Tom—Aunt Polly Decides Upon her Duty—Tom Practices Music—The Challenge—A Private Entrance<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c2">CHAPTER II.</a><br>
Strong Temptations—Strategic Movements—The Innocents Beguiled<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c3">CHAPTER III.</a><br>
Tom as a General—Triumph and Reward—Dismal Felicity—Commission and Omission<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c4">CHAPTER IV.</a><br>
Mental Acrobatics—Attending Sunday—School—The Superintendent—“Showing off”—Tom Lionized<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c5">CHAPTER V.</a><br>
A Useful Minister—In Church—The Climax<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c6">CHAPTER VI.</a><br>
Self-Examination—Dentistry—The Midnight Charm—Witches and Devils—Cautious Approaches—Happy Hours<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c7">CHAPTER VII.</a><br>
A Treaty Entered Into—Early Lessons—A Mistake Made<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c8">CHAPTER VIII.</a><br>
Tom Decides on his Course—Old Scenes Re-enacted<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c9">CHAPTER IX.</a><br>
A Solemn Situation—Grave Subjects Introduced—Injun Joe Explains<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c10">CHAPTER X.</a><br>
The Solemn Oath—Terror Brings Repentance—Mental Punishment<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c11">CHAPTER XI.</a><br>
Muff Potter Comes Himself—Tom’s Conscience at Work<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c12">CHAPTER XII.</a><br>
Tom Shows his Generosity—Aunt Polly Weakens<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c13">CHAPTER XIII.</a><br>
The Young Pirates—Going to the Rendezvous—The Camp—Fire Talk<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c14">CHAPTER XIV.</a><br>
Camp-Life—A Sensation—Tom Steals Away from Camp<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c15">CHAPTER XV.</a><br>
Tom Reconnoiters—Learns the Situation—Reports at Camp<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c16">CHAPTER XVI.</a><br>
A Day’s Amusements—Tom Reveals a Secret—The Pirates take a Lesson —A Night Surprise—An Indian War<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c17">CHAPTER XVII.</a><br>
Memories of the Lost Heroes—The Point in Tom’s Secret<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c18">CHAPTER XVIII.</a><br>
Tom’s Feelings Investigated—Wonderful Dream—Becky Thatcher Overshadowed—Tom Becomes Jealous—Black Revenge<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c19">CHAPTER XIX.</a><br>
Tom Tells the Truth<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c20">CHAPTER XX.</a><br>
Becky in a Dilemma—Tom’s Nobility Asserts Itself<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c21">CHAPTER XXI.</a><br>
Youthful Eloquence—Compositions by the Young Ladies—A Lengthy Vision—The Boy’s Vengeance Satisfied<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c22">CHAPTER XXII.</a><br>
Tom’s Confidence Betrayed—Expects Signal Punishment<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c23">CHAPTER XXIII.</a><br>
Old Muff’s Friends—Muff Potter in Court—Muff Potter Saved<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c24">CHAPTER XXIV.</a><br>
Tom as the Village Hero—Days of Splendor and Nights of Horror—Pursuit of Injun Joe<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c25">CHAPTER XXV.</a><br>
About Kings and Diamonds—Search for the Treasure—Dead People and Ghosts<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c26">CHAPTER XXVI.</a><br>
The Haunted House—Sleepy Ghosts—A Box of Gold—Bitter Luck<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c27">CHAPTER XXVII.</a><br>
Doubts to be Settled—The Young Detectives<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c28">CHAPTER XXVIII.</a><br>
An Attempt at No. Two—Huck Mounts Guard<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c29">CHAPTER XXIX.</a><br>
The Pic-nic—Huck on Injun Joe’s Track—The “Revenge” Job—Aid for the Widow<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c30">CHAPTER XXX.</a><br>
The Welshman Reports—Huck Under Fire—The Story Circulated—A New Sensation—Hope Giving Way to Despair<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c31">CHAPTER XXXI.</a><br>
An Exploring Expedition—Trouble Commences—Lost in the Cave—Total Darkness—Found but not Saved<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c32">CHAPTER XXXII.</a><br>
Tom tells the Story of their Escape—Tom’s Enemy in Safe Quarters<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c33">CHAPTER XXXIII.</a><br>
The Fate of Injun Joe—Huck and Tom Compare Notes—An Expedition to the Cave—Protection Against Ghosts—“An Awful Snug Place”—A Reception at the Widow Douglas’s<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c34">CHAPTER XXXIV.</a><br>
Springing a Secret—Mr. Jones’ Surprise a Failure<br><br></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#c35">CHAPTER XXXV.</a><br>
A New Order of Things—Poor Huck—New Adventures Planned<br><br></td>
</tr>
</table>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2></div>
<table summary='LOI'>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#frontispiece">Tom Sawyer</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img017">Tom at Home</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img018">Aunt Polly Beguiled</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img019">A Good Opportunity</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img023">Who’s Afraid</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img025">Late Home</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img026">Jim</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img028">’Tendin’ to Business</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img030">Ain’t that Work?</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img031">Cat and Toys</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img032">Amusement</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img033">Becky Thatcher</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img034">Paying Off</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img035">After the Battle</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img036">“Showing Off”</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img038">Not Amiss</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img039a">Mary</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img039b">Tom Contemplating</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img040">Dampened Ardor</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img041">Youth</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img042">Boyhood</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img044">Using the “Barlow”</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img045">The Church</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img047">Necessities</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img051">Tom as a Sunday-School Hero</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img052">The Prize</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img053">At Church</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img054">The Model Boy</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img055">The Church Choir</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img057">A Side Show</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img058">Result of Playing in Church</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img059">The Pinch-Bug</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img060">Sid</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img063">Dentistry</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img064">Huckleberry Finn</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img067">Mother Hopkins</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img069">Result of Tom’s Truthfulness</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img070">Tom as an Artist</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img071">Interrupted Courtship</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img072">The Master</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img077">Vain Pleading</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img078">Tail Piece</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img079">The Grave in the Woods</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img081">Tom Meditates</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img083">Robin Hood and his Foe</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img084">Death of Robin Hood</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img085">Midnight</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img086">Tom’s Mode of Egress</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img088">Tom’s Effort at Prayer</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img091">Muff Potter Outwitted</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img092">The Graveyard</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img093">Forewarnings</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img098">Disturbing Muff’s Sleep</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img100">Tom’s Talk with his Aunt</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img101">Muff Potter</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img102">A Suspicious Incident</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img103">Injun Joe’s two Victims</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img106">In the Coils</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img107">Peter</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img108">Aunt Polly seeks Information</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img110">A General Good Time</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img112">Demoralized</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img113">Joe Harper</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img117">On Board Their First Prize</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img118">The Pirates Ashore</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img121">Wild Life</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img123">The Pirate’s Bath</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img124">The Pleasant Stroll</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img125">The Search for the Drowned</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img127">The Mysterious Writing</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img128">River View</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img130">What Tom Saw</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img133">Tom Swims the River</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img134">Taking Lessons</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img135">The Pirates’ Egg Market</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img139">Tom Looking for Joe’s Knife</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img141">The Thunder Storm</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img143">Terrible Slaughter</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img144">The Mourner</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img147">Tom’s Proudest Moment</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img148">Amy Lawrence</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img150">Tom tries to Remember</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img152">The Hero</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img154">A Flirtation</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img155">Becky Retaliates</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img156">A Sudden Frost</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img157">Counter-irritation</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img158">Aunt Polly</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img160">Tom justified</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img161">The Discovery</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img163">Caught in the Act</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img165">Tom Astonishes the School</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img166">Literature</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img167">Tom Declaims</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img168">Examination Evening</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img170">On Exhibition</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img173">Prize Authors</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img174">The Master’s Dilemma</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img175">The School House</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img176">The Cadet</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img177">Happy for Two Days</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img178">Enjoying the Vacation</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img180">The Stolen Melons</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img181">The Judge</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img184">Visiting the Prisoner</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img186">Tom Swears</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img188">The Court Room</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img189">The Detective</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img190">Tom Dreams</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img191">The Treasure</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img192">The Private Conference</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img194">A King; Poor Fellow!</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img195">Business</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img198">The Ha’nted House</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img199">Injun Joe</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img200">The Greatest and Best</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img205">Hidden Treasures Unearthed</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img207">The Boy’s Salvation</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img208">Room No. 2</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img209">The Next Day’s Conference</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img211">Treasures</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img212">Uncle Jake</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img213">Buck at Home</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img214">The Haunted Room</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img216">“Run for Your Life”</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img217">McDougal’s Cave</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img220">Inside the Cave</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img221">Huck on Duty</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img224">A Rousing Act</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img225">Tail Piece</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img226">The Welshman</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img227">Result of a Sneeze</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img229">Cornered</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img232">Alarming Discoveries</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img233">Tom and Becky stir up the Town</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img234">Tom’s Marks</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img235">Huck Questions the Widow</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img236">Vampires</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img237">Wonders of the Cave</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img238">Attacked by Natives</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img240">Despair</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img242">The Wedding Cake</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img245">A New Terror</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img247">Daylight</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img248">“Turn Out” to Receive Tom and Becky</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img249">The Escape from the Cave</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img251">Fate of the Ragged Man</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img252">The Treasures Found</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img253">Caught at Last</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img254">Drop after Drop</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img255">Having a Good Time</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img257">A Business Trip</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img261">“Got it at Last!”</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img263">Tail Piece</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img264">Widow Douglas</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img266">Tom Backs his Statement</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img267">Tail Piece</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img268">Huck Transformed</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img271">Comfortable Once More</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img273">High up in Society</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#img274">Contentment</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<div class='chapter'><h2>
PREFACE
</h2></div>
<p>
Most of the adventures recorded in this book really occurred; one or two
were experiences of my own, the rest those of boys who were schoolmates of
mine. Huck Finn is drawn from life; Tom Sawyer also, but not from an
individual—he is a combination of the characteristics of three boys
whom I knew, and therefore belongs to the composite order of architecture.
</p>
<p>
The odd superstitions touched upon were all prevalent among children and
slaves in the West at the period of this story—that is to say,
thirty or forty years ago.
</p>
<p>
Although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and
girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account, for
part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they
once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and
what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.
</p>
<p>
THE AUTHOR.
</p>
<p>
HARTFORD, 1876.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c1"></a>
CHAPTER I
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img017"></a>
<img alt="01-017.jpg (182K)" src="images/01-017.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Tom!”
</p>
<p>
No answer.
</p>
<p>
“TOM!”
</p>
<p>
No answer.
</p>
<p>
“What’s gone with that boy, I wonder? You TOM!”
</p>
<p>
No answer.
</p>
<p>
The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the
room; then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or never
looked <i>through</i> them for so small a thing as a boy; they were her
state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for “style,”
not service—she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as
well. She looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but
still loud enough for the furniture to hear:
</p>
<p>
“Well, I lay if I get hold of you I’ll—”
</p>
<p>
She did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and punching
under the bed with the broom, and so she needed breath to punctuate the
punches with. She resurrected nothing but the cat.
</p>
<p>
“I never did see the beat of that boy!”
</p>
<p>
She went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the tomato
vines and “jimpson” weeds that constituted the garden. No Tom.
So she lifted up her voice at an angle calculated for distance and
shouted:
</p>
<p>
“Y-o-u-u TOM!”
</p>
<p>
There was a slight noise behind her and she turned just in time to seize a
small boy by the slack of his roundabout and arrest his flight.
</p>
<p>
“There! I might ’a’ thought of that closet. What you
been doing in there?”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing.”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing! Look at your hands. And look at your mouth. What <i>is</i>
that truck?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know, aunt.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I know. It’s jam—that’s what it is. Forty
times I’ve said if you didn’t let that jam alone I’d
skin you. Hand me that switch.”
</p>
<p>
The switch hovered in the air—the peril was desperate—
</p>
<p>
“My! Look behind you, aunt!”
</p>
<p>
The old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger. The lad
fled on the instant, scrambled up the high board-fence, and disappeared
over it.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img018"></a>
<img alt="01-018.jpg (54K)" src="images/01-018.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
His aunt Polly stood surprised a moment, and then broke into a gentle
laugh.
</p>
<p>
“Hang the boy, can’t I never learn anything? Ain’t he
played me tricks enough like that for me to be looking out for him by this
time? But old fools is the biggest fools there is. Can’t learn an
old dog new tricks, as the saying is. But my goodness, he never plays them
alike, two days, and how is a body to know what’s coming? He ’pears
to know just how long he can torment me before I get my dander up, and he
knows if he can make out to put me off for a minute or make me laugh, it’s
all down again and I can’t hit him a lick. I ain’t doing my
duty by that boy, and that’s the Lord’s truth, goodness knows.
Spare the rod and spile the child, as the Good Book says. I’m a
laying up sin and suffering for us both, I know. He’s full of the
Old Scratch, but laws-a-me! he’s my own dead sister’s boy,
poor thing, and I ain’t got the heart to lash him, somehow. Every
time I let him off, my conscience does hurt me so, and every time I hit
him my old heart most breaks. Well-a-well, man that is born of woman is of
few days and full of trouble, as the Scripture says, and I reckon it’s
so. He’ll play hookey this evening,<span class="fnanchor" id="fna1"><a href="#fn1">[*]</a></span> and I’ll just be obleeged to make him work,
tomorrow, to punish him. It’s mighty hard to make him work
Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work more
than he hates anything else, and I’ve <i>got</i> to do some of my
duty by him, or I’ll be the ruination of the child.”
</p>
<p class="footnote" id="fn1"><a href="#fna1">[*]</a> Southwestern for
“afternoon”</p>
<p>
Tom did play hookey, and he had a very good time. He got back home barely
in season to help Jim, the small colored boy, saw next-day’s wood
and split the kindlings before supper—at least he was there in time
to tell his adventures to Jim while Jim did three-fourths of the work. Tom’s
younger brother (or rather half-brother) Sid was already through with his
part of the work (picking up chips), for he was a quiet boy, and had no
adventurous, trouble-some ways.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img019"></a>
<img alt="01-019.jpg (48K)" src="images/01-019.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
While Tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity
offered, Aunt Polly asked him questions that were full of guile, and very
deep—for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments. Like many
other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she was
endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she loved to
contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low cunning. Said
she:
</p>
<p>
“Tom, it was middling warm in school, warn’t it?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes’m.”
</p>
<p>
“Powerful warm, warn’t it?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes’m.”
</p>
<p>
“Didn’t you want to go in a-swimming, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
A bit of a scare shot through Tom—a touch of uncomfortable
suspicion. He searched Aunt Polly’s face, but it told him nothing.
So he said:
</p>
<p>
“No’m—well, not very much.”
</p>
<p>
The old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom’s shirt, and said:
</p>
<p>
“But you ain’t too warm now, though.” And it flattered
her to reflect that she had discovered that the shirt was dry without
anybody knowing that that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of
her, Tom knew where the wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might be the
next move:
</p>
<p>
“Some of us pumped on our heads—mine’s damp yet. See?”
</p>
<p>
Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of
circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new
inspiration:
</p>
<p>
“Tom, you didn’t have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed
it, to pump on your head, did you? Unbutton your jacket!”
</p>
<p>
The trouble vanished out of Tom’s face. He opened his jacket. His
shirt collar was securely sewed.
</p>
<p>
“Bother! Well, go ’long with you. I’d made sure you’d
played hookey and been a-swimming. But I forgive ye, Tom. I reckon you’re
a kind of a singed cat, as the saying is—better’n you look. <i>This</i>
time.”
</p>
<p>
She was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that Tom had
stumbled into obedient conduct for once.
</p>
<p>
But Sidney said:
</p>
<p>
“Well, now, if I didn’t think you sewed his collar with white
thread, but it’s black.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, I did sew it with white! Tom!”
</p>
<p>
But Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door he said:
</p>
<p>
“Siddy, I’ll lick you for that.”
</p>
<p>
In a safe place Tom examined two large needles which were thrust into the
lapels of his jacket, and had thread bound about them—one needle
carried white thread and the other black. He said:
</p>
<p>
“She’d never noticed if it hadn’t been for Sid. Confound
it! sometimes she sews it with white, and sometimes she sews it with
black. I wish to gee-miny she’d stick to one or t’other—I
can’t keep the run of ’em. But I bet you I’ll lam Sid
for that. I’ll learn him!”
</p>
<p>
He was not the Model Boy of the village. He knew the model boy very well
though—and loathed him.
</p>
<p>
Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. Not
because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him than a man’s
are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them down and
drove them out of his mind for the time—just as men’s
misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises. This new
interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired
from a negro, and he was suffering to practise it undisturbed. It
consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid warble, produced
by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short intervals in the
midst of the music—the reader probably remembers how to do it, if he
has ever been a boy. Diligence and attention soon gave him the knack of
it, and he strode down the street with his mouth full of harmony and his
soul full of gratitude. He felt much as an astronomer feels who has
discovered a new planet—no doubt, as far as strong, deep, unalloyed
pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the astronomer.
</p>
<p>
The summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet. Presently Tom checked
his whistle. A stranger was before him—a boy a shade larger than
himself. A new-comer of any age or either sex was an impressive curiosity
in the poor little shabby village of St. Petersburg. This boy was well
dressed, too—well dressed on a week-day. This was simply astounding.
His cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth roundabout was
new and natty, and so were his pantaloons. He had shoes on—and it
was only Friday. He even wore a necktie, a bright bit of ribbon. He had a
citified air about him that ate into Tom’s vitals. The more Tom
stared at the splendid marvel, the higher he turned up his nose at his
finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed to him to grow.
Neither boy spoke. If one moved, the other moved—but only sidewise,
in a circle; they kept face to face and eye to eye all the time. Finally
Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“I can lick you!”
</p>
<p>
“I’d like to see you try it.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I can do it.”
</p>
<p>
“No you can’t, either.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes I can.”
</p>
<p>
“No you can’t.”
</p>
<p>
“I can.”
</p>
<p>
“You can’t.”
</p>
<p>
“Can!”
</p>
<p>
“Can’t!”
</p>
<p>
An uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“What’s your name?”
</p>
<p>
“’Tisn’t any of your business, maybe.”
</p>
<p>
“Well I ’low I’ll <i>make</i> it my business.”
</p>
<p>
“Well why don’t you?”
</p>
<p>
“If you say much, I will.”
</p>
<p>
“Much—much—<i>much</i>. There now.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you think you’re mighty smart, <i>don’t</i> you? I
could lick you with one hand tied behind me, if I wanted to.”
</p>
<p>
“Well why don’t you <i>do</i> it? You <i>say</i> you can do
it.”
</p>
<p>
“Well I <i>will</i>, if you fool with me.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh yes—I’ve seen whole families in the same fix.”
</p>
<p>
“Smarty! You think you’re <i>some</i>, now, <i>don’t</i>
you? Oh, what a hat!”
</p>
<p>
“You can lump that hat if you don’t like it. I dare you to
knock it off—and anybody that’ll take a dare will suck eggs.”
</p>
<p>
“You’re a liar!”
</p>
<p>
“You’re another.”
</p>
<p>
“You’re a fighting liar and dasn’t take it up.”
</p>
<p>
“Aw—take a walk!”
</p>
<p>
“Say—if you give me much more of your sass I’ll take and
bounce a rock off’n your head.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, of <i>course</i> you will.”
</p>
<p>
“Well I <i>will</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“Well why don’t you <i>do</i> it then? What do you keep <i>saying</i>
you will for? Why don’t you <i>do</i> it? It’s because you’re
afraid.”
</p>
<p>
“I <i>ain’t</i> afraid.”
</p>
<p>
“You are.”
</p>
<p>
“I ain’t.”
</p>
<p>
“You are.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img023"></a>
<img alt="01-023.jpg (55K)" src="images/01-023.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Another pause, and more eying and sidling around each other. Presently
they were shoulder to shoulder. Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Get away from here!”
</p>
<p>
“Go away yourself!”
</p>
<p>
“I won’t.”
</p>
<p>
“I won’t either.”
</p>
<p>
So they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and both
shoving with might and main, and glowering at each other with hate. But
neither could get an advantage. After struggling till both were hot and
flushed, each relaxed his strain with watchful caution, and Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“You’re a coward and a pup. I’ll tell my big brother on
you, and he can thrash you with his little finger, and I’ll make him
do it, too.”
</p>
<p>
“What do I care for your big brother? I’ve got a brother that’s
bigger than he is—and what’s more, he can throw him over that
fence, too.” [Both brothers were imaginary.]
</p>
<p>
“That’s a lie.”
</p>
<p>
“<i>Your</i> saying so don’t make it so.”
</p>
<p>
Tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said:
</p>
<p>
“I dare you to step over that, and I’ll lick you till you can’t
stand up. Anybody that’ll take a dare will steal sheep.”
</p>
<p>
The new boy stepped over promptly, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Now you said you’d do it, now let’s see you do it.”
</p>
<p>
“Don’t you crowd me now; you better look out.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, you <i>said</i> you’d do it—why don’t you
do it?”
</p>
<p>
“By jingo! for two cents I <i>will</i> do it.”
</p>
<p>
The new boy took two broad coppers out of his pocket and held them out
with derision. Tom struck them to the ground. In an instant both boys were
rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like cats; and for the
space of a minute they tugged and tore at each other’s hair and
clothes, punched and scratched each other’s nose, and covered
themselves with dust and glory. Presently the confusion took form, and
through the fog of battle Tom appeared, seated astride the new boy, and
pounding him with his fists. “Holler ’nuff!” said he.
</p>
<p>
The boy only struggled to free himself. He was crying—mainly from
rage.
</p>
<p>
“Holler ’nuff!”—and the pounding went on.
</p>
<p>
At last the stranger got out a smothered “’Nuff!” and
Tom let him up and said:
</p>
<p>
“Now that’ll learn you. Better look out who you’re
fooling with next time.”
</p>
<p>
The new boy went off brushing the dust from his clothes, sobbing,
snuffling, and occasionally looking back and shaking his head and
threatening what he would do to Tom the “next time he caught him
out.” To which Tom responded with jeers, and started off in high
feather, and as soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up a
stone, threw it and hit him between the shoulders and then turned tail and
ran like an antelope. Tom chased the traitor home, and thus found out
where he lived. He then held a position at the gate for some time, daring
the enemy to come outside, but the enemy only made faces at him through
the window and declined. At last the enemy’s mother appeared, and
called Tom a bad, vicious, vulgar child, and ordered him away. So he went
away; but he said he “’lowed” to “lay” for
that boy.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img025"></a>
<img alt="01-025.jpg (55K)" src="images/01-025.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
He got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cautiously in at
the window, he uncovered an ambuscade, in the person of his aunt; and when
she saw the state his clothes were in her resolution to turn his Saturday
holiday into captivity at hard labor became adamantine in its firmness.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c2"></a>
CHAPTER II
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img026"></a>
<img alt="02-026.jpg (202K)" src="images/02-026.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh,
and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if the heart
was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every face and
a spring in every step. The locust-trees were in bloom and the fragrance
of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff Hill, beyond the village and above
it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far enough away to seem a
Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.
</p>
<p>
Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled
brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep
melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine
feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing,
he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the
operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak
with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a
tree-box discouraged. Jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin pail,
and singing Buffalo Gals. Bringing water from the town pump had always
been hateful work in Tom’s eyes, before, but now it did not strike
him so. He remembered that there was company at the pump. White, mulatto,
and negro boys and girls were always there waiting their turns, resting,
trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting, skylarking. And he remembered
that although the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards off, Jim never
got back with a bucket of water under an hour—and even then somebody
generally had to go after him. Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Say, Jim, I’ll fetch the water if you’ll whitewash
some.”
</p>
<p>
Jim shook his head and said:
</p>
<p>
“Can’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an’
git dis water an’ not stop foolin’ roun’ wid anybody.
She say she spec’ Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an’ so
she tole me go ’long an’ ’tend to my own business—she
’lowed <i>she’d</i> ’tend to de whitewashin’.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That’s the way she
always talks. Gimme the bucket—I won’t be gone only a a
minute. <i>She</i> won’t ever know.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I dasn’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis she’d take an’
tar de head off’n me. ’Deed she would.”
</p>
<p>
“<i>She</i>! She never licks anybody—whacks ’em over the
head with her thimble—and who cares for that, I’d like to
know. She talks awful, but talk don’t hurt—anyways it don’t
if she don’t cry. Jim, I’ll give you a marvel. I’ll give
you a white alley!”
</p>
<p>
Jim began to waver.
</p>
<p>
“White alley, Jim! And it’s a bully taw.”
</p>
<p>
“My! Dat’s a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars Tom I’s
powerful ’fraid ole missis—”
</p>
<p>
“And besides, if you will I’ll show you my sore toe.”
</p>
<p>
Jim was only human—this attraction was too much for him. He put down
his pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing
interest while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment he was
flying down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom was
whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring from the field with a
slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img028"></a>
<img alt="02-028.jpg (101K)" src="images/02-028.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
But Tom’s energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he had
planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys would
come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would
make a world of fun of him for having to work—the very thought of it
burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and examined it—bits
of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchange of <i>work</i>,
maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an hour of pure freedom.
So he returned his straitened means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of
trying to buy the boys. At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration
burst upon him! Nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration.
</p>
<p>
He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight
presently—the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been
dreading. Ben’s gait was the hop-skip-and-jump—proof enough
that his heart was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an
apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a
deep-toned ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a
steamboat. As he drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the
street, leaned far over to starboard and rounded to ponderously and with
laborious pomp and circumstance—for he was personating the Big
Missouri, and considered himself to be drawing nine feet of water. He was
boat and captain and engine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself
standing on his own hurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them:
</p>
<p>
“Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!” The headway ran almost out,
and he drew up slowly toward the sidewalk.
</p>
<p>
“Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!” His arms straightened and
stiffened down his sides.
</p>
<p>
“Set her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow!
Chow!” His right hand, mean-time, describing stately circles—for
it was representing a forty-foot wheel.
</p>
<p>
“Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-ling!
Chow-ch-chow-chow!” The left hand began to describe circles.
</p>
<p>
“Stop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the labboard! Come ahead
on the stabboard! Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow!
Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line! <i>lively</i> now!
Come—out with your spring-line—what’re you about there!
Take a turn round that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage,
now—let her go! Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! SH’T!
S’H’T! SH’T!” (trying the gauge-cocks).
</p>
<p>
Tom went on whitewashing—paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben
stared a moment and then said: “<i>Hi-Yi! You’re</i> up a
stump, ain’t you!”
</p>
<p>
No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then he
gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as before.
Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom’s mouth watered for the apple,
but he stuck to his work. Ben said:
</p>
<p>
“Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?”
</p>
<p>
Tom wheeled suddenly and said:
</p>
<p>
“Why, it’s you, Ben! I warn’t noticing.”
</p>
<p>
“Say—I’m going in a-swimming, I am. Don’t you wish
you could? But of course you’d druther <i>work</i>—wouldn’t
you? Course you would!”
</p>
<p>
Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:
</p>
<p>
“What do you call work?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, ain’t <i>that</i> work?”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img030"></a>
<img alt="02-030.jpg (170K)" src="images/02-030.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly:
</p>
<p>
“Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t. All I know, is, it
suits Tom Sawyer.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh come, now, you don’t mean to let on that you <i>like</i>
it?”
</p>
<p>
The brush continued to move.
</p>
<p>
“Like it? Well, I don’t see why I oughtn’t to like it.
Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?”
</p>
<p>
That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom
swept his brush daintily back and forth—stepped back to note the
effect—added a touch here and there—criticised the effect
again—Ben watching every move and getting more and more interested,
more and more absorbed. Presently he said:
</p>
<p>
“Say, Tom, let <i>me</i> whitewash a little.”
</p>
<p>
Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:
</p>
<p>
“No—no—I reckon it wouldn’t hardly do, Ben. You
see, Aunt Polly’s awful particular about this fence—right here
on the street, you know—but if it was the back fence I wouldn’t
mind and <i>she</i> wouldn’t. Yes, she’s awful particular
about this fence; it’s got to be done very careful; I reckon there
ain’t one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the
way it’s got to be done.”
</p>
<p>
“No—is that so? Oh come, now—lemme just try. Only just a
little—I’d let <i>you</i>, if you was me, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“Ben, I’d like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly—well,
Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn’t let him; Sid wanted to do it,
and she wouldn’t let Sid. Now don’t you see how I’m
fixed? If you was to tackle this fence and anything was to happen to it—”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, shucks, I’ll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say—I’ll
give you the core of my apple.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, here—No, Ben, now don’t. I’m afeard—”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll give you <i>all</i> of it!”
</p>
<p>
Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his
heart. And while the late steamer Big Missouri worked and sweated in the
sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his
legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents.
There was no lack of material; boys happened along every little while;
they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time Ben was fagged
out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite, in good
repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and
a string to swing it with—and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And
when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken
boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He had besides
the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews-harp, a piece
of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn’t
unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin
soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one
eye, a brass door-knob, a dog-collar—but no dog—the handle of
a knife, four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window sash.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img031"></a>
<img alt="02-031.jpg (24K)" src="images/02-031.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while—plenty of company—and
the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn’t run out
of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.
</p>
<p>
Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He had
discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it—namely,
that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary
to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise
philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended
that Work consists of whatever a body is <i>obliged</i> to do, and that
Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. And this would help
him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a
tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing Mont Blanc is only
amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four-horse
passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the summer,
because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were
offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work and then they
would resign.
</p>
<p>
The boy mused awhile over the substantial change which had taken place in
his worldly circumstances, and then wended toward headquarters to report.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img032"></a>
<img alt="02-032.jpg (48K)" src="images/02-032.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c3"></a>
CHAPTER III
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img033"></a>
<img alt="03-033.jpg (197K)" src="images/03-033.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Tom presented himself before Aunt Polly, who was sitting by an open window
in a pleasant rearward apartment, which was bedroom, breakfast-room,
dining-room, and library, combined. The balmy summer air, the restful
quiet, the odor of the flowers, and the drowsing murmur of the bees had
had their effect, and she was nodding over her knitting—for she had
no company but the cat, and it was asleep in her lap. Her spectacles were
propped up on her gray head for safety. She had thought that of course Tom
had deserted long ago, and she wondered at seeing him place himself in her
power again in this intrepid way. He said: “Mayn’t I go and
play now, aunt?”
</p>
<p>
“What, a’ready? How much have you done?”
</p>
<p>
“It’s all done, aunt.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, don’t lie to me—I can’t bear it.”
</p>
<p>
“I ain’t, aunt; it <i>is</i> all done.”
</p>
<p>
Aunt Polly placed small trust in such evidence. She went out to see for
herself; and she would have been content to find twenty per cent. of Tom’s
statement true. When she found the entire fence white-washed, and not only
whitewashed but elaborately coated and recoated, and even a streak added
to the ground, her astonishment was almost unspeakable. She said:
</p>
<p>
“Well, I never! There’s no getting round it, you can work when
you’re a mind to, Tom.” And then she diluted the compliment by
adding, “But it’s powerful seldom you’re a mind to, I’m
bound to say. Well, go ’long and play; but mind you get back some
time in a week, or I’ll tan you.”
</p>
<p>
She was so overcome by the splendor of his achievement that she took him
into the closet and selected a choice apple and delivered it to him, along
with an improving lecture upon the added value and flavor a treat took to
itself when it came without sin through virtuous effort. And while she
closed with a happy Scriptural flourish, he “hooked” a
doughnut.
</p>
<p>
Then he skipped out, and saw Sid just starting up the outside stairway
that led to the back rooms on the second floor. Clods were handy and the
air was full of them in a twinkling. They raged around Sid like a
hail-storm; and before Aunt Polly could collect her surprised faculties
and sally to the rescue, six or seven clods had taken personal effect, and
Tom was over the fence and gone. There was a gate, but as a general thing
he was too crowded for time to make use of it. His soul was at peace, now
that he had settled with Sid for calling attention to his black thread and
getting him into trouble.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img034"></a>
<img alt="03-034.jpg (41K)" src="images/03-034.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Tom skirted the block, and came round into a muddy alley that led by the
back of his aunt’s cow-stable. He presently got safely beyond the
reach of capture and punishment, and hastened toward the public square of
the village, where two “military” companies of boys had met
for conflict, according to previous appointment. Tom was General of one of
these armies, Joe Harper (a bosom friend) General of the other. These two
great commanders did not condescend to fight in person—that being
better suited to the still smaller fry—but sat together on an
eminence and conducted the field operations by orders delivered through
aides-de-camp. Tom’s army won a great victory, after a long and
hard-fought battle. Then the dead were counted, prisoners exchanged, the
terms of the next disagreement agreed upon, and the day for the necessary
battle appointed; after which the armies fell into line and marched away,
and Tom turned homeward alone.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img035"></a>
<img alt="03-035.jpg (106K)" src="images/03-035.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
As he was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher lived, he saw a new
girl in the garden—a lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow
hair plaited into two long-tails, white summer frock and embroidered
pantalettes. The fresh-crowned hero fell without firing a shot. A certain
Amy Lawrence vanished out of his heart and left not even a memory of
herself behind. He had thought he loved her to distraction; he had
regarded his passion as adoration; and behold it was only a poor little
evanescent partiality. He had been months winning her; she had confessed
hardly a week ago; he had been the happiest and the proudest boy in the
world only seven short days, and here in one instant of time she had gone
out of his heart like a casual stranger whose visit is done.
</p>
<p>
He worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till he saw that she had
discovered him; then he pretended he did not know she was present, and
began to “show off” in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in
order to win her admiration. He kept up this grotesque foolishness for
some time; but by-and-by, while he was in the midst of some dangerous
gymnastic performances, he glanced aside and saw that the little girl was
wending her way toward the house. Tom came up to the fence and leaned on
it, grieving, and hoping she would tarry yet awhile longer. She halted a
moment on the steps and then moved toward the door. Tom heaved a great
sigh as she put her foot on the threshold. But his face lit up, right
away, for she tossed a pansy over the fence a moment before she
disappeared.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img036"></a>
<img alt="03-036.jpg (43K)" src="images/03-036.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The boy ran around and stopped within a foot or two of the flower, and
then shaded his eyes with his hand and began to look down street as if he
had discovered something of interest going on in that direction. Presently
he picked up a straw and began trying to balance it on his nose, with his
head tilted far back; and as he moved from side to side, in his efforts,
he edged nearer and nearer toward the pansy; finally his bare foot rested
upon it, his pliant toes closed upon it, and he hopped away with the
treasure and disappeared round the corner. But only for a minute—only
while he could button the flower inside his jacket, next his heart—or
next his stomach, possibly, for he was not much posted in anatomy, and not
hypercritical, anyway.
</p>
<p>
He returned, now, and hung about the fence till nightfall, “showing
off,” as before; but the girl never exhibited herself again, though
Tom comforted himself a little with the hope that she had been near some
window, meantime, and been aware of his attentions. Finally he strode home
reluctantly, with his poor head full of visions.
</p>
<p>
All through supper his spirits were so high that his aunt wondered “what
had got into the child.” He took a good scolding about clodding Sid,
and did not seem to mind it in the least. He tried to steal sugar under
his aunt’s very nose, and got his knuckles rapped for it. He said:
</p>
<p>
“Aunt, you don’t whack Sid when he takes it.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Sid don’t torment a body the way you do. You’d be
always into that sugar if I warn’t watching you.”
</p>
<p>
Presently she stepped into the kitchen, and Sid, happy in his immunity,
reached for the sugar-bowl—a sort of glorying over Tom which was
wellnigh unbearable. But Sid’s fingers slipped and the bowl dropped
and broke. Tom was in ecstasies. In such ecstasies that he even controlled
his tongue and was silent. He said to himself that he would not speak a
word, even when his aunt came in, but would sit perfectly still till she
asked who did the mischief; and then he would tell, and there would be
nothing so good in the world as to see that pet model “catch it.”
He was so brimful of exultation that he could hardly hold himself when the
old lady came back and stood above the wreck discharging lightnings of
wrath from over her spectacles. He said to himself, “Now it’s
coming!” And the next instant he was sprawling on the floor! The
potent palm was uplifted to strike again when Tom cried out:
</p>
<p>
“Hold on, now, what ’er you belting <i>me</i> for?—Sid
broke it!”
</p>
<p>
Aunt Polly paused, perplexed, and Tom looked for healing pity. But when
she got her tongue again, she only said:
</p>
<p>
“Umf! Well, you didn’t get a lick amiss, I reckon. You been
into some other audacious mischief when I wasn’t around, like
enough.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img038"></a>
<img alt="03-038.jpg (60K)" src="images/03-038.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something kind
and loving; but she judged that this would be construed into a confession
that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that. So she kept
silence, and went about her affairs with a troubled heart. Tom sulked in a
corner and exalted his woes. He knew that in her heart his aunt was on her
knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the consciousness of it. He
would hang out no signals, he would take notice of none. He knew that a
yearning glance fell upon him, now and then, through a film of tears, but
he refused recognition of it. He pictured himself lying sick unto death
and his aunt bending over him beseeching one little forgiving word, but he
would turn his face to the wall, and die with that word unsaid. Ah, how
would she feel then? And he pictured himself brought home from the river,
dead, with his curls all wet, and his sore heart at rest. How she would
throw herself upon him, and how her tears would fall like rain, and her
lips pray God to give her back her boy and she would never, never abuse
him any more! But he would lie there cold and white and make no sign—a
poor little sufferer, whose griefs were at an end. He so worked upon his
feelings with the pathos of these dreams, that he had to keep swallowing,
he was so like to choke; and his eyes swam in a blur of water, which
overflowed when he winked, and ran down and trickled from the end of his
nose. And such a luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he
could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness or any grating delight
intrude upon it; it was too sacred for such contact; and so, presently,
when his cousin Mary danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home
again after an age-long visit of one week to the country, he got up and
moved in clouds and darkness out at one door as she brought song and
sunshine in at the other.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img039a"></a>
<img alt="03-039a.jpg (57K)" src="images/03-039a.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
He wandered far from the accustomed haunts of boys, and sought desolate
places that were in harmony with his spirit. A log raft in the river
invited him, and he seated himself on its outer edge and contemplated the
dreary vastness of the stream, wishing, the while, that he could only be
drowned, all at once and unconsciously, without undergoing the
uncomfortable routine devised by nature. Then he thought of his flower. He
got it out, rumpled and wilted, and it mightily increased his dismal
felicity. He wondered if she would pity him if she knew? Would she cry,
and wish that she had a right to put her arms around his neck and comfort
him? Or would she turn coldly away like all the hollow world? This picture
brought such an agony of pleasurable suffering that he worked it over and
over again in his mind and set it up in new and varied lights, till he
wore it threadbare. At last he rose up sighing and departed in the
darkness.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img039b"></a>
<img alt="03-039b.jpg (36K)" src="images/03-039b.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
About half-past nine or ten o’clock he came along the deserted
street to where the Adored Unknown lived; he paused a moment; no sound
fell upon his listening ear; a candle was casting a dull glow upon the
curtain of a second-story window. Was the sacred presence there? He
climbed the fence, threaded his stealthy way through the plants, till he
stood under that window; he looked up at it long, and with emotion; then
he laid him down on the ground under it, disposing himself upon his back,
with his hands clasped upon his breast and holding his poor wilted flower.
And thus he would die—out in the cold world, with no shelter over
his homeless head, no friendly hand to wipe the death-damps from his brow,
no loving face to bend pityingly over him when the great agony came. And
thus <i>she</i> would see him when she looked out upon the glad morning,
and oh! would she drop one little tear upon his poor, lifeless form, would
she heave one little sigh to see a bright young life so rudely blighted,
so untimely cut down?
</p>
<p>
The window went up, a maid-servant’s discordant voice profaned the
holy calm, and a deluge of water drenched the prone martyr’s
remains!
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img040"></a>
<img alt="03-040.jpg (89K)" src="images/03-040.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The strangling hero sprang up with a relieving snort. There was a whiz as
of a missile in the air, mingled with the murmur of a curse, a sound as of
shivering glass followed, and a small, vague form went over the fence and
shot away in the gloom.
</p>
<p>
Not long after, as Tom, all undressed for bed, was surveying his drenched
garments by the light of a tallow dip, Sid woke up; but if he had any dim
idea of making any “references to allusions,” he thought
better of it and held his peace, for there was danger in Tom’s eye.
</p>
<p>
Tom turned in without the added vexation of prayers, and Sid made mental
note of the omission.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img041"></a>
<img alt="03-041.jpg (34K)" src="images/03-041.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c4"></a>
CHAPTER IV
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img042"></a>
<img alt="04-042.jpg (218K)" src="images/04-042.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The sun rose upon a tranquil world, and beamed down upon the peaceful
village like a benediction. Breakfast over, Aunt Polly had family worship:
it began with a prayer built from the ground up of solid courses of
Scriptural quotations, welded together with a thin mortar of originality;
and from the summit of this she delivered a grim chapter of the Mosaic
Law, as from Sinai.
</p>
<p>
Then Tom girded up his loins, so to speak, and went to work to “get
his verses.” Sid had learned his lesson days before. Tom bent all
his energies to the memorizing of five verses, and he chose part of the
Sermon on the Mount, because he could find no verses that were shorter. At
the end of half an hour Tom had a vague general idea of his lesson, but no
more, for his mind was traversing the whole field of human thought, and
his hands were busy with distracting recreations. Mary took his book to
hear him recite, and he tried to find his way through the fog:
</p>
<p>
“Blessed are the—a—a—”
</p>
<p>
“Poor”—
</p>
<p>
“Yes—poor; blessed are the poor—a—a—”
</p>
<p>
“In spirit—”
</p>
<p>
“In spirit; blessed are the poor in spirit, for they—they—”
</p>
<p>
“<i>Theirs</i>—”
</p>
<p>
“For <i>theirs</i>. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is
the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they—they—”
</p>
<p>
“Sh—”
</p>
<p>
“For they—a—”
</p>
<p>
“S, H, A—”
</p>
<p>
“For they S, H—Oh, I don’t know what it is!”
</p>
<p>
“<i>Shall</i>!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, <i>shall</i>! for they shall—for they shall—a—a—shall
mourn—a—a—blessed are they that shall—they that—a—they
that shall mourn, for they shall—a—shall <i>what</i>? Why don’t
you tell me, Mary?—what do you want to be so mean for?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Tom, you poor thick-headed thing, I’m not teasing you. I
wouldn’t do that. You must go and learn it again. Don’t you be
discouraged, Tom, you’ll manage it—and if you do, I’ll
give you something ever so nice. There, now, that’s a good boy.”
</p>
<p>
“All right! What is it, Mary, tell me what it is.”
</p>
<p>
“Never you mind, Tom. You know if I say it’s nice, it is nice.”
</p>
<p>
“You bet you that’s so, Mary. All right, I’ll tackle it
again.”
</p>
<p>
And he did “tackle it again”—and under the double
pressure of curiosity and prospective gain he did it with such spirit that
he accomplished a shining success. Mary gave him a brand-new “Barlow”
knife worth twelve and a half cents; and the convulsion of delight that
swept his system shook him to his foundations. True, the knife would not
cut anything, but it was a “sure-enough” Barlow, and there was
inconceivable grandeur in that—though where the Western boys ever
got the idea that such a weapon could possibly be counterfeited to its
injury is an imposing mystery and will always remain so, perhaps. Tom
contrived to scarify the cupboard with it, and was arranging to begin on
the bureau, when he was called off to dress for Sunday-school.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img044"></a>
<img alt="04-044.jpg (46K)" src="images/04-044.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Mary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of soap, and he went
outside the door and set the basin on a little bench there; then he dipped
the soap in the water and laid it down; turned up his sleeves; poured out
the water on the ground, gently, and then entered the kitchen and began to
wipe his face diligently on the towel behind the door. But Mary removed
the towel and said:
</p>
<p>
“Now ain’t you ashamed, Tom. You mustn’t be so bad.
Water won’t hurt you.”
</p>
<p>
Tom was a trifle disconcerted. The basin was refilled, and this time he
stood over it a little while, gathering resolution; took in a big breath
and began. When he entered the kitchen presently, with both eyes shut and
groping for the towel with his hands, an honorable testimony of suds and
water was dripping from his face. But when he emerged from the towel, he
was not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory stopped short at his
chin and his jaws, like a mask; below and beyond this line there was a
dark expanse of unirrigated soil that spread downward in front and
backward around his neck. Mary took him in hand, and when she was done
with him he was a man and a brother, without distinction of color, and his
saturated hair was neatly brushed, and its short curls wrought into a
dainty and symmetrical general effect. [He privately smoothed out the
curls, with labor and difficulty, and plastered his hair close down to his
head; for he held curls to be effeminate, and his own filled his life with
bitterness.] Then Mary got out a suit of his clothing that had been used
only on Sundays during two years—they were simply called his “other
clothes”—and so by that we know the size of his wardrobe. The
girl “put him to rights” after he had dressed himself; she
buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin, turned his vast shirt collar
down over his shoulders, brushed him off and crowned him with his speckled
straw hat. He now looked exceedingly improved and uncomfortable. He was
fully as uncomfortable as he looked; for there was a restraint about whole
clothes and cleanliness that galled him. He hoped that Mary would forget
his shoes, but the hope was blighted; she coated them thoroughly with
tallow, as was the custom, and brought them out. He lost his temper and
said he was always being made to do everything he didn’t want to do.
But Mary said, persuasively:
</p>
<p>
“Please, Tom—that’s a good boy.”
</p>
<p>
So he got into the shoes snarling. Mary was soon ready, and the three
children set out for Sunday-school—a place that Tom hated with his
whole heart; but Sid and Mary were fond of it.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img045"></a>
<img alt="04-045.jpg (63K)" src="images/04-045.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Sabbath-school hours were from nine to half-past ten; and then church
service. Two of the children always remained for the sermon voluntarily,
and the other always remained too—for stronger reasons. The church’s
high-backed, uncushioned pews would seat about three hundred persons; the
edifice was but a small, plain affair, with a sort of pine board tree-box
on top of it for a steeple. At the door Tom dropped back a step and
accosted a Sunday-dressed comrade:
</p>
<p>
“Say, Billy, got a yaller ticket?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
“What’ll you take for her?”
</p>
<p>
“What’ll you give?”
</p>
<p>
“Piece of lickrish and a fish-hook.”
</p>
<p>
“Less see ’em.”
</p>
<p>
Tom exhibited. They were satisfactory, and the property changed hands.
Then Tom traded a couple of white alleys for three red tickets, and some
small trifle or other for a couple of blue ones. He waylaid other boys as
they came, and went on buying tickets of various colors ten or fifteen
minutes longer. He entered the church, now, with a swarm of clean and
noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and started a quarrel with the
first boy that came handy. The teacher, a grave, elderly man, interfered;
then turned his back a moment and Tom pulled a boy’s hair in the
next bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy turned around; stuck
a pin in another boy, presently, in order to hear him say “Ouch!”
and got a new reprimand from his teacher. Tom’s whole class were of
a pattern—restless, noisy, and troublesome. When they came to recite
their lessons, not one of them knew his verses perfectly, but had to be
prompted all along. However, they worried through, and each got his reward—in
small blue tickets, each with a passage of Scripture on it; each blue
ticket was pay for two verses of the recitation. Ten blue tickets equalled
a red one, and could be exchanged for it; ten red tickets equalled a
yellow one; for ten yellow tickets the superintendent gave a very plainly
bound Bible (worth forty cents in those easy times) to the pupil. How many
of my readers would have the industry and application to memorize two
thousand verses, even for a Doré Bible? And yet Mary had acquired two
Bibles in this way—it was the patient work of two years—and a
boy of German parentage had won four or five. He once recited three
thousand verses without stopping; but the strain upon his mental faculties
was too great, and he was little better than an idiot from that day forth—a
grievous misfortune for the school, for on great occasions, before
company, the superintendent (as Tom expressed it) had always made this boy
come out and “spread himself.” Only the older pupils managed
to keep their tickets and stick to their tedious work long enough to get a
Bible, and so the delivery of one of these prizes was a rare and
noteworthy circumstance; the successful pupil was so great and conspicuous
for that day that on the spot every scholar’s heart was fired with a
fresh ambition that often lasted a couple of weeks. It is possible that
Tom’s mental stomach had never really hungered for one of those
prizes, but unquestionably his entire being had for many a day longed for
the glory and the eclat that came with it.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img047"></a>
<img alt="04-047.jpg (94K)" src="images/04-047.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
In due course the superintendent stood up in front of the pulpit, with a
closed hymn-book in his hand and his forefinger inserted between its
leaves, and commanded attention. When a Sunday-school superintendent makes
his customary little speech, a hymn-book in the hand is as necessary as is
the inevitable sheet of music in the hand of a singer who stands forward
on the platform and sings a solo at a concert—though why, is a
mystery: for neither the hymn-book nor the sheet of music is ever referred
to by the sufferer. This superintendent was a slim creature of
thirty-five, with a sandy goatee and short sandy hair; he wore a stiff
standing-collar whose upper edge almost reached his ears and whose sharp
points curved forward abreast the corners of his mouth—a fence that
compelled a straight lookout ahead, and a turning of the whole body when a
side view was required; his chin was propped on a spreading cravat which
was as broad and as long as a bank-note, and had fringed ends; his boot
toes were turned sharply up, in the fashion of the day, like
sleigh-runners—an effect patiently and laboriously produced by the
young men by sitting with their toes pressed against a wall for hours
together. Mr. Walters was very earnest of mien, and very sincere and
honest at heart; and he held sacred things and places in such reverence,
and so separated them from worldly matters, that unconsciously to himself
his Sunday-school voice had acquired a peculiar intonation which was
wholly absent on week-days. He began after this fashion:
</p>
<p>
“Now, children, I want you all to sit up just as straight and pretty
as you can and give me all your attention for a minute or two. There—that
is it. That is the way good little boys and girls should do. I see one
little girl who is looking out of the window—I am afraid she thinks
I am out there somewhere—perhaps up in one of the trees making a
speech to the little birds. [Applausive titter.] I want to tell you how
good it makes me feel to see so many bright, clean little faces assembled
in a place like this, learning to do right and be good.” And so
forth and so on. It is not necessary to set down the rest of the oration.
It was of a pattern which does not vary, and so it is familiar to us all.
</p>
<p>
The latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of fights and
other recreations among certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings and
whisperings that extended far and wide, washing even to the bases of
isolated and incorruptible rocks like Sid and Mary. But now every sound
ceased suddenly, with the subsidence of Mr. Walters’ voice, and the
conclusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent gratitude.
</p>
<p>
A good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which was
more or less rare—the entrance of visitors: lawyer Thatcher,
accompanied by a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged
gentleman with iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who was doubtless the
latter’s wife. The lady was leading a child. Tom had been restless
and full of chafings and repinings; conscience-smitten, too—he could
not meet Amy Lawrence’s eye, he could not brook her loving gaze. But
when he saw this small newcomer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in a
moment. The next moment he was “showing off” with all his
might—cuffing boys, pulling hair, making faces—in a word,
using every art that seemed likely to fascinate a girl and win her
applause. His exaltation had but one alloy—the memory of his
humiliation in this angel’s garden—and that record in sand was
fast washing out, under the waves of happiness that were sweeping over it
now.
</p>
<p>
The visitors were given the highest seat of honor, and as soon as Mr.
Walters’ speech was finished, he introduced them to the school. The
middle-aged man turned out to be a prodigious personage—no less a
one than the county judge—altogether the most august creation these
children had ever looked upon—and they wondered what kind of
material he was made of—and they half wanted to hear him roar, and
were half afraid he might, too. He was from Constantinople, twelve miles
away—so he had travelled, and seen the world—these very eyes
had looked upon the county court-house—which was said to have a tin
roof. The awe which these reflections inspired was attested by the
impressive silence and the ranks of staring eyes. This was the great Judge
Thatcher, brother of their own lawyer. Jeff Thatcher immediately went
forward, to be familiar with the great man and be envied by the school. It
would have been music to his soul to hear the whisperings:
</p>
<p>
“Look at him, Jim! He’s a going up there. Say—look! he’s
a going to shake hands with him—he <i>is</i> shaking hands with him!
By jings, don’t you wish you was Jeff?”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Walters fell to “showing off,” with all sorts of official
bustlings and activities, giving orders, delivering judgments, discharging
directions here, there, everywhere that he could find a target. The
librarian “showed off”—running hither and thither with
his arms full of books and making a deal of the splutter and fuss that
insect authority delights in. The young lady teachers “showed off”—bending
sweetly over pupils that were lately being boxed, lifting pretty warning
fingers at bad little boys and patting good ones lovingly. The young
gentlemen teachers “showed off” with small scoldings and other
little displays of authority and fine attention to discipline—and
most of the teachers, of both sexes, found business up at the library, by
the pulpit; and it was business that frequently had to be done over again
two or three times (with much seeming vexation). The little girls “showed
off” in various ways, and the little boys “showed off”
with such diligence that the air was thick with paper wads and the murmur
of scufflings. And above it all the great man sat and beamed a majestic
judicial smile upon all the house, and warmed himself in the sun of his
own grandeur—for he was “showing off,” too.
</p>
<p>
There was only one thing wanting to make Mr. Walters’ ecstasy
complete, and that was a chance to deliver a Bible-prize and exhibit a
prodigy. Several pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough—he
had been around among the star pupils inquiring. He would have given
worlds, now, to have that German lad back again with a sound mind.
</p>
<p>
And now at this moment, when hope was dead, Tom Sawyer came forward with
nine yellow tickets, nine red tickets, and ten blue ones, and demanded a
Bible. This was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Walters was not
expecting an application from this source for the next ten years. But
there was no getting around it—here were the certified checks, and
they were good for their face. Tom was therefore elevated to a place with
the Judge and the other elect, and the great news was announced from
headquarters. It was the most stunning surprise of the decade, and so
profound was the sensation that it lifted the new hero up to the judicial
one’s altitude, and the school had two marvels to gaze upon in place
of one. The boys were all eaten up with envy—but those that suffered
the bitterest pangs were those who perceived too late that they themselves
had contributed to this hated splendor by trading tickets to Tom for the
wealth he had amassed in selling whitewashing privileges. These despised
themselves, as being the dupes of a wily fraud, a guileful snake in the
grass.
</p>
<p>
The prize was delivered to Tom with as much effusion as the superintendent
could pump up under the circumstances; but it lacked somewhat of the true
gush, for the poor fellow’s instinct taught him that there was a
mystery here that could not well bear the light, perhaps; it was simply
preposterous that this boy had warehoused two thousand sheaves of
Scriptural wisdom on his premises—a dozen would strain his capacity,
without a doubt.
</p>
<p>
Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in her
face—but he wouldn’t look. She wondered; then she was just a
grain troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went—came again; she
watched; a furtive glance told her worlds—and then her heart broke,
and she was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated
everybody. Tom most of all (she thought).
</p>
<p>
Tom was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath would
hardly come, his heart quaked—partly because of the awful greatness
of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would have liked to
fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. The Judge put his hand
on Tom’s head and called him a fine little man, and asked him what
his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and got it out:
</p>
<p>
“Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, no, not Tom—it is—”
</p>
<p>
“Thomas.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, that’s it. I thought there was more to it, maybe. That’s
very well. But you’ve another one I daresay, and you’ll tell
it to me, won’t you?”
</p>
<p>
“Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas,” said Walters,
“and say sir. You mustn’t forget your manners.”
</p>
<p>
“Thomas Sawyer—sir.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img051"></a>
<img alt="04-051.jpg (63K)" src="images/04-051.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“That’s it! That’s a good boy. Fine boy. Fine, manly
little fellow. Two thousand verses is a great many—very, very great
many. And you never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them;
for knowledge is worth more than anything there is in the world; it’s
what makes great men and good men; you’ll be a great man and a good
man yourself, some day, Thomas, and then you’ll look back and say,
It’s all owing to the precious Sunday-school privileges of my
boyhood—it’s all owing to my dear teachers that taught me to
learn—it’s all owing to the good superintendent, who
encouraged me, and watched over me, and gave me a beautiful Bible—a
splendid elegant Bible—to keep and have it all for my own, always—it’s
all owing to right bringing up! That is what you will say, Thomas—and
you wouldn’t take any money for those two thousand verses—no
indeed you wouldn’t. And now you wouldn’t mind telling me and
this lady some of the things you’ve learned—no, I know you
wouldn’t—for we are proud of little boys that learn. Now, no
doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples. Won’t you tell
us the names of the first two that were appointed?”
</p>
<p>
Tom was tugging at a button-hole and looking sheepish. He blushed, now,
and his eyes fell. Mr. Walters’ heart sank within him. He said to
himself, it is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest question—why
<i>did</i> the Judge ask him? Yet he felt obliged to speak up and say:
</p>
<p>
“Answer the gentleman, Thomas—don’t be afraid.”
</p>
<p>
Tom still hung fire.
</p>
<p>
“Now I know you’ll tell me,” said the lady. “The
names of the first two disciples were—”
</p>
<p>
“<i>David and Goliah!</i>”
</p>
<p>
Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.
</p>
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<a name="img052"></a>
<img alt="04-052.jpg (43K)" src="images/04-052.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c5"></a>
CHAPTER V
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img053"></a>
<img alt="05-053.jpg (205K)" src="images/05-053.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
About half-past ten the cracked bell of the small church began to ring,
and presently the people began to gather for the morning sermon. The
Sunday-school children distributed themselves about the house and occupied
pews with their parents, so as to be under supervision. Aunt Polly came,
and Tom and Sid and Mary sat with her—Tom being placed next the
aisle, in order that he might be as far away from the open window and the
seductive outside summer scenes as possible. The crowd filed up the
aisles: the aged and needy postmaster, who had seen better days; the mayor
and his wife—for they had a mayor there, among other unnecessaries;
the justice of the peace; the widow Douglas, fair, smart, and forty, a
generous, good-hearted soul and well-to-do, her hill mansion the only
palace in the town, and the most hospitable and much the most lavish in
the matter of festivities that St. Petersburg could boast; the bent and
venerable Major and Mrs. Ward; lawyer Riverson, the new notable from a
distance; next the belle of the village, followed by a troop of lawn-clad
and ribbon-decked young heart-breakers; then all the young clerks in town
in a body—for they had stood in the vestibule sucking their
cane-heads, a circling wall of oiled and simpering admirers, till the last
girl had run their gantlet; and last of all came the Model Boy, Willie
Mufferson, taking as heedful care of his mother as if she were cut glass.
He always brought his mother to church, and was the pride of all the
matrons. The boys all hated him, he was so good. And besides, he had been
“thrown up to them” so much. His white handkerchief was
hanging out of his pocket behind, as usual on Sundays—accidentally.
Tom had no handkerchief, and he looked upon boys who had as snobs.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img054"></a>
<img alt="05-054.jpg (45K)" src="images/05-054.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The congregation being fully assembled, now, the bell rang once more, to
warn laggards and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell upon the church
which was only broken by the tittering and whispering of the choir in the
gallery. The choir always tittered and whispered all through service.
There was once a church choir that was not ill-bred, but I have forgotten
where it was, now. It was a great many years ago, and I can scarcely
remember anything about it, but I think it was in some foreign country.
</p>
<p>
The minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish, in a
peculiar style which was much admired in that part of the country. His
voice began on a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached a
certain point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost word
and then plunged down as if from a spring-board:
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img055"></a>
<img alt="05-055.jpg (94K)" src="images/05-055.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p class="poem">
Shall I be car-ri-ed toe the skies, on flow’ry <i>beds</i> <br><span style="margin-left: 20%;">of ease,</span>
<br>
Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro’ <i>blood</i><br><span style="margin-left: 20%;">-y
seas?</span>
</p>
<p>
He was regarded as a wonderful reader. At church “sociables”
he was always called upon to read poetry; and when he was through, the
ladies would lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their
laps, and “wall” their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as
to say, “Words cannot express it; it is too beautiful, TOO beautiful
for this mortal earth.”
</p>
<p>
After the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr. Sprague turned himself into a
bulletin-board, and read off “notices” of meetings and
societies and things till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the
crack of doom—a queer custom which is still kept up in America, even
in cities, away here in this age of abundant newspapers. Often, the less
there is to justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of
it.
</p>
<p>
And now the minister prayed. A good, generous prayer it was, and went into
details: it pleaded for the church, and the little children of the church;
for the other churches of the village; for the village itself; for the
county; for the State; for the State officers; for the United States; for
the churches of the United States; for Congress; for the President; for
the officers of the Government; for poor sailors, tossed by stormy seas;
for the oppressed millions groaning under the heel of European monarchies
and Oriental despotisms; for such as have the light and the good tidings,
and yet have not eyes to see nor ears to hear withal; for the heathen in
the far islands of the sea; and closed with a supplication that the words
he was about to speak might find grace and favor, and be as seed sown in
fertile ground, yielding in time a grateful harvest of good. Amen.
</p>
<p>
There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down.
The boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only
endured it—if he even did that much. He was restive all through it;
he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously—for he was
not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman’s
regular route over it—and when a little trifle of new matter was
interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature resented it; he
considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly. In the midst of the prayer a
fly had lit on the back of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit
by calmly rubbing its hands together, embracing its head with its arms,
and polishing it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with
the body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping
its wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they had
been coat-tails; going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it
knew it was perfectly safe. As indeed it was; for as sorely as Tom’s
hands itched to grab for it they did not dare—he believed his soul
would be instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the prayer was
going on. But with the closing sentence his hand began to curve and steal
forward; and the instant the “Amen” was out the fly was a
prisoner of war. His aunt detected the act and made him let it go.
</p>
<p>
The minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through an
argument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod—and
yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone and
thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be hardly
worth the saving. Tom counted the pages of the sermon; after church he
always knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew anything
else about the discourse. However, this time he was really interested for
a little while. The minister made a grand and moving picture of the
assembling together of the world’s hosts at the millennium when the
lion and the lamb should lie down together and a little child should lead
them. But the pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great spectacle were
lost upon the boy; he only thought of the conspicuousness of the principal
character before the on-looking nations; his face lit with the thought,
and he said to himself that he wished he could be that child, if it was a
tame lion.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img057"></a>
<img alt="05-057.jpg (49K)" src="images/05-057.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Now he lapsed into suffering again, as the dry argument was resumed.
Presently he bethought him of a treasure he had and got it out. It was a
large black beetle with formidable jaws—a “pinchbug,” he
called it. It was in a percussion-cap box. The first thing the beetle did
was to take him by the finger. A natural fillip followed, the beetle went
floundering into the aisle and lit on its back, and the hurt finger went
into the boy’s mouth. The beetle lay there working its helpless
legs, unable to turn over. Tom eyed it, and longed for it; but it was safe
out of his reach. Other people uninterested in the sermon found relief in
the beetle, and they eyed it too. Presently a vagrant poodle dog came
idling along, sad at heart, lazy with the summer softness and the quiet,
weary of captivity, sighing for change. He spied the beetle; the drooping
tail lifted and wagged. He surveyed the prize; walked around it; smelt at
it from a safe distance; walked around it again; grew bolder, and took a
closer smell; then lifted his lip and made a gingerly snatch at it, just
missing it; made another, and another; began to enjoy the diversion;
subsided to his stomach with the beetle between his paws, and continued
his experiments; grew weary at last, and then indifferent and
absent-minded. His head nodded, and little by little his chin descended
and touched the enemy, who seized it. There was a sharp yelp, a flirt of
the poodle’s head, and the beetle fell a couple of yards away, and
lit on its back once more. The neighboring spectators shook with a gentle
inward joy, several faces went behind fans and hand-kerchiefs, and Tom was
entirely happy. The dog looked foolish, and probably felt so; but there
was resentment in his heart, too, and a craving for revenge. So he went to
the beetle and began a wary attack on it again; jumping at it from every
point of a circle, lighting with his fore-paws within an inch of the
creature, making even closer snatches at it with his teeth, and jerking
his head till his ears flapped again. But he grew tired once more, after a
while; tried to amuse himself with a fly but found no relief; followed an
ant around, with his nose close to the floor, and quickly wearied of that;
yawned, sighed, forgot the beetle entirely, and sat down on it. Then there
was a wild yelp of agony and the poodle went sailing up the aisle; the
yelps continued, and so did the dog; he crossed the house in front of the
altar; he flew down the other aisle; he crossed before the doors; he
clamored up the home-stretch; his anguish grew with his progress, till
presently he was but a woolly comet moving in its orbit with the gleam and
the speed of light. At last the frantic sufferer sheered from its course,
and sprang into its master’s lap; he flung it out of the window, and
the voice of distress quickly thinned away and died in the distance.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img058"></a>
<img alt="05-058.jpg (50K)" src="images/05-058.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
By this time the whole church was red-faced and suffocating with
suppressed laughter, and the sermon had come to a dead standstill. The
discourse was resumed presently, but it went lame and halting, all
possibility of impressiveness being at an end; for even the gravest
sentiments were constantly being received with a smothered burst of unholy
mirth, under cover of some remote pew-back, as if the poor parson had said
a rarely facetious thing. It was a genuine relief to the whole
congregation when the ordeal was over and the benediction pronounced.
</p>
<p>
Tom Sawyer went home quite cheerful, thinking to himself that there was
some satisfaction about divine service when there was a bit of variety in
it. He had but one marring thought; he was willing that the dog should
play with his pinchbug, but he did not think it was upright in him to
carry it off.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img059"></a>
<img alt="05-059.jpg (33K)" src="images/05-059.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c6"></a>
CHAPTER VI
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img060"></a>
<img alt="06-060.jpg (202K)" src="images/06-060.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Monday morning found Tom Sawyer miserable. Monday morning always found him
so—because it began another week’s slow suffering in school.
He generally began that day with wishing he had had no intervening
holiday, it made the going into captivity and fetters again so much more
odious.
</p>
<p>
Tom lay thinking. Presently it occurred to him that he wished he was sick;
then he could stay home from school. Here was a vague possibility. He
canvassed his system. No ailment was found, and he investigated again.
This time he thought he could detect colicky symptoms, and he began to
encourage them with considerable hope. But they soon grew feeble, and
presently died wholly away. He reflected further. Suddenly he discovered
something. One of his upper front teeth was loose. This was lucky; he was
about to begin to groan, as a “starter,” as he called it, when
it occurred to him that if he came into court with that argument, his aunt
would pull it out, and that would hurt. So he thought he would hold the
tooth in reserve for the present, and seek further. Nothing offered for
some little time, and then he remembered hearing the doctor tell about a
certain thing that laid up a patient for two or three weeks and threatened
to make him lose a finger. So the boy eagerly drew his sore toe from under
the sheet and held it up for inspection. But now he did not know the
necessary symptoms. However, it seemed well worth while to chance it, so
he fell to groaning with considerable spirit.
</p>
<p>
But Sid slept on unconscious.
</p>
<p>
Tom groaned louder, and fancied that he began to feel pain in the toe.
</p>
<p>
No result from Sid.
</p>
<p>
Tom was panting with his exertions by this time. He took a rest and then
swelled himself up and fetched a succession of admirable groans.
</p>
<p>
Sid snored on.
</p>
<p>
Tom was aggravated. He said, “Sid, Sid!” and shook him. This
course worked well, and Tom began to groan again. Sid yawned, stretched,
then brought himself up on his elbow with a snort, and began to stare at
Tom. Tom went on groaning. Sid said:
</p>
<p>
“Tom! Say, Tom!” [No response.] “Here, Tom! TOM! What is
the matter, Tom?” And he shook him and looked in his face anxiously.
</p>
<p>
Tom moaned out:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, don’t, Sid. Don’t joggle me.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, what’s the matter, Tom? I must call auntie.”
</p>
<p>
“No—never mind. It’ll be over by and by, maybe. Don’t
call anybody.”
</p>
<p>
“But I must! <i>Don’t</i> groan so, Tom, it’s awful. How
long you been this way?”
</p>
<p>
“Hours. Ouch! Oh, don’t stir so, Sid, you’ll kill me.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, why didn’t you wake me sooner? Oh, Tom, <i>don’t!</i>
It makes my flesh crawl to hear you. Tom, what is the matter?”
</p>
<p>
“I forgive you everything, Sid. [Groan.] Everything you’ve
ever done to me. When I’m gone—”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Tom, you ain’t dying, are you? Don’t, Tom—oh,
don’t. Maybe—”
</p>
<p>
“I forgive everybody, Sid. [Groan.] Tell ’em so, Sid. And Sid,
you give my window-sash and my cat with one eye to that new girl that’s
come to town, and tell her—”
</p>
<p>
But Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom was suffering in reality,
now, so handsomely was his imagination working, and so his groans had
gathered quite a genuine tone.
</p>
<p>
Sid flew downstairs and said:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Aunt Polly, come! Tom’s dying!”
</p>
<p>
“Dying!”
</p>
<p>
“Yes’m. Don’t wait—come quick!”
</p>
<p>
“Rubbage! I don’t believe it!”
</p>
<p>
But she fled upstairs, nevertheless, with Sid and Mary at her heels. And
her face grew white, too, and her lip trembled. When she reached the
bedside she gasped out:
</p>
<p>
“You, Tom! Tom, what’s the matter with you?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, auntie, I’m—”
</p>
<p>
“What’s the matter with you—what is the matter with you,
child?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, auntie, my sore toe’s mortified!”
</p>
<p>
The old lady sank down into a chair and laughed a little, then cried a
little, then did both together. This restored her and she said:
</p>
<p>
“Tom, what a turn you did give me. Now you shut up that nonsense and
climb out of this.”
</p>
<p>
The groans ceased and the pain vanished from the toe. The boy felt a
little foolish, and he said:
</p>
<p>
“Aunt Polly, it <i>seemed</i> mortified, and it hurt so I never
minded my tooth at all.”
</p>
<p>
“Your tooth, indeed! What’s the matter with your tooth?”
</p>
<p>
“One of them’s loose, and it aches perfectly awful.”
</p>
<p>
“There, there, now, don’t begin that groaning again. Open your
mouth. Well—your tooth <i>is</i> loose, but you’re not going
to die about that. Mary, get me a silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of
the kitchen.”
</p>
<p>
Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, please, auntie, don’t pull it out. It don’t hurt
any more. I wish I may never stir if it does. Please don’t, auntie.
I don’t want to stay home from school.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img063"></a>
<img alt="06-063.jpg (54K)" src="images/06-063.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Oh, you don’t, don’t you? So all this row was because
you thought you’d get to stay home from school and go a-fishing?
Tom, Tom, I love you so, and you seem to try every way you can to break my
old heart with your outrageousness.” By this time the dental
instruments were ready. The old lady made one end of the silk thread fast
to Tom’s tooth with a loop and tied the other to the bedpost. Then
she seized the chunk of fire and suddenly thrust it almost into the boy’s
face. The tooth hung dangling by the bedpost, now.
</p>
<p>
But all trials bring their compensations. As Tom wended to school after
breakfast, he was the envy of every boy he met because the gap in his
upper row of teeth enabled him to expectorate in a new and admirable way.
He gathered quite a following of lads interested in the exhibition; and
one that had cut his finger and had been a centre of fascination and
homage up to this time, now found himself suddenly without an adherent,
and shorn of his glory. His heart was heavy, and he said with a disdain
which he did not feel that it wasn’t anything to spit like Tom
Sawyer; but another boy said, “Sour grapes!” and he wandered
away a dismantled hero.
</p>
<p>
Shortly Tom came upon the juvenile pariah of the village, Huckleberry
Finn, son of the town drunkard. Huckleberry was cordially hated and
dreaded by all the mothers of the town, because he was idle and lawless
and vulgar and bad—and because all their children admired him so,
and delighted in his forbidden society, and wished they dared to be like
him. Tom was like the rest of the respectable boys, in that he envied
Huckleberry his gaudy outcast condition, and was under strict orders not
to play with him. So he played with him every time he got a chance.
Huckleberry was always dressed in the cast-off clothes of full-grown men,
and they were in perennial bloom and fluttering with rags. His hat was a
vast ruin with a wide crescent lopped out of its brim; his coat, when he
wore one, hung nearly to his heels and had the rearward buttons far down
the back; but one suspender supported his trousers; the seat of the
trousers bagged low and contained nothing, the fringed legs dragged in the
dirt when not rolled up.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img064"></a>
<img alt="06-064.jpg (42K)" src="images/06-064.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Huckleberry came and went, at his own free will. He slept on doorsteps in
fine weather and in empty hogsheads in wet; he did not have to go to
school or to church, or call any being master or obey anybody; he could go
fishing or swimming when and where he chose, and stay as long as it suited
him; nobody forbade him to fight; he could sit up as late as he pleased;
he was always the first boy that went barefoot in the spring and the last
to resume leather in the fall; he never had to wash, nor put on clean
clothes; he could swear wonderfully. In a word, everything that goes to
make life precious that boy had. So thought every harassed, hampered,
respectable boy in St. Petersburg.
</p>
<p>
Tom hailed the romantic outcast:
</p>
<p>
“Hello, Huckleberry!”
</p>
<p>
“Hello yourself, and see how you like it.”
</p>
<p>
“What’s that you got?”
</p>
<p>
“Dead cat.”
</p>
<p>
“Lemme see him, Huck. My, he’s pretty stiff. Where’d you
get him?”
</p>
<p>
“Bought him off’n a boy.”
</p>
<p>
“What did you give?”
</p>
<p>
“I give a blue ticket and a bladder that I got at the
slaughter-house.”
</p>
<p>
“Where’d you get the blue ticket?”
</p>
<p>
“Bought it off’n Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick.”
</p>
<p>
“Say—what is dead cats good for, Huck?”
</p>
<p>
“Good for? Cure warts with.”
</p>
<p>
“No! Is that so? I know something that’s better.”
</p>
<p>
“I bet you don’t. What is it?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, spunk-water.”
</p>
<p>
“Spunk-water! I wouldn’t give a dern for spunk-water.”
</p>
<p>
“You wouldn’t, wouldn’t you? D’you ever try it?”
</p>
<p>
“No, I hain’t. But Bob Tanner did.”
</p>
<p>
“Who told you so!”
</p>
<p>
“Why, he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny Baker, and Johnny
told Jim Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers, and Ben told a nigger, and the
nigger told me. There now!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, what of it? They’ll all lie. Leastways all but the
nigger. I don’t know <i>him</i>. But I never see a nigger that <i>wouldn’t</i>
lie. Shucks! Now you tell me how Bob Tanner done it, Huck.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, he took and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the
rain-water was.”
</p>
<p>
“In the daytime?”
</p>
<p>
“Certainly.”
</p>
<p>
“With his face to the stump?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. Least I reckon so.”
</p>
<p>
“Did he say anything?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t reckon he did. I don’t know.”
</p>
<p>
“Aha! Talk about trying to cure warts with spunk-water such a blame
fool way as that! Why, that ain’t a-going to do any good. You got to
go all by yourself, to the middle of the woods, where you know there’s
a spunk-water stump, and just as it’s midnight you back up against
the stump and jam your hand in and say:
</p>
<p class="poem">
‘Barley-corn, barley-corn, injun-meal shorts,<br>Spunk-water,
spunk-water, swaller these warts,’
</p>
<p class="p0">
and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and then turn
around three times and walk home without speaking to anybody. Because if
you speak the charm’s busted.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, that sounds like a good way; but that ain’t the way Bob
Tanner done.”
</p>
<p>
“No, sir, you can bet he didn’t, becuz he’s the wartiest
boy in this town; and he wouldn’t have a wart on him if he’d
knowed how to work spunk-water. I’ve took off thousands of warts off
of my hands that way, Huck. I play with frogs so much that I’ve
always got considerable many warts. Sometimes I take ’em off with a
bean.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, bean’s good. I’ve done that.”
</p>
<p>
“Have you? What’s your way?”
</p>
<p>
“You take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some
blood, and then you put the blood on one piece of the bean and take and
dig a hole and bury it ’bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark
of the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean. You see that piece
that’s got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing, trying to
fetch the other piece to it, and so that helps the blood to draw the wart,
and pretty soon off she comes.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, that’s it, Huck—that’s it; though when you’re
burying it if you say ‘Down bean; off wart; come no more to bother
me!’ it’s better. That’s the way Joe Harper does, and he’s
been nearly to Coonville and most everywheres. But say—how do you
cure ’em with dead cats?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, you take your cat and go and get in the grave-yard ’long
about midnight when somebody that was wicked has been buried; and when it’s
midnight a devil will come, or maybe two or three, but you can’t see
’em, you can only hear something like the wind, or maybe hear
’em talk; and when they’re taking that feller away, you heave
your cat after ’em and say, ‘Devil follow corpse, cat follow
devil, warts follow cat, I’m done with ye!’ That’ll
fetch <i>any</i> wart.”
</p>
<p>
“Sounds right. D’you ever try it, Huck?”
</p>
<p>
“No, but old Mother Hopkins told me.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I reckon it’s so, then. Becuz they say she’s a
witch.”
</p>
<p>
“Say! Why, Tom, I <i>know</i> she is. She witched pap. Pap says so
his own self. He come along one day, and he see she was a-witching him, so
he took up a rock, and if she hadn’t dodged, he’d a got her.
Well, that very night he rolled off’n a shed wher’ he was a
layin drunk, and broke his arm.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, that’s awful. How did he know she was a-witching him?”
</p>
<p>
“Lord, pap can tell, easy. Pap says when they keep looking at you
right stiddy, they’re a-witching you. Specially if they mumble.
Becuz when they mumble they’re saying the Lord’s Prayer
backards.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img067"></a>
<img alt="06-067.jpg (48K)" src="images/06-067.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Say, Hucky, when you going to try the cat?”
</p>
<p>
“To-night. I reckon they’ll come after old Hoss Williams
to-night.”
</p>
<p>
“But they buried him Saturday. Didn’t they get him Saturday
night?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, how you talk! How could their charms work till midnight?—and
<i>then</i> it’s Sunday. Devils don’t slosh around much of a
Sunday, I don’t reckon.”
</p>
<p>
“I never thought of that. That’s so. Lemme go with you?”
</p>
<p>
“Of course—if you ain’t afeard.”
</p>
<p>
“Afeard! ’Tain’t likely. Will you meow?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes—and you meow back, if you get a chance. Last time, you
kep’ me a-meowing around till old Hays went to throwing rocks at me
and says ‘Dern that cat!’ and so I hove a brick through his
window—but don’t you tell.”
</p>
<p>
“I won’t. I couldn’t meow that night, becuz auntie was
watching me, but I’ll meow this time. Say—what’s that?”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing but a tick.”
</p>
<p>
“Where’d you get him?”
</p>
<p>
“Out in the woods.”
</p>
<p>
“What’ll you take for him?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know. I don’t want to sell him.”
</p>
<p>
“All right. It’s a mighty small tick, anyway.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, anybody can run a tick down that don’t belong to them. I’m
satisfied with it. It’s a good enough tick for me.”
</p>
<p>
“Sho, there’s ticks a plenty. I could have a thousand of
’em if I wanted to.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, why don’t you? Becuz you know mighty well you can’t.
This is a pretty early tick, I reckon. It’s the first one I’ve
seen this year.”
</p>
<p>
“Say, Huck—I’ll give you my tooth for him.”
</p>
<p>
“Less see it.”
</p>
<p>
Tom got out a bit of paper and carefully unrolled it. Huckleberry viewed
it wistfully. The temptation was very strong. At last he said:
</p>
<p>
“Is it genuwyne?”
</p>
<p>
Tom lifted his lip and showed the vacancy.
</p>
<p>
“Well, all right,” said Huckleberry, “it’s a
trade.”
</p>
<p>
Tom enclosed the tick in the percussion-cap box that had lately been the
pinchbug’s prison, and the boys separated, each feeling wealthier
than before.
</p>
<p>
When Tom reached the little isolated frame school-house, he strode in
briskly, with the manner of one who had come with all honest speed. He
hung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with business-like
alacrity. The master, throned on high in his great splint-bottom
arm-chair, was dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of study. The interruption
roused him.
</p>
<p>
“Thomas Sawyer!”
</p>
<p>
Tom knew that when his name was pronounced in full, it meant trouble.
</p>
<p>
“Sir!”
</p>
<p>
“Come up here. Now, sir, why are you late again, as usual?”
</p>
<p>
Tom was about to take refuge in a lie, when he saw two long tails of
yellow hair hanging down a back that he recognized by the electric
sympathy of love; and by that form was <i>the only vacant place</i> on the
girls’ side of the school-house. He instantly said:
</p>
<p>
“<i>I stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn!</i>”
</p>
<p>
The master’s pulse stood still, and he stared helplessly. The buzz
of study ceased. The pupils wondered if this foolhardy boy had lost his
mind. The master said:
</p>
<p>
“You—you did what?”
</p>
<p>
“Stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn.”
</p>
<p>
There was no mistaking the words.
</p>
<p>
“Thomas Sawyer, this is the most astounding confession I have ever
listened to. No mere ferule will answer for this offence. Take off your
jacket.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img069"></a>
<img alt="06-069.jpg (48K)" src="images/06-069.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The master’s arm performed until it was tired and the stock of
switches notably diminished. Then the order followed:
</p>
<p>
“Now, sir, go and sit with the girls! And let this be a warning to
you.”
</p>
<p>
The titter that rippled around the room appeared to abash the boy, but in
reality that result was caused rather more by his worshipful awe of his
unknown idol and the dread pleasure that lay in his high good fortune. He
sat down upon the end of the pine bench and the girl hitched herself away
from him with a toss of her head. Nudges and winks and whispers traversed
the room, but Tom sat still, with his arms upon the long, low desk before
him, and seemed to study his book.
</p>
<p>
By and by attention ceased from him, and the accustomed school murmur rose
upon the dull air once more. Presently the boy began to steal furtive
glances at the girl. She observed it, “made a mouth” at him
and gave him the back of her head for the space of a minute. When she
cautiously faced around again, a peach lay before her. She thrust it away.
Tom gently put it back. She thrust it away again, but with less animosity.
Tom patiently returned it to its place. Then she let it remain. Tom
scrawled on his slate, “Please take it—I got more.” The
girl glanced at the words, but made no sign. Now the boy began to draw
something on the slate, hiding his work with his left hand. For a time the
girl refused to notice; but her human curiosity presently began to
manifest itself by hardly perceptible signs. The boy worked on, apparently
unconscious. The girl made a sort of non-committal attempt to see, but the
boy did not betray that he was aware of it. At last she gave in and
hesitatingly whispered:
</p>
<p>
“Let me see it.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img070"></a>
<img alt="06-070.jpg (26K)" src="images/06-070.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Tom partly uncovered a dismal caricature of a house with two gable ends to
it and a corkscrew of smoke issuing from the chimney. Then the girl’s
interest began to fasten itself upon the work and she forgot everything
else. When it was finished, she gazed a moment, then whispered:
</p>
<p>
“It’s nice—make a man.”
</p>
<p>
The artist erected a man in the front yard, that resembled a derrick. He
could have stepped over the house; but the girl was not hypercritical; she
was satisfied with the monster, and whispered:
</p>
<p>
“It’s a beautiful man—now make me coming along.”
</p>
<p>
Tom drew an hour-glass with a full moon and straw limbs to it and armed
the spreading fingers with a portentous fan. The girl said:
</p>
<p>
“It’s ever so nice—I wish I could draw.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s easy,” whispered Tom, “I’ll learn you.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, will you? When?”
</p>
<p>
“At noon. Do you go home to dinner?”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll stay if you will.”
</p>
<p>
“Good—that’s a whack. What’s your name?”
</p>
<p>
“Becky Thatcher. What’s yours? Oh, I know. It’s Thomas
Sawyer.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s the name they lick me by. I’m Tom when I’m
good. You call me Tom, will you?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
Now Tom began to scrawl something on the slate, hiding the words from the
girl. But she was not backward this time. She begged to see. Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, it ain’t anything.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes it is.”
</p>
<p>
“No it ain’t. You don’t want to see.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes I do, indeed I do. Please let me.”
</p>
<p>
“You’ll tell.”
</p>
<p>
“No I won’t—deed and deed and double deed won’t.”
</p>
<p>
“You won’t tell anybody at all? Ever, as long as you live?”
</p>
<p>
“No, I won’t ever tell <i>any</i>body. Now let me.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, <i>you</i> don’t want to see!”
</p>
<p>
“Now that you treat me so, I <i>will</i> see.” And she put her
small hand upon his and a little scuffle ensued, Tom pretending to resist
in earnest but letting his hand slip by degrees till these words were
revealed: “<i>I love you</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you bad thing!” And she hit his hand a smart rap, but
reddened and looked pleased, nevertheless.
</p>
<p>
Just at this juncture the boy felt a slow, fateful grip closing on his
ear, and a steady lifting impulse. In that wise he was borne across the
house and deposited in his own seat, under a peppering fire of giggles
from the whole school. Then the master stood over him during a few awful
moments, and finally moved away to his throne without saying a word. But
although Tom’s ear tingled, his heart was jubilant.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img071"></a>
<img alt="06-071.jpg (46K)" src="images/06-071.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
As the school quieted down Tom made an honest effort to study, but the
turmoil within him was too great. In turn he took his place in the reading
class and made a botch of it; then in the geography class and turned lakes
into mountains, mountains into rivers, and rivers into continents, till
chaos was come again; then in the spelling class, and got “turned
down,” by a succession of mere baby words, till he brought up at the
foot and yielded up the pewter medal which he had worn with ostentation
for months.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c7"></a>
CHAPTER VII
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img072"></a>
<img alt="07-072.jpg (175K)" src="images/07-072.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The harder Tom tried to fasten his mind on his book, the more his ideas
wandered. So at last, with a sigh and a yawn, he gave it up. It seemed to
him that the noon recess would never come. The air was utterly dead. There
was not a breath stirring. It was the sleepiest of sleepy days. The
drowsing murmur of the five and twenty studying scholars soothed the soul
like the spell that is in the murmur of bees. Away off in the flaming
sunshine, Cardiff Hill lifted its soft green sides through a shimmering
veil of heat, tinted with the purple of distance; a few birds floated on
lazy wing high in the air; no other living thing was visible but some
cows, and they were asleep. Tom’s heart ached to be free, or else to
have something of interest to do to pass the dreary time. His hand
wandered into his pocket and his face lit up with a glow of gratitude that
was prayer, though he did not know it. Then furtively the percussion-cap
box came out. He released the tick and put him on the long flat desk. The
creature probably glowed with a gratitude that amounted to prayer, too, at
this moment, but it was premature: for when he started thankfully to
travel off, Tom turned him aside with a pin and made him take a new
direction.
</p>
<p>
Tom’s bosom friend sat next him, suffering just as Tom had been, and
now he was deeply and gratefully interested in this entertainment in an
instant. This bosom friend was Joe Harper. The two boys were sworn friends
all the week, and embattled enemies on Saturdays. Joe took a pin out of
his lapel and began to assist in exercising the prisoner. The sport grew
in interest momently. Soon Tom said that they were interfering with each
other, and neither getting the fullest benefit of the tick. So he put Joe’s
slate on the desk and drew a line down the middle of it from top to
bottom.
</p>
<p>
“Now,” said he, “as long as he is on your side you can
stir him up and I’ll let him alone; but if you let him get away and
get on my side, you’re to leave him alone as long as I can keep him
from crossing over.”
</p>
<p>
“All right, go ahead; start him up.”
</p>
<p>
The tick escaped from Tom, presently, and crossed the equator. Joe
harassed him awhile, and then he got away and crossed back again. This
change of base occurred often. While one boy was worrying the tick with
absorbing interest, the other would look on with interest as strong, the
two heads bowed together over the slate, and the two souls dead to all
things else. At last luck seemed to settle and abide with Joe. The tick
tried this, that, and the other course, and got as excited and as anxious
as the boys themselves, but time and again just as he would have victory
in his very grasp, so to speak, and Tom’s fingers would be twitching
to begin, Joe’s pin would deftly head him off, and keep possession.
At last Tom could stand it no longer. The temptation was too strong. So he
reached out and lent a hand with his pin. Joe was angry in a moment. Said
he:
</p>
<p>
“Tom, you let him alone.”
</p>
<p>
“I only just want to stir him up a little, Joe.”
</p>
<p>
“No, sir, it ain’t fair; you just let him alone.”
</p>
<p>
“Blame it, I ain’t going to stir him much.”
</p>
<p>
“Let him alone, I tell you.”
</p>
<p>
“I won’t!”
</p>
<p>
“You shall—he’s on my side of the line.”
</p>
<p>
“Look here, Joe Harper, whose is that tick?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t care whose tick he is—he’s on my side of
the line, and you sha’n’t touch him.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I’ll just bet I will, though. He’s my tick and I’ll
do what I blame please with him, or die!”
</p>
<p>
A tremendous whack came down on Tom’s shoulders, and its duplicate
on Joe’s; and for the space of two minutes the dust continued to fly
from the two jackets and the whole school to enjoy it. The boys had been
too absorbed to notice the hush that had stolen upon the school awhile
before when the master came tiptoeing down the room and stood over them.
He had contemplated a good part of the performance before he contributed
his bit of variety to it.
</p>
<p>
When school broke up at noon, Tom flew to Becky Thatcher, and whispered in
her ear:
</p>
<p>
“Put on your bonnet and let on you’re going home; and when you
get to the corner, give the rest of ’em the slip, and turn down
through the lane and come back. I’ll go the other way and come it
over ’em the same way.”
</p>
<p>
So the one went off with one group of scholars, and the other with
another. In a little while the two met at the bottom of the lane, and when
they reached the school they had it all to themselves. Then they sat
together, with a slate before them, and Tom gave Becky the pencil and held
her hand in his, guiding it, and so created another surprising house. When
the interest in art began to wane, the two fell to talking. Tom was
swimming in bliss. He said:
</p>
<p>
“Do you love rats?”
</p>
<p>
“No! I hate them!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I do, too—<i>live</i> ones. But I mean dead ones, to
swing round your head with a string.”
</p>
<p>
“No, I don’t care for rats much, anyway. What I like is
chewing-gum.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I should say so! I wish I had some now.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you? I’ve got some. I’ll let you chew it awhile, but
you must give it back to me.”
</p>
<p>
That was agreeable, so they chewed it turn about, and dangled their legs
against the bench in excess of contentment.
</p>
<p>
“Was you ever at a circus?” said Tom.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, and my pa’s going to take me again some time, if I’m
good.”
</p>
<p>
“I been to the circus three or four times—lots of times.
Church ain’t shucks to a circus. There’s things going on at a
circus all the time. I’m going to be a clown in a circus when I grow
up.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, are you! That will be nice. They’re so lovely, all
spotted up.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, that’s so. And they get slathers of money—most a
dollar a day, Ben Rogers says. Say, Becky, was you ever engaged?”
</p>
<p>
“What’s that?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, engaged to be married.”
</p>
<p>
“No.”
</p>
<p>
“Would you like to?”
</p>
<p>
“I reckon so. I don’t know. What is it like?”
</p>
<p>
“Like? Why it ain’t like anything. You only just tell a boy
you won’t ever have anybody but him, ever ever ever, and then you
kiss and that’s all. Anybody can do it.”
</p>
<p>
“Kiss? What do you kiss for?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, that, you know, is to—well, they always do that.”
</p>
<p>
“Everybody?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, yes, everybody that’s in love with each other. Do you
remember what I wrote on the slate?”
</p>
<p>
“Ye—yes.”
</p>
<p>
“What was it?”
</p>
<p>
“I sha’n’t tell you.”
</p>
<p>
“Shall I tell <i>you</i>?”
</p>
<p>
“Ye—yes—but some other time.”
</p>
<p>
“No, now.”
</p>
<p>
“No, not now—to-morrow.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, no, <i>now</i>. Please, Becky—I’ll whisper it, I’ll
whisper it ever so easy.”
</p>
<p>
Becky hesitating, Tom took silence for consent, and passed his arm about
her waist and whispered the tale ever so softly, with his mouth close to
her ear. And then he added:
</p>
<p>
“Now you whisper it to me—just the same.”
</p>
<p>
She resisted, for a while, and then said:
</p>
<p>
“You turn your face away so you can’t see, and then I will.
But you mustn’t ever tell anybody—<i>will</i> you, Tom? Now
you won’t, <i>will</i> you?”
</p>
<p>
“No, indeed, indeed I won’t. Now, Becky.”
</p>
<p>
He turned his face away. She bent timidly around till her breath stirred
his curls and whispered, “I—love—you!”
</p>
<p>
Then she sprang away and ran around and around the desks and benches, with
Tom after her, and took refuge in a corner at last, with her little white
apron to her face. Tom clasped her about her neck and pleaded:
</p>
<p>
“Now, Becky, it’s all done—all over but the kiss. Don’t
you be afraid of that—it ain’t anything at all. Please, Becky.”
And he tugged at her apron and the hands.
</p>
<p>
By and by she gave up, and let her hands drop; her face, all glowing with
the struggle, came up and submitted. Tom kissed the red lips and said:
</p>
<p>
“Now it’s all done, Becky. And always after this, you know,
you ain’t ever to love anybody but me, and you ain’t ever to
marry anybody but me, ever never and forever. Will you?”
</p>
<p>
“No, I’ll never love anybody but you, Tom, and I’ll
never marry anybody but you—and you ain’t to ever marry
anybody but me, either.”
</p>
<p>
“Certainly. Of course. That’s <i>part</i> of it. And always
coming to school or when we’re going home, you’re to walk with
me, when there ain’t anybody looking—and you choose me and I
choose you at parties, because that’s the way you do when you’re
engaged.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s so nice. I never heard of it before.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, it’s ever so gay! Why, me and Amy Lawrence—”
</p>
<p>
The big eyes told Tom his blunder and he stopped, confused.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Tom! Then I ain’t the first you’ve ever been
engaged to!”
</p>
<p>
The child began to cry. Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, don’t cry, Becky, I don’t care for her any more.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, you do, Tom—you know you do.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img077"></a>
<img alt="07-077.jpg (52K)" src="images/07-077.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Tom tried to put his arm about her neck, but she pushed him away and
turned her face to the wall, and went on crying. Tom tried again, with
soothing words in his mouth, and was repulsed again. Then his pride was
up, and he strode away and went outside. He stood about, restless and
uneasy, for a while, glancing at the door, every now and then, hoping she
would repent and come to find him. But she did not. Then he began to feel
badly and fear that he was in the wrong. It was a hard struggle with him
to make new advances, now, but he nerved himself to it and entered. She
was still standing back there in the corner, sobbing, with her face to the
wall. Tom’s heart smote him. He went to her and stood a moment, not
knowing exactly how to proceed. Then he said hesitatingly:
</p>
<p>
“Becky, I—I don’t care for anybody but you.”
</p>
<p>
No reply—but sobs.
</p>
<p>
“Becky”—pleadingly. “Becky, won’t you say
something?”
</p>
<p>
More sobs.
</p>
<p>
Tom got out his chiefest jewel, a brass knob from the top of an andiron,
and passed it around her so that she could see it, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Please, Becky, won’t you take it?”
</p>
<p>
She struck it to the floor. Then Tom marched out of the house and over the
hills and far away, to return to school no more that day. Presently Becky
began to suspect. She ran to the door; he was not in sight; she flew
around to the play-yard; he was not there. Then she called:
</p>
<p>
“Tom! Come back, Tom!”
</p>
<p>
She listened intently, but there was no answer. She had no companions but
silence and loneliness. So she sat down to cry again and upbraid herself;
and by this time the scholars began to gather again, and she had to hide
her griefs and still her broken heart and take up the cross of a long,
dreary, aching afternoon, with none among the strangers about her to
exchange sorrows with.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img078"></a>
<img alt="07-078.jpg (53K)" src="images/07-078.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c8"></a>
CHAPTER VIII
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img079"></a>
<img alt="08-079.jpg (195K)" src="images/08-079.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Tom dodged hither and thither through lanes until he was well out of the
track of returning scholars, and then fell into a moody jog. He crossed a
small “branch” two or three times, because of a prevailing
juvenile superstition that to cross water baffled pursuit. Half an hour
later he was disappearing behind the Douglas mansion on the summit of
Cardiff Hill, and the school-house was hardly distinguishable away off in
the valley behind him. He entered a dense wood, picked his pathless way to
the centre of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading oak.
There was not even a zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heat had even
stilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a trance that was broken by
no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a wood-pecker, and this
seemed to render the pervading silence and sense of loneliness the more
profound. The boy’s soul was steeped in melancholy; his feelings
were in happy accord with his surroundings. He sat long with his elbows on
his knees and his chin in his hands, meditating. It seemed to him that
life was but a trouble, at best, and he more than half envied Jimmy
Hodges, so lately released; it must be very peaceful, he thought, to lie
and slumber and dream forever and ever, with the wind whispering through
the trees and caressing the grass and the flowers over the grave, and
nothing to bother and grieve about, ever any more. If he only had a clean
Sunday-school record he could be willing to go, and be done with it all.
Now as to this girl. What had he done? Nothing. He had meant the best in
the world, and been treated like a dog—like a very dog. She would be
sorry some day—maybe when it was too late. Ah, if he could only die
<i>temporarily</i>!
</p>
<p>
But the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained
shape long at a time. Tom presently began to drift insensibly back into
the concerns of this life again. What if he turned his back, now, and
disappeared mysteriously? What if he went away—ever so far away,
into unknown countries beyond the seas—and never came back any more!
How would she feel then! The idea of being a clown recurred to him now,
only to fill him with disgust. For frivolity and jokes and spotted tights
were an offense, when they intruded themselves upon a spirit that was
exalted into the vague august realm of the romantic. No, he would be a
soldier, and return after long years, all war-worn and illustrious. No—better
still, he would join the Indians, and hunt buffaloes and go on the warpath
in the mountain ranges and the trackless great plains of the Far West, and
away in the future come back a great chief, bristling with feathers,
hideous with paint, and prance into Sunday-school, some drowsy summer
morning, with a blood-curdling war-whoop, and sear the eyeballs of all his
companions with unappeasable envy. But no, there was something gaudier
even than this. He would be a pirate! That was it! <i>now</i> his future
lay plain before him, and glowing with unimaginable splendor. How his name
would fill the world, and make people shudder! How gloriously he would go
plowing the dancing seas, in his long, low, black-hulled racer, the Spirit
of the Storm, with his grisly flag flying at the fore! And at the zenith
of his fame, how he would suddenly appear at the old village and stalk
into church, brown and weather-beaten, in his black velvet doublet and
trunks, his great jack-boots, his crimson sash, his belt bristling with
horse-pistols, his crime-rusted cutlass at his side, his slouch hat with
waving plumes, his black flag unfurled, with the skull and crossbones on
it, and hear with swelling ecstasy the whisperings, “It’s Tom
Sawyer the Pirate!—the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main!”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img081"></a>
<img alt="08-081.jpg (99K)" src="images/08-081.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Yes, it was settled; his career was determined. He would run away from
home and enter upon it. He would start the very next morning. Therefore he
must now begin to get ready. He would collect his resources together. He
went to a rotten log near at hand and began to dig under one end of it
with his Barlow knife. He soon struck wood that sounded hollow. He put his
hand there and uttered this incantation impressively:
</p>
<p>
“What hasn’t come here, come! What’s here, stay here!”
</p>
<p>
Then he scraped away the dirt, and exposed a pine shingle. He took it up
and disclosed a shapely little treasure-house whose bottom and sides were
of shingles. In it lay a marble. Tom’s astonishment was boundless!
He scratched his head with a perplexed air, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Well, that beats anything!”
</p>
<p>
Then he tossed the marble away pettishly, and stood cogitating. The truth
was, that a superstition of his had failed, here, which he and all his
comrades had always looked upon as infallible. If you buried a marble with
certain necessary incantations, and left it alone a fortnight, and then
opened the place with the incantation he had just used, you would find
that all the marbles you had ever lost had gathered themselves together
there, meantime, no matter how widely they had been separated. But now,
this thing had actually and unquestionably failed. Tom’s whole
structure of faith was shaken to its foundations. He had many a time heard
of this thing succeeding but never of its failing before. It did not occur
to him that he had tried it several times before, himself, but could never
find the hiding-places afterward. He puzzled over the matter some time,
and finally decided that some witch had interfered and broken the charm.
He thought he would satisfy himself on that point; so he searched around
till he found a small sandy spot with a little funnel-shaped depression in
it. He laid himself down and put his mouth close to this depression and
called—
</p>
<p>
“Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know! Doodle-bug,
doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know!”
</p>
<p>
The sand began to work, and presently a small black bug appeared for a
second and then darted under again in a fright.
</p>
<p>
“He dasn’t tell! So it <i>was</i> a witch that done it. I just
knowed it.”
</p>
<p>
He well knew the futility of trying to contend against witches, so he gave
up discouraged. But it occurred to him that he might as well have the
marble he had just thrown away, and therefore he went and made a patient
search for it. But he could not find it. Now he went back to his
treasure-house and carefully placed himself just as he had been standing
when he tossed the marble away; then he took another marble from his
pocket and tossed it in the same way, saying:
</p>
<p>
“Brother, go find your brother!”
</p>
<p>
He watched where it stopped, and went there and looked. But it must have
fallen short or gone too far; so he tried twice more. The last repetition
was successful. The two marbles lay within a foot of each other.
</p>
<p>
Just here the blast of a toy tin trumpet came faintly down the green
aisles of the forest. Tom flung off his jacket and trousers, turned a
suspender into a belt, raked away some brush behind the rotten log,
disclosing a rude bow and arrow, a lath sword and a tin trumpet, and in a
moment had seized these things and bounded away, barelegged, with
fluttering shirt. He presently halted under a great elm, blew an answering
blast, and then began to tiptoe and look warily out, this way and that. He
said cautiously—to an imaginary company:
</p>
<p>
“Hold, my merry men! Keep hid till I blow.”
</p>
<p>
Now appeared Joe Harper, as airily clad and elaborately armed as Tom. Tom
called:
</p>
<p>
“Hold! Who comes here into Sherwood Forest without my pass?”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img083"></a>
<img alt="08-083.jpg (58K)" src="images/08-083.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Guy of Guisborne wants no man’s pass. Who art thou that—that—”
</p>
<p>
“Dares to hold such language,” said Tom, prompting—for
they talked “by the book,” from memory.
</p>
<p>
“Who art thou that dares to hold such language?”
</p>
<p>
“I, indeed! I am Robin Hood, as thy caitiff carcase soon shall know.”
</p>
<p>
“Then art thou indeed that famous outlaw? Right gladly will I
dispute with thee the passes of the merry wood. Have at thee!”
</p>
<p>
They took their lath swords, dumped their other traps on the ground,
struck a fencing attitude, foot to foot, and began a grave, careful
combat, “two up and two down.” Presently Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Now, if you’ve got the hang, go it lively!”
</p>
<p>
So they “went it lively,” panting and perspiring with the
work. By and by Tom shouted:
</p>
<p>
“Fall! fall! Why don’t you fall?”
</p>
<p>
“I sha’n’t! Why don’t you fall yourself? You’re
getting the worst of it.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, that ain’t anything. I can’t fall; that ain’t
the way it is in the book. The book says, ‘Then with one back-handed
stroke he slew poor Guy of Guisborne.’ You’re to turn around
and let me hit you in the back.”
</p>
<p>
There was no getting around the authorities, so Joe turned, received the
whack and fell.
</p>
<p>
“Now,” said Joe, getting up, “you got to let me kill <i>you</i>.
That’s fair.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, I can’t do that, it ain’t in the book.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it’s blamed mean—that’s all.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, say, Joe, you can be Friar Tuck or Much the miller’s
son, and lam me with a quarter-staff; or I’ll be the Sheriff of
Nottingham and you be Robin Hood a little while and kill me.”
</p>
<p>
This was satisfactory, and so these adventures were carried out. Then Tom
became Robin Hood again, and was allowed by the treacherous nun to bleed
his strength away through his neglected wound. And at last Joe,
representing a whole tribe of weeping outlaws, dragged him sadly forth,
gave his bow into his feeble hands, and Tom said, “Where this arrow
falls, there bury poor Robin Hood under the greenwood tree.” Then he
shot the arrow and fell back and would have died, but he lit on a nettle
and sprang up too gaily for a corpse.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img084"></a>
<img alt="08-084.jpg (49K)" src="images/08-084.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The boys dressed themselves, hid their accoutrements, and went off
grieving that there were no outlaws any more, and wondering what modern
civilization could claim to have done to compensate for their loss. They
said they would rather be outlaws a year in Sherwood Forest than President
of the United States forever.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c9"></a>
CHAPTER IX
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img085"></a>
<img alt="09-085.jpg (174K)" src="images/09-085.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
At half-past nine, that night, Tom and Sid were sent to bed, as usual.
They said their prayers, and Sid was soon asleep. Tom lay awake and
waited, in restless impatience. When it seemed to him that it must be
nearly daylight, he heard the clock strike ten! This was despair. He would
have tossed and fidgeted, as his nerves demanded, but he was afraid he
might wake Sid. So he lay still, and stared up into the dark. Everything
was dismally still. By and by, out of the stillness, little, scarcely
perceptible noises began to emphasize themselves. The ticking of the clock
began to bring itself into notice. Old beams began to crack mysteriously.
The stairs creaked faintly. Evidently spirits were abroad. A measured,
muffled snore issued from Aunt Polly’s chamber. And now the tiresome
chirping of a cricket that no human ingenuity could locate, began. Next
the ghastly ticking of a death-watch in the wall at the bed’s head
made Tom shudder—it meant that somebody’s days were numbered.
Then the howl of a far-off dog rose on the night air, and was answered by
a fainter howl from a remoter distance. Tom was in an agony. At last he
was satisfied that time had ceased and eternity begun; he began to doze,
in spite of himself; the clock chimed eleven, but he did not hear it. And
then there came, mingling with his half-formed dreams, a most melancholy
caterwauling. The raising of a neighboring window disturbed him. A cry of
“Scat! you devil!” and the crash of an empty bottle against
the back of his aunt’s woodshed brought him wide awake, and a single
minute later he was dressed and out of the window and creeping along the
roof of the “ell” on all fours. He “meow’d”
with caution once or twice, as he went; then jumped to the roof of the
woodshed and thence to the ground. Huckleberry Finn was there, with his
dead cat. The boys moved off and disappeared in the gloom. At the end of
half an hour they were wading through the tall grass of the graveyard.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img086"></a>
<img alt="09-086.jpg (52K)" src="images/09-086.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
It was a graveyard of the old-fashioned Western kind. It was on a hill,
about a mile and a half from the village. It had a crazy board fence
around it, which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest of the
time, but stood upright nowhere. Grass and weeds grew rank over the whole
cemetery. All the old graves were sunken in, there was not a tombstone on
the place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards staggered over the graves,
leaning for support and finding none. “Sacred to the memory of”
So-and-So had been painted on them once, but it could no longer have been
read, on the most of them, now, even if there had been light.
</p>
<p>
A faint wind moaned through the trees, and Tom feared it might be the
spirits of the dead, complaining at being disturbed. The boys talked
little, and only under their breath, for the time and the place and the
pervading solemnity and silence oppressed their spirits. They found the
sharp new heap they were seeking, and ensconced themselves within the
protection of three great elms that grew in a bunch within a few feet of
the grave.
</p>
<p>
Then they waited in silence for what seemed a long time. The hooting of a
distant owl was all the sound that troubled the dead stillness. Tom’s
reflections grew oppressive. He must force some talk. So he said in a
whisper:
</p>
<p>
“Hucky, do you believe the dead people like it for us to be here?”
</p>
<p>
Huckleberry whispered:
</p>
<p>
“I wisht I knowed. It’s awful solemn like, <i>ain’t</i>
it?”
</p>
<p>
“I bet it is.”
</p>
<p>
There was a considerable pause, while the boys canvassed this matter
inwardly. Then Tom whispered:
</p>
<p>
“Say, Hucky—do you reckon Hoss Williams hears us talking?”
</p>
<p>
“O’ course he does. Least his sperrit does.”
</p>
<p>
Tom, after a pause:
</p>
<p>
“I wish I’d said Mister Williams. But I never meant any harm.
Everybody calls him Hoss.”
</p>
<p>
“A body can’t be too partic’lar how they talk ’bout
these-yer dead people, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
This was a damper, and conversation died again.
</p>
<p>
Presently Tom seized his comrade’s arm and said:
</p>
<p>
“Sh!”
</p>
<p>
“What is it, Tom?” And the two clung together with beating
hearts.
</p>
<p>
“Sh! There ’tis again! Didn’t you hear it?”
</p>
<p>
“I—”
</p>
<p>
“There! Now you hear it.”
</p>
<p>
“Lord, Tom, they’re coming! They’re coming, sure. What’ll
we do?”
</p>
<p>
“I dono. Think they’ll see us?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Tom, they can see in the dark, same as cats. I wisht I hadn’t
come.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, don’t be afeard. I don’t believe they’ll
bother us. We ain’t doing any harm. If we keep perfectly still,
maybe they won’t notice us at all.”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll try to, Tom, but, Lord, I’m all of a shiver.”
</p>
<p>
“Listen!”
</p>
<p>
The boys bent their heads together and scarcely breathed. A muffled sound
of voices floated up from the far end of the graveyard.
</p>
<p>
“Look! See there!” whispered Tom. “What is it?”
</p>
<p>
“It’s devil-fire. Oh, Tom, this is awful.”
</p>
<p>
Some vague figures approached through the gloom, swinging an old-fashioned
tin lantern that freckled the ground with innumerable little spangles of
light. Presently Huckleberry whispered with a shudder:
</p>
<p>
“It’s the devils sure enough. Three of ’em! Lordy, Tom,
we’re goners! Can you pray?”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll try, but don’t you be afeard. They ain’t
going to hurt us. ‘Now I lay me down to sleep, I—’”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img088"></a>
<img alt="09-088.jpg (48K)" src="images/09-088.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Sh!”
</p>
<p>
“What is it, Huck?”
</p>
<p>
“They’re <i>humans</i>! One of ’em is, anyway. One of
’em’s old Muff Potter’s voice.”
</p>
<p>
“No—’tain’t so, is it?”
</p>
<p>
“I bet I know it. Don’t you stir nor budge. He ain’t
sharp enough to notice us. Drunk, the same as usual, likely—blamed
old rip!”
</p>
<p>
“All right, I’ll keep still. Now they’re stuck. Can’t
find it. Here they come again. Now they’re hot. Cold again. Hot
again. Red hot! They’re p’inted right, this time. Say, Huck, I
know another o’ them voices; it’s Injun Joe.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s so—that murderin’ half-breed! I’d
druther they was devils a dern sight. What kin they be up to?”
</p>
<p>
The whisper died wholly out, now, for the three men had reached the grave
and stood within a few feet of the boys’ hiding-place.
</p>
<p>
“Here it is,” said the third voice; and the owner of it held
the lantern up and revealed the face of young Doctor Robinson.
</p>
<p>
Potter and Injun Joe were carrying a handbarrow with a rope and a couple
of shovels on it. They cast down their load and began to open the grave.
The doctor put the lantern at the head of the grave and came and sat down
with his back against one of the elm trees. He was so close the boys could
have touched him.
</p>
<p>
“Hurry, men!” he said, in a low voice; “the moon might
come out at any moment.”
</p>
<p>
They growled a response and went on digging. For some time there was no
noise but the grating sound of the spades discharging their freight of
mould and gravel. It was very monotonous. Finally a spade struck upon the
coffin with a dull woody accent, and within another minute or two the men
had hoisted it out on the ground. They pried off the lid with their
shovels, got out the body and dumped it rudely on the ground. The moon
drifted from behind the clouds and exposed the pallid face. The barrow was
got ready and the corpse placed on it, covered with a blanket, and bound
to its place with the rope. Potter took out a large spring-knife and cut
off the dangling end of the rope and then said:
</p>
<p>
“Now the cussed thing’s ready, Sawbones, and you’ll just
out with another five, or here she stays.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s the talk!” said Injun Joe.
</p>
<p>
“Look here, what does this mean?” said the doctor. “You
required your pay in advance, and I’ve paid you.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, and you done more than that,” said Injun Joe,
approaching the doctor, who was now standing. “Five years ago you
drove me away from your father’s kitchen one night, when I come to
ask for something to eat, and you said I warn’t there for any good;
and when I swore I’d get even with you if it took a hundred years,
your father had me jailed for a vagrant. Did you think I’d forget?
The Injun blood ain’t in me for nothing. And now I’ve <i>got</i>
you, and you got to <i>settle</i>, you know!”
</p>
<p>
He was threatening the doctor, with his fist in his face, by this time.
The doctor struck out suddenly and stretched the ruffian on the ground.
Potter dropped his knife, and exclaimed:
</p>
<p>
“Here, now, don’t you hit my pard!” and the next moment
he had grappled with the doctor and the two were struggling with might and
main, trampling the grass and tearing the ground with their heels. Injun
Joe sprang to his feet, his eyes flaming with passion, snatched up Potter’s
knife, and went creeping, catlike and stooping, round and round about the
combatants, seeking an opportunity. All at once the doctor flung himself
free, seized the heavy headboard of Williams’ grave and felled
Potter to the earth with it—and in the same instant the half-breed
saw his chance and drove the knife to the hilt in the young man’s
breast. He reeled and fell partly upon Potter, flooding him with his
blood, and in the same moment the clouds blotted out the dreadful
spectacle and the two frightened boys went speeding away in the dark.
</p>
<p>
Presently, when the moon emerged again, Injun Joe was standing over the
two forms, contemplating them. The doctor murmured inarticulately, gave a
long gasp or two and was still. The half-breed muttered:
</p>
<p>
“<i>That</i> score is settled—damn you.”
</p>
<p>
Then he robbed the body. After which he put the fatal knife in Potter’s
open right hand, and sat down on the dismantled coffin. Three—four—five
minutes passed, and then Potter began to stir and moan. His hand closed
upon the knife; he raised it, glanced at it, and let it fall, with a
shudder. Then he sat up, pushing the body from him, and gazed at it, and
then around him, confusedly. His eyes met Joe’s.
</p>
<p>
“Lord, how is this, Joe?” he said.
</p>
<p>
“It’s a dirty business,” said Joe, without moving. “What did you do it for?”
</p>
<p>
“I! I never done it!”
</p>
<p>
“Look here! That kind of talk won’t wash.”
</p>
<p>
Potter trembled and grew white.
</p>
<p>
“I thought I’d got sober. I’d no business to drink
to-night. But it’s in my head yet—worse’n when we
started here. I’m all in a muddle; can’t recollect anything of
it, hardly. Tell me, Joe—<i>honest</i>, now, old feller—did I
do it? Joe, I never meant to—’pon my soul and honor, I never
meant to, Joe. Tell me how it was, Joe. Oh, it’s awful—and him
so young and promising.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, you two was scuffling, and he fetched you one with the
headboard and you fell flat; and then up you come, all reeling and
staggering like, and snatched the knife and jammed it into him, just as he
fetched you another awful clip—and here you’ve laid, as dead
as a wedge til now.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img091"></a>
<img alt="09-091.jpg (101K)" src="images/09-091.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Oh, I didn’t know what I was a-doing. I wish I may die this
minute if I did. It was all on account of the whiskey and the excitement,
I reckon. I never used a weepon in my life before, Joe. I’ve fought,
but never with weepons. They’ll all say that. Joe, don’t tell!
Say you won’t tell, Joe—that’s a good feller. I always
liked you, Joe, and stood up for you, too. Don’t you remember? You
<i>won’t</i> tell, <i>will</i> you, Joe?” And the poor
creature dropped on his knees before the stolid murderer, and clasped his
appealing hands.
</p>
<p>
“No, you’ve always been fair and square with me, Muff Potter,
and I won’t go back on you. There, now, that’s as fair as a
man can say.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Joe, you’re an angel. I’ll bless you for this the
longest day I live.” And Potter began to cry.
</p>
<p>
“Come, now, that’s enough of that. This ain’t any time
for blubbering. You be off yonder way and I’ll go this. Move, now,
and don’t leave any tracks behind you.”
</p>
<p>
Potter started on a trot that quickly increased to a run. The half-breed
stood looking after him. He muttered:
</p>
<p>
“If he’s as much stunned with the lick and fuddled with the
rum as he had the look of being, he won’t think of the knife till he’s
gone so far he’ll be afraid to come back after it to such a place by
himself—chicken-heart!”
</p>
<p>
Two or three minutes later the murdered man, the blanketed corpse, the
lidless coffin, and the open grave were under no inspection but the moon’s.
The stillness was complete again, too.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img092"></a>
<img alt="09-092.jpg (45K)" src="images/09-092.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c10"></a>
CHAPTER X
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img093"></a>
<img alt="10-093.jpg (171K)" src="images/10-093.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The two boys flew on and on, toward the village, speechless with horror.
They glanced backward over their shoulders from time to time,
apprehensively, as if they feared they might be followed. Every stump that
started up in their path seemed a man and an enemy, and made them catch
their breath; and as they sped by some outlying cottages that lay near the
village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed to give wings to
their feet.
</p>
<p>
“If we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!”
whispered Tom, in short catches between breaths. “I can’t
stand it much longer.”
</p>
<p>
Huckleberry’s hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed
their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it.
They gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst
through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering
shadows beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered:
</p>
<p>
“Huckleberry, what do you reckon’ll come of this?”
</p>
<p>
“If Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon hanging’ll come of it.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you though?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, I <i>know</i> it, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
Tom thought a while, then he said:
</p>
<p>
“Who’ll tell? We?”
</p>
<p>
“What are you talking about? S’pose something happened and
Injun Joe <i>didn’t</i> hang? Why, he’d kill us some time or
other, just as dead sure as we’re a laying here.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s just what I was thinking to myself, Huck.”
</p>
<p>
“If anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he’s fool enough.
He’s generally drunk enough.”
</p>
<p>
Tom said nothing—went on thinking. Presently he whispered:
</p>
<p>
“Huck, Muff Potter don’t know it. How can he tell?”
</p>
<p>
“What’s the reason he don’t know it?”
</p>
<p>
“Because he’d just got that whack when Injun Joe done it. D’you
reckon he could see anything? D’you reckon he knowed anything?”
</p>
<p>
“By hokey, that’s so, Tom!”
</p>
<p>
“And besides, look-a-here—maybe that whack done for <i>him</i>!”
</p>
<p>
“No, ’taint likely, Tom. He had liquor in him; I could see
that; and besides, he always has. Well, when pap’s full, you might
take and belt him over the head with a church and you couldn’t phase
him. He says so, his own self. So it’s the same with Muff Potter, of
course. But if a man was dead sober, I reckon maybe that whack might fetch
him; I dono.”
</p>
<p>
After another reflective silence, Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Hucky, you sure you can keep mum?”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, we <i>got</i> to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil
wouldn’t make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we
was to squeak ’bout this and they didn’t hang him. Now,
look-a-here, Tom, less take and swear to one another—that’s
what we got to do—swear to keep mum.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<img alt="10-095.jpg (149K)" src="images/10-095.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“I’m agreed. It’s the best thing. Would you just hold
hands and swear that we—”
</p>
<p>
“Oh no, that wouldn’t do for this. That’s good enough
for little rubbishy common things—specially with gals, cuz <i>they</i>
go back on you anyway, and blab if they get in a huff—but there
orter be writing ’bout a big thing like this. And blood.”
</p>
<p>
Tom’s whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and
awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with
it. He picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moon-light, took a
little fragment of “red keel” out of his pocket, got the moon
on his work, and painfully scrawled these lines, emphasizing each slow
down-stroke by clamping his tongue between his teeth, and letting up the
pressure on the up-strokes.
</p>
<p class="poem">
“Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer swears they will keep mum about This and
They wish They may Drop down dead in Their Tracks if They ever Tell and
Rot.”
</p>
<p>
Huckleberry was filled with admiration of Tom’s facility in writing,
and the sublimity of his language. He at once took a pin from his lapel
and was going to prick his flesh, but Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Hold on! Don’t do that. A pin’s brass. It might have
verdigrease on it.”
</p>
<p>
“What’s verdigrease?”
</p>
<p>
“It’s p’ison. That’s what it is. You just swaller
some of it once—you’ll see.”
</p>
<p>
So Tom unwound the thread from one of his needles, and each boy pricked
the ball of his thumb and squeezed out a drop of blood. In time, after
many squeezes, Tom managed to sign his initials, using the ball of his
little finger for a pen. Then he showed Huckleberry how to make an H and
an F, and the oath was complete. They buried the shingle close to the
wall, with some dismal ceremonies and incantations, and the fetters that
bound their tongues were considered to be locked and the key thrown away.
</p>
<p>
A figure crept stealthily through a break in the other end of the ruined
building, now, but they did not notice it.
</p>
<p>
“Tom,” whispered Huckleberry, “does this keep us from <i>ever</i>
telling—<i>always</i>?”
</p>
<p>
“Of course it does. It don’t make any difference <i>what</i>
happens, we got to keep mum. We’d drop down dead—don’t
<i>you</i> know that?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I reckon that’s so.”
</p>
<p>
They continued to whisper for some little time. Presently a dog set up a
long, lugubrious howl just outside—within ten feet of them. The boys
clasped each other suddenly, in an agony of fright.
</p>
<p>
“Which of us does he mean?” gasped Huckleberry.
</p>
<p>
“I dono—peep through the crack. Quick!”
</p>
<p>
“No, <i>you</i>, Tom!”
</p>
<p>
“I can’t—I can’t <i>do</i> it, Huck!”
</p>
<p>
“Please, Tom. There ’tis again!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, lordy, I’m thankful!” whispered Tom. “I know
his voice. It’s Bull Harbison.” *
</p>
<p>
[* If Mr. Harbison owned a slave named Bull, Tom would have spoken of him
as “Harbison’s Bull,” but a son or a dog of that name
was “Bull Harbison.”]
</p>
<p>
“Oh, that’s good—I tell you, Tom, I was most scared to
death; I’d a bet anything it was a <i>stray</i> dog.”
</p>
<p>
The dog howled again. The boys’ hearts sank once more.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, my! that ain’t no Bull Harbison!” whispered
Huckleberry. “<i>Do</i>, Tom!”
</p>
<p>
Tom, quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye to the crack. His whisper
was hardly audible when he said:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Huck, <i>it’s a stray dog</i>!”
</p>
<p>
“Quick, Tom, quick! Who does he mean?”
</p>
<p>
“Huck, he must mean us both—we’re right together.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Tom, I reckon we’re goners. I reckon there ain’t no
mistake ’bout where <i>I’ll</i> go to. I been so wicked.”
</p>
<p>
“Dad fetch it! This comes of playing hookey and doing everything a
feller’s told <i>not</i> to do. I might a been good, like Sid, if I’d
a tried—but no, I wouldn’t, of course. But if ever I get off
this time, I lay I’ll just <i>waller</i> in Sunday-schools!”
And Tom began to snuffle a little.
</p>
<p>
“<i>You</i> bad!” and Huckleberry began to snuffle too.
“Consound it, Tom Sawyer, you’re just old pie, ’long-side
o’ what I am. Oh, <i>lordy</i>, lordy, lordy, I wisht I only had
half your chance.”
</p>
<p>
Tom choked off and whispered:
</p>
<p>
“Look, Hucky, look! He’s got his <i>back</i> to us!”
</p>
<p>
Hucky looked, with joy in his heart.
</p>
<p>
“Well, he has, by jingoes! Did he before?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, he did. But I, like a fool, never thought. Oh, this is bully,
you know. <i>Now</i> who can he mean?”
</p>
<p>
The howling stopped. Tom pricked up his ears.
</p>
<p>
“Sh! What’s that?” he whispered.
</p>
<p>
“Sounds like—like hogs grunting. No—it’s somebody
snoring, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“That <i>is</i> it! Where ’bouts is it, Huck?”
</p>
<p>
“I bleeve it’s down at ’tother end. Sounds so, anyway.
Pap used to sleep there, sometimes, ’long with the hogs, but laws
bless you, he just lifts things when <i>he</i> snores. Besides, I reckon
he ain’t ever coming back to this town any more.”
</p>
<p>
The spirit of adventure rose in the boys’ souls once more.
</p>
<p>
“Hucky, do you das’t to go if I lead?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t like to, much. Tom, s’pose it’s Injun
Joe!”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img098"></a>
<img alt="10-098.jpg (89K)" src="images/10-098.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Tom quailed. But presently the temptation rose up strong again and the
boys agreed to try, with the understanding that they would take to their
heels if the snoring stopped. So they went tiptoeing stealthily down, the
one behind the other. When they had got to within five steps of the
snorer, Tom stepped on a stick, and it broke with a sharp snap. The man
moaned, writhed a little, and his face came into the moonlight. It was
Muff Potter. The boys’ hearts had stood still, and their hopes too,
when the man moved, but their fears passed away now. They tip-toed out,
through the broken weather-boarding, and stopped at a little distance to
exchange a parting word. That long, lugubrious howl rose on the night air
again! They turned and saw the strange dog standing within a few feet of
where Potter was lying, and <i>facing</i> Potter, with his nose pointing
heavenward.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, geeminy, it’s <i>him</i>!” exclaimed both boys, in
a breath.
</p>
<p>
“Say, Tom—they say a stray dog come howling around Johnny
Miller’s house, ’bout midnight, as much as two weeks ago; and
a whippoorwill come in and lit on the banisters and sung, the very same
evening; and there ain’t anybody dead there yet.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I know that. And suppose there ain’t. Didn’t
Gracie Miller fall in the kitchen fire and burn herself terrible the very
next Saturday?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, but she ain’t <i>dead</i>. And what’s more, she’s
getting better, too.”
</p>
<p>
“All right, you wait and see. She’s a goner, just as dead sure
as Muff Potter’s a goner. That’s what the niggers say, and
they know all about these kind of things, Huck.”
</p>
<p>
Then they separated, cogitating. When Tom crept in at his bedroom window
the night was almost spent. He undressed with excessive caution, and fell
asleep congratulating himself that nobody knew of his escapade. He was not
aware that the gently-snoring Sid was awake, and had been so for an hour.
</p>
<p>
When Tom awoke, Sid was dressed and gone. There was a late look in the
light, a late sense in the atmosphere. He was startled. Why had he not
been called—persecuted till he was up, as usual? The thought filled
him with bodings. Within five minutes he was dressed and down-stairs,
feeling sore and drowsy. The family were still at table, but they had
finished breakfast. There was no voice of rebuke; but there were averted
eyes; there was a silence and an air of solemnity that struck a chill to
the culprit’s heart. He sat down and tried to seem gay, but it was
up-hill work; it roused no smile, no response, and he lapsed into silence
and let his heart sink down to the depths.
</p>
<p>
After breakfast his aunt took him aside, and Tom almost brightened in the
hope that he was going to be flogged; but it was not so. His aunt wept
over him and asked him how he could go and break her old heart so; and
finally told him to go on, and ruin himself and bring her gray hairs with
sorrow to the grave, for it was no use for her to try any more. This was
worse than a thousand whippings, and Tom’s heart was sorer now than
his body. He cried, he pleaded for forgiveness, promised to reform over
and over again, and then received his dismissal, feeling that he had won
but an imperfect forgiveness and established but a feeble confidence.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img100"></a>
<img alt="10-100.jpg (63K)" src="images/10-100.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
He left the presence too miserable to even feel revengeful toward Sid; and
so the latter’s prompt retreat through the back gate was
unnecessary. He moped to school gloomy and sad, and took his flogging,
along with Joe Harper, for playing hookey the day before, with the air of
one whose heart was busy with heavier woes and wholly dead to trifles.
Then he betook himself to his seat, rested his elbows on his desk and his
jaws in his hands, and stared at the wall with the stony stare of
suffering that has reached the limit and can no further go. His elbow was
pressing against some hard substance. After a long time he slowly and
sadly changed his position, and took up this object with a sigh. It was in
a paper. He unrolled it. A long, lingering, colossal sigh followed, and
his heart broke. It was his brass andiron knob!
</p>
<p>
This final feather broke the camel’s back.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c11"></a>
CHAPTER XI
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img101"></a>
<img alt="11-101.jpg (179K)" src="images/11-101.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Close upon the hour of noon the whole village was suddenly electrified
with the ghastly news. No need of the as yet un-dreamed-of telegraph; the
tale flew from man to man, from group to group, from house to house, with
little less than telegraphic speed. Of course the schoolmaster gave
holiday for that afternoon; the town would have thought strangely of him
if he had not.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img102"></a>
<img alt="11-102.jpg (49K)" src="images/11-102.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
A gory knife had been found close to the murdered man, and it had been
recognized by somebody as belonging to Muff Potter—so the story ran.
And it was said that a belated citizen had come upon Potter washing
himself in the “branch” about one or two o’clock in the
morning, and that Potter had at once sneaked off—suspicious
circumstances, especially the washing which was not a habit with Potter.
It was also said that the town had been ransacked for this “murderer”
(the public are not slow in the matter of sifting evidence and arriving at
a verdict), but that he could not be found. Horsemen had departed down all
the roads in every direction, and the Sheriff “was confident”
that he would be captured before night.
</p>
<p>
All the town was drifting toward the graveyard. Tom’s heartbreak
vanished and he joined the procession, not because he would not a thousand
times rather go anywhere else, but because an awful, unaccountable
fascination drew him on. Arrived at the dreadful place, he wormed his
small body through the crowd and saw the dismal spectacle. It seemed to
him an age since he was there before. Somebody pinched his arm. He turned,
and his eyes met Huckleberry’s. Then both looked elsewhere at once,
and wondered if anybody had noticed anything in their mutual glance. But
everybody was talking, and intent upon the grisly spectacle before them.
</p>
<p>
“Poor fellow!” “Poor young fellow!” “This
ought to be a lesson to grave robbers!” “Muff Potter’ll
hang for this if they catch him!” This was the drift of remark; and
the minister said, “It was a judgment; His hand is here.”
</p>
<p>
Now Tom shivered from head to heel; for his eye fell upon the stolid face
of Injun Joe. At this moment the crowd began to sway and struggle, and
voices shouted, “It’s him! it’s him! he’s coming
himself!”
</p>
<p>
“Who? Who?” from twenty voices.
</p>
<p>
“Muff Potter!”
</p>
<p>
“Hallo, he’s stopped!—Look out, he’s turning! Don’t
let him get away!”
</p>
<p>
People in the branches of the trees over Tom’s head said he wasn’t
trying to get away—he only looked doubtful and perplexed.
</p>
<p>
“Infernal impudence!” said a bystander; “wanted to come
and take a quiet look at his work, I reckon—didn’t expect any
company.”
</p>
<p>
The crowd fell apart, now, and the Sheriff came through, ostentatiously
leading Potter by the arm. The poor fellow’s face was haggard, and
his eyes showed the fear that was upon him. When he stood before the
murdered man, he shook as with a palsy, and he put his face in his hands
and burst into tears.
</p>
<p>
“I didn’t do it, friends,” he sobbed; “’pon
my word and honor I never done it.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img103"></a>
<img alt="11-103.jpg (112K)" src="images/11-103.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Who’s accused you?” shouted a voice.
</p>
<p>
This shot seemed to carry home. Potter lifted his face and looked around
him with a pathetic hopelessness in his eyes. He saw Injun Joe, and
exclaimed:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Injun Joe, you promised me you’d never—”
</p>
<p>
“Is that your knife?” and it was thrust before him by the
Sheriff.
</p>
<p>
Potter would have fallen if they had not caught him and eased him to the
ground. Then he said:
</p>
<p>
“Something told me ’t if I didn’t come back and get—”
He shuddered; then waved his nerveless hand with a vanquished gesture and
said, “Tell ’em, Joe, tell ’em—it ain’t any
use any more.”
</p>
<p>
Then Huckleberry and Tom stood dumb and staring, and heard the
stony-hearted liar reel off his serene statement, they expecting every
moment that the clear sky would deliver God’s lightnings upon his
head, and wondering to see how long the stroke was delayed. And when he
had finished and still stood alive and whole, their wavering impulse to
break their oath and save the poor betrayed prisoner’s life faded
and vanished away, for plainly this miscreant had sold himself to Satan
and it would be fatal to meddle with the property of such a power as that.
</p>
<p>
“Why didn’t you leave? What did you want to come here for?”
somebody said.
</p>
<p>
“I couldn’t help it—I couldn’t help it,”
Potter moaned. “I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t seem to
come anywhere but here.” And he fell to sobbing again.
</p>
<p>
Injun Joe repeated his statement, just as calmly, a few minutes afterward
on the inquest, under oath; and the boys, seeing that the lightnings were
still withheld, were confirmed in their belief that Joe had sold himself
to the devil. He was now become, to them, the most balefully interesting
object they had ever looked upon, and they could not take their fascinated
eyes from his face.
</p>
<p>
They inwardly resolved to watch him nights, when opportunity should offer,
in the hope of getting a glimpse of his dread master.
</p>
<p>
Injun Joe helped to raise the body of the murdered man and put it in a
wagon for removal; and it was whispered through the shuddering crowd that
the wound bled a little! The boys thought that this happy circumstance
would turn suspicion in the right direction; but they were disappointed,
for more than one villager remarked:
</p>
<p>
“It was within three feet of Muff Potter when it done it.”
</p>
<p>
Tom’s fearful secret and gnawing conscience disturbed his sleep for
as much as a week after this; and at breakfast one morning Sid said:
</p>
<p>
“Tom, you pitch around and talk in your sleep so much that you keep
me awake half the time.”
</p>
<p>
Tom blanched and dropped his eyes.
</p>
<p>
“It’s a bad sign,” said Aunt Polly, gravely. “What
you got on your mind, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing. Nothing ’t I know of.” But the boy’s
hand shook so that he spilled his coffee.
</p>
<p>
“And you do talk such stuff,” Sid said. “Last night you
said, ‘It’s blood, it’s blood, that’s what it is!’
You said that over and over. And you said, ‘Don’t torment me
so—I’ll tell!’ Tell <i>what</i>? What is it you’ll
tell?”
</p>
<p>
Everything was swimming before Tom. There is no telling what might have
happened, now, but luckily the concern passed out of Aunt Polly’s
face and she came to Tom’s relief without knowing it. She said:
</p>
<p>
“Sho! It’s that dreadful murder. I dream about it most every
night myself. Sometimes I dream it’s me that done it.”
</p>
<p>
Mary said she had been affected much the same way. Sid seemed satisfied.
Tom got out of the presence as quick as he plausibly could, and after that
he complained of toothache for a week, and tied up his jaws every night.
He never knew that Sid lay nightly watching, and frequently slipped the
bandage free and then leaned on his elbow listening a good while at a
time, and afterward slipped the bandage back to its place again. Tom’s
distress of mind wore off gradually and the toothache grew irksome and was
discarded. If Sid really managed to make anything out of Tom’s
disjointed mutterings, he kept it to himself.
</p>
<p>
It seemed to Tom that his schoolmates never would get done holding
inquests on dead cats, and thus keeping his trouble present to his mind.
Sid noticed that Tom never was coroner at one of these inquiries, though
it had been his habit to take the lead in all new enterprises; he noticed,
too, that Tom never acted as a witness—and that was strange; and Sid
did not overlook the fact that Tom even showed a marked aversion to these
inquests, and always avoided them when he could. Sid marvelled, but said
nothing. However, even inquests went out of vogue at last, and ceased to
torture Tom’s conscience.
</p>
<p>
Every day or two, during this time of sorrow, Tom watched his opportunity
and went to the little grated jail-window and smuggled such small comforts
through to the “murderer” as he could get hold of. The jail
was a trifling little brick den that stood in a marsh at the edge of the
village, and no guards were afforded for it; indeed, it was seldom
occupied. These offerings greatly helped to ease Tom’s conscience.
</p>
<p>
The villagers had a strong desire to tar-and-feather Injun Joe and ride
him on a rail, for body-snatching, but so formidable was his character
that nobody could be found who was willing to take the lead in the matter,
so it was dropped. He had been careful to begin both of his
inquest-statements with the fight, without confessing the grave-robbery
that preceded it; therefore it was deemed wisest not to try the case in
the courts at present.
</p>
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</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c12"></a>
CHAPTER XII
</h2></div>
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<p>
One of the reasons why Tom’s mind had drifted away from its secret
troubles was, that it had found a new and weighty matter to interest
itself about. Becky Thatcher had stopped coming to school. Tom had
struggled with his pride a few days, and tried to “whistle her down
the wind,” but failed. He began to find himself hanging around her
father’s house, nights, and feeling very miserable. She was ill.
What if she should die! There was distraction in the thought. He no longer
took an interest in war, nor even in piracy. The charm of life was gone;
there was nothing but dreariness left. He put his hoop away, and his bat;
there was no joy in them any more. His aunt was concerned. She began to
try all manner of remedies on him. She was one of those people who are
infatuated with patent medicines and all new-fangled methods of producing
health or mending it. She was an inveterate experimenter in these things.
When something fresh in this line came out she was in a fever, right away,
to try it; not on herself, for she was never ailing, but on anybody else
that came handy. She was a subscriber for all the “Health”
periodicals and phrenological frauds; and the solemn ignorance they were
inflated with was breath to her nostrils. All the “rot” they
contained about ventilation, and how to go to bed, and how to get up, and
what to eat, and what to drink, and how much exercise to take, and what
frame of mind to keep one’s self in, and what sort of clothing to
wear, was all gospel to her, and she never observed that her
health-journals of the current month customarily upset everything they had
recommended the month before. She was as simple-hearted and honest as the
day was long, and so she was an easy victim. She gathered together her
quack periodicals and her quack medicines, and thus armed with death, went
about on her pale horse, metaphorically speaking, with “hell
following after.” But she never suspected that she was not an angel
of healing and the balm of Gilead in disguise, to the suffering neighbors.
</p>
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</div>
<p>
The water treatment was new, now, and Tom’s low condition was a
windfall to her. She had him out at daylight every morning, stood him up
in the wood-shed and drowned him with a deluge of cold water; then she
scrubbed him down with a towel like a file, and so brought him to; then
she rolled him up in a wet sheet and put him away under blankets till she
sweated his soul clean and “the yellow stains of it came through his
pores”—as Tom said.
</p>
<p>
Yet notwithstanding all this, the boy grew more and more melancholy and
pale and dejected. She added hot baths, sitz baths, shower baths, and
plunges. The boy remained as dismal as a hearse. She began to assist the
water with a slim oatmeal diet and blister-plasters. She calculated his
capacity as she would a jug’s, and filled him up every day with
quack cure-alls.
</p>
<p>
Tom had become indifferent to persecution by this time. This phase filled
the old lady’s heart with consternation. This indifference must be
broken up at any cost. Now she heard of Pain-killer for the first time.
She ordered a lot at once. She tasted it and was filled with gratitude. It
was simply fire in a liquid form. She dropped the water treatment and
everything else, and pinned her faith to Pain-killer. She gave Tom a
teaspoonful and watched with the deepest anxiety for the result. Her
troubles were instantly at rest, her soul at peace again; for the “indifference”
was broken up. The boy could not have shown a wilder, heartier interest,
if she had built a fire under him.
</p>
<p>
Tom felt that it was time to wake up; this sort of life might be romantic
enough, in his blighted condition, but it was getting to have too little
sentiment and too much distracting variety about it. So he thought over
various plans for relief, and finally hit upon that of professing to be
fond of Pain-killer. He asked for it so often that he became a nuisance,
and his aunt ended by telling him to help himself and quit bothering her.
If it had been Sid, she would have had no misgivings to alloy her delight;
but since it was Tom, she watched the bottle clandestinely. She found that
the medicine did really diminish, but it did not occur to her that the boy
was mending the health of a crack in the sitting-room floor with it.
</p>
<p>
One day Tom was in the act of dosing the crack when his aunt’s
yellow cat came along, purring, eyeing the teaspoon avariciously, and
begging for a taste. Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Don’t ask for it unless you want it, Peter.”
</p>
<p>
But Peter signified that he did want it.
</p>
<p>
“You better make sure.”
</p>
<p>
Peter was sure.
</p>
<p>
“Now you’ve asked for it, and I’ll give it to you,
because there ain’t anything mean about me; but if you find you don’t
like it, you mustn’t blame anybody but your own self.”
</p>
<p>
Peter was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth open and poured down the
Pain-killer. Peter sprang a couple of yards in the air, and then delivered
a war-whoop and set off round and round the room, banging against
furniture, upsetting flower-pots, and making general havoc. Next he rose
on his hind feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of enjoyment, with his
head over his shoulder and his voice proclaiming his unappeasable
happiness. Then he went tearing around the house again spreading chaos and
destruction in his path. Aunt Polly entered in time to see him throw a few
double summersets, deliver a final mighty hurrah, and sail through the
open window, carrying the rest of the flower-pots with him. The old lady
stood petrified with astonishment, peering over her glasses; Tom lay on
the floor expiring with laughter.
</p>
<p>
“Tom, what on earth ails that cat?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know, aunt,” gasped the boy.
</p>
<p>
“Why, I never see anything like it. What did make him act so?”
</p>
<p>
“Deed I don’t know, Aunt Polly; cats always act so when they’re
having a good time.”
</p>
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</div>
<p>
“They do, do they?” There was something in the tone that made
Tom apprehensive.
</p>
<p>
“Yes’m. That is, I believe they do.”
</p>
<p>
“You <i>do</i>?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes’m.”
</p>
<p>
The old lady was bending down, Tom watching, with interest emphasized by
anxiety. Too late he divined her “drift.” The handle of the
telltale tea-spoon was visible under the bed-valance. Aunt Polly took it,
held it up. Tom winced, and dropped his eyes. Aunt Polly raised him by the
usual handle—his ear—and cracked his head soundly with her
thimble.
</p>
<p>
“Now, sir, what did you want to treat that poor dumb beast so, for?”
</p>
<p>
“I done it out of pity for him—because he hadn’t any
aunt.”
</p>
<p>
“Hadn’t any aunt!—you numskull. What has that got to do
with it?”
</p>
<p>
“Heaps. Because if he’d had one she’d a burnt him out
herself! She’d a roasted his bowels out of him ’thout any more
feeling than if he was a human!”
</p>
<p>
Aunt Polly felt a sudden pang of remorse. This was putting the thing in a
new light; what was cruelty to a cat <i>might</i> be cruelty to a boy,
too. She began to soften; she felt sorry. Her eyes watered a little, and
she put her hand on Tom’s head and said gently:
</p>
<p>
“I was meaning for the best, Tom. And, Tom, it <i>did</i> do you
good.”
</p>
<p>
Tom looked up in her face with just a perceptible twinkle peeping through
his gravity.
</p>
<p>
“I know you was meaning for the best, aunty, and so was I with
Peter. It done <i>him</i> good, too. I never see him get around so since—”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, go ’long with you, Tom, before you aggravate me again.
And you try and see if you can’t be a good boy, for once, and you
needn’t take any more medicine.”
</p>
<p>
Tom reached school ahead of time. It was noticed that this strange thing
had been occurring every day latterly. And now, as usual of late, he hung
about the gate of the schoolyard instead of playing with his comrades. He
was sick, he said, and he looked it. He tried to seem to be looking
everywhere but whither he really was looking—down the road.
Presently Jeff Thatcher hove in sight, and Tom’s face lighted; he
gazed a moment, and then turned sorrowfully away. When Jeff arrived, Tom
accosted him; and “led up” warily to opportunities for remark
about Becky, but the giddy lad never could see the bait. Tom watched and
watched, hoping whenever a frisking frock came in sight, and hating the
owner of it as soon as he saw she was not the right one. At last frocks
ceased to appear, and he dropped hopelessly into the dumps; he entered the
empty schoolhouse and sat down to suffer. Then one more frock passed in at
the gate, and Tom’s heart gave a great bound. The next instant he
was out, and “going on” like an Indian; yelling, laughing,
chasing boys, jumping over the fence at risk of life and limb, throwing
handsprings, standing on his head—doing all the heroic things he
could conceive of, and keeping a furtive eye out, all the while, to see if
Becky Thatcher was noticing. But she seemed to be unconscious of it all;
she never looked. Could it be possible that she was not aware that he was
there? He carried his exploits to her immediate vicinity; came
war-whooping around, snatched a boy’s cap, hurled it to the roof of
the schoolhouse, broke through a group of boys, tumbling them in every
direction, and fell sprawling, himself, under Becky’s nose, almost
upsetting her—and she turned, with her nose in the air, and he heard
her say: “Mf! some people think they’re mighty smart—always
showing off!”
</p>
<p>
Tom’s cheeks burned. He gathered himself up and sneaked off, crushed
and crestfallen.
</p>
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</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c13"></a>
CHAPTER XIII
</h2></div>
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<p>
Tom’s mind was made up now. He was gloomy and desperate. He was a
forsaken, friendless boy, he said; nobody loved him; when they found out
what they had driven him to, perhaps they would be sorry; he had tried to
do right and get along, but they would not let him; since nothing would do
them but to be rid of him, let it be so; and let them blame <i>him</i> for
the consequences—why shouldn’t they? What right had the
friendless to complain? Yes, they had forced him to it at last: he would
lead a life of crime. There was no choice.
</p>
<p>
By this time he was far down Meadow Lane, and the bell for school to
“take up” tinkled faintly upon his ear. He sobbed, now, to
think he should never, never hear that old familiar sound any more—it
was very hard, but it was forced on him; since he was driven out into the
cold world, he must submit—but he forgave them. Then the sobs came
thick and fast.
</p>
<p>
Just at this point he met his soul’s sworn comrade, Joe Harper—hard-eyed,
and with evidently a great and dismal purpose in his heart. Plainly here
were “two souls with but a single thought.” Tom, wiping his
eyes with his sleeve, began to blubber out something about a resolution to
escape from hard usage and lack of sympathy at home by roaming abroad into
the great world never to return; and ended by hoping that Joe would not
forget him.
</p>
<p>
But it transpired that this was a request which Joe had just been going to
make of Tom, and had come to hunt him up for that purpose. His mother had
whipped him for drinking some cream which he had never tasted and knew
nothing about; it was plain that she was tired of him and wished him to
go; if she felt that way, there was nothing for him to do but succumb; he
hoped she would be happy, and never regret having driven her poor boy out
into the unfeeling world to suffer and die.
</p>
<p>
As the two boys walked sorrowing along, they made a new compact to stand
by each other and be brothers and never separate till death relieved them
of their troubles. Then they began to lay their plans. Joe was for being a
hermit, and living on crusts in a remote cave, and dying, some time, of
cold and want and grief; but after listening to Tom, he conceded that
there were some conspicuous advantages about a life of crime, and so he
consented to be a pirate.
</p>
<p>
Three miles below St. Petersburg, at a point where the Mississippi River
was a trifle over a mile wide, there was a long, narrow, wooded island,
with a shallow bar at the head of it, and this offered well as a
rendezvous. It was not inhabited; it lay far over toward the further
shore, abreast a dense and almost wholly unpeopled forest. So Jackson’s
Island was chosen. Who were to be the subjects of their piracies was a
matter that did not occur to them. Then they hunted up Huckleberry Finn,
and he joined them promptly, for all careers were one to him; he was
indifferent. They presently separated to meet at a lonely spot on the
river-bank two miles above the village at the favorite hour—which
was midnight. There was a small log raft there which they meant to
capture. Each would bring hooks and lines, and such provision as he could
steal in the most dark and mysterious way—as became outlaws. And
before the afternoon was done, they had all managed to enjoy the sweet
glory of spreading the fact that pretty soon the town would “hear
something.” All who got this vague hint were cautioned to “be
mum and wait.”
</p>
<p>
About midnight Tom arrived with a boiled ham and a few trifles, and
stopped in a dense undergrowth on a small bluff overlooking the
meeting-place. It was starlight, and very still. The mighty river lay like
an ocean at rest. Tom listened a moment, but no sound disturbed the quiet.
Then he gave a low, distinct whistle. It was answered from under the
bluff. Tom whistled twice more; these signals were answered in the same
way. Then a guarded voice said:
</p>
<p>
“Who goes there?”
</p>
<p>
“Tom Sawyer, the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main. Name your names.”
</p>
<p>
“Huck Finn the Red-Handed, and Joe Harper the Terror of the Seas.”
Tom had furnished these titles, from his favorite literature.
</p>
<p>
“’Tis well. Give the countersign.”
</p>
<p>
Two hoarse whispers delivered the same awful word simultaneously to the
brooding night:
</p>
<p>
“<i>Blood</i>!”
</p>
<p>
Then Tom tumbled his ham over the bluff and let himself down after it,
tearing both skin and clothes to some extent in the effort. There was an
easy, comfortable path along the shore under the bluff, but it lacked the
advantages of difficulty and danger so valued by a pirate.
</p>
<p>
The Terror of the Seas had brought a side of bacon, and had about worn
himself out with getting it there. Finn the Red-Handed had stolen a
skillet and a quantity of half-cured leaf tobacco, and had also brought a
few corn-cobs to make pipes with. But none of the pirates smoked or
“chewed” but himself. The Black Avenger of the Spanish Main
said it would never do to start without some fire. That was a wise
thought; matches were hardly known there in that day. They saw a fire
smouldering upon a great raft a hundred yards above, and they went
stealthily thither and helped themselves to a chunk. They made an imposing
adventure of it, saying, “Hist!” every now and then, and
suddenly halting with finger on lip; moving with hands on imaginary
dagger-hilts; and giving orders in dismal whispers that if “the foe”
stirred, to “let him have it to the hilt,” because “dead
men tell no tales.” They knew well enough that the raftsmen were all
down at the village laying in stores or having a spree, but still that was
no excuse for their conducting this thing in an unpiratical way.
</p>
<p>
They shoved off, presently, Tom in command, Huck at the after oar and Joe
at the forward. Tom stood amidships, gloomy-browed, and with folded arms,
and gave his orders in a low, stern whisper:
</p>
<p>
“Luff, and bring her to the wind!”
</p>
<p>
“Aye-aye, sir!”
</p>
<p>
“Steady, steady-y-y-y!”
</p>
<p>
“Steady it is, sir!”
</p>
<p>
“Let her go off a point!”
</p>
<p>
“Point it is, sir!”
</p>
<p>
As the boys steadily and monotonously drove the raft toward mid-stream it
was no doubt understood that these orders were given only for “style,”
and were not intended to mean anything in particular.
</p>
<p>
“What sail’s she carrying?”
</p>
<p>
“Courses, tops’ls, and flying-jib, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Send the r’yals up! Lay out aloft, there, half a dozen of ye—foretopmaststuns’l!
Lively, now!”
</p>
<p>
“Aye-aye, sir!”
</p>
<p>
“Shake out that maintogalans’l! Sheets and braces! <i>now</i>
my hearties!”
</p>
<p>
“Aye-aye, sir!”
</p>
<p>
“Hellum-a-lee—hard a port! Stand by to meet her when she
comes! Port, port! <i>Now</i>, men! With a will! Stead-y-y-y!”
</p>
<p>
“Steady it is, sir!”
</p>
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<a name="img117"></a>
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</div>
<p>
The raft drew beyond the middle of the river; the boys pointed her head
right, and then lay on their oars. The river was not high, so there was
not more than a two or three mile current. Hardly a word was said during
the next three-quarters of an hour. Now the raft was passing before the
distant town. Two or three glimmering lights showed where it lay,
peacefully sleeping, beyond the vague vast sweep of star-gemmed water,
unconscious of the tremendous event that was happening. The Black Avenger
stood still with folded arms, “looking his last” upon the
scene of his former joys and his later sufferings, and wishing “she”
could see him now, abroad on the wild sea, facing peril and death with
dauntless heart, going to his doom with a grim smile on his lips. It was
but a small strain on his imagination to remove Jackson’s Island
beyond eye-shot of the village, and so he “looked his last”
with a broken and satisfied heart. The other pirates were looking their
last, too; and they all looked so long that they came near letting the
current drift them out of the range of the island. But they discovered the
danger in time, and made shift to avert it. About two o’clock in the
morning the raft grounded on the bar two hundred yards above the head of
the island, and they waded back and forth until they had landed their
freight. Part of the little raft’s belongings consisted of an old
sail, and this they spread over a nook in the bushes for a tent to shelter
their provisions; but they themselves would sleep in the open air in good
weather, as became outlaws.
</p>
<p>
They built a fire against the side of a great log twenty or thirty steps
within the sombre depths of the forest, and then cooked some bacon in the
frying-pan for supper, and used up half of the corn “pone”
stock they had brought. It seemed glorious sport to be feasting in that
wild, free way in the virgin forest of an unexplored and uninhabited
island, far from the haunts of men, and they said they never would return
to civilization. The climbing fire lit up their faces and threw its ruddy
glare upon the pillared tree-trunks of their forest temple, and upon the
varnished foliage and festooning vines.
</p>
<p>
When the last crisp slice of bacon was gone, and the last allowance of
corn pone devoured, the boys stretched themselves out on the grass, filled
with contentment. They could have found a cooler place, but they would not
deny themselves such a romantic feature as the roasting campfire.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img118"></a>
<img alt="13-118.jpg (49K)" src="images/13-118.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“<i>Ain’t</i> it gay?” said Joe.
</p>
<p>
“It’s <i>nuts</i>!” said Tom. “What would the boys
say if they could see us?”
</p>
<p>
“Say? Well, they’d just die to be here—hey, Hucky!”
</p>
<p>
“I reckon so,” said Huckleberry; “anyways, I’m
suited. I don’t want nothing better’n this. I don’t ever
get enough to eat, gen’ally—and here they can’t come and
pick at a feller and bullyrag him so.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s just the life for me,” said Tom. “You don’t
have to get up, mornings, and you don’t have to go to school, and
wash, and all that blame foolishness. You see a pirate don’t have to
do <i>anything</i>, Joe, when he’s ashore, but a hermit <i>he</i>
has to be praying considerable, and then he don’t have any fun,
anyway, all by himself that way.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh yes, that’s so,” said Joe, “but I hadn’t
thought much about it, you know. I’d a good deal rather be a pirate,
now that I’ve tried it.”
</p>
<p>
“You see,” said Tom, “people don’t go much on
hermits, nowadays, like they used to in old times, but a pirate’s
always respected. And a hermit’s got to sleep on the hardest place
he can find, and put sackcloth and ashes on his head, and stand out in the
rain, and—”
</p>
<p>
“What does he put sackcloth and ashes on his head for?”
inquired Huck.
</p>
<p>
“I dono. But they’ve <i>got</i> to do it. Hermits always do.
You’d have to do that if you was a hermit.”
</p>
<p>
“Dern’d if I would,” said Huck.
</p>
<p>
“Well, what would you do?”
</p>
<p>
“I dono. But I wouldn’t do that.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, Huck, you’d <i>have</i> to. How’d you get around
it?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, I just wouldn’t stand it. I’d run away.”
</p>
<p>
“Run away! Well, you <i>would</i> be a nice old slouch of a hermit.
You’d be a disgrace.”
</p>
<p>
The Red-Handed made no response, being better employed. He had finished
gouging out a cob, and now he fitted a weed stem to it, loaded it with
tobacco, and was pressing a coal to the charge and blowing a cloud of
fragrant smoke—he was in the full bloom of luxurious contentment.
The other pirates envied him this majestic vice, and secretly resolved to
acquire it shortly. Presently Huck said:
</p>
<p>
“What does pirates have to do?”
</p>
<p>
Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, they have just a bully time—take ships and burn them, and
get the money and bury it in awful places in their island where there’s
ghosts and things to watch it, and kill everybody in the ships—make
’em walk a plank.”
</p>
<p>
“And they carry the women to the island,” said Joe; “they
don’t kill the women.”
</p>
<p>
“No,” assented Tom, “they don’t kill the women—they’re
too noble. And the women’s always beautiful, too.”
</p>
<p>
“And don’t they wear the bulliest clothes! Oh no! All gold and
silver and di’monds,” said Joe, with enthusiasm.
</p>
<p>
“Who?” said Huck.
</p>
<p>
“Why, the pirates.”
</p>
<p>
Huck scanned his own clothing forlornly.
</p>
<p>
“I reckon I ain’t dressed fitten for a pirate,” said he,
with a regretful pathos in his voice; “but I ain’t got none
but these.”
</p>
<p>
But the other boys told him the fine clothes would come fast enough, after
they should have begun their adventures. They made him understand that his
poor rags would do to begin with, though it was customary for wealthy
pirates to start with a proper wardrobe.
</p>
<p>
Gradually their talk died out and drowsiness began to steal upon the
eyelids of the little waifs. The pipe dropped from the fingers of the
Red-Handed, and he slept the sleep of the conscience-free and the weary.
The Terror of the Seas and the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main had more
difficulty in getting to sleep. They said their prayers inwardly, and
lying down, since there was nobody there with authority to make them kneel
and recite aloud; in truth, they had a mind not to say them at all, but
they were afraid to proceed to such lengths as that, lest they might call
down a sudden and special thunderbolt from heaven. Then at once they
reached and hovered upon the imminent verge of sleep—but an intruder
came, now, that would not “down.” It was conscience. They
began to feel a vague fear that they had been doing wrong to run away; and
next they thought of the stolen meat, and then the real torture came. They
tried to argue it away by reminding conscience that they had purloined
sweetmeats and apples scores of times; but conscience was not to be
appeased by such thin plausibilities; it seemed to them, in the end, that
there was no getting around the stubborn fact that taking sweetmeats was
only “hooking,” while taking bacon and hams and such valuables
was plain simple stealing—and there was a command against that in
the Bible. So they inwardly resolved that so long as they remained in the
business, their piracies should not again be sullied with the crime of
stealing. Then conscience granted a truce, and these curiously
inconsistent pirates fell peacefully to sleep.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c14"></a>
CHAPTER XIV
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img121"></a>
<img alt="14-121.jpg (207K)" src="images/14-121.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
When Tom awoke in the morning, he wondered where he was. He sat up and
rubbed his eyes and looked around. Then he comprehended. It was the cool
gray dawn, and there was a delicious sense of repose and peace in the deep
pervading calm and silence of the woods. Not a leaf stirred; not a sound
obtruded upon great Nature’s meditation. Beaded dewdrops stood upon
the leaves and grasses. A white layer of ashes covered the fire, and a
thin blue breath of smoke rose straight into the air. Joe and Huck still
slept.
</p>
<p>
Now, far away in the woods a bird called; another answered; presently the
hammering of a woodpecker was heard. Gradually the cool dim gray of the
morning whitened, and as gradually sounds multiplied and life manifested
itself. The marvel of Nature shaking off sleep and going to work unfolded
itself to the musing boy. A little green worm came crawling over a dewy
leaf, lifting two-thirds of his body into the air from time to time and
“sniffing around,” then proceeding again—for he was
measuring, Tom said; and when the worm approached him, of its own accord,
he sat as still as a stone, with his hopes rising and falling, by turns,
as the creature still came toward him or seemed inclined to go elsewhere;
and when at last it considered a painful moment with its curved body in
the air and then came decisively down upon Tom’s leg and began a
journey over him, his whole heart was glad—for that meant that he
was going to have a new suit of clothes—without the shadow of a
doubt a gaudy piratical uniform. Now a procession of ants appeared, from
nowhere in particular, and went about their labors; one struggled manfully
by with a dead spider five times as big as itself in its arms, and lugged
it straight up a tree-trunk. A brown spotted lady-bug climbed the dizzy
height of a grass blade, and Tom bent down close to it and said, “Lady-bug,
lady-bug, fly away home, your house is on fire, your children’s
alone,” and she took wing and went off to see about it—which
did not surprise the boy, for he knew of old that this insect was
credulous about conflagrations, and he had practised upon its simplicity
more than once. A tumblebug came next, heaving sturdily at its ball, and
Tom touched the creature, to see it shut its legs against its body and
pretend to be dead. The birds were fairly rioting by this time. A catbird,
the Northern mocker, lit in a tree over Tom’s head, and trilled out
her imitations of her neighbors in a rapture of enjoyment; then a shrill
jay swept down, a flash of blue flame, and stopped on a twig almost within
the boy’s reach, cocked his head to one side and eyed the strangers
with a consuming curiosity; a gray squirrel and a big fellow of the
“fox” kind came skurrying along, sitting up at intervals to
inspect and chatter at the boys, for the wild things had probably never
seen a human being before and scarcely knew whether to be afraid or not.
All Nature was wide awake and stirring, now; long lances of sunlight
pierced down through the dense foliage far and near, and a few butterflies
came fluttering upon the scene.
</p>
<p>
Tom stirred up the other pirates and they all clattered away with a shout,
and in a minute or two were stripped and chasing after and tumbling over
each other in the shallow limpid water of the white sandbar. They felt no
longing for the little village sleeping in the distance beyond the
majestic waste of water. A vagrant current or a slight rise in the river
had carried off their raft, but this only gratified them, since its going
was something like burning the bridge between them and civilization.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img123"></a>
<img alt="14-123.jpg (54K)" src="images/14-123.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
They came back to camp wonderfully refreshed, glad-hearted, and ravenous;
and they soon had the camp-fire blazing up again. Huck found a spring of
clear cold water close by, and the boys made cups of broad oak or hickory
leaves, and felt that water, sweetened with such a wildwood charm as that,
would be a good enough substitute for coffee. While Joe was slicing bacon
for breakfast, Tom and Huck asked him to hold on a minute; they stepped to
a promising nook in the river-bank and threw in their lines; almost
immediately they had reward. Joe had not had time to get impatient before
they were back again with some handsome bass, a couple of sun-perch and a
small catfish—provisions enough for quite a family. They fried the
fish with the bacon, and were astonished; for no fish had ever seemed so
delicious before. They did not know that the quicker a fresh-water fish is
on the fire after he is caught the better he is; and they reflected little
upon what a sauce open-air sleeping, open-air exercise, bathing, and a
large ingredient of hunger make, too.
</p>
<p>
They lay around in the shade, after breakfast, while Huck had a smoke, and
then went off through the woods on an exploring expedition. They tramped
gayly along, over decaying logs, through tangled underbrush, among solemn
monarchs of the forest, hung from their crowns to the ground with a
drooping regalia of grape-vines. Now and then they came upon snug nooks
carpeted with grass and jeweled with flowers.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img124"></a>
<img alt="14-124.jpg (56K)" src="images/14-124.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
They found plenty of things to be delighted with, but nothing to be
astonished at. They discovered that the island was about three miles long
and a quarter of a mile wide, and that the shore it lay closest to was
only separated from it by a narrow channel hardly two hundred yards wide.
They took a swim about every hour, so it was close upon the middle of the
afternoon when they got back to camp. They were too hungry to stop to
fish, but they fared sumptuously upon cold ham, and then threw themselves
down in the shade to talk. But the talk soon began to drag, and then died.
The stillness, the solemnity that brooded in the woods, and the sense of
loneliness, began to tell upon the spirits of the boys. They fell to
thinking. A sort of undefined longing crept upon them. This took dim
shape, presently—it was budding homesickness. Even Finn the
Red-Handed was dreaming of his doorsteps and empty hogsheads. But they
were all ashamed of their weakness, and none was brave enough to speak his
thought.
</p>
<p>
For some time, now, the boys had been dully conscious of a peculiar sound
in the distance, just as one sometimes is of the ticking of a clock which
he takes no distinct note of. But now this mysterious sound became more
pronounced, and forced a recognition. The boys started, glanced at each
other, and then each assumed a listening attitude. There was a long
silence, profound and unbroken; then a deep, sullen boom came floating
down out of the distance.
</p>
<p>
“What is it!” exclaimed Joe, under his breath.
</p>
<p>
“I wonder,” said Tom in a whisper.
</p>
<p>
“’Tain’t thunder,” said Huckleberry, in an awed
tone, “becuz thunder—”
</p>
<p>
“Hark!” said Tom. “Listen—don’t talk.”
</p>
<p>
They waited a time that seemed an age, and then the same muffled boom
troubled the solemn hush.
</p>
<p>
“Let’s go and see.”
</p>
<p>
They sprang to their feet and hurried to the shore toward the town. They
parted the bushes on the bank and peered out over the water. The little
steam ferry-boat was about a mile below the village, drifting with the
current. Her broad deck seemed crowded with people. There were a great
many skiffs rowing about or floating with the stream in the neighborhood
of the ferryboat, but the boys could not determine what the men in them
were doing. Presently a great jet of white smoke burst from the ferryboat’s
side, and as it expanded and rose in a lazy cloud, that same dull throb of
sound was borne to the listeners again.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img125"></a>
<img alt="14-125.jpg (96K)" src="images/14-125.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“I know now!” exclaimed Tom; “somebody’s drownded!”
</p>
<p>
“That’s it!” said Huck; “they done that last
summer, when Bill Turner got drownded; they shoot a cannon over the water,
and that makes him come up to the top. Yes, and they take loaves of bread
and put quicksilver in ’em and set ’em afloat, and wherever
there’s anybody that’s drownded, they’ll float right
there and stop.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I’ve heard about that,” said Joe. “I wonder
what makes the bread do that.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, it ain’t the bread, so much,” said Tom; “I
reckon it’s mostly what they <i>say</i> over it before they start it
out.”
</p>
<p>
“But they don’t say anything over it,” said Huck.
“I’ve seen ’em and they don’t.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, that’s funny,” said Tom. “But maybe they
say it to themselves. Of <i>course</i> they do. Anybody might know that.”
</p>
<p>
The other boys agreed that there was reason in what Tom said, because an
ignorant lump of bread, uninstructed by an incantation, could not be
expected to act very intelligently when set upon an errand of such
gravity.
</p>
<p>
“By jings, I wish I was over there, now,” said Joe.
</p>
<p>
“I do too,” said Huck. “I’d give heaps to know who
it is.”
</p>
<p>
The boys still listened and watched. Presently a revealing thought flashed
through Tom’s mind, and he exclaimed:
</p>
<p>
“Boys, I know who’s drownded—it’s us!”
</p>
<p>
They felt like heroes in an instant. Here was a gorgeous triumph; they
were missed; they were mourned; hearts were breaking on their account;
tears were being shed; accusing memories of unkindness to these poor lost
lads were rising up, and unavailing regrets and remorse were being
indulged; and best of all, the departed were the talk of the whole town,
and the envy of all the boys, as far as this dazzling notoriety was
concerned. This was fine. It was worth while to be a pirate, after all.
</p>
<p>
As twilight drew on, the ferryboat went back to her accustomed business
and the skiffs disappeared. The pirates returned to camp. They were
jubilant with vanity over their new grandeur and the illustrious trouble
they were making. They caught fish, cooked supper and ate it, and then
fell to guessing at what the village was thinking and saying about them;
and the pictures they drew of the public distress on their account were
gratifying to look upon—from their point of view. But when the
shadows of night closed them in, they gradually ceased to talk, and sat
gazing into the fire, with their minds evidently wandering elsewhere. The
excitement was gone, now, and Tom and Joe could not keep back thoughts of
certain persons at home who were not enjoying this fine frolic as much as
they were. Misgivings came; they grew troubled and unhappy; a sigh or two
escaped, unawares. By and by Joe timidly ventured upon a roundabout
“feeler” as to how the others might look upon a return to
civilization—not right now, but—
</p>
<p>
Tom withered him with derision! Huck, being uncommitted as yet, joined in
with Tom, and the waverer quickly “explained,” and was glad to
get out of the scrape with as little taint of chicken-hearted
home-sickness clinging to his garments as he could. Mutiny was effectually
laid to rest for the moment.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img127"></a>
<img alt="14-127.jpg (49K)" src="images/14-127.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
As the night deepened, Huck began to nod, and presently to snore. Joe
followed next. Tom lay upon his elbow motionless, for some time, watching
the two intently. At last he got up cautiously, on his knees, and went
searching among the grass and the flickering reflections flung by the
campfire. He picked up and inspected several large semi-cylinders of the
thin white bark of a sycamore, and finally chose two which seemed to suit
him. Then he knelt by the fire and painfully wrote something upon each of
these with his “red keel”; one he rolled up and put in his
jacket pocket, and the other he put in Joe’s hat and removed it to a
little distance from the owner. And he also put into the hat certain
schoolboy treasures of almost inestimable value—among them a lump of
chalk, an India-rubber ball, three fishhooks, and one of that kind of
marbles known as a “sure ’nough crystal.” Then he
tiptoed his way cautiously among the trees till he felt that he was out of
hearing, and straightway broke into a keen run in the direction of the
sandbar.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c15"></a>
CHAPTER XV
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img128"></a>
<img alt="15-128.jpg (171K)" src="images/15-128.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
A few minutes later Tom was in the shoal water of the bar, wading toward
the Illinois shore. Before the depth reached his middle he was halfway
over; the current would permit no more wading, now, so he struck out
confidently to swim the remaining hundred yards. He swam quartering
upstream, but still was swept downward rather faster than he had expected.
However, he reached the shore finally, and drifted along till he found a
low place and drew himself out. He put his hand on his jacket pocket,
found his piece of bark safe, and then struck through the woods, following
the shore, with streaming garments. Shortly before ten o’clock he
came out into an open place opposite the village, and saw the ferryboat
lying in the shadow of the trees and the high bank. Everything was quiet
under the blinking stars. He crept down the bank, watching with all his
eyes, slipped into the water, swam three or four strokes and climbed into
the skiff that did “yawl” duty at the boat’s stern. He
laid himself down under the thwarts and waited, panting.
</p>
<p>
Presently the cracked bell tapped and a voice gave the order to “cast
off.” A minute or two later the skiff’s head was standing high
up, against the boat’s swell, and the voyage was begun. Tom felt
happy in his success, for he knew it was the boat’s last trip for
the night. At the end of a long twelve or fifteen minutes the wheels
stopped, and Tom slipped overboard and swam ashore in the dusk, landing
fifty yards downstream, out of danger of possible stragglers.
</p>
<p>
He flew along unfrequented alleys, and shortly found himself at his aunt’s
back fence. He climbed over, approached the “ell,” and looked
in at the sitting-room window, for a light was burning there. There sat
Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, and Joe Harper’s mother, grouped together,
talking. They were by the bed, and the bed was between them and the door.
Tom went to the door and began to softly lift the latch; then he pressed
gently and the door yielded a crack; he continued pushing cautiously, and
quaking every time it creaked, till he judged he might squeeze through on
his knees; so he put his head through and began, warily.
</p>
<p>
“What makes the candle blow so?” said Aunt Polly. Tom hurried
up. “Why, that door’s open, I believe. Why, of course it is.
No end of strange things now. Go ’long and shut it, Sid.”
</p>
<p>
Tom disappeared under the bed just in time. He lay and “breathed”
himself for a time, and then crept to where he could almost touch his aunt’s
foot.
</p>
<p>
“But as I was saying,” said Aunt Polly, “he warn’t
<i>bad</i>, so to say—only misch<i>ee</i>vous. Only just giddy, and
harum-scarum, you know. He warn’t any more responsible than a colt.
<i>He</i> never meant any harm, and he was the best-hearted boy that ever
was”—and she began to cry.
</p>
<p>
“It was just so with my Joe—always full of his devilment, and
up to every kind of mischief, but he was just as unselfish and kind as he
could be—and laws bless me, to think I went and whipped him for
taking that cream, never once recollecting that I throwed it out myself
because it was sour, and I never to see him again in this world, never,
never, never, poor abused boy!” And Mrs. Harper sobbed as if her
heart would break.
</p>
<p>
“I hope Tom’s better off where he is,” said Sid, “but
if he’d been better in some ways—”
</p>
<p>
“<i>Sid!</i>” Tom felt the glare of the old lady’s eye,
though he could not see it. “Not a word against my Tom, now that he’s
gone! God’ll take care of <i>him</i>—never you trouble <i>your</i>self,
sir! Oh, Mrs. Harper, I don’t know how to give him up! I don’t
know how to give him up! He was such a comfort to me, although he
tormented my old heart out of me, ’most.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img130"></a>
<img alt="15-130.jpg (105K)" src="images/15-130.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“The Lord giveth and the Lord hath taken away—Blessed be the
name of the Lord! But it’s so hard—Oh, it’s so hard!
Only last Saturday my Joe busted a firecracker right under my nose and I
knocked him sprawling. Little did I know then, how soon—Oh, if it
was to do over again I’d hug him and bless him for it.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, yes, yes, I know just how you feel, Mrs. Harper, I know just
exactly how you feel. No longer ago than yesterday noon, my Tom took and
filled the cat full of Pain-killer, and I did think the cretur would tear
the house down. And God forgive me, I cracked Tom’s head with my
thimble, poor boy, poor dead boy. But he’s out of all his troubles
now. And the last words I ever heard him say was to reproach—”
</p>
<p>
But this memory was too much for the old lady, and she broke entirely
down. Tom was snuffling, now, himself—and more in pity of himself
than anybody else. He could hear Mary crying, and putting in a kindly word
for him from time to time. He began to have a nobler opinion of himself
than ever before. Still, he was sufficiently touched by his aunt’s
grief to long to rush out from under the bed and overwhelm her with joy—and
the theatrical gorgeousness of the thing appealed strongly to his nature,
too, but he resisted and lay still.
</p>
<p>
He went on listening, and gathered by odds and ends that it was
conjectured at first that the boys had got drowned while taking a swim;
then the small raft had been missed; next, certain boys said the missing
lads had promised that the village should “hear something”
soon; the wise-heads had “put this and that together” and
decided that the lads had gone off on that raft and would turn up at the
next town below, presently; but toward noon the raft had been found,
lodged against the Missouri shore some five or six miles below the village—and
then hope perished; they must be drowned, else hunger would have driven
them home by nightfall if not sooner. It was believed that the search for
the bodies had been a fruitless effort merely because the drowning must
have occurred in mid-channel, since the boys, being good swimmers, would
otherwise have escaped to shore. This was Wednesday night. If the bodies
continued missing until Sunday, all hope would be given over, and the
funerals would be preached on that morning. Tom shuddered.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Harper gave a sobbing goodnight and turned to go. Then with a mutual
impulse the two bereaved women flung themselves into each other’s
arms and had a good, consoling cry, and then parted. Aunt Polly was tender
far beyond her wont, in her goodnight to Sid and Mary. Sid snuffled a bit
and Mary went off crying with all her heart.
</p>
<p>
Aunt Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom so touchingly, so appealingly,
and with such measureless love in her words and her old trembling voice,
that he was weltering in tears again, long before she was through.
</p>
<p>
He had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she kept making
broken-hearted ejaculations from time to time, tossing unrestfully, and
turning over. But at last she was still, only moaning a little in her
sleep. Now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside, shaded the
candle-light with his hand, and stood regarding her. His heart was full of
pity for her. He took out his sycamore scroll and placed it by the candle.
But something occurred to him, and he lingered considering. His face
lighted with a happy solution of his thought; he put the bark hastily in
his pocket. Then he bent over and kissed the faded lips, and straightway
made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind him.
</p>
<p>
He threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found nobody at large
there, and walked boldly on board the boat, for he knew she was tenantless
except that there was a watchman, who always turned in and slept like a
graven image. He untied the skiff at the stern, slipped into it, and was
soon rowing cautiously upstream. When he had pulled a mile above the
village, he started quartering across and bent himself stoutly to his
work. He hit the landing on the other side neatly, for this was a familiar
bit of work to him. He was moved to capture the skiff, arguing that it
might be considered a ship and therefore legitimate prey for a pirate, but
he knew a thorough search would be made for it and that might end in
revelations. So he stepped ashore and entered the woods.
</p>
<p>
He sat down and took a long rest, torturing himself meanwhile to keep
awake, and then started warily down the home-stretch. The night was far
spent. It was broad daylight before he found himself fairly abreast the
island bar. He rested again until the sun was well up and gilding the
great river with its splendor, and then he plunged into the stream. A
little later he paused, dripping, upon the threshold of the camp, and
heard Joe say:
</p>
<p>
“No, Tom’s true-blue, Huck, and he’ll come back. He won’t
desert. He knows that would be a disgrace to a pirate, and Tom’s too
proud for that sort of thing. He’s up to something or other. Now I
wonder what?”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img133"></a>
<img alt="15-133.jpg (50K)" src="images/15-133.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Well, the things is ours, anyway, ain’t they?”
</p>
<p>
“Pretty near, but not yet, Huck. The writing says they are if he ain’t
back here to breakfast.”
</p>
<p>
“Which he is!” exclaimed Tom, with fine dramatic effect,
stepping grandly into camp.
</p>
<p>
A sumptuous breakfast of bacon and fish was shortly provided, and as the
boys set to work upon it, Tom recounted (and adorned) his adventures. They
were a vain and boastful company of heroes when the tale was done. Then
Tom hid himself away in a shady nook to sleep till noon, and the other
pirates got ready to fish and explore.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c16"></a>
CHAPTER XVI
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img134"></a>
<img alt="16-134.jpg (213K)" src="images/16-134.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
After dinner all the gang turned out to hunt for turtle eggs on the bar.
They went about poking sticks into the sand, and when they found a soft
place they went down on their knees and dug with their hands. Sometimes
they would take fifty or sixty eggs out of one hole. They were perfectly
round white things a trifle smaller than an English walnut. They had a
famous fried-egg feast that night, and another on Friday morning.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img135"></a>
<img alt="16-135.jpg (48K)" src="images/16-135.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
After breakfast they went whooping and prancing out on the bar, and chased
each other round and round, shedding clothes as they went, until they were
naked, and then continued the frolic far away up the shoal water of the
bar, against the stiff current, which latter tripped their legs from under
them from time to time and greatly increased the fun. And now and then
they stooped in a group and splashed water in each other’s faces
with their palms, gradually approaching each other, with averted faces to
avoid the strangling sprays, and finally gripping and struggling till the
best man ducked his neighbor, and then they all went under in a tangle of
white legs and arms and came up blowing, sputtering, laughing, and gasping
for breath at one and the same time.
</p>
<p>
When they were well exhausted, they would run out and sprawl on the dry,
hot sand, and lie there and cover themselves up with it, and by and by
break for the water again and go through the original performance once
more. Finally it occurred to them that their naked skin represented
flesh-colored “tights” very fairly; so they drew a ring in the
sand and had a circus—with three clowns in it, for none would yield
this proudest post to his neighbor.
</p>
<p>
Next they got their marbles and played “knucks” and “ringtaw”
and “keeps” till that amusement grew stale. Then Joe and Huck
had another swim, but Tom would not venture, because he found that in
kicking off his trousers he had kicked his string of rattlesnake rattles
off his ankle, and he wondered how he had escaped cramp so long without
the protection of this mysterious charm. He did not venture again until he
had found it, and by that time the other boys were tired and ready to
rest. They gradually wandered apart, dropped into the “dumps,”
and fell to gazing longingly across the wide river to where the village
lay drowsing in the sun. Tom found himself writing “BECKY” in
the sand with his big toe; he scratched it out, and was angry with himself
for his weakness. But he wrote it again, nevertheless; he could not help
it. He erased it once more and then took himself out of temptation by
driving the other boys together and joining them.
</p>
<p>
But Joe’s spirits had gone down almost beyond resurrection. He was
so homesick that he could hardly endure the misery of it. The tears lay
very near the surface. Huck was melancholy, too. Tom was downhearted, but
tried hard not to show it. He had a secret which he was not ready to tell,
yet, but if this mutinous depression was not broken up soon, he would have
to bring it out. He said, with a great show of cheerfulness:
</p>
<p>
“I bet there’s been pirates on this island before, boys. We’ll
explore it again. They’ve hid treasures here somewhere. How’d
you feel to light on a rotten chest full of gold and silver—hey?”
</p>
<p>
But it roused only faint enthusiasm, which faded out, with no reply. Tom
tried one or two other seductions; but they failed, too. It was
discouraging work. Joe sat poking up the sand with a stick and looking
very gloomy. Finally he said:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, boys, let’s give it up. I want to go home. It’s so
lonesome.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh no, Joe, you’ll feel better by and by,” said Tom.
“Just think of the fishing that’s here.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t care for fishing. I want to go home.”
</p>
<p>
“But, Joe, there ain’t such another swimming-place anywhere.”
</p>
<p>
“Swimming’s no good. I don’t seem to care for it,
somehow, when there ain’t anybody to say I sha’n’t go
in. I mean to go home.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, shucks! Baby! You want to see your mother, I reckon.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I <i>do</i> want to see my mother—and you would, too, if
you had one. I ain’t any more baby than you are.” And Joe
snuffled a little.
</p>
<p>
“Well, we’ll let the crybaby go home to his mother, won’t
we, Huck? Poor thing—does it want to see its mother? And so it
shall. You like it here, don’t you, Huck? We’ll stay, won’t
we?”
</p>
<p>
Huck said, “Y-e-s”—without any heart in it.
</p>
<p>
“I’ll never speak to you again as long as I live,” said
Joe, rising. “There now!” And he moved moodily away and began
to dress himself.
</p>
<p>
“Who cares!” said Tom. “Nobody wants you to. Go ’long
home and get laughed at. Oh, you’re a nice pirate. Huck and me ain’t
crybabies. We’ll stay, won’t we, Huck? Let him go if he wants
to. I reckon we can get along without him, per’aps.”
</p>
<p>
But Tom was uneasy, nevertheless, and was alarmed to see Joe go sullenly
on with his dressing. And then it was discomforting to see Huck eying Joe’s
preparations so wistfully, and keeping up such an ominous silence.
Presently, without a parting word, Joe began to wade off toward the
Illinois shore. Tom’s heart began to sink. He glanced at Huck. Huck
could not bear the look, and dropped his eyes. Then he said:
</p>
<p>
“I want to go, too, Tom. It was getting so lonesome anyway, and now
it’ll be worse. Let’s us go, too, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“I won’t! You can all go, if you want to. I mean to stay.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, I better go.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, go ’long—who’s hendering you.”
</p>
<p>
Huck began to pick up his scattered clothes. He said:
</p>
<p>
“Tom, I wisht you’d come, too. Now you think it over. We’ll
wait for you when we get to shore.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, you’ll wait a blame long time, that’s all.”
</p>
<p>
Huck started sorrowfully away, and Tom stood looking after him, with a
strong desire tugging at his heart to yield his pride and go along too. He
hoped the boys would stop, but they still waded slowly on. It suddenly
dawned on Tom that it was become very lonely and still. He made one final
struggle with his pride, and then darted after his comrades, yelling:
</p>
<p>
“Wait! Wait! I want to tell you something!”
</p>
<p>
They presently stopped and turned around. When he got to where they were,
he began unfolding his secret, and they listened moodily till at last they
saw the “point” he was driving at, and then they set up a
warwhoop of applause and said it was “splendid!” and said if
he had told them at first, they wouldn’t have started away. He made
a plausible excuse; but his real reason had been the fear that not even
the secret would keep them with him any very great length of time, and so
he had meant to hold it in reserve as a last seduction.
</p>
<p>
The lads came gayly back and went at their sports again with a will,
chattering all the time about Tom’s stupendous plan and admiring the
genius of it. After a dainty egg and fish dinner, Tom said he wanted to
learn to smoke, now. Joe caught at the idea and said he would like to try,
too. So Huck made pipes and filled them. These novices had never smoked
anything before but cigars made of grapevine, and they “bit”
the tongue, and were not considered manly anyway.
</p>
<p>
Now they stretched themselves out on their elbows and began to puff,
charily, and with slender confidence. The smoke had an unpleasant taste,
and they gagged a little, but Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Why, it’s just as easy! If I’d a knowed this was all, I’d
a learnt long ago.”
</p>
<p>
“So would I,” said Joe. “It’s just nothing.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, many a time I’ve looked at people smoking, and thought
well I wish I could do that; but I never thought I could,” said Tom.
</p>
<p>
“That’s just the way with me, hain’t it, Huck? You’ve
heard me talk just that way—haven’t you, Huck? I’ll
leave it to Huck if I haven’t.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes—heaps of times,” said Huck.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I have too,” said Tom; “oh, hundreds of times.
Once down by the slaughter-house. Don’t you remember, Huck? Bob
Tanner was there, and Johnny Miller, and Jeff Thatcher, when I said it.
Don’t you remember, Huck, ’bout me saying that?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, that’s so,” said Huck. “That was the day
after I lost a white alley. No, ’twas the day before.”
</p>
<p>
“There—I told you so,” said Tom. “Huck recollects
it.”
</p>
<p>
“I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day,” said Joe. “I
don’t feel sick.”
</p>
<p>
“Neither do I,” said Tom. “I could smoke it all day. But
I bet you Jeff Thatcher couldn’t.”
</p>
<p>
“Jeff Thatcher! Why, he’d keel over just with two draws. Just
let him try it once. <i>He’d</i> see!”
</p>
<p>
“I bet he would. And Johnny Miller—I wish could see Johnny
Miller tackle it once.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, don’t I!” said Joe. “Why, I bet you Johnny
Miller couldn’t any more do this than nothing. Just one little
snifter would fetch <i>him</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“’Deed it would, Joe. Say—I wish the boys could see us
now.”
</p>
<p>
“So do I.”
</p>
<p>
“Say—boys, don’t say anything about it, and some time
when they’re around, I’ll come up to you and say, ‘Joe,
got a pipe? I want a smoke.’ And you’ll say, kind of careless
like, as if it warn’t anything, you’ll say, ‘Yes, I got
my <i>old</i> pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain’t very
good.’ And I’ll say, ‘Oh, that’s all right, if it’s
<i>strong</i> enough.’ And then you’ll out with the pipes, and
we’ll light up just as ca’m, and then just see ’em look!”
</p>
<p>
“By jings, that’ll be gay, Tom! I wish it was <i>now</i>!”
</p>
<p>
“So do I! And when we tell ’em we learned when we was off
pirating, won’t they wish they’d been along?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I reckon not! I’ll just <i>bet</i> they will!”
</p>
<p>
So the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag a trifle, and grow
disjointed. The silences widened; the expectoration marvellously
increased. Every pore inside the boys’ cheeks became a spouting
fountain; they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues
fast enough to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their
throats occurred in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings
followed every time. Both boys were looking very pale and miserable, now.
Joe’s pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers. Tom’s followed.
Both fountains were going furiously and both pumps bailing with might and
main. Joe said feebly:
</p>
<p>
“I’ve lost my knife. I reckon I better go and find it.”
</p>
<p>
Tom said, with quivering lips and halting utterance:
</p>
<p>
“I’ll help you. You go over that way and I’ll hunt
around by the spring. No, you needn’t come, Huck—we can find
it.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img139"></a>
<img alt="16-139.jpg (53K)" src="images/16-139.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
So Huck sat down again, and waited an hour. Then he found it lonesome, and
went to find his comrades. They were wide apart in the woods, both very
pale, both fast asleep. But something informed him that if they had had
any trouble they had got rid of it.
</p>
<p>
They were not talkative at supper that night. They had a humble look, and
when Huck prepared his pipe after the meal and was going to prepare
theirs, they said no, they were not feeling very well—something they
ate at dinner had disagreed with them.
</p>
<p>
About midnight Joe awoke, and called the boys. There was a brooding
oppressiveness in the air that seemed to bode something. The boys huddled
themselves together and sought the friendly companionship of the fire,
though the dull dead heat of the breathless atmosphere was stifling. They
sat still, intent and waiting. The solemn hush continued. Beyond the light
of the fire everything was swallowed up in the blackness of darkness.
Presently there came a quivering glow that vaguely revealed the foliage
for a moment and then vanished. By and by another came, a little stronger.
Then another. Then a faint moan came sighing through the branches of the
forest and the boys felt a fleeting breath upon their cheeks, and
shuddered with the fancy that the Spirit of the Night had gone by. There
was a pause. Now a weird flash turned night into day and showed every
little grassblade, separate and distinct, that grew about their feet. And
it showed three white, startled faces, too. A deep peal of thunder went
rolling and tumbling down the heavens and lost itself in sullen rumblings
in the distance. A sweep of chilly air passed by, rustling all the leaves
and snowing the flaky ashes broadcast about the fire. Another fierce glare
lit up the forest and an instant crash followed that seemed to rend the
treetops right over the boys’ heads. They clung together in terror,
in the thick gloom that followed. A few big raindrops fell pattering upon
the leaves.
</p>
<p>
“Quick! boys, go for the tent!” exclaimed Tom.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img141"></a>
<img alt="16-141.jpg (111K)" src="images/16-141.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
They sprang away, stumbling over roots and among vines in the dark, no two
plunging in the same direction. A furious blast roared through the trees,
making everything sing as it went. One blinding flash after another came,
and peal on peal of deafening thunder. And now a drenching rain poured
down and the rising hurricane drove it in sheets along the ground. The
boys cried out to each other, but the roaring wind and the booming
thunderblasts drowned their voices utterly. However, one by one they
straggled in at last and took shelter under the tent, cold, scared, and
streaming with water; but to have company in misery seemed something to be
grateful for. They could not talk, the old sail flapped so furiously, even
if the other noises would have allowed them. The tempest rose higher and
higher, and presently the sail tore loose from its fastenings and went
winging away on the blast. The boys seized each others’ hands and
fled, with many tumblings and bruises, to the shelter of a great oak that
stood upon the riverbank. Now the battle was at its highest. Under the
ceaseless conflagration of lightning that flamed in the skies, everything
below stood out in cleancut and shadowless distinctness: the bending
trees, the billowy river, white with foam, the driving spray of
spumeflakes, the dim outlines of the high bluffs on the other side,
glimpsed through the drifting cloudrack and the slanting veil of rain.
Every little while some giant tree yielded the fight and fell crashing
through the younger growth; and the unflagging thunderpeals came now in
ear-splitting explosive bursts, keen and sharp, and unspeakably appalling.
The storm culminated in one matchless effort that seemed likely to tear
the island to pieces, burn it up, drown it to the treetops, blow it away,
and deafen every creature in it, all at one and the same moment. It was a
wild night for homeless young heads to be out in.
</p>
<p>
But at last the battle was done, and the forces retired with weaker and
weaker threatenings and grumblings, and peace resumed her sway. The boys
went back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there was still
something to be thankful for, because the great sycamore, the shelter of
their beds, was a ruin, now, blasted by the lightnings, and they were not
under it when the catastrophe happened.
</p>
<p>
Everything in camp was drenched, the campfire as well; for they were but
heedless lads, like their generation, and had made no provision against
rain. Here was matter for dismay, for they were soaked through and
chilled. They were eloquent in their distress; but they presently
discovered that the fire had eaten so far up under the great log it had
been built against (where it curved upward and separated itself from the
ground), that a handbreadth or so of it had escaped wetting; so they
patiently wrought until, with shreds and bark gathered from the under
sides of sheltered logs, they coaxed the fire to burn again. Then they
piled on great dead boughs till they had a roaring furnace, and were
gladhearted once more. They dried their boiled ham and had a feast, and
after that they sat by the fire and expanded and glorified their midnight
adventure until morning, for there was not a dry spot to sleep on,
anywhere around.
</p>
<p>
As the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over them, and
they went out on the sandbar and lay down to sleep. They got scorched out
by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast. After the meal they
felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little homesick once more. Tom saw
the signs, and fell to cheering up the pirates as well as he could. But
they cared nothing for marbles, or circus, or swimming, or anything. He
reminded them of the imposing secret, and raised a ray of cheer. While it
lasted, he got them interested in a new device. This was to knock off
being pirates, for a while, and be Indians for a change. They were
attracted by this idea; so it was not long before they were stripped, and
striped from head to heel with black mud, like so many zebras—all of
them chiefs, of course—and then they went tearing through the woods
to attack an English settlement.
</p>
<p>
By and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon each
other from ambush with dreadful warwhoops, and killed and scalped each
other by thousands. It was a gory day. Consequently it was an extremely
satisfactory one.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img143"></a>
<img alt="16-143.jpg (50K)" src="images/16-143.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
They assembled in camp toward suppertime, hungry and happy; but now a
difficulty arose—hostile Indians could not break the bread of
hospitality together without first making peace, and this was a simple
impossibility without smoking a pipe of peace. There was no other process
that ever they had heard of. Two of the savages almost wished they had
remained pirates. However, there was no other way; so with such show of
cheerfulness as they could muster they called for the pipe and took their
whiff as it passed, in due form.
</p>
<p>
And behold, they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had
gained something; they found that they could now smoke a little without
having to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to be
seriously uncomfortable. They were not likely to fool away this high
promise for lack of effort. No, they practised cautiously, after supper,
with right fair success, and so they spent a jubilant evening. They were
prouder and happier in their new acquirement than they would have been in
the scalping and skinning of the Six Nations. We will leave them to smoke
and chatter and brag, since we have no further use for them at present.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c17"></a>
CHAPTER XVII
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img144"></a>
<img alt="17-144.jpg (181K)" src="images/17-144.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
But there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil Saturday
afternoon. The Harpers, and Aunt Polly’s family, were being put into
mourning, with great grief and many tears. An unusual quiet possessed the
village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all conscience. The
villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air, and talked little;
but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday seemed a burden to the
children. They had no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them up.
</p>
<p>
In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the deserted
schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy. But she found nothing there
to comfort her. She soliloquized:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, if I only had a brass andiron-knob again! But I haven’t
got anything now to remember him by.” And she choked back a little
sob.
</p>
<p>
Presently she stopped, and said to herself:
</p>
<p>
“It was right here. Oh, if it was to do over again, I wouldn’t
say that—I wouldn’t say it for the whole world. But he’s
gone now; I’ll never, never, never see him any more.”
</p>
<p>
This thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with tears rolling
down her cheeks. Then quite a group of boys and girls—playmates of
Tom’s and Joe’s—came by, and stood looking over the
paling fence and talking in reverent tones of how Tom did so-and-so the
last time they saw him, and how Joe said this and that small trifle
(pregnant with awful prophecy, as they could easily see now!)—and
each speaker pointed out the exact spot where the lost lads stood at the
time, and then added something like “and I was a-standing just so—just
as I am now, and as if you was him—I was as close as that—and
he smiled, just this way—and then something seemed to go all over
me, like—awful, you know—and I never thought what it meant, of
course, but I can see now!”
</p>
<p>
Then there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life, and
many claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences, more or less
tampered with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided who <i>did</i>
see the departed last, and exchanged the last words with them, the lucky
parties took upon themselves a sort of sacred importance, and were gaped
at and envied by all the rest. One poor chap, who had no other grandeur to
offer, said with tolerably manifest pride in the remembrance:
</p>
<p>
“Well, Tom Sawyer he licked me once.”
</p>
<p>
But that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the boys could say that, and
so that cheapened the distinction too much. The group loitered away, still
recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices.
</p>
<p>
When the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell began
to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way. It was a very still Sabbath,
and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush that lay
upon nature. The villagers began to gather, loitering a moment in the
vestibule to converse in whispers about the sad event. But there was no
whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses as the
women gathered to their seats disturbed the silence there. None could
remember when the little church had been so full before. There was finally
a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then Aunt Polly entered,
followed by Sid and Mary, and they by the Harper family, all in deep
black, and the whole congregation, the old minister as well, rose
reverently and stood until the mourners were seated in the front pew.
There was another communing silence, broken at intervals by muffled sobs,
and then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed. A moving hymn
was sung, and the text followed: “I am the Resurrection and the
Life.”
</p>
<p>
As the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such pictures of the graces,
the winning ways, and the rare promise of the lost lads that every soul
there, thinking he recognized these pictures, felt a pang in remembering
that he had persistently blinded himself to them always before, and had as
persistently seen only faults and flaws in the poor boys. The minister
related many a touching incident in the lives of the departed, too, which
illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the people could easily
see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes were, and remembered with
grief that at the time they occurred they had seemed rank rascalities,
well deserving of the cowhide. The congregation became more and more
moved, as the pathetic tale went on, till at last the whole company broke
down and joined the weeping mourners in a chorus of anguished sobs, the
preacher himself giving way to his feelings, and crying in the pulpit.
</p>
<p>
There was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody noticed; a moment later
the church door creaked; the minister raised his streaming eyes above his
handkerchief, and stood transfixed! First one and then another pair of
eyes followed the minister’s, and then almost with one impulse the
congregation rose and stared while the three dead boys came marching up
the aisle, Tom in the lead, Joe next, and Huck, a ruin of drooping rags,
sneaking sheepishly in the rear! They had been hid in the unused gallery
listening to their own funeral sermon!
</p>
<p>
Aunt Polly, Mary, and the Harpers threw themselves upon their restored
ones, smothered them with kisses and poured out thanksgivings, while poor
Huck stood abashed and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what to do or
where to hide from so many unwelcoming eyes. He wavered, and started to
slink away, but Tom seized him and said:
</p>
<p>
“Aunt Polly, it ain’t fair. Somebody’s got to be glad to
see Huck.”
</p>
<p>
“And so they shall. I’m glad to see him, poor motherless
thing!” And the loving attentions Aunt Polly lavished upon him were
the one thing capable of making him more uncomfortable than he was before.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly the minister shouted at the top of his voice: “Praise God
from whom all blessings flow—<i>sing</i>!—and put your hearts
in it!”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img147"></a>
<img alt="17-147.jpg (115K)" src="images/17-147.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
And they did. Old Hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and while it
shook the rafters Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around upon the envying
juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that this was the proudest
moment of his life.
</p>
<p>
As the “sold” congregation trooped out they said they would
almost be willing to be made ridiculous again to hear Old Hundred sung
like that once more.
</p>
<p>
Tom got more cuffs and kisses that day—according to Aunt Polly’s
varying moods—than he had earned before in a year; and he hardly
knew which expressed the most gratefulness to God and affection for
himself.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c18"></a>
CHAPTER XVIII
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img148"></a>
<img alt="18-148.jpg (179K)" src="images/18-148.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
That was Tom’s great secret—the scheme to return home with his
brother pirates and attend their own funerals. They had paddled over to
the Missouri shore on a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five or six
miles below the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge of the
town till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and
alleys and finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a chaos
of invalided benches.
</p>
<p>
At breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to Tom,
and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of talk. In
the course of it Aunt Polly said:
</p>
<p>
“Well, I don’t say it wasn’t a fine joke, Tom, to keep
everybody suffering ’most a week so you boys had a good time, but it
is a pity you could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you
could come over on a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over
and give me a hint some way that you warn’t dead, but only run off.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, you could have done that, Tom,” said Mary; “and I
believe you would if you had thought of it.”
</p>
<p>
“Would you, Tom?” said Aunt Polly, her face lighting
wistfully. “Say, now, would you, if you’d thought of it?”
</p>
<p>
“I—well, I don’t know. ’Twould ’a’
spoiled everything.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, I hoped you loved me that much,” said Aunt Polly, with a
grieved tone that discomforted the boy. “It would have been
something if you’d cared enough to <i>think</i> of it, even if you
didn’t <i>do</i> it.”
</p>
<p>
“Now, auntie, that ain’t any harm,” pleaded Mary;
“it’s only Tom’s giddy way—he is always in such a
rush that he never thinks of anything.”
</p>
<p>
“More’s the pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid would have
come and <i>done</i> it, too. Tom, you’ll look back, some day, when
it’s too late, and wish you’d cared a little more for me when
it would have cost you so little.”
</p>
<p>
“Now, auntie, you know I do care for you,” said Tom.
</p>
<p>
“I’d know it better if you acted more like it.”
</p>
<p>
“I wish now I’d thought,” said Tom, with a repentant
tone; “but I dreamt about you, anyway. That’s something, ain’t
it?”
</p>
<p>
“It ain’t much—a cat does that much—but it’s
better than nothing. What did you dream?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, Wednesday night I dreamt that you was sitting over there by
the bed, and Sid was sitting by the woodbox, and Mary next to him.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, so we did. So we always do. I’m glad your dreams could
take even that much trouble about us.”
</p>
<p>
“And I dreamt that Joe Harper’s mother was here.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, she was here! Did you dream any more?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, lots. But it’s so dim, now.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, try to recollect—can’t you?”
</p>
<p>
“Somehow it seems to me that the wind—the wind blowed the—the—”
</p>
<p>
“Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something. Come!”
</p>
<p>
Tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an anxious minute, and then said:
</p>
<p>
“I’ve got it now! I’ve got it now! It blowed the candle!”
</p>
<p>
“Mercy on us! Go on, Tom—go on!”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img150"></a>
<img alt="18-150.jpg (60K)" src="images/18-150.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“And it seems to me that you said, ‘Why, I believe that that
door—’”
</p>
<p>
“Go <i>on</i>, Tom!”
</p>
<p>
“Just let me study a moment—just a moment. Oh, yes—you
said you believed the door was open.”
</p>
<p>
“As I’m sitting here, I did! Didn’t I, Mary! Go on!”
</p>
<p>
“And then—and then—well I won’t be certain, but it
seems like as if you made Sid go and—and—”
</p>
<p>
“Well? Well? What did I make him do, Tom? What did I make him do?”
</p>
<p>
“You made him—you—Oh, you made him shut it.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, for the land’s sake! I never heard the beat of that in
all my days! Don’t tell <i>me</i> there ain’t anything in
dreams, any more. Sereny Harper shall know of this before I’m an
hour older. I’d like to see her get around <i>this</i> with her
rubbage ’bout superstition. Go on, Tom!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, it’s all getting just as bright as day, now. Next you
said I warn’t <i>bad</i>, only mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not
any more responsible than—than—I think it was a colt, or
something.”
</p>
<p>
“And so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go on, Tom!”
</p>
<p>
“And then you began to cry.”
</p>
<p>
“So I did. So I did. Not the first time, neither. And then—”
</p>
<p>
“Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said Joe was just the same,
and she wished she hadn’t whipped him for taking cream when she’d
throwed it out her own self—”
</p>
<p>
“Tom! The sperrit was upon you! You was a prophesying—that’s
what you was doing! Land alive, go on, Tom!”
</p>
<p>
“Then Sid he said—he said—”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t think I said anything,” said Sid.
</p>
<p>
“Yes you did, Sid,” said Mary.
</p>
<p>
“Shut your heads and let Tom go on! What did he say, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“He said—I <i>think</i> he said he hoped I was better off
where I was gone to, but if I’d been better sometimes—”
</p>
<p>
“<i>There</i>, d’you hear that! It was his very words!”
</p>
<p>
“And you shut him up sharp.”
</p>
<p>
“I lay I did! There must ’a’ been an angel there. There
<i>was</i> an angel there, somewheres!”
</p>
<p>
“And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her with a firecracker, and
you told about Peter and the Pain-killer—”
</p>
<p>
“Just as true as I live!”
</p>
<p>
“And then there was a whole lot of talk ’bout dragging the
river for us, and ’bout having the funeral Sunday, and then you and
old Miss Harper hugged and cried, and she went.”
</p>
<p>
“It happened just so! It happened just so, as sure as I’m
a-sitting in these very tracks. Tom, you couldn’t told it more like
if you’d ’a’ seen it! And then what? Go on, Tom!”
</p>
<p>
“Then I thought you prayed for me—and I could see you and hear
every word you said. And you went to bed, and I was so sorry that I took
and wrote on a piece of sycamore bark, ‘We ain’t dead—we
are only off being pirates,’ and put it on the table by the candle;
and then you looked so good, laying there asleep, that I thought I went
and leaned over and kissed you on the lips.”
</p>
<p>
“Did you, Tom, <i>did</i> you! I just forgive you everything for
that!” And she seized the boy in a crushing embrace that made him
feel like the guiltiest of villains.
</p>
<p>
“It was very kind, even though it was only a—dream,” Sid
soliloquized just audibly.
</p>
<p>
“Shut up, Sid! A body does just the same in a dream as he’d do
if he was awake. Here’s a big Milum apple I’ve been saving for
you, Tom, if you was ever found again—now go ’long to school.
I’m thankful to the good God and Father of us all I’ve got you
back, that’s long-suffering and merciful to them that believe on Him
and keep His word, though goodness knows I’m unworthy of it, but if
only the worthy ones got His blessings and had His hand to help them over
the rough places, there’s few enough would smile here or ever enter
into His rest when the long night comes. Go ’long Sid, Mary, Tom—take
yourselves off—you’ve hendered me long enough.”
</p>
<p>
The children left for school, and the old lady to call on Mrs. Harper and
vanquish her realism with Tom’s marvellous dream. Sid had better
judgment than to utter the thought that was in his mind as he left the
house. It was this: “Pretty thin—as long a dream as that,
without any mistakes in it!”
</p>
<p>
What a hero Tom was become, now! He did not go skipping and prancing, but
moved with a dignified swagger as became a pirate who felt that the public
eye was on him. And indeed it was; he tried not to seem to see the looks
or hear the remarks as he passed along, but they were food and drink to
him. Smaller boys than himself flocked at his heels, as proud to be seen
with him, and tolerated by him, as if he had been the drummer at the head
of a procession or the elephant leading a menagerie into town. Boys of his
own size pretended not to know he had been away at all; but they were
consuming with envy, nevertheless. They would have given anything to have
that swarthy sun-tanned skin of his, and his glittering notoriety; and Tom
would not have parted with either for a circus.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img152"></a>
<img alt="18-152.jpg (59K)" src="images/18-152.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
At school the children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered such
eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not long in
becoming insufferably “stuck-up.” They began to tell their
adventures to hungry listeners—but they only began; it was not a
thing likely to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish
material. And finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely
puffing around, the very summit of glory was reached.
</p>
<p>
Tom decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now. Glory was
sufficient. He would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished, maybe
she would be wanting to “make up.” Well, let her—she
should see that he could be as indifferent as some other people. Presently
she arrived. Tom pretended not to see her. He moved away and joined a
group of boys and girls and began to talk. Soon he observed that she was
tripping gayly back and forth with flushed face and dancing eyes,
pretending to be busy chasing schoolmates, and screaming with laughter
when she made a capture; but he noticed that she always made her captures
in his vicinity, and that she seemed to cast a conscious eye in his
direction at such times, too. It gratified all the vicious vanity that was
in him; and so, instead of winning him, it only “set him up”
the more and made him the more diligent to avoid betraying that he knew
she was about. Presently she gave over skylarking, and moved irresolutely
about, sighing once or twice and glancing furtively and wistfully toward
Tom. Then she observed that now Tom was talking more particularly to Amy
Lawrence than to any one else. She felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed
and uneasy at once. She tried to go away, but her feet were treacherous,
and carried her to the group instead. She said to a girl almost at Tom’s
elbow—with sham vivacity:
</p>
<p>
“Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn’t you come to
Sunday-school?”
</p>
<p>
“I did come—didn’t you see me?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit?”
</p>
<p>
“I was in Miss Peters’ class, where I always go. I saw <i>you</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“Did you? Why, it’s funny I didn’t see you. I wanted to
tell you about the picnic.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, that’s jolly. Who’s going to give it?”
</p>
<p>
“My ma’s going to let me have one.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, goody; I hope she’ll let <i>me</i> come.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, she will. The picnic’s for me. She’ll let anybody
come that I want, and I want you.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s ever so nice. When is it going to be?”
</p>
<p>
“By and by. Maybe about vacation.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, won’t it be fun! You going to have all the girls and
boys?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, every one that’s friends to me—or wants to be”;
and she glanced ever so furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy
Lawrence about the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning
tore the great sycamore tree “all to flinders” while he was
“standing within three feet of it.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, may I come?” said Grace Miller.
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
“And me?” said Sally Rogers.
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
“And me, too?” said Susy Harper. “And Joe?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
And so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the group had begged for
invitations but Tom and Amy. Then Tom turned coolly away, still talking,
and took Amy with him. Becky’s lips trembled and the tears came to
her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gayety and went on chattering,
but the life had gone out of the picnic, now, and out of everything else;
she got away as soon as she could and hid herself and had what her sex
call “a good cry.” Then she sat moody, with wounded pride,
till the bell rang. She roused up, now, with a vindictive cast in her eye,
and gave her plaited tails a shake and said she knew what <i>she’d</i>
do.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img154"></a>
<img alt="18-154.jpg (54K)" src="images/18-154.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
At recess Tom continued his flirtation with Amy with jubilant
self-satisfaction. And he kept drifting about to find Becky and lacerate
her with the performance. At last he spied her, but there was a sudden
falling of his mercury. She was sitting cosily on a little bench behind
the schoolhouse looking at a picture-book with Alfred Temple—and so
absorbed were they, and their heads so close together over the book, that
they did not seem to be conscious of anything in the world besides.
Jealousy ran red-hot through Tom’s veins. He began to hate himself
for throwing away the chance Becky had offered for a reconciliation. He
called himself a fool, and all the hard names he could think of. He wanted
to cry with vexation. Amy chatted happily along, as they walked, for her
heart was singing, but Tom’s tongue had lost its function. He did
not hear what Amy was saying, and whenever she paused expectantly he could
only stammer an awkward assent, which was as often misplaced as otherwise.
He kept drifting to the rear of the schoolhouse, again and again, to sear
his eyeballs with the hateful spectacle there. He could not help it. And
it maddened him to see, as he thought he saw, that Becky Thatcher never
once suspected that he was even in the land of the living. But she did
see, nevertheless; and she knew she was winning her fight, too, and was
glad to see him suffer as she had suffered.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img155"></a>
<img alt="18-155.jpg (57K)" src="images/18-155.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Amy’s happy prattle became intolerable. Tom hinted at things he had
to attend to; things that must be done; and time was fleeting. But in vain—the
girl chirped on. Tom thought, “Oh, hang her, ain’t I ever
going to get rid of her?” At last he must be attending to those
things—and she said artlessly that she would be “around”
when school let out. And he hastened away, hating her for it.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img156"></a>
<img alt="18-156.jpg (47K)" src="images/18-156.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Any other boy!” Tom thought, grating his teeth. “Any
boy in the whole town but that Saint Louis smarty that thinks he dresses
so fine and is aristocracy! Oh, all right, I licked you the first day you
ever saw this town, mister, and I’ll lick you again! You just wait
till I catch you out! I’ll just take and—”
</p>
<p>
And he went through the motions of thrashing an imaginary boy—pummelling
the air, and kicking and gouging. “Oh, you do, do you? You holler
’nough, do you? Now, then, let that learn you!” And so the
imaginary flogging was finished to his satisfaction.
</p>
<p>
Tom fled home at noon. His conscience could not endure any more of Amy’s
grateful happiness, and his jealousy could bear no more of the other
distress. Becky resumed her picture inspections with Alfred, but as the
minutes dragged along and no Tom came to suffer, her triumph began to
cloud and she lost interest; gravity and absentmindedness followed, and
then melancholy; two or three times she pricked up her ear at a footstep,
but it was a false hope; no Tom came. At last she grew entirely miserable
and wished she hadn’t carried it so far. When poor Alfred, seeing
that he was losing her, he did not know how, kept exclaiming: “Oh,
here’s a jolly one! look at this!” she lost patience at last,
and said, “Oh, don’t bother me! I don’t care for them!”
and burst into tears, and got up and walked away.
</p>
<p>
Alfred dropped alongside and was going to try to comfort her, but she
said:
</p>
<p>
“Go away and leave me alone, can’t you! I hate you!”
</p>
<p>
So the boy halted, wondering what he could have done—for she had
said she would look at pictures all through the nooning—and she
walked on, crying. Then Alfred went musing into the deserted schoolhouse.
He was humiliated and angry. He easily guessed his way to the truth—the
girl had simply made a convenience of him to vent her spite upon Tom
Sawyer. He was far from hating Tom the less when this thought occurred to
him. He wished there was some way to get that boy into trouble without
much risk to himself. Tom’s spelling-book fell under his eye. Here
was his opportunity. He gratefully opened to the lesson for the afternoon
and poured ink upon the page.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img157"></a>
<img alt="18-157.jpg (54K)" src="images/18-157.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Becky, glancing in at a window behind him at the moment, saw the act, and
moved on, without discovering herself. She started homeward, now,
intending to find Tom and tell him; Tom would be thankful and their
troubles would be healed. Before she was half way home, however, she had
changed her mind. The thought of Tom’s treatment of her when she was
talking about her picnic came scorching back and filled her with shame.
She resolved to let him get whipped on the damaged spelling-book’s
account, and to hate him forever, into the bargain.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c19"></a>
CHAPTER XIX
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img158"></a>
<img alt="19-158.jpg (168K)" src="images/19-158.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Tom arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt said to
him showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an unpromising market:
</p>
<p>
“Tom, I’ve a notion to skin you alive!”
</p>
<p>
“Auntie, what have I done?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, you’ve done enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper,
like an old softy, expecting I’m going to make her believe all that
rubbage about that dream, when lo and behold you she’d found out
from Joe that you was over here and heard all the talk we had that night.
Tom, I don’t know what is to become of a boy that will act like
that. It makes me feel so bad to think you could let me go to Sereny
Harper and make such a fool of myself and never say a word.”
</p>
<p>
This was a new aspect of the thing. His smartness of the morning had
seemed to Tom a good joke before, and very ingenious. It merely looked
mean and shabby now. He hung his head and could not think of anything to
say for a moment. Then he said:
</p>
<p>
“Auntie, I wish I hadn’t done it—but I didn’t
think.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, child, you never think. You never think of anything but your
own selfishness. You could think to come all the way over here from
Jackson’s Island in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you
could think to fool me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn’t
ever think to pity us and save us from sorrow.”
</p>
<p>
“Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I didn’t mean to be mean.
I didn’t, honest. And besides, I didn’t come over here to
laugh at you that night.”
</p>
<p>
“What did you come for, then?”
</p>
<p>
“It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn’t
got drownded.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul in this world if I could
believe you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never did—and
I know it, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed and ’deed I did, auntie—I wish I may never stir
if I didn’t.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Tom, don’t lie—don’t do it. It only makes
things a hundred times worse.”
</p>
<p>
“It ain’t a lie, auntie; it’s the truth. I wanted to
keep you from grieving—that was all that made me come.”
</p>
<p>
“I’d give the whole world to believe that—it would cover
up a power of sins, Tom. I’d ’most be glad you’d run off
and acted so bad. But it ain’t reasonable; because, why didn’t
you tell me, child?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, you see, when you got to talking about the funeral, I just got
all full of the idea of our coming and hiding in the church, and I couldn’t
somehow bear to spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my pocket and
kept mum.”
</p>
<p>
“What bark?”
</p>
<p>
“The bark I had wrote on to tell you we’d gone pirating. I
wish, now, you’d waked up when I kissed you—I do, honest.”
</p>
<p>
The hard lines in his aunt’s face relaxed and a sudden tenderness
dawned in her eyes.
</p>
<p>
“<i>Did</i> you kiss me, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, yes, I did.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you sure you did, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, yes, I did, auntie—certain sure.”
</p>
<p>
“What did you kiss me for, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning and I was so
sorry.”
</p>
<p>
The words sounded like truth. The old lady could not hide a tremor in her
voice when she said:
</p>
<p>
“Kiss me again, Tom!—and be off with you to school, now, and
don’t bother me any more.”
</p>
<p>
The moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a
jacket which Tom had gone pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her
hand, and said to herself:
</p>
<p>
“No, I don’t dare. Poor boy, I reckon he’s lied about it—but
it’s a blessed, blessed lie, there’s such a comfort come from
it. I hope the Lord—I <i>know</i> the Lord will forgive him, because
it was such good-heartedness in him to tell it. But I don’t want to
find out it’s a lie. I won’t look.”
</p>
<p>
She put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute. Twice she put out
her hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained. Once more she
ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the thought: “It’s
a good lie—it’s a good lie—I won’t let it grieve
me.” So she sought the jacket pocket. A moment later she was reading
Tom’s piece of bark through flowing tears and saying: “I could
forgive the boy, now, if he’d committed a million sins!”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img160"></a>
<img alt="19-160.jpg (63K)" src="images/19-160.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c20"></a>
CHAPTER XX
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img161"></a>
<img alt="20-161.jpg (178K)" src="images/20-161.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
There was something about Aunt Polly’s manner, when she kissed Tom,
that swept away his low spirits and made him lighthearted and happy again.
He started to school and had the luck of coming upon Becky Thatcher at the
head of Meadow Lane. His mood always determined his manner. Without a
moment’s hesitation he ran to her and said:
</p>
<p>
“I acted mighty mean today, Becky, and I’m so sorry. I won’t
ever, ever do that way again, as long as ever I live—please make up,
won’t you?”
</p>
<p>
The girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face:
</p>
<p>
“I’ll thank you to keep yourself <i>to</i> yourself, Mr.
Thomas Sawyer. I’ll never speak to you again.”
</p>
<p>
She tossed her head and passed on. Tom was so stunned that he had not even
presence of mind enough to say “Who cares, Miss Smarty?” until
the right time to say it had gone by. So he said nothing. But he was in a
fine rage, nevertheless. He moped into the schoolyard wishing she were a
boy, and imagining how he would trounce her if she were. He presently
encountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he passed. She hurled
one in return, and the angry breach was complete. It seemed to Becky, in
her hot resentment, that she could hardly wait for school to “take
in,” she was so impatient to see Tom flogged for the injured
spelling-book. If she had had any lingering notion of exposing Alfred
Temple, Tom’s offensive fling had driven it entirely away.
</p>
<p>
Poor girl, she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble herself. The
master, Mr. Dobbins, had reached middle age with an unsatisfied ambition.
The darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but poverty had decreed
that he should be nothing higher than a village schoolmaster. Every day he
took a mysterious book out of his desk and absorbed himself in it at times
when no classes were reciting. He kept that book under lock and key. There
was not an urchin in school but was perishing to have a glimpse of it, but
the chance never came. Every boy and girl had a theory about the nature of
that book; but no two theories were alike, and there was no way of getting
at the facts in the case. Now, as Becky was passing by the desk, which
stood near the door, she noticed that the key was in the lock! It was a
precious moment. She glanced around; found herself alone, and the next
instant she had the book in her hands. The titlepage—Professor
Somebody’s <i>Anatomy</i>—carried no information to her mind;
so she began to turn the leaves. She came at once upon a handsomely
engraved and colored frontispiece—a human figure, stark naked. At
that moment a shadow fell on the page and Tom Sawyer stepped in at the
door and caught a glimpse of the picture. Becky snatched at the book to
close it, and had the hard luck to tear the pictured page half down the
middle. She thrust the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out
crying with shame and vexation.
</p>
<p>
“Tom Sawyer, you are just as mean as you can be, to sneak up on a
person and look at what they’re looking at.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img163"></a>
<img alt="20-163.jpg (54K)" src="images/20-163.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“How could I know you was looking at anything?”
</p>
<p>
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Sawyer; you know you’re
going to tell on me, and oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! I’ll
be whipped, and I never was whipped in school.”
</p>
<p>
Then she stamped her little foot and said:
</p>
<p>
“<i>Be</i> so mean if you want to! I know something that’s
going to happen. You just wait and you’ll see! Hateful, hateful,
hateful!”—and she flung out of the house with a new explosion
of crying.
</p>
<p>
Tom stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught. Presently he said to
himself:
</p>
<p>
“What a curious kind of a fool a girl is! Never been licked in
school! Shucks! What’s a licking! That’s just like a girl—they’re
so thin-skinned and chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain’t going
to tell old Dobbins on this little fool, because there’s other ways
of getting even on her, that ain’t so mean; but what of it? Old
Dobbins will ask who it was tore his book. Nobody’ll answer. Then he’ll
do just the way he always does—ask first one and then t’other,
and when he comes to the right girl he’ll know it, without any
telling. Girls’ faces always tell on them. They ain’t got any
backbone. She’ll get licked. Well, it’s a kind of a tight
place for Becky Thatcher, because there ain’t any way out of it.”
Tom conned the thing a moment longer, and then added: “All right,
though; she’d like to see me in just such a fix—let her sweat
it out!”
</p>
<p>
Tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. In a few moments the
master arrived and school “took in.” Tom did not feel a strong
interest in his studies. Every time he stole a glance at the girls’
side of the room Becky’s face troubled him. Considering all things,
he did not want to pity her, and yet it was all he could do to help it. He
could get up no exultation that was really worthy the name. Presently the
spelling-book discovery was made, and Tom’s mind was entirely full
of his own matters for a while after that. Becky roused up from her
lethargy of distress and showed good interest in the proceedings. She did
not expect that Tom could get out of his trouble by denying that he spilt
the ink on the book himself; and she was right. The denial only seemed to
make the thing worse for Tom. Becky supposed she would be glad of that,
and she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she found she was not
certain. When the worst came to the worst, she had an impulse to get up
and tell on Alfred Temple, but she made an effort and forced herself to
keep still—because, said she to herself, “he’ll tell
about me tearing the picture sure. I wouldn’t say a word, not to
save his life!”
</p>
<p>
Tom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all broken-hearted,
for he thought it was possible that he had unknowingly upset the ink on
the spelling-book himself, in some skylarking bout—he had denied it
for form’s sake and because it was custom, and had stuck to the
denial from principle.
</p>
<p>
A whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the air was
drowsy with the hum of study. By and by, Mr. Dobbins straightened himself
up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book, but seemed
undecided whether to take it out or leave it. Most of the pupils glanced
up languidly, but there were two among them that watched his movements
with intent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered his book absently for a while, then
took it out and settled himself in his chair to read! Tom shot a glance at
Becky. He had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit look as she did, with a
gun levelled at its head. Instantly he forgot his quarrel with her. Quick—something
must be done! done in a flash, too! But the very imminence of the
emergency paralyzed his invention. Good!—he had an inspiration! He
would run and snatch the book, spring through the door and fly. But his
resolution shook for one little instant, and the chance was lost—the
master opened the volume. If Tom only had the wasted opportunity back
again! Too late. There was no help for Becky now, he said. The next moment
the master faced the school. Every eye sank under his gaze. There was that
in it which smote even the innocent with fear. There was silence while one
might count ten—the master was gathering his wrath. Then he spoke:
“Who tore this book?”
</p>
<p>
There was not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The stillness
continued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt.
</p>
<p>
“Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book?”
</p>
<p>
A denial. Another pause.
</p>
<p>
“Joseph Harper, did you?”
</p>
<p>
Another denial. Tom’s uneasiness grew more and more intense under
the slow torture of these proceedings. The master scanned the ranks of
boys—considered a while, then turned to the girls:
</p>
<p>
“Amy Lawrence?”
</p>
<p>
A shake of the head.
</p>
<p>
“Gracie Miller?”
</p>
<p>
The same sign.
</p>
<p>
“Susan Harper, did you do this?”
</p>
<p>
Another negative. The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was trembling from
head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the
situation.
</p>
<p>
“Rebecca Thatcher” [Tom glanced at her face—it was white
with terror]—“did you tear—no, look me in the face”
[her hands rose in appeal]—“did you tear this book?”
</p>
<p>
A thought shot like lightning through Tom’s brain. He sprang to his
feet and shouted—“I done it!”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img165"></a>
<img alt="20-165.jpg (54K)" src="images/20-165.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a
moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward
to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that
shone upon him out of poor Becky’s eyes seemed pay enough for a
hundred floggings. Inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took
without an outcry the most merciless flaying that even Mr. Dobbins had
ever administered; and also received with indifference the added cruelty
of a command to remain two hours after school should be dismissed—for
he knew who would wait for him outside till his captivity was done, and
not count the tedious time as loss, either.
</p>
<p>
Tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple; for
with shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting her own
treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way, soon, to
pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last with Becky’s latest
words lingering dreamily in his ear—
</p>
<p>
“Tom, how <i>could</i> you be so noble!”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img166"></a>
<img alt="20-166.jpg (28K)" src="images/20-166.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c21"></a>
CHAPTER XXI
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img167"></a>
<img alt="21-167.jpg (178K)" src="images/21-167.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Vacation was approaching. The schoolmaster, always severe, grew severer
and more exacting than ever, for he wanted the school to make a good
showing on “Examination” day. His rod and his ferule were
seldom idle now—at least among the smaller pupils. Only the biggest
boys, and young ladies of eighteen and twenty, escaped lashing. Mr.
Dobbins’ lashings were very vigorous ones, too; for although he
carried, under his wig, a perfectly bald and shiny head, he had only
reached middle age, and there was no sign of feebleness in his muscle. As
the great day approached, all the tyranny that was in him came to the
surface; he seemed to take a vindictive pleasure in punishing the least
shortcomings. The consequence was, that the smaller boys spent their days
in terror and suffering and their nights in plotting revenge. They threw
away no opportunity to do the master a mischief. But he kept ahead all the
time. The retribution that followed every vengeful success was so sweeping
and majestic that the boys always retired from the field badly worsted. At
last they conspired together and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling
victory. They swore in the signpainter’s boy, told him the scheme,
and asked his help. He had his own reasons for being delighted, for the
master boarded in his father’s family and had given the boy ample
cause to hate him. The master’s wife would go on a visit to the
country in a few days, and there would be nothing to interfere with the
plan; the master always prepared himself for great occasions by getting
pretty well fuddled, and the signpainter’s boy said that when the
dominie had reached the proper condition on Examination Evening he would
“manage the thing” while he napped in his chair; then he would
have him awakened at the right time and hurried away to school.
</p>
<p>
In the fulness of time the interesting occasion arrived. At eight in the
evening the schoolhouse was brilliantly lighted, and adorned with wreaths
and festoons of foliage and flowers. The master sat throned in his great
chair upon a raised platform, with his blackboard behind him. He was
looking tolerably mellow. Three rows of benches on each side and six rows
in front of him were occupied by the dignitaries of the town and by the
parents of the pupils. To his left, back of the rows of citizens, was a
spacious temporary platform upon which were seated the scholars who were
to take part in the exercises of the evening; rows of small boys, washed
and dressed to an intolerable state of discomfort; rows of gawky big boys;
snowbanks of girls and young ladies clad in lawn and muslin and
conspicuously conscious of their bare arms, their grandmothers’
ancient trinkets, their bits of pink and blue ribbon and the flowers in
their hair. All the rest of the house was filled with non-participating
scholars.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img168"></a>
<img alt="21-168.jpg (103K)" src="images/21-168.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The exercises began. A very little boy stood up and sheepishly recited,
“You’d scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on the
stage,” etc.—accompanying himself with the painfully exact and
spasmodic gestures which a machine might have used—supposing the
machine to be a trifle out of order. But he got through safely, though
cruelly scared, and got a fine round of applause when he made his
manufactured bow and retired.
</p>
<p>
A little shamefaced girl lisped, “Mary had a little lamb,”
etc., performed a compassion-inspiring curtsy, got her meed of applause,
and sat down flushed and happy.
</p>
<p>
Tom Sawyer stepped forward with conceited confidence and soared into the
unquenchable and indestructible “Give me liberty or give me death”
speech, with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down in the
middle of it. A ghastly stage-fright seized him, his legs quaked under him
and he was like to choke. True, he had the manifest sympathy of the house
but he had the house’s silence, too, which was even worse than its
sympathy. The master frowned, and this completed the disaster. Tom
struggled awhile and then retired, utterly defeated. There was a weak
attempt at applause, but it died early.
</p>
<p>
“The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck” followed; also “The
Assyrian Came Down,” and other declamatory gems. Then there were
reading exercises, and a spelling fight. The meagre Latin class recited
with honor. The prime feature of the evening was in order, now—original
“compositions” by the young ladies. Each in her turn stepped
forward to the edge of the platform, cleared her throat, held up her
manuscript (tied with dainty ribbon), and proceeded to read, with labored
attention to “expression” and punctuation. The themes were the
same that had been illuminated upon similar occasions by their mothers
before them, their grandmothers, and doubtless all their ancestors in the
female line clear back to the Crusades. “Friendship” was one;
“Memories of Other Days”; “Religion in History”;
“Dream Land”; “The Advantages of Culture”; “Forms
of Political Government Compared and Contrasted”; “Melancholy”;
“Filial Love”; “Heart Longings,” etc., etc.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img170"></a>
<img alt="21-170.jpg (87K)" src="images/21-170.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
A prevalent feature in these compositions was a nursed and petted
melancholy; another was a wasteful and opulent gush of “fine
language”; another was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly
prized words and phrases until they were worn entirely out; and a
peculiarity that conspicuously marked and marred them was the inveterate
and intolerable sermon that wagged its crippled tail at the end of each
and every one of them. No matter what the subject might be, a brainracking
effort was made to squirm it into some aspect or other that the moral and
religious mind could contemplate with edification. The glaring insincerity
of these sermons was not sufficient to compass the banishment of the
fashion from the schools, and it is not sufficient today; it never will be
sufficient while the world stands, perhaps. There is no school in all our
land where the young ladies do not feel obliged to close their
compositions with a sermon; and you will find that the sermon of the most
frivolous and the least religious girl in the school is always the longest
and the most relentlessly pious. But enough of this. Homely truth is
unpalatable.
</p>
<p>
Let us return to the “Examination.” The first composition that
was read was one entitled “Is this, then, Life?” Perhaps the
reader can endure an extract from it:
</p>
<div class="letter">
<p>
“In the common walks of life, with what delightful emotions does the youthful
mind look forward to some anticipated scene of festivity! Imagination is busy
sketching rose-tinted pictures of joy. In fancy, the voluptuous votary of
fashion sees herself amid the festive throng, ‘the observed of all observers.’
Her graceful form, arrayed in snowy robes, is whirling through the mazes of the
joyous dance; her eye is brightest, her step is lightest in the gay assembly.
</p>
<p>
“In such delicious fancies time quickly glides by, and the welcome hour arrives
for her entrance into the Elysian world, of which she has had such bright
dreams. How fairy-like does everything appear to her enchanted vision! Each new
scene is more charming than the last. But after a while she finds that beneath
this goodly exterior, all is vanity, the flattery which once charmed her soul,
now grates harshly upon her ear; the ballroom has lost its charms; and with
wasted health and imbittered heart, she turns away with the conviction that
earthly pleasures cannot satisfy the longings of the soul!”
</p>
</div>
<p>
And so forth and so on. There was a buzz of gratification from time to
time during the reading, accompanied by whispered ejaculations of “How
sweet!” “How eloquent!” “So true!” etc., and
after the thing had closed with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the
applause was enthusiastic.
</p>
<p>
Then arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the “interesting”
paleness that comes of pills and indigestion, and read a “poem.”
Two stanzas of it will do:
</p>
<p class="center">
“A MISSOURI MAIDEN’S FAREWELL TO ALABAMA
</p>
<p class="poem">
“Alabama, goodbye! I love thee well!<br>
But yet for a while do I leave thee now!<br>
Sad, yes, sad thoughts of thee my heart doth swell,<br>
And burning recollections throng my brow!<br>
For I have wandered through thy flowery woods;<br>
Have roamed and read near Tallapoosa’s stream;<br>
Have listened to Tallassee’s warring floods,<br>
And wooed on Coosa’s side Aurora’s beam.<br>
<br>
“Yet shame I not to bear an o’erfull heart,<br>
Nor blush to turn behind my tearful eyes;<br>
’Tis from no stranger land I now must part,<br>
’Tis to no strangers left I yield these sighs.<br>
Welcome and home were mine within this State,<br>
Whose vales I leave—whose spires fade fast from me<br>
And cold must be mine eyes, and heart, and tête,<br>
When, dear Alabama! they turn cold on thee!”
</p>
<p>
There were very few there who knew what “<i>tête</i>” meant, but the
poem was very satisfactory, nevertheless.
</p>
<p>
Next appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, black-haired young lady,
who paused an impressive moment, assumed a tragic expression, and began to
read in a measured, solemn tone:
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img173"></a>
<img alt="21-173.jpg (87K)" src="images/21-173.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p class="center">
A VISION
</p>
<div class="letter">
<p>
Dark and tempestuous was night. Around the throne on high not a
single star quivered; but the deep intonations of the heavy thunder
constantly vibrated upon the ear; whilst the terrific lightning revelled
in angry mood through the cloudy chambers of heaven, seeming to scorn
the power exerted over its terror by the illustrious Franklin! Even the
boisterous winds unanimously came forth from their mystic homes, and
blustered about as if to enhance by their aid the wildness of the scene.
</p>
<p>
At such a time, so dark, so dreary, for human sympathy my very
spirit sighed; but instead thereof,
</p>
</div>
<p class="poem">
‘My dearest friend, my counsellor, my comforter and guide—<br>
My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy,’ came to my side.
</p>
<p class="letter">
She moved like one of those bright beings pictured in the sunny walks of
fancy’s Eden by the romantic and young, a queen of beauty unadorned save by her
own transcendent loveliness. So soft was her step, it failed to make even a
sound, and but for the magical thrill imparted by her genial touch, as other
unobtrusive beauties, she would have glided away unperceived—unsought. A
strange sadness rested upon her features, like icy tears upon the robe of
December, as she pointed to the contending elements without, and bade me
contemplate the two beings presented.
</p>
<p>
This nightmare occupied some ten pages of manuscript and wound up with a
sermon so destructive of all hope to non-Presbyterians that it took the
first prize. This composition was considered to be the very finest effort
of the evening. The mayor of the village, in delivering the prize to the
author of it, made a warm speech in which he said that it was by far the
most “eloquent” thing he had ever listened to, and that Daniel
Webster himself might well be proud of it.
</p>
<p>
It may be remarked, in passing, that the number of compositions in which
the word “beauteous” was over-fondled, and human experience
referred to as “life’s page,” was up to the usual
average.
</p>
<p>
Now the master, mellow almost to the verge of geniality, put his chair
aside, turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a map of America
on the blackboard, to exercise the geography class upon. But he made a sad
business of it with his unsteady hand, and a smothered titter rippled over
the house. He knew what the matter was, and set himself to right it. He
sponged out lines and remade them; but he only distorted them more than
ever, and the tittering was more pronounced. He threw his entire attention
upon his work, now, as if determined not to be put down by the mirth. He
felt that all eyes were fastened upon him; he imagined he was succeeding,
and yet the tittering continued; it even manifestly increased. And well it
might. There was a garret above, pierced with a scuttle over his head; and
down through this scuttle came a cat, suspended around the haunches by a
string; she had a rag tied about her head and jaws to keep her from
mewing; as she slowly descended she curved upward and clawed at the
string, she swung downward and clawed at the intangible air. The tittering
rose higher and higher—the cat was within six inches of the absorbed
teacher’s head—down, down, a little lower, and she grabbed his
wig with her desperate claws, clung to it, and was snatched up into the
garret in an instant with her trophy still in her possession! And how the
light did blaze abroad from the master’s bald pate—for the
signpainter’s boy had <i>gilded</i> it!
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img174"></a>
<img alt="21-174.jpg (110K)" src="images/21-174.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
That broke up the meeting. The boys were avenged. Vacation had come.
</p>
<p class="footnote">
[*] NOTE:—The pretended “compositions” quoted in this
chapter are taken without alteration from a volume entitled “Prose
and Poetry, by a Western Lady”—but they are exactly and
precisely after the schoolgirl pattern, and hence are much happier than
any mere imitations could be.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img175"></a>
<img alt="21-175.jpg (52K)" src="images/21-175.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c22"></a>
CHAPTER XXII
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img176"></a>
<img alt="22-176.jpg (178K)" src="images/22-176.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Tom joined the new order of Cadets of Temperance, being attracted by the
showy character of their “regalia.” He promised to abstain
from smoking, chewing, and profanity as long as he remained a member. Now
he found out a new thing—namely, that to promise not to do a thing
is the surest way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very
thing. Tom soon found himself tormented with a desire to drink and swear;
the desire grew to be so intense that nothing but the hope of a chance to
display himself in his red sash kept him from withdrawing from the order.
Fourth of July was coming; but he soon gave that up—gave it up
before he had worn his shackles over forty-eight hours—and fixed his
hopes upon old Judge Frazer, justice of the peace, who was apparently on
his deathbed and would have a big public funeral, since he was so high an
official. During three days Tom was deeply concerned about the Judge’s
condition and hungry for news of it. Sometimes his hopes ran high—so
high that he would venture to get out his regalia and practise before the
looking-glass. But the Judge had a most discouraging way of fluctuating.
At last he was pronounced upon the mend—and then convalescent. Tom
was disgusted; and felt a sense of injury, too. He handed in his
resignation at once—and that night the Judge suffered a relapse and
died. Tom resolved that he would never trust a man like that again.
</p>
<p>
The funeral was a fine thing. The Cadets paraded in a style calculated to
kill the late member with envy. Tom was a free boy again, however—there
was something in that. He could drink and swear, now—but found to
his surprise that he did not want to. The simple fact that he could, took
the desire away, and the charm of it.
</p>
<p>
Tom presently wondered to find that his coveted vacation was beginning to
hang a little heavily on his hands.
</p>
<p>
He attempted a diary—but nothing happened during three days, and so
he abandoned it.
</p>
<p>
The first of all the negro minstrel shows came to town, and made a
sensation. Tom and Joe Harper got up a band of performers and were happy
for two days.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img177"></a>
<img alt="22-177.jpg (110K)" src="images/22-177.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Even the Glorious Fourth was in some sense a failure, for it rained hard,
there was no procession in consequence, and the greatest man in the world
(as Tom supposed), Mr. Benton, an actual United States Senator, proved an
overwhelming disappointment—for he was not twenty-five feet high,
nor even anywhere in the neighborhood of it.
</p>
<p>
A circus came. The boys played circus for three days afterward in tents
made of rag carpeting—admission, three pins for boys, two for girls—and
then circusing was abandoned.
</p>
<p>
A phrenologist and a mesmerizer came—and went again and left the
village duller and drearier than ever.
</p>
<p>
There were some boys-and-girls’ parties, but they were so few and so
delightful that they only made the aching voids between ache the harder.
</p>
<p>
Becky Thatcher was gone to her Constantinople home to stay with her
parents during vacation—so there was no bright side to life
anywhere.
</p>
<p>
The dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic misery. It was a very
cancer for permanency and pain.
</p>
<p>
Then came the measles.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img178"></a>
<img alt="22-178.jpg (51K)" src="images/22-178.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
During two long weeks Tom lay a prisoner, dead to the world and its
happenings. He was very ill, he was interested in nothing. When he got
upon his feet at last and moved feebly downtown, a melancholy change had
come over everything and every creature. There had been a “revival,”
and everybody had “got religion,” not only the adults, but
even the boys and girls. Tom went about, hoping against hope for the sight
of one blessed sinful face, but disappointment crossed him everywhere. He
found Joe Harper studying a Testament, and turned sadly away from the
depressing spectacle. He sought Ben Rogers, and found him visiting the
poor with a basket of tracts. He hunted up Jim Hollis, who called his
attention to the precious blessing of his late measles as a warning. Every
boy he encountered added another ton to his depression; and when, in
desperation, he flew for refuge at last to the bosom of Huckleberry Finn
and was received with a Scriptural quotation, his heart broke and he crept
home and to bed realizing that he alone of all the town was lost, forever
and forever.
</p>
<p>
And that night there came on a terrific storm, with driving rain, awful
claps of thunder and blinding sheets of lightning. He covered his head
with the bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his doom; for
he had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was about him. He
believed he had taxed the forbearance of the powers above to the extremity
of endurance and that this was the result. It might have seemed to him a
waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a battery of artillery,
but there seemed nothing incongruous about the getting up such an
expensive thunderstorm as this to knock the turf from under an insect like
himself.
</p>
<p>
By and by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing its
object. The boy’s first impulse was to be grateful, and reform. His
second was to wait—for there might not be any more storms.
</p>
<p>
The next day the doctors were back; Tom had relapsed. The three weeks he
spent on his back this time seemed an entire age. When he got abroad at
last he was hardly grateful that he had been spared, remembering how
lonely was his estate, how companionless and forlorn he was. He drifted
listlessly down the street and found Jim Hollis acting as judge in a
juvenile court that was trying a cat for murder, in the presence of her
victim, a bird. He found Joe Harper and Huck Finn up an alley eating a
stolen melon. Poor lads! they—like Tom—had suffered a relapse.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img180"></a>
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<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c23"></a>
CHAPTER XXIII
</h2></div>
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<p>
At last the sleepy atmosphere was stirred—and vigorously: the murder
trial came on in the court. It became the absorbing topic of village talk
immediately. Tom could not get away from it. Every reference to the murder
sent a shudder to his heart, for his troubled conscience and fears almost
persuaded him that these remarks were put forth in his hearing as “feelers”;
he did not see how he could be suspected of knowing anything about the
murder, but still he could not be comfortable in the midst of this gossip.
It kept him in a cold shiver all the time. He took Huck to a lonely place
to have a talk with him. It would be some relief to unseal his tongue for
a little while; to divide his burden of distress with another sufferer.
Moreover, he wanted to assure himself that Huck had remained discreet.
</p>
<p>
“Huck, have you ever told anybody about—that?”
</p>
<p>
“’Bout what?”
</p>
<p>
“You know what.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh—’course I haven’t.”
</p>
<p>
“Never a word?”
</p>
<p>
“Never a solitary word, so help me. What makes you ask?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I was afeard.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, Tom Sawyer, we wouldn’t be alive two days if that got
found out. <i>You</i> know that.”
</p>
<p>
Tom felt more comfortable. After a pause:
</p>
<p>
“Huck, they couldn’t anybody get you to tell, could they?”
</p>
<p>
“Get me to tell? Why, if I wanted that halfbreed devil to drownd me
they could get me to tell. They ain’t no different way.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, that’s all right, then. I reckon we’re safe as
long as we keep mum. But let’s swear again, anyway. It’s more
surer.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m agreed.”
</p>
<p>
So they swore again with dread solemnities.
</p>
<p>
“What is the talk around, Huck? I’ve heard a power of it.”
</p>
<p>
“Talk? Well, it’s just Muff Potter, Muff Potter, Muff Potter
all the time. It keeps me in a sweat, constant, so’s I want to hide
som’ers.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s just the same way they go on round me. I reckon he’s
a goner. Don’t you feel sorry for him, sometimes?”
</p>
<p>
“Most always—most always. He ain’t no account; but then
he hain’t ever done anything to hurt anybody. Just fishes a little,
to get money to get drunk on—and loafs around considerable; but
lord, we all do that—leastways most of us—preachers and such
like. But he’s kind of good—he give me half a fish, once, when
there warn’t enough for two; and lots of times he’s kind of
stood by me when I was out of luck.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, he’s mended kites for me, Huck, and knitted hooks on to
my line. I wish we could get him out of there.”
</p>
<p>
“My! we couldn’t get him out, Tom. And besides, ’twouldn’t
do any good; they’d ketch him again.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes—so they would. But I hate to hear ’em abuse him so
like the dickens when he never done—that.”
</p>
<p>
“I do too, Tom. Lord, I hear ’em say he’s the bloodiest
looking villain in this country, and they wonder he wasn’t ever hung
before.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, they talk like that, all the time. I’ve heard ’em
say that if he was to get free they’d lynch him.”
</p>
<p>
“And they’d do it, too.”
</p>
<p>
The boys had a long talk, but it brought them little comfort. As the
twilight drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood of
the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that something
would happen that might clear away their difficulties. But nothing
happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in this
luckless captive.
</p>
<p>
The boys did as they had often done before—went to the cell grating
and gave Potter some tobacco and matches. He was on the ground floor and
there were no guards.
</p>
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<p>
His gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences before—it
cut deeper than ever, this time. They felt cowardly and treacherous to the
last degree when Potter said:
</p>
<p>
“You’ve been mighty good to me, boys—better’n
anybody else in this town. And I don’t forget it, I don’t.
Often I says to myself, says I, ‘I used to mend all the boys’
kites and things, and show ’em where the good fishin’ places
was, and befriend ’em what I could, and now they’ve all forgot
old Muff when he’s in trouble; but Tom don’t, and Huck don’t—<i>they</i>
don’t forget him,’ says I, ‘and I don’t forget them.’
Well, boys, I done an awful thing—drunk and crazy at the time—that’s
the only way I account for it—and now I got to swing for it, and it’s
right. Right, and <i>best</i>, too, I reckon—hope so, anyway. Well,
we won’t talk about that. I don’t want to make <i>you</i> feel
bad; you’ve befriended me. But what I want to say, is, don’t
<i>you</i> ever get drunk—then you won’t ever get here. Stand
a litter furder west—so—that’s it; it’s a prime
comfort to see faces that’s friendly when a body’s in such a
muck of trouble, and there don’t none come here but yourn. Good
friendly faces—good friendly faces. Git up on one another’s
backs and let me touch ’em. That’s it. Shake hands—yourn’ll
come through the bars, but mine’s too big. Little hands, and weak—but
they’ve helped Muff Potter a power, and they’d help him more
if they could.”
</p>
<p>
Tom went home miserable, and his dreams that night were full of horrors.
The next day and the day after, he hung about the courtroom, drawn by an
almost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself to stay out.
Huck was having the same experience. They studiously avoided each other.
Each wandered away, from time to time, but the same dismal fascination
always brought them back presently. Tom kept his ears open when idlers
sauntered out of the courtroom, but invariably heard distressing news—the
toils were closing more and more relentlessly around poor Potter. At the
end of the second day the village talk was to the effect that Injun Joe’s
evidence stood firm and unshaken, and that there was not the slightest
question as to what the jury’s verdict would be.
</p>
<p>
Tom was out late, that night, and came to bed through the window. He was
in a tremendous state of excitement. It was hours before he got to sleep.
All the village flocked to the courthouse the next morning, for this was
to be the great day. Both sexes were about equally represented in the
packed audience. After a long wait the jury filed in and took their
places; shortly afterward, Potter, pale and haggard, timid and hopeless,
was brought in, with chains upon him, and seated where all the curious
eyes could stare at him; no less conspicuous was Injun Joe, stolid as
ever. There was another pause, and then the judge arrived and the sheriff
proclaimed the opening of the court. The usual whisperings among the
lawyers and gathering together of papers followed. These details and
accompanying delays worked up an atmosphere of preparation that was as
impressive as it was fascinating.
</p>
<p>
Now a witness was called who testified that he found Muff Potter washing
in the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the murder was
discovered, and that he immediately sneaked away. After some further
questioning, counsel for the prosecution said:
</p>
<p>
“Take the witness.”
</p>
<p>
The prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again when his
own counsel said:
</p>
<p>
“I have no questions to ask him.”
</p>
<p>
The next witness proved the finding of the knife near the corpse. Counsel
for the prosecution said:
</p>
<p>
“Take the witness.”
</p>
<p>
“I have no questions to ask him,” Potter’s lawyer
replied.
</p>
<p>
A third witness swore he had often seen the knife in Potter’s
possession.
</p>
<p>
“Take the witness.”
</p>
<p>
Counsel for Potter declined to question him. The faces of the audience
began to betray annoyance. Did this attorney mean to throw away his client’s
life without an effort?
</p>
<p>
Several witnesses deposed concerning Potter’s guilty behavior when
brought to the scene of the murder. They were allowed to leave the stand
without being cross-questioned.
</p>
<p>
Every detail of the damaging circumstances that occurred in the graveyard
upon that morning which all present remembered so well was brought out by
credible witnesses, but none of them were cross-examined by Potter’s
lawyer. The perplexity and dissatisfaction of the house expressed itself
in murmurs and provoked a reproof from the bench. Counsel for the
prosecution now said:
</p>
<p>
“By the oaths of citizens whose simple word is above suspicion, we
have fastened this awful crime, beyond all possibility of question, upon
the unhappy prisoner at the bar. We rest our case here.”
</p>
<p>
A groan escaped from poor Potter, and he put his face in his hands and
rocked his body softly to and fro, while a painful silence reigned in the
courtroom. Many men were moved, and many women’s compassion
testified itself in tears. Counsel for the defence rose and said:
</p>
<p>
“Your honor, in our remarks at the opening of this trial, we
foreshadowed our purpose to prove that our client did this fearful deed
while under the influence of a blind and irresponsible delirium produced
by drink. We have changed our mind. We shall not offer that plea.”
[Then to the clerk:] “Call Thomas Sawyer!”
</p>
<p>
A puzzled amazement awoke in every face in the house, not even excepting
Potter’s. Every eye fastened itself with wondering interest upon Tom
as he rose and took his place upon the stand. The boy looked wild enough,
for he was badly scared. The oath was administered.
</p>
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<p>
“Thomas Sawyer, where were you on the seventeenth of June, about the
hour of midnight?”
</p>
<p>
Tom glanced at Injun Joe’s iron face and his tongue failed him. The
audience listened breathless, but the words refused to come. After a few
moments, however, the boy got a little of his strength back, and managed
to put enough of it into his voice to make part of the house hear:
</p>
<p>
“In the graveyard!”
</p>
<p>
“A little bit louder, please. Don’t be afraid. You were—”
</p>
<p>
“In the graveyard.”
</p>
<p>
A contemptuous smile flitted across Injun Joe’s face.
</p>
<p>
“Were you anywhere near Horse Williams’ grave?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Speak up—just a trifle louder. How near were you?”
</p>
<p>
“Near as I am to you.”
</p>
<p>
“Were you hidden, or not?”
</p>
<p>
“I was hid.”
</p>
<p>
“Where?”
</p>
<p>
“Behind the elms that’s on the edge of the grave.”
</p>
<p>
Injun Joe gave a barely perceptible start.
</p>
<p>
“Any one with you?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sir. I went there with—”
</p>
<p>
“Wait—wait a moment. Never mind mentioning your companion’s
name. We will produce him at the proper time. Did you carry anything there
with you.”
</p>
<p>
Tom hesitated and looked confused.
</p>
<p>
“Speak out, my boy—don’t be diffident. The truth is
always respectable. What did you take there?”
</p>
<p>
“Only a—a—dead cat.”
</p>
<p>
There was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked.
</p>
<p>
“We will produce the skeleton of that cat. Now, my boy, tell us
everything that occurred—tell it in your own way—don’t
skip anything, and don’t be afraid.”
</p>
<p>
Tom began—hesitatingly at first, but as he warmed to his subject his
words flowed more and more easily; in a little while every sound ceased
but his own voice; every eye fixed itself upon him; with parted lips and
bated breath the audience hung upon his words, taking no note of time,
rapt in the ghastly fascinations of the tale. The strain upon pent emotion
reached its climax when the boy said:
</p>
<p>
“—and as the doctor fetched the board around and Muff Potter
fell, Injun Joe jumped with the knife and—”
</p>
<p>
Crash! Quick as lightning the halfbreed sprang for a window, tore his way
through all opposers, and was gone!
</p>
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<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c24"></a>
CHAPTER XXIV
</h2></div>
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<p>
Tom was a glittering hero once more—the pet of the old, the envy of
the young. His name even went into immortal print, for the village paper
magnified him. There were some that believed he would be President, yet,
if he escaped hanging.
</p>
<p>
As usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff Potter to its bosom and
fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before. But that sort of
conduct is to the world’s credit; therefore it is not well to find
fault with it.
</p>
<p>
Tom’s days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his
nights were seasons of horror. Injun Joe infested all his dreams, and
always with doom in his eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade the boy
to stir abroad after nightfall. Poor Huck was in the same state of
wretchedness and terror, for Tom had told the whole story to the lawyer
the night before the great day of the trial, and Huck was sore afraid that
his share in the business might leak out, yet, notwithstanding Injun Joe’s
flight had saved him the suffering of testifying in court. The poor fellow
had got the attorney to promise secrecy, but what of that? Since Tom’s
harassed conscience had managed to drive him to the lawyer’s house
by night and wring a dread tale from lips that had been sealed with the
dismalest and most formidable of oaths, Huck’s confidence in the
human race was wellnigh obliterated.
</p>
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<p>
Daily Muff Potter’s gratitude made Tom glad he had spoken; but
nightly he wished he had sealed up his tongue.
</p>
<p>
Half the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would never be captured; the other
half he was afraid he would be. He felt sure he never could draw a safe
breath again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse.
</p>
<p>
Rewards had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no Injun Joe
was found. One of those omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a detective,
came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his head, looked wise, and
made that sort of astounding success which members of that craft usually
achieve. That is to say, he “found a clew.” But you can’t
hang a “clew” for murder, and so after that detective had got
through and gone home, Tom felt just as insecure as he was before.
</p>
<p>
The slow days drifted on, and each left behind it a slightly lightened
weight of apprehension.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c25"></a>
CHAPTER XXV
</h2></div>
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<p>
There comes a time in every rightly-constructed boy’s life when he
has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure. This
desire suddenly came upon Tom one day. He sallied out to find Joe Harper,
but failed of success. Next he sought Ben Rogers; he had gone fishing.
Presently he stumbled upon Huck Finn the Red-Handed. Huck would answer.
Tom took him to a private place and opened the matter to him
confidentially. Huck was willing. Huck was always willing to take a hand
in any enterprise that offered entertainment and required no capital, for
he had a troublesome superabundance of that sort of time which is not
money. “Where’ll we dig?” said Huck.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, most anywhere.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, is it hid all around?”
</p>
<p>
“No, indeed it ain’t. It’s hid in mighty particular
places, Huck—sometimes on islands, sometimes in rotten chests under
the end of a limb of an old dead tree, just where the shadow falls at
midnight; but mostly under the floor in ha’nted houses.”
</p>
<p>
“Who hides it?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, robbers, of course—who’d you reckon? Sunday-school
sup’rintendents?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know. If ’twas mine I wouldn’t hide it; I’d
spend it and have a good time.”
</p>
<p>
“So would I. But robbers don’t do that way. They always hide
it and leave it there.”
</p>
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<p>
“Don’t they come after it any more?”
</p>
<p>
“No, they think they will, but they generally forget the marks, or
else they die. Anyway, it lays there a long time and gets rusty; and by
and by somebody finds an old yellow paper that tells how to find the marks—a
paper that’s got to be ciphered over about a week because it’s
mostly signs and hy’roglyphics.”
</p>
<p>
“Hyro—which?”
</p>
<p>
“Hy’roglyphics—pictures and things, you know, that don’t
seem to mean anything.”
</p>
<p>
“Have you got one of them papers, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“No.”
</p>
<p>
“Well then, how you going to find the marks?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t want any marks. They always bury it under a ha’nted
house or on an island, or under a dead tree that’s got one limb
sticking out. Well, we’ve tried Jackson’s Island a little, and
we can try it again some time; and there’s the old ha’nted
house up the Still-House branch, and there’s lots of dead-limb trees—dead
loads of ’em.”
</p>
<p>
“Is it under all of them?”
</p>
<p>
“How you talk! No!”
</p>
<p>
“Then how you going to know which one to go for?”
</p>
<p>
“Go for all of ’em!”
</p>
<p>
“Why, Tom, it’ll take all summer.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, what of that? Suppose you find a brass pot with a hundred
dollars in it, all rusty and gray, or rotten chest full of di’monds.
How’s that?”
</p>
<p>
Huck’s eyes glowed.
</p>
<p>
“That’s bully. Plenty bully enough for me. Just you gimme the
hundred dollars and I don’t want no di’monds.”
</p>
<p>
“All right. But I bet you I ain’t going to throw off on di’monds.
Some of ’em’s worth twenty dollars apiece—there ain’t
any, hardly, but’s worth six bits or a dollar.”
</p>
<p>
“No! Is that so?”
</p>
<p>
“Cert’nly—anybody’ll tell you so. Hain’t you
ever seen one, Huck?”
</p>
<p>
“Not as I remember.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, kings have slathers of them.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I don’ know no kings, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“I reckon you don’t. But if you was to go to Europe you’d
see a raft of ’em hopping around.”
</p>
<p>
“Do they hop?”
</p>
<p>
“Hop?—your granny! No!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, what did you say they did, for?”
</p>
<p>
“Shucks, I only meant you’d <i>see</i> ’em—not
hopping, of course—what do they want to hop for?—but I mean
you’d just see ’em—scattered around, you know, in a kind
of a general way. Like that old humpbacked Richard.”
</p>
<p>
“Richard? What’s his other name?”
</p>
<p>
“He didn’t have any other name. Kings don’t have any but
a given name.”
</p>
<p>
“No?”
</p>
<p>
“But they don’t.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don’t want to be
a king and have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say—where
you going to dig first?”
</p>
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<p>
“Well, I don’t know. S’pose we tackle that old dead-limb
tree on the hill t’other side of Still-House branch?”
</p>
<p>
“I’m agreed.”
</p>
<p>
So they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set out on their three-mile
tramp. They arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves down in the
shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke.
</p>
<p>
“I like this,” said Tom.
</p>
<p>
“So do I.”
</p>
<p>
“Say, Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with
your share?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I’ll have pie and a glass of soda every day, and I’ll
go to every circus that comes along. I bet I’ll have a gay time.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, ain’t you going to save any of it?”
</p>
<p>
“Save it? What for?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, so as to have something to live on, by and by.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, that ain’t any use. Pap would come back to thish-yer town
some day and get his claws on it if I didn’t hurry up, and I tell
you he’d clean it out pretty quick. What you going to do with yourn,
Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“I’m going to buy a new drum, and a sure’nough sword,
and a red necktie and a bull pup, and get married.”
</p>
<p>
“Married!”
</p>
<p>
“That’s it.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, you—why, you ain’t in your right mind.”
</p>
<p>
“Wait—you’ll see.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, that’s the foolishest thing you could do. Look at pap
and my mother. Fight! Why, they used to fight all the time. I remember,
mighty well.”
</p>
<p>
“That ain’t anything. The girl I’m going to marry won’t
fight.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, I reckon they’re all alike. They’ll all comb a
body. Now you better think ’bout this awhile. I tell you you better.
What’s the name of the gal?”
</p>
<p>
“It ain’t a gal at all—it’s a girl.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s all the same, I reckon; some says gal, some says girl—both’s
right, like enough. Anyway, what’s her name, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll tell you some time—not now.”
</p>
<p>
“All right—that’ll do. Only if you get married I’ll
be more lonesomer than ever.”
</p>
<p>
“No you won’t. You’ll come and live with me. Now stir
out of this and we’ll go to digging.”
</p>
<p>
They worked and sweated for half an hour. No result. They toiled another
halfhour. Still no result. Huck said:
</p>
<p>
“Do they always bury it as deep as this?”
</p>
<p>
“Sometimes—not always. Not generally. I reckon we haven’t
got the right place.”
</p>
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<p>
So they chose a new spot and began again. The labor dragged a little, but
still they made progress. They pegged away in silence for some time.
Finally Huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded drops from his brow
with his sleeve, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Where you going to dig next, after we get this one?”
</p>
<p>
“I reckon maybe we’ll tackle the old tree that’s over
yonder on Cardiff Hill back of the widow’s.”
</p>
<p>
“I reckon that’ll be a good one. But won’t the widow
take it away from us, Tom? It’s on her land.”
</p>
<p>
“<i>She</i> take it away! Maybe she’d like to try it once.
Whoever finds one of these hid treasures, it belongs to him. It don’t
make any difference whose land it’s on.”
</p>
<p>
That was satisfactory. The work went on. By and by Huck said:
</p>
<p>
“Blame it, we must be in the wrong place again. What do you think?”
</p>
<p>
“It is mighty curious, Huck. I don’t understand it. Sometimes
witches interfere. I reckon maybe that’s what’s the trouble
now.”
</p>
<p>
“Shucks! Witches ain’t got no power in the daytime.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, that’s so. I didn’t think of that. Oh, I know
what the matter is! What a blamed lot of fools we are! You got to find out
where the shadow of the limb falls at midnight, and that’s where you
dig!”
</p>
<p>
“Then consound it, we’ve fooled away all this work for
nothing. Now hang it all, we got to come back in the night. It’s an
awful long way. Can you get out?”
</p>
<p>
“I bet I will. We’ve got to do it tonight, too, because if
somebody sees these holes they’ll know in a minute what’s here
and they’ll go for it.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I’ll come around and maow tonight.”
</p>
<p>
“All right. Let’s hide the tools in the bushes.”
</p>
<p>
The boys were there that night, about the appointed time. They sat in the
shadow waiting. It was a lonely place, and an hour made solemn by old
traditions. Spirits whispered in the rustling leaves, ghosts lurked in the
murky nooks, the deep baying of a hound floated up out of the distance, an
owl answered with his sepulchral note. The boys were subdued by these
solemnities, and talked little. By and by they judged that twelve had
come; they marked where the shadow fell, and began to dig. Their hopes
commenced to rise. Their interest grew stronger, and their industry kept
pace with it. The hole deepened and still deepened, but every time their
hearts jumped to hear the pick strike upon something, they only suffered a
new disappointment. It was only a stone or a chunk. At last Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“It ain’t any use, Huck, we’re wrong again.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, but we <i>can’t</i> be wrong. We spotted the shadder to
a dot.”
</p>
<p>
“I know it, but then there’s another thing.”
</p>
<p>
“What’s that?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, we only guessed at the time. Like enough it was too late or
too early.”
</p>
<p>
Huck dropped his shovel.
</p>
<p>
“That’s it,” said he. “That’s the very
trouble. We got to give this one up. We can’t ever tell the right
time, and besides this kind of thing’s too awful, here this time of
night with witches and ghosts a-fluttering around so. I feel as if
something’s behind me all the time; and I’m afeard to
turn around, becuz maybe there’s others in front a-waiting for a
chance. I been creeping all over, ever since I got here.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I’ve been pretty much so, too, Huck. They most always
put in a dead man when they bury a treasure under a tree, to look out for
it.”
</p>
<p>
“Lordy!”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, they do. I’ve always heard that.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, I don’t like to fool around much where there’s
dead people. A body’s bound to get into trouble with ’em,
sure.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t like to stir ’em up, either. S’pose this
one here was to stick his skull out and say something!”
</p>
<p>
“Don’t Tom! It’s awful.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it just is. Huck, I don’t feel comfortable a bit.”
</p>
<p>
“Say, Tom, let’s give this place up, and try somewheres else.”
</p>
<p>
“All right, I reckon we better.”
</p>
<p>
“What’ll it be?”
</p>
<p>
Tom considered awhile; and then said:
</p>
<p>
“The ha’nted house. That’s it!”
</p>
<p>
“Blame it, I don’t like ha’nted houses, Tom. Why, they’re
a dern sight worse’n dead people. Dead people might talk, maybe, but
they don’t come sliding around in a shroud, when you ain’t
noticing, and peep over your shoulder all of a sudden and grit their
teeth, the way a ghost does. I couldn’t stand such a thing as that,
Tom—nobody could.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, but, Huck, ghosts don’t travel around only at night.
They won’t hender us from digging there in the daytime.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, that’s so. But you know mighty well people don’t
go about that ha’nted house in the day nor the night.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, that’s mostly because they don’t like to go where
a man’s been murdered, anyway—but nothing’s ever been
seen around that house except in the night—just some blue lights
slipping by the windows—no regular ghosts.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, where you see one of them blue lights flickering around, Tom,
you can bet there’s a ghost mighty close behind it. It stands to
reason. Becuz you know that they don’t anybody but ghosts use
’em.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, that’s so. But anyway they don’t come around in
the daytime, so what’s the use of our being afeard?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, all right. We’ll tackle the ha’nted house if you
say so—but I reckon it’s taking chances.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img198"></a>
<img alt="25-198.jpg (97K)" src="images/25-198.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
They had started down the hill by this time. There in the middle of the
moonlit valley below them stood the “ha’nted” house,
utterly isolated, its fences gone long ago, rank weeds smothering the very
doorsteps, the chimney crumbled to ruin, the window-sashes vacant, a
corner of the roof caved in. The boys gazed awhile, half expecting to see
a blue light flit past a window; then talking in a low tone, as befitted
the time and the circumstances, they struck far off to the right, to give
the haunted house a wide berth, and took their way homeward through the
woods that adorned the rearward side of Cardiff Hill.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c26"></a>
CHAPTER XXVI
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img199"></a>
<img alt="26-199.jpg (195K)" src="images/26-199.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
About noon the next day the boys arrived at the dead tree; they had come
for their tools. Tom was impatient to go to the haunted house; Huck was
measurably so, also—but suddenly said:
</p>
<p>
“Lookyhere, Tom, do you know what day it is?”
</p>
<p>
Tom mentally ran over the days of the week, and then quickly lifted his
eyes with a startled look in them—
</p>
<p>
“My! I never once thought of it, Huck!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I didn’t neither, but all at once it popped onto me
that it was Friday.”
</p>
<p>
“Blame it, a body can’t be too careful, Huck. We might ’a’
got into an awful scrape, tackling such a thing on a Friday.”
</p>
<p>
“<i>Might</i>! Better say we <i>would</i>! There’s some lucky
days, maybe, but Friday ain’t.”
</p>
<p>
“Any fool knows that. I don’t reckon <i>you</i> was the first
that found it out, Huck.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I never said I was, did I? And Friday ain’t all,
neither. I had a rotten bad dream last night—dreampt about rats.”
</p>
<p>
“No! Sure sign of trouble. Did they fight?”
</p>
<p>
“No.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, that’s good, Huck. When they don’t fight it’s
only a sign that there’s trouble around, you know. All we got to do
is to look mighty sharp and keep out of it. We’ll drop this thing
for today, and play. Do you know Robin Hood, Huck?”
</p>
<p>
“No. Who’s Robin Hood?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, he was one of the greatest men that was ever in England—and
the best. He was a robber.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img200"></a>
<img alt="26-200.jpg (42K)" src="images/26-200.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Cracky, I wisht I was. Who did he rob?”
</p>
<p>
“Only sheriffs and bishops and rich people and kings, and such like.
But he never bothered the poor. He loved ’em. He always divided up
with ’em perfectly square.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, he must ’a’ been a brick.”
</p>
<p>
“I bet you he was, Huck. Oh, he was the noblest man that ever was.
They ain’t any such men now, I can tell you. He could lick any man
in England, with one hand tied behind him; and he could take his yew bow
and plug a ten-cent piece every time, a mile and a half.”
</p>
<p>
“What’s a <i>yew</i> bow?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know. It’s some kind of a bow, of course. And
if he hit that dime only on the edge he would set down and cry—and
curse. But we’ll play Robin Hood—it’s nobby fun. I’ll
learn you.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m agreed.”
</p>
<p>
So they played Robin Hood all the afternoon, now and then casting a
yearning eye down upon the haunted house and passing a remark about the
morrow’s prospects and possibilities there. As the sun began to sink
into the west they took their way homeward athwart the long shadows of the
trees and soon were buried from sight in the forests of Cardiff Hill.
</p>
<p>
On Saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were at the dead tree again.
They had a smoke and a chat in the shade, and then dug a little in their
last hole, not with great hope, but merely because Tom said there were so
many cases where people had given up a treasure after getting down within
six inches of it, and then somebody else had come along and turned it up
with a single thrust of a shovel. The thing failed this time, however, so
the boys shouldered their tools and went away feeling that they had not
trifled with fortune, but had fulfilled all the requirements that belong
to the business of treasure-hunting.
</p>
<p>
When they reached the haunted house there was something so weird and
grisly about the dead silence that reigned there under the baking sun, and
something so depressing about the loneliness and desolation of the place,
that they were afraid, for a moment, to venture in. Then they crept to the
door and took a trembling peep. They saw a weedgrown, floorless room,
unplastered, an ancient fireplace, vacant windows, a ruinous staircase;
and here, there, and everywhere hung ragged and abandoned cobwebs. They
presently entered, softly, with quickened pulses, talking in whispers,
ears alert to catch the slightest sound, and muscles tense and ready for
instant retreat.
</p>
<p>
In a little while familiarity modified their fears and they gave the place
a critical and interested examination, rather admiring their own boldness,
and wondering at it, too. Next they wanted to look upstairs. This was
something like cutting off retreat, but they got to daring each other, and
of course there could be but one result—they threw their tools into
a corner and made the ascent. Up there were the same signs of decay. In
one corner they found a closet that promised mystery, but the promise was
a fraud—there was nothing in it. Their courage was up now and well
in hand. They were about to go down and begin work when—
</p>
<p>
“Sh!” said Tom.
</p>
<p>
“What is it?” whispered Huck, blanching with fright.
</p>
<p>
“Sh!... There!... Hear it?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes!... Oh, my! Let’s run!”
</p>
<p>
“Keep still! Don’t you budge! They’re coming right
toward the door.”
</p>
<p>
The boys stretched themselves upon the floor with their eyes to knotholes
in the planking, and lay waiting, in a misery of fear.
</p>
<p>
“They’ve stopped.... No—coming.... Here they are. Don’t
whisper another word, Huck. My goodness, I wish I was out of this!”
</p>
<p>
Two men entered. Each boy said to himself: “There’s the old
deaf and dumb Spaniard that’s been about town once or twice lately—never
saw t’other man before.”
</p>
<p>
“T’other” was a ragged, unkempt creature, with nothing
very pleasant in his face. The Spaniard was wrapped in a serape; he had
bushy white whiskers; long white hair flowed from under his sombrero, and
he wore green goggles. When they came in, “t’other” was
talking in a low voice; they sat down on the ground, facing the door, with
their backs to the wall, and the speaker continued his remarks. His manner
became less guarded and his words more distinct as he proceeded:
</p>
<p>
“No,” said he, “I’ve thought it all over, and I
don’t like it. It’s dangerous.”
</p>
<p>
“Dangerous!” grunted the “deaf and dumb” Spaniard—to
the vast surprise of the boys. “Milksop!”
</p>
<p>
This voice made the boys gasp and quake. It was Injun Joe’s! There
was silence for some time. Then Joe said:
</p>
<p>
“What’s any more dangerous than that job up yonder—but
nothing’s come of it.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s different. Away up the river so, and not another house
about. ’Twon’t ever be known that we tried, anyway, long as we
didn’t succeed.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, what’s more dangerous than coming here in the daytime!—anybody
would suspicion us that saw us.”
</p>
<p>
“I know that. But there warn’t any other place as handy after
that fool of a job. I want to quit this shanty. I wanted to yesterday,
only it warn’t any use trying to stir out of here, with those
infernal boys playing over there on the hill right in full view.”
</p>
<p>
“Those infernal boys” quaked again under the inspiration of
this remark, and thought how lucky it was that they had remembered it was
Friday and concluded to wait a day. They wished in their hearts they had
waited a year.
</p>
<p>
The two men got out some food and made a luncheon. After a long and
thoughtful silence, Injun Joe said:
</p>
<p>
“Look here, lad—you go back up the river where you belong.
Wait there till you hear from me. I’ll take the chances on dropping
into this town just once more, for a look. We’ll do that ‘dangerous’
job after I’ve spied around a little and think things look well for
it. Then for Texas! We’ll leg it together!”
</p>
<p>
This was satisfactory. Both men presently fell to yawning, and Injun Joe
said:
</p>
<p>
“I’m dead for sleep! It’s your turn to watch.”
</p>
<p>
He curled down in the weeds and soon began to snore. His comrade stirred
him once or twice and he became quiet. Presently the watcher began to nod;
his head drooped lower and lower, both men began to snore now.
</p>
<p>
The boys drew a long, grateful breath. Tom whispered:
</p>
<p>
“Now’s our chance—come!”
</p>
<p>
Huck said:
</p>
<p>
“I can’t—I’d die if they was to wake.”
</p>
<p>
Tom urged—Huck held back. At last Tom rose slowly and softly, and
started alone. But the first step he made wrung such a hideous creak from
the crazy floor that he sank down almost dead with fright. He never made a
second attempt. The boys lay there counting the dragging moments till it
seemed to them that time must be done and eternity growing gray; and then
they were grateful to note that at last the sun was setting.
</p>
<p>
Now one snore ceased. Injun Joe sat up, stared around—smiled grimly
upon his comrade, whose head was drooping upon his knees—stirred him
up with his foot and said:
</p>
<p>
“Here! <i>You’re</i> a watchman, ain’t you! All right,
though—nothing’s happened.”
</p>
<p>
“My! have I been asleep?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, partly, partly. Nearly time for us to be moving, pard. What’ll
we do with what little swag we’ve got left?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know—leave it here as we’ve always done,
I reckon. No use to take it away till we start south. Six hundred and
fifty in silver’s something to carry.”
</p>
<p>
“Well—all right—it won’t matter to come here once
more.”
</p>
<p>
“No—but I’d say come in the night as we used to do—it’s
better.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes: but look here; it may be a good while before I get the right
chance at that job; accidents might happen; ’tain’t in such a
very good place; we’ll just regularly bury it—and bury it
deep.”
</p>
<p>
“Good idea,” said the comrade, who walked across the room,
knelt down, raised one of the rearward hearth-stones and took out a bag
that jingled pleasantly. He subtracted from it twenty or thirty dollars
for himself and as much for Injun Joe, and passed the bag to the latter,
who was on his knees in the corner, now, digging with his bowie-knife.
</p>
<p>
The boys forgot all their fears, all their miseries in an instant. With
gloating eyes they watched every movement. Luck!—the splendor of it
was beyond all imagination! Six hundred dollars was money enough to make
half a dozen boys rich! Here was treasure-hunting under the happiest
auspices—there would not be any bothersome uncertainty as to where
to dig. They nudged each other every moment—eloquent nudges and
easily understood, for they simply meant—“Oh, but ain’t
you glad <i>now</i> we’re here!”
</p>
<p>
Joe’s knife struck upon something.
</p>
<p>
“Hello!” said he.
</p>
<p>
“What is it?” said his comrade.
</p>
<p>
“Half-rotten plank—no, it’s a box, I believe. Here—bear
a hand and we’ll see what it’s here for. Never mind, I’ve
broke a hole.”
</p>
<p>
He reached his hand in and drew it out—
</p>
<p>
“Man, it’s money!”
</p>
<p>
The two men examined the handful of coins. They were gold. The boys above
were as excited as themselves, and as delighted.
</p>
<p>
Joe’s comrade said:
</p>
<p>
“We’ll make quick work of this. There’s an old rusty
pick over amongst the weeds in the corner the other side of the fireplace—I
saw it a minute ago.”
</p>
<p>
He ran and brought the boys’ pick and shovel. Injun Joe took the
pick, looked it over critically, shook his head, muttered something to
himself, and then began to use it. The box was soon unearthed. It was not
very large; it was iron bound and had been very strong before the slow
years had injured it. The men contemplated the treasure awhile in blissful
silence.
</p>
<p>
“Pard, there’s thousands of dollars here,” said Injun
Joe.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img205"></a>
<img alt="26-205.jpg (106K)" src="images/26-205.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“’Twas always said that Murrel’s gang used to be around
here one summer,” the stranger observed.
</p>
<p>
“I know it,” said Injun Joe; “and this looks like it, I
should say.”
</p>
<p>
“Now you won’t need to do that job.”
</p>
<p>
The halfbreed frowned. Said he:
</p>
<p>
“You don’t know me. Least you don’t know all about that
thing. ’Tain’t robbery altogether—it’s <i>revenge</i>!”
and a wicked light flamed in his eyes. “I’ll need your help in
it. When it’s finished—then Texas. Go home to your Nance and
your kids, and stand by till you hear from me.”
</p>
<p>
“Well—if you say so; what’ll we do with this—bury
it again?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. [Ravishing delight overhead.] <i>No</i>! by the great Sachem,
no! [Profound distress overhead.] I’d nearly forgot. That pick had
fresh earth on it! [The boys were sick with terror in a moment.] What
business has a pick and a shovel here? What business with fresh earth on
them? Who brought them here—and where are they gone? Have you heard
anybody?—seen anybody? What! bury it again and leave them to come
and see the ground disturbed? Not exactly—not exactly. We’ll
take it to my den.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, of course! Might have thought of that before. You mean Number
One?”
</p>
<p>
“No—Number Two—under the cross. The other place is bad—too
common.”
</p>
<p>
“All right. It’s nearly dark enough to start.”
</p>
<p>
Injun Joe got up and went about from window to window cautiously peeping
out. Presently he said:
</p>
<p>
“Who could have brought those tools here? Do you reckon they can be
upstairs?”
</p>
<p>
The boys’ breath forsook them. Injun Joe put his hand on his knife,
halted a moment, undecided, and then turned toward the stairway. The boys
thought of the closet, but their strength was gone. The steps came
creaking up the stairs—the intolerable distress of the situation
woke the stricken resolution of the lads—they were about to spring
for the closet, when there was a crash of rotten timbers and Injun Joe
landed on the ground amid the debris of the ruined stairway. He gathered
himself up cursing, and his comrade said:
</p>
<p>
“Now what’s the use of all that? If it’s anybody, and
they’re up there, let them <i>stay</i> there—who cares? If
they want to jump down, now, and get into trouble, who objects? It will be
dark in fifteen minutes—and then let them follow us if they want to.
I’m willing. In my opinion, whoever hove those things in here caught
a sight of us and took us for ghosts or devils or something. I’ll
bet they’re running yet.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img207"></a>
<img alt="26-207.jpg (56K)" src="images/26-207.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Joe grumbled awhile; then he agreed with his friend that what daylight was
left ought to be economized in getting things ready for leaving. Shortly
afterward they slipped out of the house in the deepening twilight, and
moved toward the river with their precious box.
</p>
<p>
Tom and Huck rose up, weak but vastly relieved, and stared after them
through the chinks between the logs of the house. Follow? Not they. They
were content to reach ground again without broken necks, and take the
townward track over the hill. They did not talk much. They were too much
absorbed in hating themselves—hating the ill luck that made them
take the spade and the pick there. But for that, Injun Joe never would
have suspected. He would have hidden the silver with the gold to wait
there till his “revenge” was satisfied, and then he would have
had the misfortune to find that money turn up missing. Bitter, bitter luck
that the tools were ever brought there!
</p>
<p>
They resolved to keep a lookout for that Spaniard when he should come to
town spying out for chances to do his revengeful job, and follow him to
“Number Two,” wherever that might be. Then a ghastly thought
occurred to Tom.
</p>
<p>
“Revenge? What if he means <i>us</i>, Huck!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, don’t!” said Huck, nearly fainting.
</p>
<p>
They talked it all over, and as they entered town they agreed to believe
that he might possibly mean somebody else—at least that he might at
least mean nobody but Tom, since only Tom had testified.
</p>
<p>
Very, very small comfort it was to Tom to be alone in danger! Company
would be a palpable improvement, he thought.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c27"></a>
CHAPTER XXVII
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img208"></a>
<img alt="27-208.jpg (168K)" src="images/27-208.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The adventure of the day mightily tormented Tom’s dreams that night.
Four times he had his hands on that rich treasure and four times it wasted
to nothingness in his fingers as sleep forsook him and wakefulness brought
back the hard reality of his misfortune. As he lay in the early morning
recalling the incidents of his great adventure, he noticed that they
seemed curiously subdued and far away—somewhat as if they had
happened in another world, or in a time long gone by. Then it occurred to
him that the great adventure itself must be a dream! There was one very
strong argument in favor of this idea—namely, that the quantity of
coin he had seen was too vast to be real. He had never seen as much as
fifty dollars in one mass before, and he was like all boys of his age and
station in life, in that he imagined that all references to “hundreds”
and “thousands” were mere fanciful forms of speech, and that
no such sums really existed in the world. He never had supposed for a
moment that so large a sum as a hundred dollars was to be found in actual
money in any one’s possession. If his notions of hidden treasure had
been analyzed, they would have been found to consist of a handful of real
dimes and a bushel of vague, splendid, ungraspable dollars.
</p>
<p>
But the incidents of his adventure grew sensibly sharper and clearer under
the attrition of thinking them over, and so he presently found himself
leaning to the impression that the thing might not have been a dream,
after all. This uncertainty must be swept away. He would snatch a hurried
breakfast and go and find Huck.
</p>
<p>
Huck was sitting on the gunwale of a flatboat, listlessly dangling his feet
in the water and looking very melancholy. Tom concluded to let Huck lead up
to the subject. If he did not do it, then the adventure would be proved to
have been only a dream.
</p>
<p>
“Hello, Huck!”
</p>
<p>
“Hello, yourself.”
</p>
<p>
Silence, for a minute.
</p>
<p>
“Tom, if we’d ’a’ left the blame tools at the dead
tree, we’d ’a’ got the money. Oh, ain’t it awful!”
</p>
<p>
“’Tain’t a dream, then, ’tain’t a dream!
Somehow I most wish it was. Dog’d if I don’t, Huck.”
</p>
<p>
“What ain’t a dream?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, that thing yesterday. I been half thinking it was.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img209"></a>
<img alt="27-209.jpg (50K)" src="images/27-209.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Dream! If them stairs hadn’t broke down you’d ’a’
seen how much dream it was! I’ve had dreams enough all night—with
that patch-eyed Spanish devil going for me all through ’em—rot
him!”
</p>
<p>
“No, not rot him. <i>Find</i> him! Track the money!”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, we’ll never find him. A feller don’t have only one
chance for such a pile—and that one’s lost. I’d feel
mighty shaky if I was to see him, anyway.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, so’d I; but I’d like to see him, anyway—and
track him out—to his Number Two.”
</p>
<p>
“Number Two—yes, that’s it. I been thinking ’bout
that. But I can’t make nothing out of it. What do you reckon it is?”
</p>
<p>
“I dono. It’s too deep. Say, Huck—maybe it’s the
number of a house!”
</p>
<p>
“Goody!... No, Tom, that ain’t it. If it is, it ain’t in
this one-horse town. They ain’t no numbers here.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, that’s so. Lemme think a minute. Here—it’s
the number of a room—in a tavern, you know!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, that’s the trick! They ain’t only two taverns. We
can find out quick.”
</p>
<p>
“You stay here, Huck, till I come.”
</p>
<p>
Tom was off at once. He did not care to have Huck’s company in
public places. He was gone half an hour. He found that in the best tavern,
No. 2 had long been occupied by a young lawyer, and was still so occupied.
In the less ostentatious house, No. 2 was a mystery. The tavern-keeper’s
young son said it was kept locked all the time, and he never saw anybody
go into it or come out of it except at night; he did not know any
particular reason for this state of things; had had some little curiosity,
but it was rather feeble; had made the most of the mystery by entertaining
himself with the idea that that room was “ha’nted”; had
noticed that there was a light in there the night before.
</p>
<p>
“That’s what I’ve found out, Huck. I reckon that’s
the very No. 2 we’re after.”
</p>
<p>
“I reckon it is, Tom. Now what you going to do?”
</p>
<p>
“Lemme think.”
</p>
<p>
Tom thought a long time. Then he said:
</p>
<p>
“I’ll tell you. The back door of that No. 2 is the door that
comes out into that little close alley between the tavern and the old
rattle trap of a brick store. Now you get hold of all the doorkeys you can
find, and I’ll nip all of auntie’s, and the first dark night
we’ll go there and try ’em. And mind you, keep a lookout for
Injun Joe, because he said he was going to drop into town and spy around
once more for a chance to get his revenge. If you see him, you just follow
him; and if he don’t go to that No. 2, that ain’t the place.”
</p>
<p>
“Lordy, I don’t want to foller him by myself!”
</p>
<p>
“Why, it’ll be night, sure. He mightn’t ever see you—and
if he did, maybe he’d never think anything.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, if it’s pretty dark I reckon I’ll track him. I
dono—I dono. I’ll try.”
</p>
<p>
“You bet I’ll follow him, if it’s dark, Huck. Why, he
might ’a’ found out he couldn’t get his revenge, and be
going right after that money.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s so, Tom, it’s so. I’ll foller him; I will,
by jingoes!”
</p>
<p>
“Now you’re <i>talking</i>! Don’t you ever weaken, Huck,
and I won’t.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
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<img alt="27-211.jpg (46K)" src="images/27-211.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c28"></a>
CHAPTER XXVIII
</h2></div>
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<a name="img212"></a>
<img alt="28-212.jpg (189K)" src="images/28-212.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
That night Tom and Huck were ready for their adventure. They hung about
the neighborhood of the tavern until after nine, one watching the alley at
a distance and the other the tavern door. Nobody entered the alley or left
it; nobody resembling the Spaniard entered or left the tavern door. The
night promised to be a fair one; so Tom went home with the understanding
that if a considerable degree of darkness came on, Huck was to come and
“maow,” whereupon he would slip out and try the keys. But the
night remained clear, and Huck closed his watch and retired to bed in an
empty sugar hogshead about twelve.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img213"></a>
<img alt="28-213.jpg (50K)" src="images/28-213.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Tuesday the boys had the same ill luck. Also Wednesday. But Thursday night
promised better. Tom slipped out in good season with his aunt’s old
tin lantern, and a large towel to blindfold it with. He hid the lantern in
Huck’s sugar hogshead and the watch began. An hour before midnight
the tavern closed up and its lights (the only ones thereabouts) were put
out. No Spaniard had been seen. Nobody had entered or left the alley.
Everything was auspicious. The blackness of darkness reigned, the perfect
stillness was interrupted only by occasional mutterings of distant
thunder.
</p>
<p>
Tom got his lantern, lit it in the hogshead, wrapped it closely in the
towel, and the two adventurers crept in the gloom toward the tavern. Huck
stood sentry and Tom felt his way into the alley. Then there was a season
of waiting anxiety that weighed upon Huck’s spirits like a mountain.
He began to wish he could see a flash from the lantern—it would
frighten him, but it would at least tell him that Tom was alive yet. It
seemed hours since Tom had disappeared. Surely he must have fainted; maybe
he was dead; maybe his heart had burst under terror and excitement. In his
uneasiness Huck found himself drawing closer and closer to the alley;
fearing all sorts of dreadful things, and momentarily expecting some
catastrophe to happen that would take away his breath. There was not much
to take away, for he seemed only able to inhale it by thimblefuls, and his
heart would soon wear itself out, the way it was beating. Suddenly there
was a flash of light and Tom came tearing by him: “Run!” said
he; “run, for your life!”
</p>
<p>
He needn’t have repeated it; once was enough; Huck was making thirty
or forty miles an hour before the repetition was uttered. The boys never
stopped till they reached the shed of a deserted slaughter-house at the
lower end of the village. Just as they got within its shelter the storm
burst and the rain poured down. As soon as Tom got his breath he said:
</p>
<p>
“Huck, it was awful! I tried two of the keys, just as soft as I
could; but they seemed to make such a power of racket that I couldn’t
hardly get my breath I was so scared. They wouldn’t turn in the
lock, either. Well, without noticing what I was doing, I took hold of the
knob, and open comes the door! It warn’t locked! I hopped in, and
shook off the towel, and, <i>Great Caesar’s Ghost!</i>”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img214"></a>
<img alt="28-214.jpg (95K)" src="images/28-214.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“What!—what’d you see, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“Huck, I most stepped onto Injun Joe’s hand!”
</p>
<p>
“No!”
</p>
<p>
“Yes! He was lying there, sound asleep on the floor, with his old
patch on his eye and his arms spread out.”
</p>
<p>
“Lordy, what did you do? Did he wake up?”
</p>
<p>
“No, never budged. Drunk, I reckon. I just grabbed that towel and
started!”
</p>
<p>
“I’d never ’a’ thought of the towel, I bet!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I would. My aunt would make me mighty sick if I lost it.”
</p>
<p>
“Say, Tom, did you see that box?”
</p>
<p>
“Huck, I didn’t wait to look around. I didn’t see the
box, I didn’t see the cross. I didn’t see anything but a
bottle and a tin cup on the floor by Injun Joe; yes, I saw two barrels and
lots more bottles in the room. Don’t you see, now, what’s the
matter with that ha’nted room?”
</p>
<p>
“How?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, it’s ha’nted with whiskey! Maybe <i>all</i> the
Temperance Taverns have got a ha’nted room, hey, Huck?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I reckon maybe that’s so. Who’d ’a’
thought such a thing? But say, Tom, now’s a mighty good time to get
that box, if Injun Joe’s drunk.”
</p>
<p>
“It is, that! You try it!”
</p>
<p>
Huck shuddered.
</p>
<p>
“Well, no—I reckon not.”
</p>
<p>
“And I reckon not, Huck. Only one bottle alongside of Injun Joe ain’t
enough. If there’d been three, he’d be drunk enough and I’d
do it.”
</p>
<p>
There was a long pause for reflection, and then Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Lookyhere, Huck, less not try that thing any more till we know
Injun Joe’s not in there. It’s too scary. Now, if we watch
every night, we’ll be dead sure to see him go out, some time or
other, and then we’ll snatch that box quicker’n lightning.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I’m agreed. I’ll watch the whole night long, and
I’ll do it every night, too, if you’ll do the other part of
the job.”
</p>
<p>
“All right, I will. All you got to do is to trot up Hooper Street a
block and maow—and if I’m asleep, you throw some gravel at the
window and that’ll fetch me.”
</p>
<p>
“Agreed, and good as wheat!”
</p>
<p>
“Now, Huck, the storm’s over, and I’ll go home. It’ll
begin to be daylight in a couple of hours. You go back and watch that
long, will you?”
</p>
<p>
“I said I would, Tom, and I will. I’ll ha’nt that tavern
every night for a year! I’ll sleep all day and I’ll stand
watch all night.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s all right. Now, where you going to sleep?”
</p>
<p>
“In Ben Rogers’ hayloft. He lets me, and so does his pap’s
nigger man, Uncle Jake. I tote water for Uncle Jake whenever he wants me
to, and any time I ask him he gives me a little something to eat if he can
spare it. That’s a mighty good nigger, Tom. He likes me, becuz I don’t
ever act as if I was above him. Sometime I’ve set right down and eat
<i>with</i> him. But you needn’t tell that. A body’s got to do
things when he’s awful hungry he wouldn’t want to do as a
steady thing.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, if I don’t want you in the daytime, I’ll let you
sleep. I won’t come bothering around. Any time you see something’s
up, in the night, just skip right around and maow.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img216"></a>
<img alt="28-216.jpg (49K)" src="images/28-216.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c29"></a>
CHAPTER XXIX
</h2></div>
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<a name="img217"></a>
<img alt="29-217.jpg (198K)" src="images/29-217.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The first thing Tom heard on Friday morning was a glad piece of news—Judge
Thatcher’s family had come back to town the night before. Both Injun
Joe and the treasure sunk into secondary importance for a moment, and
Becky took the chief place in the boy’s interest. He saw her and
they had an exhausting good time playing “hispy” and “gully-keeper”
with a crowd of their schoolmates. The day was completed and crowned in a
peculiarly satisfactory way: Becky teased her mother to appoint the next
day for the long-promised and long-delayed picnic, and she consented. The
child’s delight was boundless; and Tom’s not more moderate.
The invitations were sent out before sunset, and straightway the young
folks of the village were thrown into a fever of preparation and
pleasurable anticipation. Tom’s excitement enabled him to keep awake
until a pretty late hour, and he had good hopes of hearing Huck’s
“maow,” and of having his treasure to astonish Becky and the
picnickers with, next day; but he was disappointed. No signal came that
night.
</p>
<p>
Morning came, eventually, and by ten or eleven o’clock a giddy and
rollicking company were gathered at Judge Thatcher’s, and everything
was ready for a start. It was not the custom for elderly people to mar the
picnics with their presence. The children were considered safe enough
under the wings of a few young ladies of eighteen and a few young
gentlemen of twenty-three or thereabouts. The old steam ferry-boat was
chartered for the occasion; presently the gay throng filed up the main
street laden with provision-baskets. Sid was sick and had to miss the fun;
Mary remained at home to entertain him. The last thing Mrs. Thatcher said
to Becky, was:
</p>
<p>
“You’ll not get back till late. Perhaps you’d better
stay all night with some of the girls that live near the ferry-landing,
child.”
</p>
<p>
“Then I’ll stay with Susy Harper, mamma.”
</p>
<p>
“Very well. And mind and behave yourself and don’t be any
trouble.”
</p>
<p>
Presently, as they tripped along, Tom said to Becky:
</p>
<p>
“Say—I’ll tell you what we’ll do. ’Stead of
going to Joe Harper’s we’ll climb right up the hill and stop
at the Widow Douglas’. She’ll have ice-cream! She has it most
every day—dead loads of it. And she’ll be awful glad to have
us.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, that will be fun!”
</p>
<p>
Then Becky reflected a moment and said:
</p>
<p>
“But what will mamma say?”
</p>
<p>
“How’ll she ever know?”
</p>
<p>
The girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said reluctantly:
</p>
<p>
“I reckon it’s wrong—but—”
</p>
<p>
“But shucks! Your mother won’t know, and so what’s the
harm? All she wants is that you’ll be safe; and I bet you she’d
’a’ said go there if she’d ’a’ thought of
it. I know she would!”
</p>
<p>
The Widow Douglas’ splendid hospitality was a tempting bait. It and
Tom’s persuasions presently carried the day. So it was decided to
say nothing to anybody about the night’s programme. Presently it
occurred to Tom that maybe Huck might come this very night and give the
signal. The thought took a deal of the spirit out of his anticipations.
Still he could not bear to give up the fun at Widow Douglas’. And
why should he give it up, he reasoned—the signal did not come the
night before, so why should it be any more likely to come tonight? The
sure fun of the evening outweighed the uncertain treasure; and, boy-like,
he determined to yield to the stronger inclination and not allow himself
to think of the box of money another time that day.
</p>
<p>
Three miles below town the ferryboat stopped at the mouth of a woody
hollow and tied up. The crowd swarmed ashore and soon the forest distances
and craggy heights echoed far and near with shoutings and laughter. All
the different ways of getting hot and tired were gone through with, and
by-and-by the rovers straggled back to camp fortified with responsible
appetites, and then the destruction of the good things began. After the
feast there was a refreshing season of rest and chat in the shade of
spreading oaks. By-and-by somebody shouted:
</p>
<p>
“Who’s ready for the cave?”
</p>
<p>
Everybody was. Bundles of candles were procured, and straightway there was
a general scamper up the hill. The mouth of the cave was up the hillside—an
opening shaped like a letter A. Its massive oaken door stood unbarred.
Within was a small chamber, chilly as an icehouse, and walled by Nature
with solid limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat. It was romantic and
mysterious to stand here in the deep gloom and look out upon the green
valley shining in the sun. But the impressiveness of the situation quickly
wore off, and the romping began again. The moment a candle was lighted
there was a general rush upon the owner of it; a struggle and a gallant
defence followed, but the candle was soon knocked down or blown out, and
then there was a glad clamor of laughter and a new chase. But all things
have an end. By-and-by the procession went filing down the steep descent
of the main avenue, the flickering rank of lights dimly revealing the
lofty walls of rock almost to their point of junction sixty feet overhead.
This main avenue was not more than eight or ten feet wide. Every few steps
other lofty and still narrower crevices branched from it on either hand—for
McDougal’s cave was but a vast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran
into each other and out again and led nowhere. It was said that one might
wander days and nights together through its intricate tangle of rifts and
chasms, and never find the end of the cave; and that he might go down, and
down, and still down, into the earth, and it was just the same—labyrinth
under labyrinth, and no end to any of them. No man “knew” the
cave. That was an impossible thing. Most of the young men knew a portion
of it, and it was not customary to venture much beyond this known portion.
Tom Sawyer knew as much of the cave as any one.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img220"></a>
<img alt="29-220.jpg (101K)" src="images/29-220.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The procession moved along the main avenue some three-quarters of a mile,
and then groups and couples began to slip aside into branch avenues, fly
along the dismal corridors, and take each other by surprise at points
where the corridors joined again. Parties were able to elude each other
for the space of half an hour without going beyond the “known”
ground.
</p>
<p>
By-and-by, one group after another came straggling back to the mouth of
the cave, panting, hilarious, smeared from head to foot with tallow
drippings, daubed with clay, and entirely delighted with the success of
the day. Then they were astonished to find that they had been taking no
note of time and that night was about at hand. The clanging bell had been
calling for half an hour. However, this sort of close to the day’s
adventures was romantic and therefore satisfactory. When the ferryboat
with her wild freight pushed into the stream, nobody cared sixpence for
the wasted time but the captain of the craft.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img221"></a>
<img alt="29-221.jpg (52K)" src="images/29-221.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Huck was already upon his watch when the ferryboat’s lights went
glinting past the wharf. He heard no noise on board, for the young people
were as subdued and still as people usually are who are nearly tired to
death. He wondered what boat it was, and why she did not stop at the wharf—and
then he dropped her out of his mind and put his attention upon his
business. The night was growing cloudy and dark. Ten o’clock came,
and the noise of vehicles ceased, scattered lights began to wink out, all
straggling foot-passengers disappeared, the village betook itself to its
slumbers and left the small watcher alone with the silence and the ghosts.
Eleven o’clock came, and the tavern lights were put out; darkness
everywhere, now. Huck waited what seemed a weary long time, but nothing
happened. His faith was weakening. Was there any use? Was there really any
use? Why not give it up and turn in?
</p>
<p>
A noise fell upon his ear. He was all attention in an instant. The alley
door closed softly. He sprang to the corner of the brick store. The next
moment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have something under his
arm. It must be that box! So they were going to remove the treasure. Why
call Tom now? It would be absurd—the men would get away with the box
and never be found again. No, he would stick to their wake and follow
them; he would trust to the darkness for security from discovery. So
communing with himself, Huck stepped out and glided along behind the men,
cat-like, with bare feet, allowing them to keep just far enough ahead not
to be invisible.
</p>
<p>
They moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left up a
crossstreet. They went straight ahead, then, until they came to the path
that led up Cardiff Hill; this they took. They passed by the old Welshman’s
house, halfway up the hill, without hesitating, and still climbed upward.
Good, thought Huck, they will bury it in the old quarry. But they never
stopped at the quarry. They passed on, up the summit. They plunged into
the narrow path between the tall sumach bushes, and were at once hidden in
the gloom. Huck closed up and shortened his distance, now, for they would
never be able to see him. He trotted along awhile; then slackened his
pace, fearing he was gaining too fast; moved on a piece, then stopped
altogether; listened; no sound; none, save that he seemed to hear the
beating of his own heart. The hooting of an owl came over the hill—ominous
sound! But no footsteps. Heavens, was everything lost! He was about to
spring with winged feet, when a man cleared his throat not four feet from
him! Huck’s heart shot into his throat, but he swallowed it again;
and then he stood there shaking as if a dozen agues had taken charge of
him at once, and so weak that he thought he must surely fall to the
ground. He knew where he was. He knew he was within five steps of the
stile leading into Widow Douglas’ grounds. Very well, he thought,
let them bury it there; it won’t be hard to find.
</p>
<p>
Now there was a voice—a very low voice—Injun Joe’s:
</p>
<p>
“Damn her, maybe she’s got company—there’s lights,
late as it is.”
</p>
<p>
“I can’t see any.”
</p>
<p>
This was that stranger’s voice—the stranger of the haunted
house. A deadly chill went to Huck’s heart—this, then, was the
“revenge” job! His thought was, to fly. Then he remembered
that the Widow Douglas had been kind to him more than once, and maybe
these men were going to murder her. He wished he dared venture to warn
her; but he knew he didn’t dare—they might come and catch him.
He thought all this and more in the moment that elapsed between the
stranger’s remark and Injun Joe’s next—which was—
</p>
<p>
“Because the bush is in your way. Now—this way—now you
see, don’t you?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. Well, there <i>is</i> company there, I reckon. Better give it
up.”
</p>
<p>
“Give it up, and I just leaving this country forever! Give it up and
maybe never have another chance. I tell you again, as I’ve told you
before, I don’t care for her swag—you may have it. But her
husband was rough on me—many times he was rough on me—and
mainly he was the justice of the peace that jugged me for a vagrant. And
that ain’t all. It ain’t a millionth part of it! He had me <i>horsewhipped</i>!—horsewhipped
in front of the jail, like a nigger!—with all the town looking on!
<i>Horsewhipped</i>!—do you understand? He took advantage of me and
died. But I’ll take it out of <i>her</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, don’t kill her! Don’t do that!”
</p>
<p>
“Kill? Who said anything about killing? I would kill <i>him</i> if
he was here; but not her. When you want to get revenge on a woman you don’t
kill her—bosh! you go for her looks. You slit her nostrils—you
notch her ears like a sow!”
</p>
<p>
“By God, that’s—”
</p>
<p>
“Keep your opinion to yourself! It will be safest for you. I’ll
tie her to the bed. If she bleeds to death, is that my fault? I’ll
not cry, if she does. My friend, you’ll help me in this thing—for
<i>my</i> sake—that’s why you’re here—I mightn’t
be able alone. If you flinch, I’ll kill you. Do you understand that?
And if I have to kill you, I’ll kill her—and then I reckon
nobody’ll ever know much about who done this business.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, if it’s got to be done, let’s get at it. The
quicker the better—I’m all in a shiver.”
</p>
<p>
“Do it <i>now</i>? And company there? Look here—I’ll get
suspicious of you, first thing you know. No—we’ll wait till
the lights are out—there’s no hurry.”
</p>
<p>
Huck felt that a silence was going to ensue—a thing still more awful
than any amount of murderous talk; so he held his breath and stepped
gingerly back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing,
one-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling over, first on one
side and then on the other. He took another step back, with the same
elaboration and the same risks; then another and another, and—a twig
snapped under his foot! His breath stopped and he listened. There was no
sound—the stillness was perfect. His gratitude was measureless. Now
he turned in his tracks, between the walls of sumach bushes—turned
himself as carefully as if he were a ship—and then stepped quickly
but cautiously along. When he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and so
he picked up his nimble heels and flew. Down, down he sped, till he
reached the Welshman’s. He banged at the door, and presently the
heads of the old man and his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img224"></a>
<img alt="29-224.jpg (103K)" src="images/29-224.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“What’s the row there? Who’s banging? What do you want?”
</p>
<p>
“Let me in—quick! I’ll tell everything.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, who are you?”
</p>
<p>
“Huckleberry Finn—quick, let me in!”
</p>
<p>
“Huckleberry Finn, indeed! It ain’t a name to open many doors,
I judge! But let him in, lads, and let’s see what’s the
trouble.”
</p>
<p>
“Please don’t ever tell I told you,” were Huck’s
first words when he got in. “Please don’t—I’d be
killed, sure—but the widow’s been good friends to me
sometimes, and I want to tell—I <i>will</i> tell if you’ll
promise you won’t ever say it was me.”
</p>
<p>
“By George, he <i>has</i> got something to tell, or he wouldn’t
act so!” exclaimed the old man; “out with it and nobody here’ll
ever tell, lad.”
</p>
<p>
Three minutes later the old man and his sons, well armed, were up the
hill, and just entering the sumach path on tiptoe, their weapons in their
hands. Huck accompanied them no further. He hid behind a great bowlder and
fell to listening. There was a lagging, anxious silence, and then all of a
sudden there was an explosion of firearms and a cry.
</p>
<p>
Huck waited for no particulars. He sprang away and sped down the hill as
fast as his legs could carry him.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img225"></a>
<img alt="29-225.jpg (23K)" src="images/29-225.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c30"></a>
CHAPTER XXX
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img226"></a>
<img alt="30-226.jpg (183K)" src="images/30-226.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
As the earliest suspicion of dawn appeared on Sunday morning, Huck came
groping up the hill and rapped gently at the old Welshman’s door.
The inmates were asleep, but it was a sleep that was set on a
hair-trigger, on account of the exciting episode of the night. A call came
from a window:
</p>
<p>
“Who’s there!”
</p>
<p>
Huck’s scared voice answered in a low tone:
</p>
<p>
“Please let me in! It’s only Huck Finn!”
</p>
<p>
“It’s a name that can open this door night or day, lad!—and
welcome!”
</p>
<p>
These were strange words to the vagabond boy’s ears, and the
pleasantest he had ever heard. He could not recollect that the closing
word had ever been applied in his case before. The door was quickly
unlocked, and he entered. Huck was given a seat and the old man and his
brace of tall sons speedily dressed themselves.
</p>
<p>
“Now, my boy, I hope you’re good and hungry, because breakfast
will be ready as soon as the sun’s up, and we’ll have a piping
hot one, too—make yourself easy about that! I and the boys hoped you’d
turn up and stop here last night.”
</p>
<p>
“I was awful scared,” said Huck, “and I run. I took out
when the pistols went off, and I didn’t stop for three mile. I’ve
come now becuz I wanted to know about it, you know; and I come before
daylight becuz I didn’t want to run across them devils, even if they
was dead.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, poor chap, you do look as if you’d had a hard night of
it—but there’s a bed here for you when you’ve had your
breakfast. No, they ain’t dead, lad—we are sorry enough for
that. You see we knew right where to put our hands on them, by your
description; so we crept along on tiptoe till we got within fifteen feet
of them—dark as a cellar that sumach path was—and just then I
found I was going to sneeze. It was the meanest kind of luck! I tried to
keep it back, but no use—’twas bound to come, and it did come!
I was in the lead with my pistol raised, and when the sneeze started those
scoundrels a-rustling to get out of the path, I sung out, ‘Fire
boys!’ and blazed away at the place where the rustling was. So did
the boys. But they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and we after them,
down through the woods. I judge we never touched them. They fired a shot
apiece as they started, but their bullets whizzed by and didn’t do
us any harm. As soon as we lost the sound of their feet we quit chasing,
and went down and stirred up the constables. They got a posse together,
and went off to guard the river bank, and as soon as it is light the
sheriff and a gang are going to beat up the woods. My boys will be with
them presently. I wish we had some sort of description of those rascals—’twould
help a good deal. But you couldn’t see what they were like, in the
dark, lad, I suppose?”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img227"></a>
<img alt="30-227.jpg (48K)" src="images/30-227.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Oh yes; I saw them downtown and follered them.”
</p>
<p>
“Splendid! Describe them—describe them, my boy!”
</p>
<p>
“One’s the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that’s ben around
here once or twice, and t’other’s a mean-looking, ragged—”
</p>
<p>
“That’s enough, lad, we know the men! Happened on them in the
woods back of the widow’s one day, and they slunk away. Off with
you, boys, and tell the sheriff—get your breakfast tomorrow morning!”
</p>
<p>
The Welshman’s sons departed at once. As they were leaving the room
Huck sprang up and exclaimed:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, please don’t tell <i>any</i>body it was me that blowed on
them! Oh, please!”
</p>
<p>
“All right if you say it, Huck, but you ought to have the credit of
what you did.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh no, no! Please don’t tell!”
</p>
<p>
When the young men were gone, the old Welshman said:
</p>
<p>
“They won’t tell—and I won’t. But why don’t
you want it known?”
</p>
<p>
Huck would not explain, further than to say that he already knew too much
about one of those men and would not have the man know that he knew
anything against him for the whole world—he would be killed for
knowing it, sure.
</p>
<p>
The old man promised secrecy once more, and said:
</p>
<p>
“How did you come to follow these fellows, lad? Were they looking
suspicious?”
</p>
<p>
Huck was silent while he framed a duly cautious reply. Then he said:
</p>
<p>
“Well, you see, I’m a kind of a hard lot,—least
everybody says so, and I don’t see nothing agin it—and
sometimes I can’t sleep much, on account of thinking about it and
sort of trying to strike out a new way of doing. That was the way of it
last night. I couldn’t sleep, and so I come along upstreet ’bout
midnight, a-turning it all over, and when I got to that old shackly brick
store by the Temperance Tavern, I backed up agin the wall to have another
think. Well, just then along comes these two chaps slipping along close by
me, with something under their arm, and I reckoned they’d stole it.
One was a-smoking, and t’other one wanted a light; so they stopped
right before me and the cigars lit up their faces and I see that the big
one was the deaf and dumb Spaniard, by his white whiskers and the patch on
his eye, and t’other one was a rusty, ragged-looking devil.”
</p>
<p>
“Could you see the rags by the light of the cigars?”
</p>
<p>
This staggered Huck for a moment. Then he said:
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img229"></a>
<img alt="30-229.jpg (55K)" src="images/30-229.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Well, I don’t know—but somehow it seems as if I did.”
</p>
<p>
“Then they went on, and you—”
</p>
<p>
“Follered ’em—yes. That was it. I wanted to see what was
up—they sneaked along so. I dogged ’em to the widder’s
stile, and stood in the dark and heard the ragged one beg for the widder,
and the Spaniard swear he’d spile her looks just as I told you and
your two—”
</p>
<p>
“What! The <i>deaf and dumb</i> man said all that!”
</p>
<p>
Huck had made another terrible mistake! He was trying his best to keep the
old man from getting the faintest hint of who the Spaniard might be, and
yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble in spite of all
he could do. He made several efforts to creep out of his scrape, but the
old man’s eye was upon him and he made blunder after blunder.
Presently the Welshman said:
</p>
<p>
“My boy, don’t be afraid of me. I wouldn’t hurt a hair
of your head for all the world. No—I’d protect you—I’d
protect you. This Spaniard is not deaf and dumb; you’ve let that
slip without intending it; you can’t cover that up now. You know
something about that Spaniard that you want to keep dark. Now trust me—tell
me what it is, and trust me—I won’t betray you.”
</p>
<p>
Huck looked into the old man’s honest eyes a moment, then bent over
and whispered in his ear:
</p>
<p>
“’Tain’t a Spaniard—it’s Injun Joe!”
</p>
<p>
The Welshman almost jumped out of his chair. In a moment he said:
</p>
<p>
“It’s all plain enough, now. When you talked about notching
ears and slitting noses I judged that that was your own embellishment,
because white men don’t take that sort of revenge. But an Injun!
That’s a different matter altogether.”
</p>
<p>
During breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old man
said that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before going to
bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for marks
of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky bundle of—
</p>
<p>
“Of <i>what</i>?”
</p>
<p>
If the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more
stunning suddenness from Huck’s blanched lips. His eyes were staring
wide, now, and his breath suspended—waiting for the answer. The
Welshman started—stared in return—three seconds—five
seconds—ten—then replied:
</p>
<p>
“Of burglar’s tools. Why, what’s the <i>matter</i> with
you?”
</p>
<p>
Huck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful. The
Welshman eyed him gravely, curiously—and presently said:
</p>
<p>
“Yes, burglar’s tools. That appears to relieve you a good
deal. But what did give you that turn? What were <i>you</i> expecting we’d
found?”
</p>
<p>
Huck was in a close place—the inquiring eye was upon him—he
would have given anything for material for a plausible answer—nothing
suggested itself—the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper—a
senseless reply offered—there was no time to weigh it, so at a
venture he uttered it—feebly:
</p>
<p>
“Sunday-school books, maybe.”
</p>
<p>
Poor Huck was too distressed to smile, but the old man laughed loud and
joyously, shook up the details of his anatomy from head to foot, and ended
by saying that such a laugh was money in a man’s pocket, because it
cut down the doctor’s bill like everything. Then he added:
</p>
<p>
“Poor old chap, you’re white and jaded—you ain’t
well a bit—no wonder you’re a little flighty and off your
balance. But you’ll come out of it. Rest and sleep will fetch you
out all right, I hope.”
</p>
<p>
Huck was irritated to think he had been such a goose and betrayed such a
suspicious excitement, for he had dropped the idea that the parcel brought
from the tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had heard the talk at the
widow’s stile. He had only thought it was not the treasure, however—he
had not known that it wasn’t—and so the suggestion of a
captured bundle was too much for his self-possession. But on the whole he
felt glad the little episode had happened, for now he knew beyond all
question that that bundle was not <i>the</i> bundle, and so his mind was
at rest and exceedingly comfortable. In fact, everything seemed to be
drifting just in the right direction, now; the treasure must be still in
No. 2, the men would be captured and jailed that day, and he and Tom could
seize the gold that night without any trouble or any fear of interruption.
</p>
<p>
Just as breakfast was completed there was a knock at the door. Huck jumped
for a hiding-place, for he had no mind to be connected even remotely with
the late event. The Welshman admitted several ladies and gentlemen, among
them the Widow Douglas, and noticed that groups of citizens were climbing
up the hill—to stare at the stile. So the news had spread. The
Welshman had to tell the story of the night to the visitors. The widow’s
gratitude for her preservation was outspoken.
</p>
<p>
“Don’t say a word about it, madam. There’s another that
you’re more beholden to than you are to me and my boys, maybe, but
he don’t allow me to tell his name. We wouldn’t have been
there but for him.”
</p>
<p>
Of course this excited a curiosity so vast that it almost belittled the
main matter—but the Welshman allowed it to eat into the vitals of
his visitors, and through them be transmitted to the whole town, for he
refused to part with his secret. When all else had been learned, the widow
said:
</p>
<p>
“I went to sleep reading in bed and slept straight through all that
noise. Why didn’t you come and wake me?”
</p>
<p>
“We judged it warn’t worth while. Those fellows warn’t
likely to come again—they hadn’t any tools left to work with,
and what was the use of waking you up and scaring you to death? My three
negro men stood guard at your house all the rest of the night. They’ve
just come back.”
</p>
<p>
More visitors came, and the story had to be told and retold for a couple
of hours more.
</p>
<p>
There was no Sabbath-school during day-school vacation, but everybody was
early at church. The stirring event was well canvassed. News came that not
a sign of the two villains had been yet discovered. When the sermon was
finished, Judge Thatcher’s wife dropped alongside of Mrs. Harper as
she moved down the aisle with the crowd and said:
</p>
<p>
“Is my Becky going to sleep all day? I just expected she would be
tired to death.”
</p>
<p>
“Your Becky?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes,” with a startled look—“didn’t she stay
with you last night?”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img232"></a>
<img alt="30-232.jpg (59K)" src="images/30-232.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Why, no.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Thatcher turned pale, and sank into a pew, just as Aunt Polly,
talking briskly with a friend, passed by. Aunt Polly said:
</p>
<p>
“Goodmorning, Mrs. Thatcher. Goodmorning, Mrs. Harper. I’ve
got a boy that’s turned up missing. I reckon my Tom stayed at your
house last night—one of you. And now he’s afraid to come to
church. I’ve got to settle with him.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Thatcher shook her head feebly and turned paler than ever.
</p>
<p>
“He didn’t stay with us,” said Mrs. Harper, beginning to
look uneasy. A marked anxiety came into Aunt Polly’s face.
</p>
<p>
“Joe Harper, have you seen my Tom this morning?”
</p>
<p>
“No’m.”
</p>
<p>
“When did you see him last?”
</p>
<p>
Joe tried to remember, but was not sure he could say. The people had
stopped moving out of church. Whispers passed along, and a boding
uneasiness took possession of every countenance. Children were anxiously
questioned, and young teachers. They all said they had not noticed whether
Tom and Becky were on board the ferryboat on the homeward trip; it was
dark; no one thought of inquiring if any one was missing. One young man
finally blurted out his fear that they were still in the cave! Mrs.
Thatcher swooned away. Aunt Polly fell to crying and wringing her hands.
</p>
<p>
The alarm swept from lip to lip, from group to group, from street to
street, and within five minutes the bells were wildly clanging and the
whole town was up! The Cardiff Hill episode sank into instant
insignificance, the burglars were forgotten, horses were saddled, skiffs
were manned, the ferryboat ordered out, and before the horror was half an
hour old, two hundred men were pouring down highroad and river toward the
cave.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img233"></a>
<img alt="30-233.jpg (93K)" src="images/30-233.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
All the long afternoon the village seemed empty and dead. Many women
visited Aunt Polly and Mrs. Thatcher and tried to comfort them. They cried
with them, too, and that was still better than words. All the tedious
night the town waited for news; but when the morning dawned at last, all
the word that came was, “Send more candles—and send food.”
Mrs. Thatcher was almost crazed; and Aunt Polly, also. Judge Thatcher sent
messages of hope and encouragement from the cave, but they conveyed no
real cheer.
</p>
<p>
The old Welshman came home toward daylight, spattered with candle-grease,
smeared with clay, and almost worn out. He found Huck still in the bed
that had been provided for him, and delirious with fever. The physicians
were all at the cave, so the Widow Douglas came and took charge of the
patient. She said she would do her best by him, because, whether he was
good, bad, or indifferent, he was the Lord’s, and nothing that was
the Lord’s was a thing to be neglected. The Welshman said Huck had
good spots in him, and the widow said:
</p>
<p>
“You can depend on it. That’s the Lord’s mark. He don’t
leave it off. He never does. Puts it somewhere on every creature that
comes from his hands.”
</p>
<p>
Early in the forenoon parties of jaded men began to straggle into the
village, but the strongest of the citizens continued searching. All the
news that could be gained was that remotenesses of the cavern were being
ransacked that had never been visited before; that every corner and
crevice was going to be thoroughly searched; that wherever one wandered
through the maze of passages, lights were to be seen flitting hither and
thither in the distance, and shoutings and pistol-shots sent their hollow
reverberations to the ear down the sombre aisles. In one place, far from
the section usually traversed by tourists, the names “BECKY &
TOM” had been found traced upon the rocky wall with candle-smoke,
and near at hand a grease-soiled bit of ribbon. Mrs. Thatcher recognized
the ribbon and cried over it. She said it was the last relic she should
ever have of her child; and that no other memorial of her could ever be so
precious, because this one parted latest from the living body before the
awful death came. Some said that now and then, in the cave, a far-away
speck of light would glimmer, and then a glorious shout would burst forth
and a score of men go trooping down the echoing aisle—and then a
sickening disappointment always followed; the children were not there; it
was only a searcher’s light.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img234"></a>
<img alt="30-234.jpg (53K)" src="images/30-234.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Three dreadful days and nights dragged their tedious hours along, and the
village sank into a hopeless stupor. No one had heart for anything. The
accidental discovery, just made, that the proprietor of the Temperance
Tavern kept liquor on his premises, scarcely fluttered the public pulse,
tremendous as the fact was. In a lucid interval, Huck feebly led up to the
subject of taverns, and finally asked—dimly dreading the worst—if
anything had been discovered at the Temperance Tavern since he had been
ill.
</p>
<p>
“Yes,” said the widow.
</p>
<p>
Huck started up in bed, wild-eyed:
</p>
<p>
“What? What was it?”
</p>
<p>
“Liquor!—and the place has been shut up. Lie down, child—what
a turn you did give me!”
</p>
<p>
“Only tell me just one thing—only just one—please! Was
it Tom Sawyer that found it?”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img235"></a>
<img alt="30-235.jpg (58K)" src="images/30-235.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The widow burst into tears. “Hush, hush, child, hush! I’ve
told you before, you must <i>not</i> talk. You are very, very sick!”
</p>
<p>
Then nothing but liquor had been found; there would have been a great
powwow if it had been the gold. So the treasure was gone forever—gone
forever! But what could she be crying about? Curious that she should cry.
</p>
<p>
These thoughts worked their dim way through Huck’s mind, and under
the weariness they gave him he fell asleep. The widow said to herself:
</p>
<p>
“There—he’s asleep, poor wreck. Tom Sawyer find it! Pity
but somebody could find Tom Sawyer! Ah, there ain’t many left, now,
that’s got hope enough, or strength enough, either, to go on
searching.”
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c31"></a>
CHAPTER XXXI
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img236"></a>
<img alt="31-236.jpg (200K)" src="images/31-236.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Now to return to Tom and Becky’s share in the picnic. They tripped
along the murky aisles with the rest of the company, visiting the familiar
wonders of the cave—wonders dubbed with rather over-descriptive
names, such as “The Drawing-Room,” “The Cathedral,”
“Aladdin’s Palace,” and so on. Presently the
hide-and-seek frolicking began, and Tom and Becky engaged in it with zeal
until the exertion began to grow a trifle wearisome; then they wandered
down a sinuous avenue holding their candles aloft and reading the tangled
webwork of names, dates, postoffice addresses, and mottoes with which the
rocky walls had been frescoed (in candle-smoke). Still drifting along and
talking, they scarcely noticed that they were now in a part of the cave
whose walls were not frescoed. They smoked their own names under an
overhanging shelf and moved on. Presently they came to a place where a
little stream of water, trickling over a ledge and carrying a limestone
sediment with it, had, in the slow-dragging ages, formed a laced and
ruffled Niagara in gleaming and imperishable stone. Tom squeezed his small
body behind it in order to illuminate it for Becky’s gratification.
He found that it curtained a sort of steep natural stairway which was
enclosed between narrow walls, and at once the ambition to be a discoverer
seized him.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img237"></a>
<img alt="31-237.jpg (66K)" src="images/31-237.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Becky responded to his call, and they made a smoke-mark for future
guidance, and started upon their quest. They wound this way and that, far
down into the secret depths of the cave, made another mark, and branched
off in search of novelties to tell the upper world about. In one place
they found a spacious cavern, from whose ceiling depended a multitude of
shining stalactites of the length and circumference of a man’s leg;
they walked all about it, wondering and admiring, and presently left it by
one of the numerous passages that opened into it. This shortly brought
them to a bewitching spring, whose basin was incrusted with a frostwork of
glittering crystals; it was in the midst of a cavern whose walls were
supported by many fantastic pillars which had been formed by the joining
of great stalactites and stalagmites together, the result of the ceaseless
water-drip of centuries. Under the roof vast knots of bats had packed
themselves together, thousands in a bunch; the lights disturbed the
creatures and they came flocking down by hundreds, squeaking and darting
furiously at the candles. Tom knew their ways and the danger of this sort
of conduct. He seized Becky’s hand and hurried her into the first
corridor that offered; and none too soon, for a bat struck Becky’s
light out with its wing while she was passing out of the cavern. The bats
chased the children a good distance; but the fugitives plunged into every
new passage that offered, and at last got rid of the perilous things. Tom
found a subterranean lake, shortly, which stretched its dim length away
until its shape was lost in the shadows. He wanted to explore its borders,
but concluded that it would be best to sit down and rest awhile, first.
Now, for the first time, the deep stillness of the place laid a clammy
hand upon the spirits of the children. Becky said:
</p>
<p>
“Why, I didn’t notice, but it seems ever so long since I heard
any of the others.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img238"></a>
<img alt="31-238.jpg (106K)" src="images/31-238.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Come to think, Becky, we are away down below them—and I don’t
know how far away north, or south, or east, or whichever it is. We couldn’t
hear them here.”
</p>
<p>
Becky grew apprehensive.
</p>
<p>
“I wonder how long we’ve been down here, Tom? We better start
back.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I reckon we better. P’raps we better.”
</p>
<p>
“Can you find the way, Tom? It’s all a mixed-up crookedness to
me.”
</p>
<p>
“I reckon I could find it—but then the bats. If they put our
candles out it will be an awful fix. Let’s try some other way, so as
not to go through there.”
</p>
<p>
“Well. But I hope we won’t get lost. It would be so awful!”
and the girl shuddered at the thought of the dreadful possibilities.
</p>
<p>
They started through a corridor, and traversed it in silence a long way,
glancing at each new opening, to see if there was anything familiar about
the look of it; but they were all strange. Every time Tom made an
examination, Becky would watch his face for an encouraging sign, and he
would say cheerily:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, it’s all right. This ain’t the one, but we’ll
come to it right away!”
</p>
<p>
But he felt less and less hopeful with each failure, and presently began
to turn off into diverging avenues at sheer random, in desperate hope of
finding the one that was wanted. He still said it was “all right,”
but there was such a leaden dread at his heart that the words had lost
their ring and sounded just as if he had said, “All is lost!”
Becky clung to his side in an anguish of fear, and tried hard to keep back
the tears, but they would come. At last she said:
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Tom, never mind the bats, let’s go back that way! We seem
to get worse and worse off all the time.”
</p>
<p>
“Listen!” said he.
</p>
<p>
Profound silence; silence so deep that even their breathings were
conspicuous in the hush. Tom shouted. The call went echoing down the empty
aisles and died out in the distance in a faint sound that resembled a
ripple of mocking laughter.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, don’t do it again, Tom, it is too horrid,” said
Becky.
</p>
<p>
“It is horrid, but I better, Becky; they might hear us, you know,”
and he shouted again.
</p>
<p>
The “might” was even a chillier horror than the ghostly
laughter, it so confessed a perishing hope. The children stood still and
listened; but there was no result. Tom turned upon the back track at once,
and hurried his steps. It was but a little while before a certain
indecision in his manner revealed another fearful fact to Becky—he
could not find his way back!
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Tom, you didn’t make any marks!”
</p>
<p>
“Becky, I was such a fool! Such a fool! I never thought we might
want to come back! No—I can’t find the way. It’s all
mixed up.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, Tom, we’re lost! we’re lost! We never can get out
of this awful place! Oh, why <i>did</i> we ever leave the others!”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img240"></a>
<img alt="31-240.jpg (50K)" src="images/31-240.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
She sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of crying that Tom was
appalled with the idea that she might die, or lose her reason. He sat down
by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in his bosom, she
clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her unavailing regrets, and the
far echoes turned them all to jeering laughter. Tom begged her to pluck up
hope again, and she said she could not. He fell to blaming and abusing
himself for getting her into this miserable situation; this had a better
effect. She said she would try to hope again, she would get up and follow
wherever he might lead if only he would not talk like that any more. For
he was no more to blame than she, she said.
</p>
<p>
So they moved on again—aimlessly—simply at random—all
they could do was to move, keep moving. For a little while, hope made a
show of reviving—not with any reason to back it, but only because it
is its nature to revive when the spring has not been taken out of it by
age and familiarity with failure.
</p>
<p>
By-and-by Tom took Becky’s candle and blew it out. This economy
meant so much! Words were not needed. Becky understood, and her hope died
again. She knew that Tom had a whole candle and three or four pieces in
his pockets—yet he must economize.
</p>
<p>
By-and-by, fatigue began to assert its claims; the children tried to pay
attention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when time was
grown to be so precious, moving, in some direction, in any direction, was
at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down was to invite
death and shorten its pursuit.
</p>
<p>
At last Becky’s frail limbs refused to carry her farther. She sat
down. Tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends there,
and the comfortable beds and, above all, the light! Becky cried, and Tom
tried to think of some way of comforting her, but all his encouragements
were grown thread-bare with use, and sounded like sarcasms. Fatigue bore
so heavily upon Becky that she drowsed off to sleep. Tom was grateful. He
sat looking into her drawn face and saw it grow smooth and natural under
the influence of pleasant dreams; and by-and-by a smile dawned and rested
there. The peaceful face reflected somewhat of peace and healing into his
own spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone times and dreamy
memories. While he was deep in his musings, Becky woke up with a breezy
little laugh—but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan
followed it.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, how <i>could</i> I sleep! I wish I never, never had waked! No!
No, I don’t, Tom! Don’t look so! I won’t say it again.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m glad you’ve slept, Becky; you’ll feel rested,
now, and we’ll find the way out.”
</p>
<p>
“We can try, Tom; but I’ve seen such a beautiful country in my
dream. I reckon we are going there.”
</p>
<p>
“Maybe not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and let’s go on
trying.”
</p>
<p>
They rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless. They tried to
estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they knew was that it
seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not be, for
their candles were not gone yet. A long time after this—they could
not tell how long—Tom said they must go softly and listen for
dripping water—they must find a spring. They found one presently,
and Tom said it was time to rest again. Both were cruelly tired, yet Becky
said she thought she could go a little farther. She was surprised to hear
Tom dissent. She could not understand it. They sat down, and Tom fastened
his candle to the wall in front of them with some clay. Thought was soon
busy; nothing was said for some time. Then Becky broke the silence:
</p>
<p>
“Tom, I am so hungry!”
</p>
<p>
Tom took something out of his pocket.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img242"></a>
<img alt="31-242.jpg (57K)" src="images/31-242.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Do you remember this?” said he.
</p>
<p>
Becky almost smiled.
</p>
<p>
“It’s our wedding-cake, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes—I wish it was as big as a barrel, for it’s all we’ve
got.”
</p>
<p>
“I saved it from the picnic for us to dream on, Tom, the way grownup
people do with wedding-cake—but it’ll be our—”
</p>
<p>
She dropped the sentence where it was. Tom divided the cake and Becky ate
with good appetite, while Tom nibbled at his moiety. There was abundance
of cold water to finish the feast with. By-and-by Becky suggested that
they move on again. Tom was silent a moment. Then he said:
</p>
<p>
“Becky, can you bear it if I tell you something?”
</p>
<p>
Becky’s face paled, but she thought she could.
</p>
<p>
“Well, then, Becky, we must stay here, where there’s water to
drink. That little piece is our last candle!”
</p>
<p>
Becky gave loose to tears and wailings. Tom did what he could to comfort
her, but with little effect. At length Becky said:
</p>
<p>
“Tom!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Becky?”
</p>
<p>
“They’ll miss us and hunt for us!”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, they will! Certainly they will!”
</p>
<p>
“Maybe they’re hunting for us now, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, I reckon maybe they are. I hope they are.”
</p>
<p>
“When would they miss us, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“When they get back to the boat, I reckon.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, it might be dark then—would they notice we hadn’t
come?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know. But anyway, your mother would miss you as soon
as they got home.”
</p>
<p>
A frightened look in Becky’s face brought Tom to his senses and he
saw that he had made a blunder. Becky was not to have gone home that
night! The children became silent and thoughtful. In a moment a new burst
of grief from Becky showed Tom that the thing in his mind had struck hers
also—that the Sabbath morning might be half spent before Mrs.
Thatcher discovered that Becky was not at Mrs. Harper’s.
</p>
<p>
The children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and watched it
melt slowly and pitilessly away; saw the half inch of wick stand alone at
last; saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin column of smoke,
linger at its top a moment, and then—the horror of utter darkness
reigned!
</p>
<p>
How long afterward it was that Becky came to a slow consciousness that she
was crying in Tom’s arms, neither could tell. All that they knew
was, that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke out of a
dead stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once more. Tom said it
might be Sunday, now—maybe Monday. He tried to get Becky to talk,
but her sorrows were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone. Tom said
that they must have been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was
going on. He would shout and maybe some one would come. He tried it; but
in the darkness the distant echoes sounded so hideously that he tried it
no more.
</p>
<p>
The hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives again. A
portion of Tom’s half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it.
But they seemed hungrier than before. The poor morsel of food only whetted
desire.
</p>
<p>
By-and-by Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“SH! Did you hear that?”
</p>
<p>
Both held their breath and listened. There was a sound like the faintest,
far-off shout. Instantly Tom answered it, and leading Becky by the hand,
started groping down the corridor in its direction. Presently he listened
again; again the sound was heard, and apparently a little nearer.
</p>
<p>
“It’s them!” said Tom; “they’re coming! Come
along, Becky—we’re all right now!”
</p>
<p>
The joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. Their speed was slow,
however, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be guarded
against. They shortly came to one and had to stop. It might be three feet
deep, it might be a hundred—there was no passing it at any rate. Tom
got down on his breast and reached as far down as he could. No bottom.
They must stay there and wait until the searchers came. They listened;
evidently the distant shoutings were growing more distant! a moment or two
more and they had gone altogether. The heart-sinking misery of it! Tom
whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of no use. He talked hopefully to
Becky; but an age of anxious waiting passed and no sounds came again.
</p>
<p>
The children groped their way back to the spring. The weary time dragged
on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom believed it
must be Tuesday by this time.
</p>
<p>
Now an idea struck him. There were some side passages near at hand. It
would be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the heavy
time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to a
projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the lead, unwinding the line
as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps the corridor ended in a
“jumping-off place.” Tom got down on his knees and felt below,
and then as far around the corner as he could reach with his hands
conveniently; he made an effort to stretch yet a little farther to the
right, and at that moment, not twenty yards away, a human hand, holding a
candle, appeared from behind a rock! Tom lifted up a glorious shout, and
instantly that hand was followed by the body it belonged to—Injun
Joe’s! Tom was paralyzed; he could not move. He was vastly gratified
the next moment, to see the “Spaniard” take to his heels and
get himself out of sight. Tom wondered that Joe had not recognized his
voice and come over and killed him for testifying in court. But the echoes
must have disguised the voice. Without doubt, that was it, he reasoned.
Tom’s fright weakened every muscle in his body. He said to himself
that if he had strength enough to get back to the spring he would stay
there, and nothing should tempt him to run the risk of meeting Injun Joe
again. He was careful to keep from Becky what it was he had seen. He told
her he had only shouted “for luck.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img245"></a>
<img alt="31-245.jpg (106K)" src="images/31-245.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
But hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears in the long run.
Another tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought changes.
The children awoke tortured with a raging hunger. Tom believed that it
must be Wednesday or Thursday or even Friday or Saturday, now, and that
the search had been given over. He proposed to explore another passage. He
felt willing to risk Injun Joe and all other terrors. But Becky was very
weak. She had sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be roused. She said
she would wait, now, where she was, and die—it would not be long.
She told Tom to go with the kite-line and explore if he chose; but she
implored him to come back every little while and speak to her; and she
made him promise that when the awful time came, he would stay by her and
hold her hand until all was over.
</p>
<p>
Tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his throat, and made a show of
being confident of finding the searchers or an escape from the cave; then
he took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one of the
passages on his hands and knees, distressed with hunger and sick with
bodings of coming doom.
</p>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c32"></a>
CHAPTER XXXII
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img247"></a>
<img alt="32-247.jpg (193K)" src="images/32-247.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Tuesday afternoon came, and waned to the twilight. The village of St.
Petersburg still mourned. The lost children had not been found. Public
prayers had been offered up for them, and many and many a private prayer
that had the petitioner’s whole heart in it; but still no good news
came from the cave. The majority of the searchers had given up the quest
and gone back to their daily avocations, saying that it was plain the
children could never be found. Mrs. Thatcher was very ill, and a great
part of the time delirious. People said it was heartbreaking to hear her
call her child, and raise her head and listen a whole minute at a time,
then lay it wearily down again with a moan. Aunt Polly had drooped into a
settled melancholy, and her gray hair had grown almost white. The village
went to its rest on Tuesday night, sad and forlorn.
</p>
<p>
Away in the middle of the night a wild peal burst from the village bells,
and in a moment the streets were swarming with frantic half-clad people,
who shouted, “Turn out! turn out! they’re found! they’re
found!” Tin pans and horns were added to the din, the population
massed itself and moved toward the river, met the children coming in an
open carriage drawn by shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its
homeward march, and swept magnificently up the main street roaring huzzah
after huzzah!
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img248"></a>
<img alt="32-248.jpg (95K)" src="images/32-248.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The village was illuminated; nobody went to bed again; it was the greatest
night the little town had ever seen. During the first half-hour a
procession of villagers filed through Judge Thatcher’s house, seized
the saved ones and kissed them, squeezed Mrs. Thatcher’s hand, tried
to speak but couldn’t—and drifted out raining tears all over
the place.
</p>
<p>
Aunt Polly’s happiness was complete, and Mrs. Thatcher’s
nearly so. It would be complete, however, as soon as the messenger
dispatched with the great news to the cave should get the word to her
husband. Tom lay upon a sofa with an eager auditory about him and told the
history of the wonderful adventure, putting in many striking additions to
adorn it withal; and closed with a description of how he left Becky and
went on an exploring expedition; how he followed two avenues as far as his
kite-line would reach; how he followed a third to the fullest stretch of
the kite-line, and was about to turn back when he glimpsed a far-off speck
that looked like daylight; dropped the line and groped toward it, pushed
his head and shoulders through a small hole, and saw the broad Mississippi
rolling by!
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img249"></a>
<img alt="32-249.jpg (97K)" src="images/32-249.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
And if it had only happened to be night he would not have seen that speck
of daylight and would not have explored that passage any more! He told how
he went back for Becky and broke the good news and she told him not to
fret her with such stuff, for she was tired, and knew she was going to
die, and wanted to. He described how he labored with her and convinced
her; and how she almost died for joy when she had groped to where she
actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how he pushed his way out at the
hole and then helped her out; how they sat there and cried for gladness;
how some men came along in a skiff and Tom hailed them and told them their
situation and their famished condition; how the men didn’t believe
the wild tale at first, “because,” said they, “you are
five miles down the river below the valley the cave is in”—then
took them aboard, rowed to a house, gave them supper, made them rest till
two or three hours after dark and then brought them home.
</p>
<p>
Before day-dawn, Judge Thatcher and the handful of searchers with him were
tracked out, in the cave, by the twine clews they had strung behind them,
and informed of the great news.
</p>
<p>
Three days and nights of toil and hunger in the cave were not to be shaken
off at once, as Tom and Becky soon discovered. They were bedridden all of
Wednesday and Thursday, and seemed to grow more and more tired and worn,
all the time. Tom got about, a little, on Thursday, was downtown Friday,
and nearly as whole as ever Saturday; but Becky did not leave her room
until Sunday, and then she looked as if she had passed through a wasting
illness.
</p>
<p>
Tom learned of Huck’s sickness and went to see him on Friday, but
could not be admitted to the bedroom; neither could he on Saturday or
Sunday. He was admitted daily after that, but was warned to keep still
about his adventure and introduce no exciting topic. The Widow Douglas
stayed by to see that he obeyed. At home Tom learned of the Cardiff Hill
event; also that the “ragged man’s” body had eventually
been found in the river near the ferry-landing; he had been drowned while
trying to escape, perhaps.
</p>
<p>
About a fortnight after Tom’s rescue from the cave, he started off
to visit Huck, who had grown plenty strong enough, now, to hear exciting
talk, and Tom had some that would interest him, he thought. Judge Thatcher’s
house was on Tom’s way, and he stopped to see Becky. The Judge and
some friends set Tom to talking, and some one asked him ironically if he
wouldn’t like to go to the cave again. Tom said he thought he wouldn’t
mind it. The Judge said:
</p>
<p>
“Well, there are others just like you, Tom, I’ve not the least
doubt. But we have taken care of that. Nobody will get lost in that cave
any more.”
</p>
<p>
“Why?”
</p>
<p>
“Because I had its big door sheathed with boiler iron two weeks ago,
and triple-locked—and I’ve got the keys.”
</p>
<p>
Tom turned as white as a sheet.
</p>
<p>
“What’s the matter, boy! Here, run, somebody! Fetch a glass of
water!”
</p>
<p>
The water was brought and thrown into Tom’s face.
</p>
<p>
“Ah, now you’re all right. What was the matter with you, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Judge, Injun Joe’s in the cave!”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img251"></a>
<img alt="32-251.jpg (47K)" src="images/32-251.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c33"></a>
CHAPTER XXXIII
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img252"></a>
<img alt="33-252.jpg (184K)" src="images/33-252.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Within a few minutes the news had spread, and a dozen skiff-loads of men
were on their way to McDougal’s cave, and the ferryboat, well filled
with passengers, soon followed. Tom Sawyer was in the skiff that bore
Judge Thatcher.
</p>
<p>
When the cave door was unlocked, a sorrowful sight presented itself in the
dim twilight of the place. Injun Joe lay stretched upon the ground, dead,
with his face close to the crack of the door, as if his longing eyes had
been fixed, to the latest moment, upon the light and the cheer of the free
world outside. Tom was touched, for he knew by his own experience how this
wretch had suffered. His pity was moved, but nevertheless he felt an
abounding sense of relief and security, now, which revealed to him in a
degree which he had not fully appreciated before how vast a weight of
dread had been lying upon him since the day he lifted his voice against
this bloody-minded outcast.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img253"></a>
<img alt="33-253.jpg (90K)" src="images/33-253.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Injun Joe’s bowie-knife lay close by, its blade broken in two. The
great foundation-beam of the door had been chipped and hacked through,
with tedious labor; useless labor, too, it was, for the native rock formed
a sill outside it, and upon that stubborn material the knife had wrought
no effect; the only damage done was to the knife itself. But if there had
been no stony obstruction there the labor would have been useless still,
for if the beam had been wholly cut away Injun Joe could not have squeezed
his body under the door, and he knew it. So he had only hacked that place
in order to be doing something—in order to pass the weary time—in
order to employ his tortured faculties. Ordinarily one could find half a
dozen bits of candle stuck around in the crevices of this vestibule, left
there by tourists; but there were none now. The prisoner had searched them
out and eaten them. He had also contrived to catch a few bats, and these,
also, he had eaten, leaving only their claws. The poor unfortunate had
starved to death. In one place, near at hand, a stalagmite had been slowly
growing up from the ground for ages, builded by the water-drip from a
stalactite overhead. The captive had broken off the stalagmite, and upon
the stump had placed a stone, wherein he had scooped a shallow hollow to
catch the precious drop that fell once in every three minutes with the
dreary regularity of a clock-tick—a dessertspoonful once in four and
twenty hours. That drop was falling when the Pyramids were new; when Troy
fell; when the foundations of Rome were laid; when Christ was crucified;
when the Conqueror created the British empire; when Columbus sailed; when
the massacre at Lexington was “news.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img254"></a>
<img alt="33-254.jpg (46K)" src="images/33-254.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
It is falling now; it will still be falling when all these things shall
have sunk down the afternoon of history, and the twilight of tradition,
and been swallowed up in the thick night of oblivion. Has everything a
purpose and a mission? Did this drop fall patiently during five thousand
years to be ready for this flitting human insect’s need? and has it
another important object to accomplish ten thousand years to come? No
matter. It is many and many a year since the hapless half-breed scooped
out the stone to catch the priceless drops, but to this day the tourist
stares longest at that pathetic stone and that slow-dropping water when he
comes to see the wonders of McDougal’s cave. Injun Joe’s cup
stands first in the list of the cavern’s marvels; even “Aladdin’s
Palace” cannot rival it.
</p>
<p>
Injun Joe was buried near the mouth of the cave; and people flocked there
in boats and wagons from the towns and from all the farms and hamlets for
seven miles around; they brought their children, and all sorts of
provisions, and confessed that they had had almost as satisfactory a time
at the funeral as they could have had at the hanging.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img255"></a>
<img alt="33-255.jpg (70K)" src="images/33-255.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
This funeral stopped the further growth of one thing—the petition to
the governor for Injun Joe’s pardon. The petition had been largely
signed; many tearful and eloquent meetings had been held, and a committee
of sappy women been appointed to go in deep mourning and wail around the
governor, and implore him to be a merciful ass and trample his duty under
foot. Injun Joe was believed to have killed five citizens of the village,
but what of that? If he had been Satan himself there would have been
plenty of weaklings ready to scribble their names to a pardon-petition,
and drip a tear on it from their permanently impaired and leaky
water-works.
</p>
<p>
The morning after the funeral Tom took Huck to a private place to have an
important talk. Huck had learned all about Tom’s adventure from the
Welshman and the Widow Douglas, by this time, but Tom said he reckoned
there was one thing they had not told him; that thing was what he wanted
to talk about now. Huck’s face saddened. He said:
</p>
<p>
“I know what it is. You got into No. 2 and never found anything but
whiskey. Nobody told me it was you; but I just knowed it must ’a’
ben you, soon as I heard ’bout that whiskey business; and I knowed
you hadn’t got the money becuz you’d ’a’ got at me
some way or other and told me even if you was mum to everybody else. Tom,
something’s always told me we’d never get holt of that swag.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, Huck, I never told on that tavern-keeper. <i>You</i> know his
tavern was all right the Saturday I went to the picnic. Don’t you
remember you was to watch there that night?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh yes! Why, it seems ’bout a year ago. It was that very
night that I follered Injun Joe to the widder’s.”
</p>
<p>
“<i>You</i> followed him?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes—but you keep mum. I reckon Injun Joe’s left friends
behind him, and I don’t want ’em souring on me and doing me
mean tricks. If it hadn’t ben for me he’d be down in Texas
now, all right.”
</p>
<p>
Then Huck told his entire adventure in confidence to Tom, who had only
heard of the Welshman’s part of it before.
</p>
<p>
“Well,” said Huck, presently, coming back to the main
question, “whoever nipped the whiskey in No. 2, nipped the money,
too, I reckon—anyways it’s a goner for us, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“Huck, that money wasn’t ever in No. 2!”
</p>
<p>
“What!” Huck searched his comrade’s face keenly. “Tom,
have you got on the track of that money again?”
</p>
<p>
“Huck, it’s in the cave!”
</p>
<p>
Huck’s eyes blazed.
</p>
<p>
“Say it again, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“The money’s in the cave!”
</p>
<p>
“Tom—honest injun, now—is it fun, or earnest?”
</p>
<p>
“Earnest, Huck—just as earnest as ever I was in my life. Will
you go in there with me and help get it out?”
</p>
<p>
“I bet I will! I will if it’s where we can blaze our way to it
and not get lost.”
</p>
<p>
“Huck, we can do that without the least little bit of trouble in the
world.”
</p>
<p>
“Good as wheat! What makes you think the money’s—”
</p>
<p>
“Huck, you just wait till we get in there. If we don’t find it
I’ll agree to give you my drum and every thing I’ve got in the
world. I will, by jings.”
</p>
<p>
“All right—it’s a whiz. When do you say?”
</p>
<p>
“Right now, if you say it. Are you strong enough?”
</p>
<p>
“Is it far in the cave? I ben on my pins a little, three or four
days, now, but I can’t walk more’n a mile, Tom—least I
don’t think I could.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s about five mile into there the way anybody but me would
go, Huck, but there’s a mighty short cut that they don’t
anybody but me know about. Huck, I’ll take you right to it in a
skiff. I’ll float the skiff down there, and I’ll pull it back
again all by myself. You needn’t ever turn your hand over.”
</p>
<p>
“Less start right off, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“All right. We want some bread and meat, and our pipes, and a little
bag or two, and two or three kite-strings, and some of these new-fangled
things they call lucifer matches. I tell you, many’s the time I
wished I had some when I was in there before.”
</p>
<p>
A trifle after noon the boys borrowed a small skiff from a citizen who was
absent, and got under way at once. When they were several miles below
“Cave Hollow,” Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Now you see this bluff here looks all alike all the way down from
the cave hollow—no houses, no wood-yards, bushes all alike. But do
you see that white place up yonder where there’s been a landslide?
Well, that’s one of my marks. We’ll get ashore, now.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img257"></a>
<img alt="33-257.jpg (95K)" src="images/33-257.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
They landed.
</p>
<p>
“Now, Huck, where we’re a-standing you could touch that hole I
got out of with a fishing-pole. See if you can find it.”
</p>
<p>
Huck searched all the place about, and found nothing. Tom proudly marched
into a thick clump of sumach bushes and said:
</p>
<p>
“Here you are! Look at it, Huck; it’s the snuggest hole in
this country. You just keep mum about it. All along I’ve been
wanting to be a robber, but I knew I’d got to have a thing like
this, and where to run across it was the bother. We’ve got it now,
and we’ll keep it quiet, only we’ll let Joe Harper and Ben
Rogers in—because of course there’s got to be a Gang, or else
there wouldn’t be any style about it. Tom Sawyer’s Gang—it
sounds splendid, don’t it, Huck?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it just does, Tom. And who’ll we rob?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, most anybody. Waylay people—that’s mostly the way.”
</p>
<p>
“And kill them?”
</p>
<p>
“No, not always. Hive them in the cave till they raise a ransom.”
</p>
<p>
“What’s a ransom?”
</p>
<p>
“Money. You make them raise all they can, off’n their friends;
and after you’ve kept them a year, if it ain’t raised then you
kill them. That’s the general way. Only you don’t kill the
women. You shut up the women, but you don’t kill them. They’re
always beautiful and rich, and awfully scared. You take their watches and
things, but you always take your hat off and talk polite. They ain’t
anybody as polite as robbers—you’ll see that in any book.
Well, the women get to loving you, and after they’ve been in the
cave a week or two weeks they stop crying and after that you couldn’t
get them to leave. If you drove them out they’d turn right around
and come back. It’s so in all the books.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, it’s real bully, Tom. I believe it’s better’n
to be a pirate.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, it’s better in some ways, because it’s close to
home and circuses and all that.”
</p>
<p>
By this time everything was ready and the boys entered the hole, Tom in
the lead. They toiled their way to the farther end of the tunnel, then
made their spliced kite-strings fast and moved on. A few steps brought
them to the spring, and Tom felt a shudder quiver all through him. He
showed Huck the fragment of candle-wick perched on a lump of clay against
the wall, and described how he and Becky had watched the flame struggle
and expire.
</p>
<p>
The boys began to quiet down to whispers, now, for the stillness and gloom
of the place oppressed their spirits. They went on, and presently entered
and followed Tom’s other corridor until they reached the “jumping-off
place.” The candles revealed the fact that it was not really a
precipice, but only a steep clay hill twenty or thirty feet high. Tom
whispered:
</p>
<p>
“Now I’ll show you something, Huck.”
</p>
<p>
He held his candle aloft and said:
</p>
<p>
“Look as far around the corner as you can. Do you see that? There—on
the big rock over yonder—done with candle-smoke.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, it’s a <i>cross</i>!”
</p>
<p>
“<i>Now</i> where’s your Number Two? ‘<i>under the cross</i>,’
hey? Right yonder’s where I saw Injun Joe poke up his candle, Huck!”
</p>
<p>
Huck stared at the mystic sign awhile, and then said with a shaky voice:
</p>
<p>
“Tom, less git out of here!”
</p>
<p>
“What! and leave the treasure?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes—leave it. Injun Joe’s ghost is round about there,
certain.”
</p>
<p>
“No it ain’t, Huck, no it ain’t. It would ha’nt
the place where he died—away out at the mouth of the cave—five
mile from here.”
</p>
<p>
“No, Tom, it wouldn’t. It would hang round the money. I know
the ways of ghosts, and so do you.”
</p>
<p>
Tom began to fear that Huck was right. Misgivings gathered in his mind.
But presently an idea occurred to him—
</p>
<p>
“Lookyhere, Huck, what fools we’re making of ourselves! Injun
Joe’s ghost ain’t a going to come around where there’s a
cross!”
</p>
<p>
The point was well taken. It had its effect.
</p>
<p>
“Tom, I didn’t think of that. But that’s so. It’s
luck for us, that cross is. I reckon we’ll climb down there and have
a hunt for that box.”
</p>
<p>
Tom went first, cutting rude steps in the clay hill as he descended. Huck
followed. Four avenues opened out of the small cavern which the great rock
stood in. The boys examined three of them with no result. They found a
small recess in the one nearest the base of the rock, with a pallet of
blankets spread down in it; also an old suspender, some bacon rind, and
the well-gnawed bones of two or three fowls. But there was no moneybox.
The lads searched and researched this place, but in vain. Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“He said <i>under</i> the cross. Well, this comes nearest to being
under the cross. It can’t be under the rock itself, because that
sets solid on the ground.”
</p>
<p>
They searched everywhere once more, and then sat down discouraged. Huck
could suggest nothing. By-and-by Tom said:
</p>
<p>
“Lookyhere, Huck, there’s footprints and some candle-grease on
the clay about one side of this rock, but not on the other sides. Now,
what’s that for? I bet you the money <i>is</i> under the rock. I’m
going to dig in the clay.”
</p>
<p>
“That ain’t no bad notion, Tom!” said Huck with
animation.
</p>
<p>
Tom’s “real Barlow” was out at once, and he had not dug
four inches before he struck wood.
</p>
<p>
“Hey, Huck!—you hear that?”
</p>
<p>
Huck began to dig and scratch now. Some boards were soon uncovered and
removed. They had concealed a natural chasm which led under the rock. Tom
got into this and held his candle as far under the rock as he could, but
said he could not see to the end of the rift. He proposed to explore. He
stooped and passed under; the narrow way descended gradually. He followed
its winding course, first to the right, then to the left, Huck at his
heels. Tom turned a short curve, by-and-by, and exclaimed:
</p>
<p>
“My goodness, Huck, lookyhere!”
</p>
<p>
It was the treasure-box, sure enough, occupying a snug little cavern,
along with an empty powder-keg, a couple of guns in leather cases, two or
three pairs of old moccasins, a leather belt, and some other rubbish well
soaked with the water-drip.
</p>
<p>
“Got it at last!” said Huck, ploughing among the tarnished
coins with his hand. “My, but we’re rich, Tom!”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img261"></a>
<img alt="33-261.jpg (97K)" src="images/33-261.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Huck, I always reckoned we’d get it. It’s just too good
to believe, but we <i>have</i> got it, sure! Say—let’s not
fool around here. Let’s snake it out. Lemme see if I can lift the
box.”
</p>
<p>
It weighed about fifty pounds. Tom could lift it, after an awkward
fashion, but could not carry it conveniently.
</p>
<p>
“I thought so,” he said; “<i>They</i> carried it like it
was heavy, that day at the ha’nted house. I noticed that. I reckon I
was right to think of fetching the little bags along.”
</p>
<p>
The money was soon in the bags and the boys took it up to the cross rock.
</p>
<p>
“Now less fetch the guns and things,” said Huck.
</p>
<p>
“No, Huck—leave them there. They’re just the tricks to
have when we go to robbing. We’ll keep them there all the time, and
we’ll hold our orgies there, too. It’s an awful snug place for
orgies.”
</p>
<p>
“What orgies?”
</p>
<p>
“I dono. But robbers always have orgies, and of course we’ve
got to have them, too. Come along, Huck, we’ve been in here a long
time. It’s getting late, I reckon. I’m hungry, too. We’ll
eat and smoke when we get to the skiff.”
</p>
<p>
They presently emerged into the clump of sumach bushes, looked warily out,
found the coast clear, and were soon lunching and smoking in the skiff. As
the sun dipped toward the horizon they pushed out and got under way. Tom
skimmed up the shore through the long twilight, chatting cheerily with
Huck, and landed shortly after dark.
</p>
<p>
“Now, Huck,” said Tom, “we’ll hide the money in
the loft of the widow’s woodshed, and I’ll come up in the
morning and we’ll count it and divide, and then we’ll hunt up
a place out in the woods for it where it will be safe. Just you lay quiet
here and watch the stuff till I run and hook Benny Taylor’s little
wagon; I won’t be gone a minute.”
</p>
<p>
He disappeared, and presently returned with the wagon, put the two small
sacks into it, threw some old rags on top of them, and started off,
dragging his cargo behind him. When the boys reached the Welshman’s
house, they stopped to rest. Just as they were about to move on, the
Welshman stepped out and said:
</p>
<p>
“Hallo, who’s that?”
</p>
<p>
“Huck and Tom Sawyer.”
</p>
<p>
“Good! Come along with me, boys, you are keeping everybody waiting.
Here—hurry up, trot ahead—I’ll haul the wagon for you.
Why, it’s not as light as it might be. Got bricks in it?—or
old metal?”
</p>
<p>
“Old metal,” said Tom.
</p>
<p>
“I judged so; the boys in this town will take more trouble and fool
away more time hunting up six bits’ worth of old iron to sell to the
foundry than they would to make twice the money at regular work. But that’s
human nature—hurry along, hurry along!”
</p>
<p>
The boys wanted to know what the hurry was about.
</p>
<p>
“Never mind; you’ll see, when we get to the Widow Douglas’.”
</p>
<p>
Huck said with some apprehension—for he was long used to being
falsely accused:
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Jones, we haven’t been doing nothing.”
</p>
<p>
The Welshman laughed.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I don’t know, Huck, my boy. I don’t know about
that. Ain’t you and the widow good friends?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. Well, she’s ben good friends to me, anyway.”
</p>
<p>
“All right, then. What do you want to be afraid for?”
</p>
<p>
This question was not entirely answered in Huck’s slow mind before
he found himself pushed, along with Tom, into Mrs. Douglas’
drawing-room. Mr. Jones left the wagon near the door and followed.
</p>
<p>
The place was grandly lighted, and everybody that was of any consequence
in the village was there. The Thatchers were there, the Harpers, the
Rogerses, Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, the minister, the editor, and a great
many more, and all dressed in their best. The widow received the boys as
heartily as any one could well receive two such looking beings. They were
covered with clay and candle-grease. Aunt Polly blushed crimson with
humiliation, and frowned and shook her head at Tom. Nobody suffered half
as much as the two boys did, however. Mr. Jones said:
</p>
<p>
“Tom wasn’t at home, yet, so I gave him up; but I stumbled on
him and Huck right at my door, and so I just brought them along in a
hurry.”
</p>
<p>
“And you did just right,” said the widow. “Come with me,
boys.”
</p>
<p>
She took them to a bedchamber and said:
</p>
<p>
“Now wash and dress yourselves. Here are two new suits of clothes—shirts,
socks, everything complete. They’re Huck’s—no, no
thanks, Huck—Mr. Jones bought one and I the other. But they’ll
fit both of you. Get into them. We’ll wait—come down when you
are slicked up enough.”
</p>
<p>
Then she left.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img263"></a>
<img alt="33-263.jpg (23K)" src="images/33-263.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c34"></a>
CHAPTER XXXIV
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img264"></a>
<img alt="34-264.jpg (154K)" src="images/34-264.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
Huck said: “Tom, we can slope, if we can find a rope. The window ain’t
high from the ground.”
</p>
<p>
“Shucks! what do you want to slope for?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I ain’t used to that kind of a crowd. I can’t
stand it. I ain’t going down there, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, bother! It ain’t anything. I don’t mind it a bit. I’ll
take care of you.”
</p>
<p>
Sid appeared.
</p>
<p>
“Tom,” said he, “auntie has been waiting for you all the
afternoon. Mary got your Sunday clothes ready, and everybody’s been
fretting about you. Say—ain’t this grease and clay, on your
clothes?”
</p>
<p>
“Now, Mr. Siddy, you jist ’tend to your own business. What’s
all this blowout about, anyway?”
</p>
<p>
“It’s one of the widow’s parties that she’s always
having. This time it’s for the Welshman and his sons, on account of
that scrape they helped her out of the other night. And say—I can
tell you something, if you want to know.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, what?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, old Mr. Jones is going to try to spring something on the
people here tonight, but I overheard him tell auntie today about it, as a
secret, but I reckon it’s not much of a secret now. Everybody knows—the
widow, too, for all she tries to let on she don’t. Mr. Jones was
bound Huck should be here—couldn’t get along with his grand
secret without Huck, you know!”
</p>
<p>
“Secret about what, Sid?”
</p>
<p>
“About Huck tracking the robbers to the widow’s. I reckon Mr.
Jones was going to make a grand time over his surprise, but I bet you it
will drop pretty flat.”
</p>
<p>
Sid chuckled in a very contented and satisfied way.
</p>
<p>
“Sid, was it you that told?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, never mind who it was. <i>Somebody</i> told—that’s
enough.”
</p>
<p>
“Sid, there’s only one person in this town mean enough to do
that, and that’s you. If you had been in Huck’s place you’d
’a’ sneaked down the hill and never told anybody on the
robbers. You can’t do any but mean things, and you can’t bear
to see anybody praised for doing good ones. There—no thanks, as the
widow says”—and Tom cuffed Sid’s ears and helped him to
the door with several kicks. “Now go and tell auntie if you dare—and
tomorrow you’ll catch it!”
</p>
<p>
Some minutes later the widow’s guests were at the supper-table, and
a dozen children were propped up at little side-tables in the same room,
after the fashion of that country and that day. At the proper time Mr.
Jones made his little speech, in which he thanked the widow for the honor
she was doing himself and his sons, but said that there was another person
whose modesty—
</p>
<p>
And so forth and so on. He sprung his secret about Huck’s share in
the adventure in the finest dramatic manner he was master of, but the
surprise it occasioned was largely counterfeit and not as clamorous and
effusive as it might have been under happier circumstances. However, the
widow made a pretty fair show of astonishment, and heaped so many
compliments and so much gratitude upon Huck that he almost forgot the
nearly intolerable discomfort of his new clothes in the entirely
intolerable discomfort of being set up as a target for everybody’s
gaze and everybody’s laudations.
</p>
<p>
The widow said she meant to give Huck a home under her roof and have him
educated; and that when she could spare the money she would start him in
business in a modest way. Tom’s chance was come. He said:
</p>
<p>
“Huck don’t need it. Huck’s rich.”
</p>
<p>
Nothing but a heavy strain upon the good manners of the company kept back
the due and proper complimentary laugh at this pleasant joke. But the
silence was a little awkward. Tom broke it:
</p>
<p>
“Huck’s got money. Maybe you don’t believe it, but he’s
got lots of it. Oh, you needn’t smile—I reckon I can show you.
You just wait a minute.”
</p>
<p>
Tom ran out of doors. The company looked at each other with a perplexed
interest—and inquiringly at Huck, who was tongue-tied.
</p>
<p>
“Sid, what ails Tom?” said Aunt Polly. “He—well,
there ain’t ever any making of that boy out. I never—”
</p>
<p>
Tom entered, struggling with the weight of his sacks, and Aunt Polly did
not finish her sentence. Tom poured the mass of yellow coin upon the table
and said:
</p>
<p>
“There—what did I tell you? Half of it’s Huck’s
and half of it’s mine!”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img266"></a>
<img alt="34-266.jpg (106K)" src="images/34-266.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The spectacle took the general breath away. All gazed, nobody spoke for a
moment. Then there was a unanimous call for an explanation. Tom said he
could furnish it, and he did. The tale was long, but brimful of interest.
There was scarcely an interruption from any one to break the charm of its
flow. When he had finished, Mr. Jones said:
</p>
<p>
“I thought I had fixed up a little surprise for this occasion, but
it don’t amount to anything now. This one makes it sing mighty
small, I’m willing to allow.”
</p>
<p>
The money was counted. The sum amounted to a little over twelve thousand
dollars. It was more than any one present had ever seen at one time
before, though several persons were there who were worth considerably more
than that in property.
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img267"></a>
<img alt="34-267.jpg (20K)" src="images/34-267.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<div class='chapter'><h2><a name="c35"></a>
CHAPTER XXXV
</h2></div>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img268"></a>
<img alt="35-268.jpg (189K)" src="images/35-268.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
The reader may rest satisfied that Tom’s and Huck’s windfall
made a mighty stir in the poor little village of St. Petersburg. So vast a
sum, all in actual cash, seemed next to incredible. It was talked about,
gloated over, glorified, until the reason of many of the citizens tottered
under the strain of the unhealthy excitement. Every “haunted”
house in St. Petersburg and the neighboring villages was dissected, plank
by plank, and its foundations dug up and ransacked for hidden treasure—and
not by boys, but men—pretty grave, unromantic men, too, some of
them. Wherever Tom and Huck appeared they were courted, admired, stared
at. The boys were not able to remember that their remarks had possessed
weight before; but now their sayings were treasured and repeated;
everything they did seemed somehow to be regarded as remarkable; they had
evidently lost the power of doing and saying commonplace things; moreover,
their past history was raked up and discovered to bear marks of
conspicuous originality. The village paper published biographical sketches
of the boys.
</p>
<p>
The Widow Douglas put Huck’s money out at six per cent., and Judge
Thatcher did the same with Tom’s at Aunt Polly’s request. Each
lad had an income, now, that was simply prodigious—a dollar for
every weekday in the year and half of the Sundays. It was just what the
minister got—no, it was what he was promised—he generally
couldn’t collect it. A dollar and a quarter a week would board,
lodge, and school a boy in those old simple days—and clothe him and
wash him, too, for that matter.
</p>
<p>
Judge Thatcher had conceived a great opinion of Tom. He said that no
commonplace boy would ever have got his daughter out of the cave. When
Becky told her father, in strict confidence, how Tom had taken her
whipping at school, the Judge was visibly moved; and when she pleaded
grace for the mighty lie which Tom had told in order to shift that
whipping from her shoulders to his own, the Judge said with a fine
outburst that it was a noble, a generous, a magnanimous lie—a lie
that was worthy to hold up its head and march down through history breast
to breast with George Washington’s lauded Truth about the hatchet!
Becky thought her father had never looked so tall and so superb as when he
walked the floor and stamped his foot and said that. She went straight off
and told Tom about it.
</p>
<p>
Judge Thatcher hoped to see Tom a great lawyer or a great soldier some
day. He said he meant to look to it that Tom should be admitted to the
National Military Academy and afterward trained in the best law school in
the country, in order that he might be ready for either career or both.
</p>
<p>
Huck Finn’s wealth and the fact that he was now under the Widow
Douglas’ protection introduced him into society—no, dragged
him into it, hurled him into it—and his sufferings were almost more
than he could bear. The widow’s servants kept him clean and neat,
combed and brushed, and they bedded him nightly in unsympathetic sheets
that had not one little spot or stain which he could press to his heart
and know for a friend. He had to eat with a knife and fork; he had to use
napkin, cup, and plate; he had to learn his book, he had to go to church;
he had to talk so properly that speech was become insipid in his mouth;
whithersoever he turned, the bars and shackles of civilization shut him in
and bound him hand and foot.
</p>
<p>
He bravely bore his miseries three weeks, and then one day turned up
missing. For forty-eight hours the widow hunted for him everywhere in
great distress. The public were profoundly concerned; they searched high
and low, they dragged the river for his body. Early the third morning Tom
Sawyer wisely went poking among some old empty hogsheads down behind the
abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them he found the refugee. Huck
had slept there; he had just breakfasted upon some stolen odds and ends of
food, and was lying off, now, in comfort, with his pipe. He was unkempt,
uncombed, and clad in the same old ruin of rags that had made him
picturesque in the days when he was free and happy. Tom routed him out,
told him the trouble he had been causing, and urged him to go home. Huck’s
face lost its tranquil content, and took a melancholy cast. He said:
</p>
<p>
“Don’t talk about it, Tom. I’ve tried it, and it don’t
work; it don’t work, Tom. It ain’t for me; I ain’t used
to it. The widder’s good to me, and friendly; but I can’t
stand them ways. She makes me get up just at the same time every morning;
she makes me wash, they comb me all to thunder; she won’t let me
sleep in the woodshed; I got to wear them blamed clothes that just
smothers me, Tom; they don’t seem to any air git through ’em,
somehow; and they’re so rotten nice that I can’t set down, nor
lay down, nor roll around anywher’s; I hain’t slid on a
cellar-door for—well, it ’pears to be years; I got to go to
church and sweat and sweat—I hate them ornery sermons! I can’t
ketch a fly in there, I can’t chaw. I got to wear shoes all Sunday.
The widder eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she gits up by a
bell—everything’s so awful reg’lar a body can’t
stand it.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img271"></a>
<img alt="35-271.jpg (112K)" src="images/35-271.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Well, everybody does that way, Huck.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom, it don’t make no difference. I ain’t everybody,
and I can’t <i>stand</i> it. It’s awful to be tied up so. And
grub comes too easy—I don’t take no interest in vittles, that
way. I got to ask to go a-fishing; I got to ask to go in a-swimming—dern’d
if I hain’t got to ask to do everything. Well, I’d got to talk
so nice it wasn’t no comfort—I’d got to go up in the
attic and rip out awhile, every day, to git a taste in my mouth, or I’d
a died, Tom. The widder wouldn’t let me smoke; she wouldn’t
let me yell, she wouldn’t let me gape, nor stretch, nor scratch,
before folks—” [Then with a spasm of special irritation and
injury]—“And dad fetch it, she prayed all the time! I never
see such a woman! I <i>had</i> to shove, Tom—I just had to. And
besides, that school’s going to open, and I’d a had to go to
it—well, I wouldn’t stand <i>that</i>, Tom. Looky-here, Tom,
being rich ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. It’s just
worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead all the
time. Now these clothes suits me, and this bar’l suits me, and I ain’t
ever going to shake ’em any more. Tom, I wouldn’t ever got
into all this trouble if it hadn’t ’a’ been for that
money; now you just take my sheer of it along with your’n, and gimme
a ten-center sometimes—not many times, becuz I don’t give a
dern for a thing ’thout it’s tollable hard to git—and
you go and beg off for me with the widder.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Huck, you know I can’t do that. ’Tain’t fair;
and besides if you’ll try this thing just a while longer you’ll
come to like it.”
</p>
<p>
“Like it! Yes—the way I’d like a hot stove if I was to
set on it long enough. No, Tom, I won’t be rich, and I won’t
live in them cussed smothery houses. I like the woods, and the river, and
hogsheads, and I’ll stick to ’em, too. Blame it all! just as
we’d got guns, and a cave, and all just fixed to rob, here this dern
foolishness has got to come up and spile it all!”
</p>
<p>
Tom saw his opportunity—
</p>
<p>
“Lookyhere, Huck, being rich ain’t going to keep me back from
turning robber.”
</p>
<p>
“No! Oh, good-licks; are you in real dead-wood earnest, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“Just as dead earnest as I’m sitting here. But Huck, we can’t
let you into the gang if you ain’t respectable, you know.”
</p>
<p>
Huck’s joy was quenched.
</p>
<p>
“Can’t let me in, Tom? Didn’t you let me go for a
pirate?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, but that’s different. A robber is more high-toned than
what a pirate is—as a general thing. In most countries they’re
awful high up in the nobility—dukes and such.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img273"></a>
<img alt="35-273.jpg (109K)" src="images/35-273.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
“Now, Tom, hain’t you always ben friendly to me? You wouldn’t
shet me out, would you, Tom? You wouldn’t do that, now, <i>would</i>
you, Tom?”
</p>
<p>
“Huck, I wouldn’t want to, and I <i>don’t</i> want to—but
what would people say? Why, they’d say, ‘Mph! Tom Sawyer’s
Gang! pretty low characters in it!’ They’d mean you, Huck. You
wouldn’t like that, and I wouldn’t.”
</p>
<p>
Huck was silent for some time, engaged in a mental struggle. Finally he
said:
</p>
<p>
“Well, I’ll go back to the widder for a month and tackle it
and see if I can come to stand it, if you’ll let me b’long to
the gang, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“All right, Huck, it’s a whiz! Come along, old chap, and I’ll
ask the widow to let up on you a little, Huck.”
</p>
<p>
“Will you, Tom—now will you? That’s good. If she’ll
let up on some of the roughest things, I’ll smoke private and cuss
private, and crowd through or bust. When you going to start the gang and
turn robbers?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, right off. We’ll get the boys together and have the
initiation tonight, maybe.”
</p>
<p>
“Have the which?”
</p>
<p>
“Have the initiation.”
</p>
<p>
“What’s that?”
</p>
<p>
“It’s to swear to stand by one another, and never tell the
gang’s secrets, even if you’re chopped all to flinders, and
kill anybody and all his family that hurts one of the gang.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s gay—that’s mighty gay, Tom, I tell you.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I bet it is. And all that swearing’s got to be done at
midnight, in the lonesomest, awfulest place you can find—a ha’nted
house is the best, but they’re all ripped up now.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, midnight’s good, anyway, Tom.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, so it is. And you’ve got to swear on a coffin, and sign
it with blood.”
</p>
<p>
“Now, that’s something <i>like</i>! Why, it’s a million
times bullier than pirating. I’ll stick to the widder till I rot,
Tom; and if I git to be a reg’lar ripper of a robber, and everybody
talking ’bout it, I reckon she’ll be proud she snaked me in
out of the wet.”
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%">
<a name="img274"></a>
<img alt="35-274.jpg (110K)" src="images/35-274.jpg" style="width:100%;">
</div>
<p>
CONCLUSION
</p>
<p>
So endeth this chronicle. It being strictly a history of a <i>boy</i>, it
must stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming the
history of a <i>man</i>. When one writes a novel about grown people, he
knows exactly where to stop—that is, with a marriage; but when he
writes of juveniles, he must stop where he best can.
</p>
<p>
Most of the characters that perform in this book still live, and are
prosperous and happy. Some day it may seem worth while to take up the
story of the younger ones again and see what sort of men and women they
turned out to be; therefore it will be wisest not to reveal any of that
part of their lives at present.
</p>
<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER ***</div>
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