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The Adventures of Tom Saw=
yer,
Complete
By
Mark Twain (Samuel Clemen=
s)
Contents:<= o: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.
The
odd superstitions touched upon were all prevalent among children
and
slaves in the West at the period of this story--that is to say,
thirty
or forty years ago.
Although
my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and
girls,
I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account,
for
part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what
they
once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked,
and
what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.
=
&nb=
sp; =
&nb=
sp; =
THE AUTHOR.
,
1876.
=
&nb=
sp;
T O
M S A W Y E R
"TOM!"
No
answer.
"TOM!"
No
answer.
"What's
gone with that boy, I wonder?=
You
TOM!"
No
answer.
The
old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the
room;
then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or
never
looked THROUGH them for so small a thing as a boy; they were her
state
pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for "style," not
service--she
could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well.
She
looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but
still
loud enough for the furniture to hear:
"Well,
I lay if I get hold of you I'll--"
She
did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and punching
under
the bed with the broom, and so she needed breath to punctuate the
punches
with. She resurrected nothing but the cat.
"I
never did see the beat of that boy!"
She
went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the
tomato
vines and "jimpson" weeds that constituted the garden. No Tom.
So
she lifted up her voice at an angle calculated for distance and
shouted:
"Y-o-u-u
TOM!"
There
was a slight noise behind her and she turned just in time to
seize
a small boy by the slack of his roundabout and arrest his flight.
"There!
I might 'a' thought of that closet. What you been doing in
there?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing!
Look at your hands. And look at your mouth. What IS that
truck?"
"I
don't know, aunt."
"Well,
I know. It's jam--that's what it is. Forty times I've said if
you
didn't let that jam alone I'd skin you. Hand me that switch."
The
switch hovered in the air--the peril was desperate--
"My!
Look behind you, aunt!"
The
old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger. The
lad
fled on the instant, scrambled up the high board-fence, and
disappeared
over it.
His
aunt Polly stood surprised a moment, and then broke into a gentle
laugh.
"Hang
the boy, can't I never learn anything? Ain't he played me tricks
enough
like that for me to be looking out for him by this time? But old
fools
is the biggest fools there is. Can't learn an old dog new tricks,
as
the saying is. But my goodness, he never plays them alike, two days,
and
how is a body to know what's coming? He 'pears to know just how
long
he can torment me before I get my dander up, and he knows if he
can
make out to put me off for a minute or make me laugh, it's all down
again
and I can't hit him a lick. I ain't doing my duty by that boy,
and
that's the Lord's truth, goodness knows. Spare the rod and spile
the
child, as the Good Book says. I'm a laying up sin and suffering for
us
both, I know. He's full of the Old Scratch, but laws-a-me! he's my
own
dead sister's boy, poor thing, and I ain't got the heart to lash
him,
somehow. Every time I let him off, my conscience does hurt me so,
and
every time I hit him my old heart most breaks. Well-a-well, man
that
is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the
Scripture
says, and I reckon it's so. He'll play hookey this evening, *
and
[* Southwestern for "afternoon"] I'll just be obleeged to make hi=
m
work,
to-morrow, to punish him. It's mighty hard to make him work
Saturdays,
when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work more
than
he hates anything else, and I've GOT to do some of my duty by him,
or
I'll be the ruination of the child."
Tom
did play hookey, and he had a very good time. He got back home
barely
in season to help Jim, the small colored boy, saw next-day's
wood
and split the kindlings before supper--at least he was there in
time
to tell his adventures to Jim while Jim did three-fourths of the
work.
Tom's younger brother (or rather half-brother) Sid was already
through
with his part of the work (picking up chips), for he was a
quiet
boy, and had no adventurous, troublesome ways.
While
Tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity
offered,
Aunt Polly asked him questions that were full of guile, and
very
deep--for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments. Like
many
other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she
was
endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she
loved
to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low
cunning.
Said she:
"Tom,
it was middling warm in school, warn't it?"
"Yes'm."
"Powerful
warm, warn't it?"
"Yes'm."
"Didn't
you want to go in a-swimming, Tom?"
A bit
of a scare shot through Tom--a touch of uncomfortable suspicion.
He searched
Aunt Polly's face, but it told him nothing. So he said:
"No'm--well,
not very much."
The
old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom's shirt, and said:
"But
you ain't too warm now, though." And it flattered her to reflect
that
she had discovered that the shirt was dry without anybody knowing
that
that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her, Tom knew
where
the wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might be the next move:
"Some
of us pumped on our heads--mine's damp yet. See?"
Aunt
Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of
circumstantial
evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new
inspiration:
"Tom,
you didn't have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it, to
pump
on your head, did you? Unbutton your jacket!"
The
trouble vanished out of Tom's face. He opened his jacket. His
shirt
collar was securely sewed.
"Bother!
Well, go 'long with you. I'd made sure you'd played hookey
and
been a-swimming. But I forgive ye, Tom. I reckon you're a kind of a
singed
cat, as the saying is--better'n you look. THIS time."
She
was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that Tom
had
stumbled into obedient conduct for once.
But
"Well,
now, if I didn't think you sewed his collar with white thread,
but
it's black."
"Why,
I did sew it with white! Tom!"
But
Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door he said:
"Siddy,
I'll lick you for that."
In a
safe place Tom examined two large needles which were thrust into
the
lapels of his jacket, and had thread bound about them--one needle
carried
white thread and the other black. He said:
"She'd
never noticed if it hadn't been for Sid. Confound it! sometimes
she
sews it with white, and sometimes she sews it with black. I wish to
geeminy
she'd stick to one or t'other--I can't keep the run of 'em. But
I bet
you I'll lam Sid for that. I'll learn him!"
He
was not the Model Boy of the village. He knew the model boy very
well
though--and loathed him.
Within
two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles.
Not
because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him
than
a man's are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore
them
down and drove them out of his mind for the time--just as men's
misfortunes
are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises. This
new
interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just
acquired
from a negro, and he was suffering to 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.
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
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:
"I
can lick you!"
"I'd
like to see you try it."
"Well,
I can do it."
"No
you can't, either."
"Yes
I can."
"No
you can't."
"I
can."
"You
can't."
"Can!"
"Can't!"
An
uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said:
"What's
your name?"
"'Tisn't
any of your business, maybe."
"Well
I 'low I'll MAKE it my business."
"Well
why don't you?"
"If
you say much, I will."
"Much--much--MUCH.
There now."
"Oh,
you think you're mighty smart, DON'T you? I could lick you with
one
hand tied behind me, if I wanted to."
"Well
why don't you DO it? You SAY you can do it."
"Well
I WILL, if you fool with me."
"Oh
yes--I've seen whole families in the same fix."
"Smarty!
You think you're SOME, now, DON'T you? Oh, what a hat!"
"You
can lump that hat if you don't like it. I dare you to knock it
off--and
anybody that'll take a dare will suck eggs."
"You're
a liar!"
"You're
another."
"You're
a fighting liar and dasn't take it up."
"Aw--take
a walk!"
"Say--if
you give me much more of your sass I'll take and bounce a
rock
off'n your head."
"Oh,
of COURSE you will."
"Well
I WILL."
"Well
why don't you DO it then? What do you keep SAYING you will for?
Why
don't you DO it? It's because you're afraid."
"I
AIN'T afraid."
"You
are."
"I
ain't."
"You
are."
Another
pause, and more eying and sidling around each other. Presently
they
were shoulder to shoulder. Tom said:
"Get
away from here!"
"Go
away yourself!"
"I
won't."
"I
won't either."
So
they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and
both
shoving with might and main, and glowering at each other with
hate.
But neither could get an advantage. After struggling till both
were
hot and flushed, each relaxed his strain with watchful caution,
and
Tom said:
"You're
a coward and a pup. I'll tell my big brother on you, and he
can
thrash you with his little finger, and I'll make him do it, too."
"What
do I care for your big brother? I've got a brother that's bigger
than
he is--and what's more, he can throw him over that fence, too."
[Both
brothers were imaginary.]
"That's
a lie."
"YOUR
saying so don't make it so."
Tom
drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said:
"I
dare you to step over that, and I'll lick you till you can't stand
up.
Anybody that'll take a dare will steal sheep."
The
new boy stepped over promptly, and said:
"Now
you said you'd do it, now let's see you do it."
"Don't
you crowd me now; you better look out."
"Well,
you SAID you'd do it--why don't you do it?"
"By
jingo! for two cents I WILL do it."
The
new boy took two broad coppers out of his pocket and held them out
with
derision. Tom struck them to the ground. In an instant both boys
were
rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like cats; and
for
the space of a minute they tugged and tore at each other's hair and
clothes,
punched and scratched each other's 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.
The
boy only struggled to free himself. He was crying--mainly from rage.
"Holler
'nuff!"--and the pounding went on.
At
last the stranger got out a smothered "'Nuff!" and Tom let him up=
and
said:
"Now
that'll learn you. Better look out who you're fooling with next
time."
The
new boy went off brushing the dust from his clothes, sobbing,
snuffling,
and occasionally looking back and shaking his head and
threatening
what he would do to Tom the "next time he caught him out."
To
which Tom responded with jeers, and started off in high feather, and
as
soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up a stone, threw
it
and hit him between the shoulders and then turned tail and ran like
an
antelope. Tom chased the traitor home, and thus found out where he
lived.
He then held a position at the gate for some time, daring the
enemy
to come outside, but the enemy only made faces at him through the
window
and declined. At last the enemy's mother appeared, and called
Tom a
bad, vicious, vulgar child, and ordered him away. So he went
away;
but he said he "'lowed" to "lay" for that boy.
He
got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cautiously in
at
the window, he uncovered an ambuscade, in the person of his aunt;
and
when she saw the state his clothes were in her resolution to turn
his
Saturday holiday into captivity at hard labor became adamantine in
its
firmness.
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.
the
village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far
enough
away to seem a
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:
"Say,
Jim, I'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some."
Jim
shook his head and said:
"Can't,
Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an' git dis
water
an' not stop foolin' roun' wid anybody. She say she spec' Mars
Tom
gwine to ax me to whitewash, an' so she tole me go 'long an' 'tend
to my
own business--she 'lowed SHE'D 'tend to de whitewashin'."
"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. SHE won't
ever
know."
"Oh,
I dasn't, Mars Tom. Ole missis she'd take an' tar de head off'n
me.
'Deed she would."
"SHE!
She never licks anybody--whacks 'em over the head with her
thimble--and
who cares for that, I'd like to know. She talks awful, but
talk
don't hurt--anyways it don't if she don't cry. Jim, I'll give you
a
marvel. I'll give you a white alley!"
Jim
began to waver.
"White
alley, Jim! And it's a bully taw."
"My!
Dat's a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars Tom I's powerful
'fraid
ole missis--"
"And
besides, if you will I'll show you my sore toe."
Jim
was only human--this attraction was too much for him. He put down
his
pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing
interest
while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment he was
flying
down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom was
whitewashing
with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring from the field
with
a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye.
But
Tom's energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he had
planned
for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys
would
come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and
they
would make a world of fun of him for having to work--the very
thought
of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and
examined
it--bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an
exchange
of WORK, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an
hour
of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened means to his
pocket,
and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this dark
and
hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him! Nothing less than a
great,
magnificent inspiration.
He
took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in
sight
presently--the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been
dreading.
Ben's gait was the hop-skip-and-jump--proof enough that his
heart
was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an apple, and
giving
a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a deep-toned
ding-dong-dong,
ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat. As
he
drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned
far
over to starboard and rounded to ponderously and with laborious
pomp and
circumstance--for he was personating the Big Missouri, and
considered
himself to be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat and
captain
and engine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself
standing
on his own hurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them:
"Stop
her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!" The headway ran almost out, and he
drew
up slowly toward the sidewalk.
"Ship
up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!" His arms straightened and
stiffened
down his sides.
"Set
her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow!
Chow!"
His right hand, meantime, describing stately circles--for it was
representing
a forty-foot wheel.
"Let
her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-lingling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!"
The
left hand began to describe circles.
"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! LIVELY now!
Come--out
with your spring-line--what're you about there! Take a turn
round
that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage, now--let her
go!
Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! SH'T! S'H'T! SH'T!"
(trying
the gauge-cocks).
Tom
went on whitewashing--paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben
stared
a moment and then said: "Hi-YI! YOU'RE up a stump, ain't you!"
No
answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then
he
gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as
before.
Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the
apple,
but he stuck to his work. Ben said:
"Hello,
old chap, you got to work, hey?"
Tom
wheeled suddenly and said:
"Why,
it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing."
"Say--I'm
going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But of
course
you'd druther WORK--wouldn't you? Course you would!"
Tom
contemplated the boy a bit, and said:
"What
do you call work?"
"Why,
ain't THAT work?"
Tom
resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly:
"Well,
maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, is, it suits Tom
Sawyer."
"Oh
come, now, you don't mean to let on that you LIKE it?"
The
brush continued to move.
"Like
it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get
a
chance to whitewash a fence every day?"
That
put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom
swept
his brush daintily back and forth--stepped back to note the
effect--added
a touch here and there--criticised the effect again--Ben
watching
every move and getting more and more interested, more and more
absorbed.
Presently he said:
"Say,
Tom, let ME whitewash a little."
Tom
considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:
"No--no--I
reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's
awful
particular about this fence--right here on the street, you know
--but
if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind and SHE wouldn't. Yes,
she's
awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very
careful;
I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two
thousand,
that can do it the way it's got to be done."
"No--is
that so? Oh come, now--lemme just try. Only just a little--I'd
let
YOU, if you was me, Tom."
"Ben,
I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly--well, Jim wanted to
do
it, but she wouldn't let him; Sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn't
let
Sid. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If you was to tackle this
fence
and anything was to happen to it--"
"Oh,
shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say--I'll give
you
the core of my apple."
"Well,
here--No, Ben, now don't. I'm afeard--"
"I'll
give you ALL of it!"
Tom
gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his
heart.
And while the late steamer Big Missouri worked and sweated in
the
sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by,
dangled
his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more
innocents.
There was no lack of material; boys happened along every
little
while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time
Ben
was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for
a
kite, in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in
for a
dead rat and a string to swing it with--and so on, and so on,
hour
after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being
a
poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling
in
wealth. He had 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 doorknob, a
dog-collar--but
no dog--the handle of a knife, four pieces of
orange-peel,
and a dilapidated old window sash.
He
had had a nice, good, idle time all the while--plenty of company
--and
the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out
of
whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.
Tom
said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He
had
discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it--namely,
that
in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only
necessary
to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great
and
wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have
comprehended
that Work consists of whatever a body is OBLIGED to do,
and
that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. And
this
would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers
or
performing on a tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or
climbing
on a
daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them
considerable
money; but if they were offered wages for the service,
that
would turn it into work and then they would resign.
The
boy mused awhile over the substantial change which had taken place
in
his worldly circumstances, and then wended toward headquarters to
report.
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?"
"What,
a'ready? How much have you done?"
"It's
all done, aunt."
"Tom,
don't lie to me--I can't bear it."
"I
ain't, aunt; it IS all done."
Aunt
Polly placed small trust in such evidence. She went out to see
for
herself; and she would have been content to find twenty per cent.
of
Tom's statement true. When she found the entire fence whitewashed,
and
not only whitewashed but elaborately coated and recoated, and even
a
streak added to the ground, her astonishment was almost unspeakable.
She
said:
"Well,
I never! There's no getting round it, you can work when you're
a
mind to, Tom." And then she diluted the compliment by adding, "Bu=
t
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."
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<= o:p>
doughnut.
Then
he skipped out, and saw Sid just starting up the outside stairway
that
led to the back rooms on the second floor. Clods were handy and
the
air was full of them in a twinkling. They raged around Sid like a
hail-storm;
and before Aunt Polly could collect her surprised faculties
and
sally to the rescue, six or seven clods had taken personal effect,
and
Tom was over the fence and gone. There was a gate, but as a general
thing
he was too crowded for time to make use of it. His soul was at
peace,
now that he had settled with Sid for calling attention to his
black
thread and getting him into trouble.
Tom
skirted the block, and came round into a muddy alley that led by
the
back of his aunt's cow-stable. He presently got safely beyond the
reach
of capture and punishment, and 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.
As he
was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher lived, he saw a new
girl
in the garden--a lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow hair
plaited
into two long-tails, white summer frock and embroidered
pantalettes.
The fresh-crowned hero fell without firing a shot. A
certain
Amy Lawrence vanished out of his heart and left not even a
memory
of herself behind. He had thought he loved her to distraction;
he
had regarded his passion as adoration; and behold it was only a poor
little
evanescent partiality. He had been months winning her; she had
confessed
hardly a week ago; he had been the happiest and the proudest
boy
in the world only seven short days, and here in one instant of time
she
had gone out of his heart like a casual stranger whose visit is
done.
He
worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till he saw that she
had
discovered him; then he pretended he did not know she was present,
and
began to "show off" in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in order =
to
win
her admiration. He kept up this grotesque foolishness for some
time;
but by-and-by, while he was in the midst of some dangerous
gymnastic
performances, he glanced aside and saw that the little girl
was
wending her way toward the house. Tom came up to the fence and
leaned
on it, grieving, and hoping she would tarry yet 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.
The
boy ran around and stopped within a foot or two of the flower, and
then
shaded his eyes with his hand and began to look down street as if
he
had discovered something of interest going on in that direction.
Presently
he picked up a straw and began trying to balance it on his
nose,
with his head tilted far back; and as he moved from side to side,
in
his efforts, he edged nearer and nearer toward the pansy; finally
his
bare foot rested upon it, his pliant toes closed upon it, and he
hopped
away with the treasure and disappeared round the corner. But
only
for a minute--only while he could button the flower inside his
jacket,
next his heart--or next his stomach, possibly, for he was not
much
posted in anatomy, and not hypercritical, anyway.
He
returned, now, and hung about the fence till nightfall, "showing
off,"
as before; but the girl never exhibited herself again, though Tom
comforted
himself a little with the hope that she had been near some
window,
meantime, and been aware of his attentions. Finally he strode
home
reluctantly, with his poor head full of visions.
All
through supper his spirits were so high that his aunt wondered
"what
had got into the child." He took a good scolding about clodding
Sid,
and did not seem to mind it in the least. He tried to steal sugar
under
his aunt's very nose, and got his knuckles rapped for it. He said:
"Aunt,
you don't whack Sid when he takes it."
"Well,
Sid don't torment a body the way you do. You'd be always into
that
sugar if I warn't watching you."
Presently
she stepped into the kitchen, and Sid, happy in his
immunity,
reached for the sugar-bowl--a sort of glorying over Tom which
was
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:
"Hold
on, now, what 'er you belting ME for?--Sid broke it!"
Aunt
Polly paused, perplexed, and Tom looked for healing pity. But
when
she got her tongue again, she only said:
"Umf!
Well, you didn't get a lick amiss, I reckon. You been into some
other
audacious mischief when I wasn't around, like enough."
Then
her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something
kind
and loving; but she judged that this would be construed into a
confession
that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that.
So
she kept silence, and went about her affairs with a troubled heart.
Tom
sulked in a corner and exalted his woes. He knew that in her heart
his
aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the
consciousness
of it. He would hang out no signals, he would take notice
of
none. He knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and then,
through
a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it. He pictured
himself
lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him beseeching
one
little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and
die
with that word unsaid. Ah, how would she feel then? And he pictured
himself
brought home from the river, dead, with his curls all wet, and
his
sore heart at rest. How she would throw herself upon him, and how
her
tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray God to give her back
her
boy and she would never, never abuse him any more! But he would lie
there
cold and white and make no sign--a poor little sufferer, whose
griefs
were at an end. He so worked upon his feelings with the pathos
of
these dreams, that he had to keep swallowing, he was so like to
choke;
and his eyes swam in a blur of water, which overflowed when he
winked,
and ran down and trickled from the end of his nose. And such a
luxury
to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear
to
have any worldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it;
it
was too sacred for such contact; and so, presently, when his cousin
Mary
danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home again after an
age-long
visit of one week to the country, he got up and moved in
clouds
and darkness out at one door as she brought song and sunshine in
at
the other.
He
wandered far from the accustomed haunts of boys, and sought
desolate
places that were in harmony with his spirit. A log raft in the
river
invited him, and he seated himself on its outer edge and
contemplated
the dreary vastness of the stream, wishing, the while,
that
he could only be drowned, all at once and unconsciously, without
undergoing
the uncomfortable routine devised by nature. Then he thought
of
his flower. He got it out, rumpled and wilted, and it mightily
increased
his dismal felicity. He wondered if she would pity him if she
knew?
Would she cry, and wish that she had a right to put her arms
around
his neck and comfort him? Or would she turn coldly away like all
the
hollow world? This picture brought such an agony of pleasurable
suffering
that he worked it over and over again in his mind and set it
up in
new and varied lights, till he wore it threadbare. At last he
rose
up sighing and departed in the darkness.
About
half-past nine or ten o'clock he came along the deserted street
to
where the Adored Unknown lived; he paused a moment; no sound fell
upon
his listening ear; a candle was casting a dull glow upon the
curtain
of a second-story window. Was the sacred presence there? He
climbed
the fence, threaded his stealthy way through the plants, till
he
stood under that window; he looked up at it long, and with emotion;
then
he laid him down on the ground under it, disposing himself upon
his
back, with his hands clasped upon his breast and holding his poor
wilted
flower. And thus he would die--out in the cold world, with no
shelter
over his homeless head, no friendly hand to wipe the
death-damps
from his brow, no loving face to bend pityingly over him
when
the great agony came. And thus SHE would see him when she looked
out
upon the glad morning, and 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?
The
window went up, a maid-servant's discordant voice profaned the
holy
calm, and a deluge of water drenched the prone martyr's remains!
The
strangling hero sprang up with a relieving snort. There was a whiz
as of
a missile in the air, mingled with the murmur of a curse, a sound
as of
shivering glass followed, and a small, vague form went over the
fence
and shot away in the gloom.
Not
long after, as Tom, all undressed for bed, was surveying his
drenched
garments by the light of a tallow dip, Sid woke up; but if he
had any dim idea of making any "references to allusions," he thought<= o:p>
better
of it and held his peace, for there was danger in Tom's eye.
Tom
turned in without the added vexation of prayers, and Sid made
mental
note of the omission.
THE
sun rose upon a tranquil world, and beamed down upon the peaceful
village
like a benediction. Breakfast over, Aunt Polly had family
worship:
it began with a prayer built from the ground up of solid
courses
of Scriptural quotations, welded together with a thin mortar of
originality;
and from the summit of this she delivered a grim chapter
of
the Mosaic Law, as from Sinai.
Then
Tom girded up his loins, so to speak, and went to work to "get
his
verses." Sid had learned his lesson days before. Tom bent all his
energies
to the memorizing of five verses, and he chose part of the
Sermon
on the Mount, because he could find no verses that were shorter.
At
the end of half an hour Tom had a vague general idea of his lesson,
but
no more, for his mind was traversing the whole field of human
thought,
and his hands were busy with distracting recreations. Mary
took
his book to hear him recite, and he tried to find his way through
the
fog:
"Blessed
are the--a--a--"
"Poor"--
"Yes--poor;
blessed are the poor--a--a--"
"In
spirit--"
"In
spirit; blessed are the poor in spirit, for they--they--"
"THEIRS--"
"For
THEIRS. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom
of
heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they--they--"
"Sh--"
"For
they--a--"
"S,
H, A--"
"For
they S, H--Oh, I don't know what it is!"
"SHALL!"
"Oh,
SHALL! for they shall--for they shall--a--a--shall mourn--a--a--
blessed
are they that shall--they that--a--they that shall mourn, for
they
shall--a--shall WHAT? Why don't you tell me, Mary?--what do you
want
to be so mean for?"
"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."
"All
right! What is it, Mary, tell me what it is."
"Never
you mind, Tom. You know if I say it's nice, it is nice."
"You
bet you that's so, Mary. All right, I'll tackle it again."
And
he did "tackle it again"--and under the double pressure of
curiosity
and prospective gain he did it with such spirit that he
accomplished
a shining success. Mary gave him a brand-new "Barlow"
knife
worth twelve and a half cents; and the convulsion of delight that
swept
his system shook him to his foundations. True, the knife would
not
cut anything, but it was a "sure-enough" Barlow, and there was
inconceivable
grandeur in that--though where the Western boys ever got
the
idea that such a weapon could possibly be counterfeited to its
injury
is an imposing mystery and will always remain so, perhaps. Tom
contrived
to scarify the cupboard with it, and was arranging to begin
on
the bureau, when he was called off to dress for Sunday-school.
Mary
gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of soap, and he went
outside
the door and set the basin on a little bench there; then he
dipped
the soap in the water and laid it down; turned up his sleeves;
poured
out the water on the ground, gently, and then entered the
kitchen
and began to wipe his face diligently on the towel behind the
door.
But Mary removed the towel and said:
"Now
ain't you ashamed, Tom. You mustn't be so bad. Water won't hurt
you."
Tom
was a trifle disconcerted. The basin was refilled, and this time
he
stood over it a little while, gathering resolution; took in a big
breath
and began. When he entered the kitchen presently, with both eyes
shut
and groping for the towel with his hands, an honorable testimony
of
suds and water was dripping from his face. But when he emerged from
the
towel, he was not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory stopped
short
at his chin and his jaws, like a mask; below and beyond this line
there
was a dark expanse of unirrigated soil that spread downward in
front
and backward around his neck. Mary took him in hand, and when she
was
done with him he was a man and a brother, without distinction of
color,
and his saturated hair was neatly brushed, and its short curls
wrought
into a dainty and symmetrical general effect. [He privately
smoothed
out the curls, with labor and difficulty, and plastered his
hair
close down to his head; for he held curls to be effeminate, and
his
own filled his life with bitterness.] Then Mary got out a suit of
his
clothing that had been used only on Sundays during two years--they
were
simply called his "other clothes"--and so by that we know the
size
of his wardrobe. The girl "put him to rights" after he had dresse=
d
himself;
she buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin, turned his
vast
shirt collar down over his shoulders, brushed him off and crowned
him
with his speckled straw hat. He now looked exceedingly improved and
uncomfortable.
He was fully as uncomfortable as he looked; for there
was a
restraint about whole clothes and cleanliness that galled him. He
hoped
that Mary would forget his shoes, but the hope was blighted; she
coated
them thoroughly with tallow, as was the custom, and brought them
out.
He lost his temper and said he was always being made to do
everything
he didn't want to do. But Mary said, persuasively:
"Please,
Tom--that's a good boy."
So he
got into the shoes snarling. Mary was soon ready, and the three
children
set out for Sunday-school--a place that Tom hated with his
whole
heart; but Sid and Mary were fond of it.
Sabbath-school
hours were from nine to half-past ten; and then church
service.
Two of the children always remained for the sermon
voluntarily,
and the other always remained too--for stronger reasons.
The
church's high-backed, uncushioned pews would seat about three
hundred
persons; the edifice was but a small, plain affair, with a sort
of
pine board tree-box on top of it for a steeple. At the door Tom
dropped
back a step and accosted a Sunday-dressed comrade:
"Say,
Billy, got a yaller ticket?"
"Yes."
"What'll
you take for her?"
"What'll
you give?"
"Piece
of lickrish and a fish-hook."
"Less
see 'em."
Tom
exhibited. They were satisfactory, and the property changed hands.
Then
Tom traded a couple of white alleys for three red tickets, and
some
small trifle or other for a couple of blue ones. He waylaid other
boys
as they came, and went on buying tickets of various colors ten or
fifteen
minutes longer. He entered the church, now, with a swarm of
clean
and noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and started a
quarrel
with the first boy that came handy. The teacher, a grave,
elderly
man, interfered; then turned his back a moment and Tom pulled a
boy's
hair in the next bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy
turned
around; stuck a pin in another boy, 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
Dore Bible? And yet Mary had acquired two Bibles in this way--it
was
the patient work of two years--and a boy of German parentage had
won
four or five. He once recited three thousand verses without
stopping;
but the strain upon his mental faculties was too great, and
he
was little better than an idiot from that day forth--a grievous
misfortune
for the school, for on great occasions, before company, the
superintendent
(as Tom expressed it) had always made this boy come out
and
"spread himself." Only the older pupils managed to keep their
tickets
and stick to their tedious work long enough to get a Bible, and
so
the delivery of one of these prizes was a rare and noteworthy
circumstance;
the successful pupil was so great and conspicuous for
that
day that on the spot every scholar's 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.
In
due course the superintendent stood up in front of the pulpit, with
a
closed hymn-book in his hand and his forefinger inserted between its
leaves,
and commanded attention. When a Sunday-school superintendent
makes
his customary little speech, a hymn-book in the hand is as
necessary
as is the inevitable sheet of music in the hand of a singer
who
stands forward on the platform and sings a solo at a concert
--though
why, is a mystery: for neither the hymn-book nor the sheet of
music
is ever referred to by the sufferer. This superintendent was a
slim
creature of thirty-five, with a sandy goatee and short sandy hair;
he
wore a stiff standing-collar whose upper edge almost reached his
ears
and whose sharp points curved forward abreast the corners of his
mouth--a
fence that compelled a straight lookout ahead, and a turning
of
the whole body when a side view was required; his chin was propped
on a
spreading cravat which was as broad and as long as a bank-note,
and
had fringed ends; his boot toes were turned sharply up, in the
fashion
of the day, like sleigh-runners--an effect patiently and
laboriously
produced by the young men by sitting with their toes
pressed
against a wall for hours together. Mr. Walters was very earnest
of
mien, and very sincere and honest at heart; and he held sacred
things
and places in such reverence, and so separated them from worldly
matters,
that unconsciously to himself his Sunday-school voice had
acquired
a peculiar intonation which was wholly absent on week-days. He
began
after this fashion:
"Now,
children, I want you all to sit up just as straight and pretty
as
you can and give me all your attention for a minute or two. There
--that
is it. That is the way good little boys and girls should do. I see
one
little girl who is looking out of the window--I am afraid she
thinks
I am out there somewhere--perhaps up in one of the trees making
a
speech to the little birds. [Applausive titter.] I want to tell you
how
good it makes me feel to see so many bright, clean little faces
assembled
in a place like this, learning to do right and be good." And
so
forth and so on. It is not necessary to set down the rest of the
oration.
It was of a pattern which does not vary, and so it is familiar
to us
all.
The
latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of fights
and
other recreations among certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings
and
whisperings that extended far and wide, washing even to the bases
of
isolated and incorruptible rocks like Sid and Mary. But now every
sound
ceased suddenly, with the subsidence of Mr. Walters' voice, and
the
conclusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent
gratitude.
A
good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which
was
more or less rare--the entrance of visitors: lawyer Thatcher,
accompanied
by a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged
gentleman
with iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who was doubtless
the
latter's wife. The lady was leading a child. Tom had been restless
and
full of chafings and repinings; conscience-smitten, too--he could
not
meet Amy Lawrence's eye, he could not brook her loving gaze. But
when
he saw this small new-comer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in
a
moment. The next moment he was "showing off" with all his might
--cuffing
boys, pulling hair, making faces--in a word, using every art
that
seemed likely to fascinate a girl and win her applause. His
exaltation
had but one alloy--the memory of his humiliation in this
angel's
garden--and that record in sand was fast washing out, under
the
waves of happiness that were sweeping over it now.
The
visitors were given the highest seat of honor, and as soon as Mr.
Walters'
speech was finished, he introduced them to the school. The
middle-aged
man turned out to be a prodigious personage--no less a one
than
the county judge--altogether the most august creation these
children
had ever looked upon--and they wondered what kind of material
he
was made of--and they half wanted to hear him roar, and were half
afraid
he might, too. He was from
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:
"Look
at him, Jim! He's a going up there. Say--look! he's a going to
shake
hands with him--he IS shaking hands with him! By jings, don't you
wish
you was Jeff?"
Mr.
Walters fell to "showing off," with all sorts of official
bustlings
and activities, giving orders, delivering judgments,
discharging
directions here, there, everywhere that he could find a
target.
The librarian "showed off"--running hither and thither with his
arms
full of books and making a deal of the splutter and fuss that
insect
authority delights in. The young lady teachers "showed off"
--bending
sweetly over pupils that were lately being boxed, lifting
pretty
warning fingers at bad little boys and patting good ones
lovingly.
The young gentlemen teachers "showed off" with small
scoldings
and other little displays of authority and fine attention to
discipline--and
most of the teachers, of both sexes, found business up
at
the library, by the pulpit; and it was business that frequently had
to be
done over again two or three times (with much seeming vexation).
The
little girls "showed off" in various ways, and the little boys
"showed
off" with such diligence that the air was thick with paper wads
and
the murmur of scufflings. And above it all the great man sat and
beamed
a majestic judicial smile upon all the house, and warmed himself
in
the sun of his own grandeur--for he was "showing off," too.
There
was only one thing wanting to make Mr. Walters' ecstasy
complete,
and that was a chance to deliver a Bible-prize and exhibit a
prodigy.
Several pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough
--he
had been around among the star pupils inquiring. He would have given
worlds,
now, to have that German lad back again with a sound mind.
And
now at this moment, when hope was dead, Tom Sawyer came forward
with
nine yellow tickets, nine red tickets, and ten blue ones, and
demanded
a Bible. This was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Walters
was
not expecting an application from this source for the next ten
years.
But there was no getting around it--here were the certified
checks,
and they were good for their face. Tom was therefore elevated
to a
place with the Judge and the other elect, and the great news was
announced
from 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.
The
prize was delivered to Tom with as much effusion as the
superintendent
could pump up under the circumstances; but it lacked
somewhat
of the true gush, for the poor fellow's instinct taught him
that
there was a mystery here that could not well bear the light,
perhaps;
it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused two
thousand
sheaves of Scriptural wisdom on his premises--a dozen would
strain
his capacity, without a doubt.
Amy
Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in
her
face--but he wouldn't look. She wondered; then she was just a grain
troubled;
next a dim suspicion came and went--came again; she watched;
a
furtive glance told her worlds--and then her heart broke, and she was
jealous,
and angry, and the tears came and she hated everybody. Tom
most
of all (she thought).
Tom
was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath
would
hardly come, his heart quaked--partly because of the awful
greatness
of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would
have
liked to fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. The
Judge
put his hand on Tom's head and called him a fine little man, and
asked
him what his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and got it out:
"Tom."
"Oh,
no, not Tom--it is--"
"Thomas."
"Ah,
that's it. I thought there was more to it, maybe. That's very
well.
But you've another one I daresay, and you'll tell it to me, won't
you?"
"Tell
the gentleman your other name, Thomas," said Walters, "and say
sir.
You mustn't forget your manners."
"Thomas
Sawyer--sir."
"That's
it! That's a good boy. Fine boy. Fine, manly little fellow.
Two
thousand verses is a great many--very, very great many. And you
never
can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for
knowledge
is worth more than anything there is in the world; it's what
makes
great men and good men; you'll be a great man and a good man
yourself,
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?"
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
DID the Judge ask him? Yet he felt obliged to speak up
and
say:
"Answer
the gentleman, Thomas--don't be afraid."
Tom
still hung fire.
"Now
I know you'll tell me," said the lady. "The names of the first
two
disciples were--"
"DAVID
AND GOLIAH!"
Let
us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.
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 Douglass, 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
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.
The
congregation being fully assembled, now, the bell rang once more,
to
warn laggards and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell upon the
church
which was only broken by the tittering and whispering of the
choir
in the gallery. The choir always tittered and whispered all
through
service. There was once a church choir that was not ill-bred,
but I
have forgotten where it was, now. It was a great many years ago,
and I
can scarcely remember anything about it, but I think it was in
some
foreign country.
The
minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish, in
a
peculiar style which was much admired in that part of the country.
His
voice began on a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached
a
certain point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost
word
and then plunged down as if from a spring-board:
Shall I be car-ri-ed toe the skies=
, on
flow'ry BEDS of ease,
Whilst others fight to win the pri=
ze,
and sail thro' BLOODY seas?
He was regarded as a wonderful reader. At church "sociables" he was<= o:p>
always
called upon to read poetry; and when he was through, the ladies
would
lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps,
and
"wall" their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say,
"Words
cannot
express it; it is too beautiful, TOO beautiful for this mortal
earth."
After
the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr. Sprague turned himself into
a
bulletin-board, and read off "notices" of meetings and societies =
and
things
till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack of
doom--a
queer custom which is still kept up in
away
here in this age of abundant newspapers. Often, the less there is
to
justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of it.
And
now the minister prayed. A good, generous prayer it was, and went
into
details: it pleaded for the church, and the little children of the
church;
for the other churches of the village; for the village itself;
for
the county; for the State; for the State officers; for the United
States;
for the churches of the
President;
for the officers of the Government; for poor sailors, tossed
by
stormy seas; for the oppressed millions groaning under the heel of
European
monarchies and Oriental despotisms; for such as have the light
and
the good tidings, and yet have not eyes to see nor ears to hear
withal;
for the heathen in the far islands of the sea; and closed with
a
supplication that the words he was about to speak might find grace
and
favor, and be as seed sown in fertile ground, yielding in time a
grateful
harvest of good. Amen.
There
was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat
down.
The boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer,
he
only endured it--if he even did that much. He was restive all
through
it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously
--for
he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the
clergyman's
regular route over it--and when a little trifle of new
matter
was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature
resented
it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly. In the
midst
of the prayer a fly had lit on the back of the pew in front of
him
and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing its hands together,
embracing
its head with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that
it
seemed to almost part company with the body, and the slender thread
of a
neck was exposed to view; scraping its wings with its hind legs
and
smoothing them to its body as if they had been coat-tails; going
through
its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was perfectly
safe.
As indeed it was; for as sorely as Tom's hands itched to grab for
it
they did not dare--he believed his soul would be instantly destroyed
if he
did such a thing while the prayer was going on. But with the
closing
sentence his hand began to curve and steal forward; and the
instant
the "Amen" was out the fly was a prisoner of war. His aunt
detected
the act and made him let it go.
The
minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through
an
argument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod
--and
yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone
and
thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be
hardly
worth the saving. Tom counted the pages of the sermon; after
church
he always knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew
anything
else about the discourse. However, this time he was really
interested
for a little while. The minister made a grand and moving
picture
of the assembling together of the world's hosts at the
millennium
when the lion and the lamb should lie down together and a
little
child should lead them. But the pathos, the lesson, the moral of
the
great spectacle were lost upon the boy; he only thought of the
conspicuousness
of the principal character before the on-looking
nations;
his face lit with the thought, and he said to himself that he
wished
he could be that child, if it was a tame lion.
Now
he lapsed into suffering again, as the dry argument was resumed.
Presently
he bethought him of a treasure he had and got it out. It was
a
large black beetle with formidable jaws--a "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 handkerchiefs, and Tom was entirely happy. The dog looked
foolish,
and probably felt so; but there was resentment in his heart,
too,
and a craving for revenge. So he went to the beetle and began a
wary
attack on it again; jumping at it from every point of a circle,
lighting
with his 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.
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.
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.
MONDAY
morning found Tom Sawyer miserable. Monday morning always found
him
so--because it began another week's slow suffering in school. He
generally
began that day with wishing he had had no intervening
holiday,
it made the going into captivity and fetters again so much
more
odious.
Tom
lay thinking. Presently it occurred to him that he wished he was
sick;
then he could stay home from school. Here was a vague
possibility.
He canvassed his system. No ailment was found, and he
investigated
again. This time he thought he could detect colicky
symptoms,
and he began to encourage them with considerable hope. But
they
soon grew feeble, and presently died wholly away. He reflected
further.
Suddenly he discovered something. One of his upper front teeth
was
loose. This was lucky; he was about to begin to groan, as a
"starter,"
as he called it, when it 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.
But
Sid slept on unconscious.
Tom
groaned louder, and fancied that he began to feel pain in the toe.
No
result from Sid.
Tom
was panting with his exertions by this time. He took a rest and
then
swelled himself up and fetched a succession of admirable groans.
Sid
snored on.
Tom
was aggravated. He said, "Sid, Sid!" and shook him. This course
worked
well, and Tom began to groan again. Sid yawned, stretched, then
brought
himself up on his elbow with a snort, and began to stare at
Tom.
Tom went on groaning. Sid said:
"Tom!
Say, Tom!" [No response.] "Here, Tom! TOM! What is the matter,
Tom?"
And he shook him and looked in his face anxiously.
Tom
moaned out:
"Oh,
don't, Sid. Don't joggle me."
"Why,
what's the matter, Tom? I must call auntie."
"No--never
mind. It'll be over by and by, maybe. Don't call anybody."
"But
I must! DON'T groan so, Tom, it's awful. How long you been this
way?"
"Hours.
Ouch! Oh, don't stir so, Sid, you'll kill me."
"Tom,
why didn't you wake me sooner? Oh, Tom, DON'T! It makes my
flesh
crawl to hear you. Tom, what is the matter?"
"I
forgive you everything, Sid. [Groan.] Everything you've ever done
to
me. When I'm gone--"
"Oh,
Tom, you ain't dying, are you? Don't, Tom--oh, don't. Maybe--"
"I
forgive everybody, Sid. [Groan.] Tell 'em so, Sid. And Sid, you
give
my window-sash and my cat with one eye to that new girl that's
come
to town, and tell her--"
But
Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom was suffering in
reality,
now, so handsomely was his imagination working, and so his
groans
had gathered quite a genuine tone.
Sid
flew down-stairs and said:
"Oh,
Aunt Polly, come! Tom's dying!"
"Dying!"
"Yes'm.
Don't wait--come quick!"
"Rubbage!
I don't believe it!"
But
she fled up-stairs, nevertheless, with Sid and Mary at her heels.
And
her face grew white, too, and her lip trembled. When she reached
the
bedside she gasped out:
"You,
Tom! Tom, what's the matter with you?"
"Oh,
auntie, I'm--"
"What's
the matter with you--what is the matter with you, child?"
"Oh,
auntie, my sore toe's mortified!"
The
old lady sank down into a chair and laughed a little, then cried a
little,
then did both together. This restored her and she said:
"Tom,
what a turn you did give me. Now you shut up that nonsense and
climb
out of this."
The
groans ceased and the pain vanished from the toe. The boy felt a
little
foolish, and he said:
"Aunt
Polly, it SEEMED mortified, and it hurt so I never minded my
tooth
at all."
"Your
tooth, indeed! What's the matter with your tooth?"
"One
of them's loose, and it aches perfectly awful."
"There,
there, now, don't begin that groaning again. Open your mouth.
Well--your
tooth IS loose, but you're not going to die about that.
Mary,
get me a silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of the kitchen."
Tom
said:
"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."
"Oh,
you don't, don't you? So all this row was because you thought
you'd
get to stay home from school and go a-fishing? Tom, Tom, I love
you
so, and you seem to try every way you can to break my old heart
with
your outrageousness." By this time the dental instruments were
ready.
The old lady made one end of the silk thread fast to Tom's tooth
with
a loop and tied the other to the bedpost. Then she seized the
chunk
of fire and suddenly thrust it almost into the boy's face. The
tooth
hung dangling by the bedpost, now.
But
all trials bring their compensations. As Tom wended to school
after
breakfast, he was the envy of every boy he met because the gap in
his
upper row of teeth enabled him to expectorate in a new and
admirable
way. He gathered quite a following of lads interested in the
exhibition;
and one that had cut his finger and had been a centre of
fascination
and homage up to this time, now found himself suddenly
without
an adherent, and shorn of his glory. His heart was heavy, and
he
said with a disdain which he did not feel that it wasn't anything to
spit
like Tom Sawyer; but another boy said, "Sour grapes!" and he
wandered
away a dismantled hero.
Shortly
Tom came upon the juvenile pariah of the village, Huckleberry
Finn,
son of the town drunkard. Huckleberry was cordially hated and
dreaded
by all the mothers of the town, because he was idle and lawless
and
vulgar and bad--and because all their children admired him so, and
delighted
in his forbidden society, and wished they dared to be like
him.
Tom was like the rest of the respectable boys, in that he envied
Huckleberry
his gaudy outcast condition, and was under strict orders
not
to play with him. So he played with him every time he got a chance.
Huckleberry
was always dressed in the cast-off clothes of full-grown
men,
and they were in perennial bloom and fluttering with rags. His hat
was a
vast ruin with a wide crescent lopped out of its brim; his coat,
when
he wore one, hung nearly to his heels and had the rearward buttons
far
down the back; but one suspender supported his trousers; the seat
of
the trousers bagged low and contained nothing, the fringed legs
dragged
in the dirt when not rolled up.
Huckleberry
came and went, at his own free will. He slept on doorsteps
in
fine weather and in empty hogsheads in wet; he did not have to go to
school
or to church, or call any being master or obey anybody; he could
go
fishing or swimming when and where he chose, and stay as long as it
suited
him; nobody forbade him to fight; he could sit up as late as he
pleased;
he was always the first boy that went barefoot in the spring
and
the last to resume leather in the fall; he never had to wash, nor
put
on clean clothes; he could swear wonderfully. In a word, everything
that
goes to make life precious that boy had. So thought every
harassed,
hampered, respectable boy in
Tom
hailed the romantic outcast:
"Hello,
Huckleberry!"
"Hello
yourself, and see how you like it."
"What's
that you got?"
"Dead
cat."
"Lemme
see him, Huck. My, he's pretty stiff. Where'd you get him?"
"Bought
him off'n a boy."
"What
did you give?"
"I
give a blue ticket and a bladder that I got at the slaughter-house."
"Where'd
you get the blue ticket?"
"Bought
it off'n Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick."
"Say--what
is dead cats good for, Huck?"
"Good
for? Cure warts with."
"No!
Is that so? I know something that's better."
"I
bet you don't. What is it?"
"Why,
spunk-water."
"Spunk-water!
I wouldn't give a dern for spunk-water."
"You
wouldn't, wouldn't you? D'you ever try it?"
"No,
I hain't. But Bob Tanner did."
"Who
told you so!"
"Why,
he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny Baker, and Johnny
told
Jim Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers, and Ben told a nigger, and
the
nigger told me. There now!"
"Well,
what of it? They'll all lie. Leastways all but the nigger. I
don't
know HIM. But I never see a nigger that WOULDN'T lie. Shucks! Now
you
tell me how Bob Tanner done it, Huck."
"Why,
he took and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the
rain-water
was."
"In
the daytime?"
"Certainly."
"With
his face to the stump?"
"Yes.
Least I reckon so."
"Did
he say anything?"
"I
don't reckon he did. I don't know."
"Aha!
Talk about trying to cure warts with spunk-water such a blame
fool
way as that! Why, that ain't a-going to do any good. You got to go
all
by yourself, to the middle of the woods, where you know there's a
spunk-water
stump, and just as it's midnight you back up against the
stump
and jam your hand in and say:
'Barley-corn, barley-corn, injun-m=
eal
shorts,
Spunk-water, spunk-water, sw=
aller
these warts,'
and
then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and then
turn
around three times and walk home without speaking to anybody.
Because
if you speak the charm's busted."
"Well,
that sounds like a good way; but that ain't the way Bob Tanner
done."
"No,
sir, you can bet he didn't, becuz he's the wartiest boy in this
town;
and he wouldn't have a wart on him if he'd knowed how to work
spunk-water.
I've took off thousands of warts off of my hands that way,
Huck.
I play with frogs so much that I've always got considerable many
warts.
Sometimes I take 'em off with a bean."
"Yes,
bean's good. I've done that."
"Have
you? What's your way?"
"You
take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some
blood,
and then you put the blood on one piece of the bean and take and
dig a
hole and bury it 'bout midnight at the 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."
"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?"
"Why,
you take your cat and go and get in the graveyard 'long about
midnight
when somebody that was wicked has been buried; and when it's
midnight
a devil will come, or maybe two or three, but you can't see
'em,
you can only hear something like the wind, or maybe hear 'em talk;
and
when they're taking that feller away, you heave your cat after 'em
and
say, 'Devil follow corpse, cat follow devil, warts follow cat, I'm
done
with ye!' That'll fetch ANY wart."
"Sounds
right. D'you ever try it, Huck?"
"No,
but old Mother Hopkins told me."
"Well,
I reckon it's so, then. Becuz they say she's a witch."
"Say!
Why, Tom, I KNOW she is. She witched pap. Pap says so his own
self.
He come along one day, and he see she was a-witching him, so he
took
up a rock, and if she hadn't dodged, he'd a got her. Well, that
very
night he rolled off'n a shed wher' he was a layin drunk, and broke
his
arm."
"Why,
that's awful. How did he know she was a-witching him?"
"Lord,
pap can tell, easy. Pap says when they keep looking at you
right
stiddy, they're a-witching you. Specially if they mumble. Becuz
when
they mumble they're saying the Lord's Prayer backards."
"Say,
Hucky, when you going to try the cat?"
"To-night.
I reckon they'll come after old Hoss Williams to-night."
"But
they buried him Saturday. Didn't they get him Saturday night?"
"Why,
how you talk! How could their charms work till midnight?--and
THEN
it's Sunday. Devils don't slosh around much of a Sunday, I don't
reckon."
"I
never thought of that. That's so. Lemme go with you?"
"Of
course--if you ain't afeard."
"Afeard!
'Tain't likely. Will you meow?"
"Yes--and
you meow back, if you get a chance. Last time, you kep' me
a-meowing
around till old Hays went to throwing rocks at me and says
'Dern
that cat!' and so I hove a brick through his window--but don't
you
tell."
"I
won't. I couldn't meow that night, becuz auntie was watching me,
but
I'll meow this time. Say--what's that?"
"Nothing
but a tick."
"Where'd
you get him?"
"Out
in the woods."
"What'll
you take for him?"
"I
don't know. I don't want to sell him."
"All
right. It's a mighty small tick, anyway."
"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."
"Sho,
there's ticks a plenty. I could have a thousand of 'em if I
wanted
to."
"Well,
why don't you? Becuz you know mighty well you can't. This is a
pretty
early tick, I reckon. It's the first one I've seen this year."
"Say,
Huck--I'll give you my tooth for him."
"Less
see it."
Tom
got out a bit of paper and carefully unrolled it. Huckleberry
viewed
it wistfully. The temptation was very strong. At last he said:
"Is
it genuwyne?"
Tom
lifted his lip and showed the vacancy.
"Well,
all right," said Huckleberry, "it's a trade."
Tom
enclosed the tick in the percussion-cap box that had lately been
the
pinchbug's prison, and the boys separated, each feeling wealthier
than
before.
When
Tom reached the little isolated frame schoolhouse, he strode in
briskly,
with the manner of one who had come with all honest speed.
He
hung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with
business-like
alacrity. The master, throned on high in his great
splint-bottom
arm-chair, was dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of study.
The
interruption roused him.
"Thomas
Sawyer!"
Tom
knew that when his name was pronounced in full, it meant trouble.
"Sir!"
"Come
up here. Now, sir, why are you late again, as usual?"
Tom
was about to take refuge in a lie, when he saw two long tails of
yellow
hair hanging down a back that he recognized by the electric
sympathy
of love; and by that form was THE ONLY VACANT PLACE on the
girls'
side of the schoolhouse. He instantly said:
"I
STOPPED TO TALK WITH HUCKLEBERRY FINN!"
The
master's pulse stood still, and he stared helplessly. The buzz of
study
ceased. The pupils wondered if this foolhardy boy had lost his
mind.
The master said:
"You--you
did what?"
"Stopped
to talk with Huckleberry Finn."
There
was no mistaking the words.
"Thomas
Sawyer, this is the most astounding confession I have ever
listened
to. No mere ferule will answer for this offence. Take off your
jacket."
The
master's arm performed until it was tired and the stock of
switches
notably diminished. Then the order followed:
"Now,
sir, go and sit with the girls! And let this be a warning to you."
The
titter that rippled around the room appeared to abash the boy, but
in
reality that result was caused rather more by his worshipful awe of
his
unknown idol and the dread pleasure that lay in his high good
fortune.
He sat down upon the end of the pine bench and the girl
hitched
herself away from him with a toss of her head. Nudges and winks
and
whispers traversed the room, but Tom sat still, with his arms upon
the
long, low desk before him, and seemed to study his book.
By
and by attention ceased from him, and the accustomed school murmur
rose
upon the dull air once more. Presently the boy began to steal
furtive
glances at the girl. She observed it, "made a mouth" at him and
gave
him the back of her head for the space of a minute. When she
cautiously
faced around again, a peach lay before her. She thrust it
away.
Tom gently put it back. She thrust it away again, but with less
animosity.
Tom patiently returned it to its place. Then she let it
remain.
Tom scrawled on his slate, "Please take it--I got more." The
girl
glanced at the words, but made no sign. Now the boy began to draw
something
on the slate, hiding his work with his left hand. For a time
the
girl refused to notice; but her human curiosity presently began to
manifest
itself by hardly perceptible signs. The boy worked on,
apparently
unconscious. The girl made a sort of noncommittal attempt to
see,
but the boy did not betray that he was aware of it. At last she
gave
in and hesitatingly whispered:
"Let
me see it."
Tom
partly uncovered a dismal caricature of a house with two gable
ends
to it and a 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:
"It's
nice--make a man."
The
artist erected a man in the front yard, that resembled a derrick.
He
could have stepped over the house; but the girl was not
hypercritical;
she was satisfied with the monster, and whispered:
"It's
a beautiful man--now make me coming along."
Tom drew
an hour-glass with a full moon and straw limbs to it and
armed
the spreading fingers with a portentous fan. The girl said:
"It's
ever so nice--I wish I could draw."
"It's
easy," whispered Tom, "I'll learn you."
"Oh,
will you? When?"
"At
noon. Do you go home to dinner?"
"I'll
stay if you will."
"Good--that's
a whack. What's your name?"
"Becky
Thatcher. What's yours? Oh, I know. It's Thomas Sawyer."
"That's
the name they lick me by. I'm Tom when I'm good. You call me
Tom,
will you?"
"Yes."
Now Tom
began to scrawl something on the slate, hiding the words from
the
girl. But she was not backward this time. She begged to see. Tom
said:
"Oh,
it ain't anything."
"Yes
it is."
"No
it ain't. You don't want to see."
"Yes
I do, indeed I do. Please let me."
"You'll
tell."
"No
I won't--deed and deed and double deed won't."
"You
won't tell anybody at all? Ever, as long as you live?"
"No,
I won't ever tell ANYbody. Now let me."
"Oh,
YOU don't want to see!"
"Now
that you treat me so, I WILL see." And she put her small hand
upon
his and a little scuffle ensued, Tom pretending to resist in
earnest
but letting his hand slip by degrees till these words were
revealed:
"I LOVE YOU."
"Oh,
you bad thing!" And she hit his hand a smart rap, but reddened
and
looked pleased, nevertheless.
Just
at this juncture the boy felt a slow, fateful grip closing on his
ear,
and a steady lifting impulse. In that 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.
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 brough=
t
up at
the foot and yielded up the pewter medal which he had worn with
ostentation
for months.
THE
harder Tom tried to fasten his mind on his book, the more his
ideas
wandered. So at last, with a sigh and a yawn, he gave it up. It
seemed
to him that the noon recess would never come. The air was
utterly
dead. There was not a breath stirring. It was the sleepiest of
sleepy
days. The drowsing murmur of the five and twenty studying
scholars
soothed the soul like the spell that is in the murmur of bees.
Away
off in the flaming sunshine, Cardiff Hill lifted its soft green
sides
through a shimmering veil of heat, tinted with the purple of
distance;
a few birds floated on lazy wing high in the air; no other
living
thing was visible but some cows, and they were asleep. Tom's
heart
ached to be free, or else to have something of interest to do to
pass
the dreary time. His hand wandered into his pocket and his face
lit
up with a glow of gratitude that was prayer, though he did not know
it.
Then furtively the percussion-cap box came out. He released the
tick
and put him on the long flat desk. The creature probably glowed
with
a gratitude that amounted to prayer, too, at this moment, but it
was
premature: for when he started thankfully to travel off, Tom turned
him
aside with a pin and made him take a new direction.
Tom's
bosom friend sat next him, suffering just as Tom had been, and
now
he was deeply and gratefully interested in this entertainment in an
instant.
This bosom friend was Joe Harper. The two boys were sworn
friends
all the week, and embattled enemies on Saturdays. Joe took a
pin
out of his 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.
"Now,"
said he, "as long as he is on your side you can stir him up and
I'll
let him alone; but if you let him get away and get on my side,
you're
to leave him alone as long as I can keep him from crossing over."
"All
right, go ahead; start him up."
The
tick escaped from Tom, presently, and crossed the equator. Joe
harassed
him 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:
"Tom,
you let him alone."
"I
only just want to stir him up a little, Joe."
"No,
sir, it ain't fair; you just let him alone."
"Blame
it, I ain't going to stir him much."
"Let
him alone, I tell you."
"I
won't!"
"You
shall--he's on my side of the line."
"Look
here, Joe Harper, whose is that tick?"
"I
don't care whose tick he is--he's on my side of the line, and you
sha'n't
touch him."
"Well,
I'll just bet I will, though. He's my tick and I'll do what I
blame
please with him, or die!"
A
tremendous whack came down on Tom's shoulders, and its duplicate on
Joe's;
and for the space of two minutes the dust continued to fly from
the
two jackets and the whole school to enjoy it. The boys had been too
absorbed
to notice the hush that had stolen upon the school 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.
When
school broke up at noon, Tom flew to Becky Thatcher, and
whispered
in her ear:
"Put
on your bonnet and let on you're going home; and when you get to
the
corner, give the rest of 'em the slip, and turn down through the
lane
and come back. I'll go the other way and come it over 'em the same
way."
So
the one went off with one group of scholars, and the other with
another.
In a little while the two met at the bottom of the lane, and
when
they reached the school they had it all to themselves. Then they
sat
together, with a slate before them, and Tom gave Becky the pencil
and
held her hand in his, guiding it, and so created another surprising
house.
When the interest in art began to wane, the two fell to talking.
Tom
was swimming in bliss. He said:
"Do
you love rats?"
"No!
I hate them!"
"Well,
I do, too--LIVE ones. But I mean dead ones, to swing round your
head
with a string."
"No,
I don't care for rats much, anyway. What I like is chewing-gum."
"Oh,
I should say so! I wish I had some now."
"Do
you? I've got some. I'll let you chew it awhile, but you must give
it
back to me."
That
was agreeable, so they chewed it turn about, and dangled their
legs
against the bench in excess of contentment.
"Was
you ever at a circus?" said Tom.
"Yes,
and my pa's going to take me again some time, if I'm good."
"I
been to the circus three or four times--lots of times. Church ain't
shucks
to a circus. There's things going on at a circus all the time.
I'm
going to be a clown in a circus when I grow up."
"Oh,
are you! That will be nice. They're so lovely, all spotted up."
"Yes,
that's so. And they get slathers of money--most a dollar a day,
Ben
Rogers says. Say, Becky, was you ever engaged?"
"What's
that?"
"Why,
engaged to be married."
"No."
"Would
you like to?"
"I
reckon so. I don't know. What is it like?"
"Like?
Why it ain't like anything. You only just tell a boy you won't
ever
have anybody but him, ever ever ever, and then you kiss and that's
all.
Anybody can do it."
"Kiss?
What do you kiss for?"
"Why,
that, you know, is to--well, they always do that."
"Everybody?"
"Why,
yes, everybody that's in love with each other. Do you remember
what
I wrote on the slate?"
"Ye--yes."
"What
was it?"
"I
sha'n't tell you."
"Shall
I tell YOU?"
"Ye--yes--but
some other time."
"No,
now."
"No,
not now--to-morrow."
"Oh,
no, NOW. Please, Becky--I'll whisper it, I'll whisper it ever so
easy."
Becky
hesitating, Tom took silence for consent, and passed his arm
about
her waist and whispered the tale ever so softly, with his mouth
close
to her ear. And then he added:
"Now
you whisper it to me--just the same."
She
resisted, for a while, and then said:
"You
turn your face away so you can't see, and then I will. But you
mustn't
ever tell anybody--WILL you, Tom? Now you won't, WILL you?"
"No,
indeed, indeed I won't. Now, Becky."
He
turned his face away. She bent timidly around till her breath
stirred
his curls and whispered, "I--love--you!"
Then
she sprang away and ran around and around the desks and benches,
with
Tom after her, and took refuge in a corner at last, with her
little
white apron to her face. Tom clasped her about her neck and
pleaded:
"Now,
Becky, it's all done--all over but the kiss. Don't you be afraid
of
that--it ain't anything at all. Please, Becky." And he tugged at her
apron
and the hands.
By
and by she gave up, and let her hands drop; her face, all glowing
with
the struggle, came up and submitted. Tom kissed the red lips and
said:
"Now
it's all done, Becky. And always after this, you know, you ain't
ever
to love anybody but me, and you ain't ever to marry anybody but
me,
ever never and forever. Will you?"
"No,
I'll never love anybody but you, Tom, and I'll never marry
anybody
but you--and you ain't to ever marry anybody but me, either."
"Certainly.
Of course. That's PART of it. And always coming to school
or
when we're going home, you're to walk with me, when there ain't
anybody
looking--and you choose me and I choose you at parties, because
that's
the way you do when you're engaged."
"It's
so nice. I never heard of it before."
"Oh,
it's ever so gay! Why, me and Amy Lawrence--"
The
big eyes told Tom his blunder and he stopped, confused.
"Oh,
Tom! Then I ain't the first you've ever been engaged to!"
The
child began to cry. Tom said:
"Oh,
don't cry, Becky, I don't care for her any more."
"Yes,
you do, Tom--you know you do."
Tom
tried to put his arm about her neck, but she pushed him away and
turned
her face to the wall, and went on crying. Tom tried again, with
soothing
words in his mouth, and was repulsed again. Then his pride was
up,
and he strode away and went outside. He stood about, restless and
uneasy,
for a while, glancing at the door, every now and then, hoping
she
would repent and come to find him. But she did not. Then he began
to
feel badly and fear that he was in the wrong. It was a hard struggle
with
him to make new advances, now, but he nerved himself to it and
entered.
She was still standing back there in the corner, sobbing, with
her
face to the wall. Tom's heart smote him. He went to her and stood a
moment,
not knowing exactly how to proceed. Then he said hesitatingly:
"Becky,
I--I don't care for anybody but you."
No
reply--but sobs.
"Becky"--pleadingly.
"Becky, won't you say something?"
More
sobs.
Tom
got out his chiefest jewel, a brass knob from the top of an
andiron,
and passed it around her so that she could see it, and said:
"Please,
Becky, won't you take it?"
She
struck it to the floor. Then Tom marched out of the house and over
the
hills and far away, to return to school no more that day. Presently
Becky
began to suspect. She ran to the door; he was not in sight; she
flew
around to the play-yard; he was not there. Then she called:
"Tom!
Come back, Tom!"
She
listened intently, but there was no answer. She had no companions
but
silence and loneliness. So she sat down to cry again and upbraid
herself;
and by this time the scholars began to gather again, and she
had
to hide her griefs and still her broken heart and take up the cross
of a
long, dreary, aching afternoon, with none among the strangers
about
her to exchange sorrows with.
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
Cardiff
Hill, and the schoolhouse was hardly distinguishable away off
in
the valley behind him. He entered a dense wood, picked his pathless
way
to the centre of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading
oak.
There was not even a zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heat had
even
stilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a trance that was
broken
by no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a
woodpecker,
and this seemed to render the pervading silence and sense
of
loneliness the more profound. The boy's soul was steeped in
melancholy;
his feelings were in happy accord with his surroundings. He
sat
long with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands,
meditating.
It seemed to him that life was but a trouble, at best, and
he
more than half envied Jimmy Hodges, so lately released; it must be
very
peaceful, he thought, to lie and slumber and dream forever and
ever,
with the wind whispering through the trees and caressing the
grass
and the flowers over the grave, and nothing to bother and grieve
about,
ever any more. If he only had a clean Sunday-school record he
could
be willing to go, and be done with it all. Now as to this girl.
What
had he done? Nothing. He had meant the best in the world, and been
treated
like a dog--like a very dog. She would be sorry some day--maybe
when
it was too late. Ah, if he could only die TEMPORARILY!
But
the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one
constrained
shape long at a time. Tom presently began to drift
insensibly
back into the concerns of this life again. What if he turned
his
back, now, and disappeared mysteriously? What if he went away--ever
so far
away, into unknown countries beyond the seas--and never came
back
any more! How would she feel then! The idea of being a clown
recurred
to him now, only to fill him with disgust. For frivolity and
jokes
and spotted tights were an offense, when they intruded themselves
upon
a spirit that was exalted into the vague august realm of the
romantic.
No, he would be a soldier, and return after long years, all
war-worn
and illustrious. No--better still, he would join the Indians,
and
hunt buffaloes and go on the 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
bloodcurdling
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! NOW his future lay plain
before
him, and glowing with unimaginable splendor. How his name would
fill
the world, and make people shudder! How gloriously he would go
plowing
the dancing seas, in his long, low, black-hulled racer, the
Spirit
of the Storm, with his grisly flag flying at the fore! And at
the
zenith of his fame, how he would suddenly appear at the old village
and
stalk into church, 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!"
Yes,
it was settled; his career was determined. He would run away from
home
and enter upon it. He would start the very next morning. Therefore
he
must now begin to get ready. He would collect his resources
together.
He went to a rotten log near at hand and began to dig under
one
end of it with his Barlow knife. He soon struck wood that sounded
hollow.
He put his hand there and uttered this incantation impressively:
"What
hasn't come here, come! What's here, stay here!"
Then
he scraped away the dirt, and exposed a pine shingle. He took it
up
and disclosed a shapely little treasure-house whose bottom and sides
were
of shingles. In it lay a marble. Tom's astonishment was boundless!
He
scratched his head with a perplexed air, and said:
"Well,
that beats anything!"
Then
he tossed the marble away pettishly, and stood cogitating. The
truth
was, that a superstition of his had failed, here, which he and
all
his comrades had always looked upon as infallible. If you buried a
marble
with certain necessary incantations, and left it alone a
fortnight,
and then opened the place with the incantation he had just
used,
you would find that all the marbles you had ever lost had
gathered
themselves together there, meantime, no matter how widely they
had
been separated. But now, this thing had actually and unquestionably
failed.
Tom's whole structure of faith was shaken to its foundations.
He
had many a time heard of this thing succeeding but never of its
failing
before. It did not occur to him that he had tried it several
times
before, himself, but could never find the hiding-places
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--
"Doodle-bug,
doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know! Doodle-bug,
doodle-bug,
tell me what I want to know!"
The
sand began to work, and presently a small black bug appeared for a
second
and then darted under again in a fright.
"He
dasn't tell! So it WAS a witch that done it. I just knowed it."
He
well knew the futility of trying to contend against witches, so he
gave
up discouraged. But it occurred to him that he might as well have
the
marble he had just thrown away, and therefore he went and made a
patient
search for it. But he could not find it. Now he went back to
his
treasure-house and carefully placed himself just as he had been
standing
when he tossed the marble away; then he took another marble
from
his pocket and tossed it in the same way, saying:
"Brother,
go find your brother!"
He
watched where it stopped, and went there and looked. But it must
have
fallen short or gone too far; so he tried twice more. The last
repetition
was successful. The two marbles lay within a foot of each
other.
Just
here the blast of a toy tin trumpet came faintly down the green
aisles
of the forest. Tom flung off his jacket and trousers, turned a
suspender
into a belt, raked away some brush behind the rotten log,
disclosing
a rude bow and arrow, a lath sword and a tin trumpet, and in
a
moment had seized these things and bounded away, 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:
"Hold,
my merry men! Keep hid till I blow."
Now
appeared Joe Harper, as airily clad and elaborately armed as Tom.
Tom
called:
"Hold!
Who comes here into Sherwood Forest without my pass?"
"Guy
of Guisborne wants no man's pass. Who art thou that--that--"
"Dares
to hold such language," said Tom, prompting--for they talked
"by
the book," from memory.
"Who
art thou that dares to hold such language?"
"I,
indeed! I am Robin Hood, as thy caitiff carcase soon shall know."
"Then
art thou indeed that famous outlaw? Right gladly will I dispute
with
thee the passes of the merry wood. Have at thee!"
They
took their lath swords, dumped their other traps on the ground,
struck
a fencing attitude, foot to foot, and began a grave, careful
combat,
"two up and two down." Presently Tom said:
"Now,
if you've got the hang, go it lively!"
So
they "went it lively," panting and perspiring with the work. By a=
nd
by
Tom shouted:
"Fall!
fall! Why don't you fall?"
"I
sha'n't! Why don't you fall yourself? You're getting the worst of
it."
"Why,
that ain't anything. I can't fall; that ain't the way it is in
the
book. The book says, 'Then with one back-handed stroke he slew poor
Guy
of Guisborne.' You're to turn around and let me hit you in the
back."
There
was no getting around the authorities, so Joe turned, received
the
whack and fell.
"Now," said Joe, getting up, "you got to let me kill YOU. That's fair."<= o:p>
"Why,
I can't do that, it ain't in the book."
"Well,
it's blamed mean--that's all."
"Well,
say, Joe, you can be Friar Tuck or Much the miller's son, and
lam
me with a quarter-staff; or I'll be the Sheriff of Nottingham and
you
be Robin Hood a little while and kill me."
This
was satisfactory, and so these adventures were carried out. Then
Tom
became Robin Hood again, and was allowed by the treacherous nun to
bleed
his strength away through his neglected wound. And at last Joe,
representing
a whole tribe of weeping outlaws, dragged him sadly forth,
gave
his bow into his feeble hands, and Tom said, "Where this arrow
falls,
there bury poor Robin Hood under the greenwood tree." Then he
shot
the arrow and fell back and would have died, but he lit on a
nettle
and sprang up too gaily for a corpse.
The
boys dressed themselves, hid their accoutrements, and went off
grieving
that there were no outlaws any more, and wondering what modern
civilization
could claim to have done to compensate for their loss.
They
said they would rather be outlaws a year in Sherwood Forest than
President
of the United States forever.
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 deathwatch in the wall at
the
bed's head made Tom shudder--it meant that somebody's days were
numbered.
Then the howl of a far-off dog rose on the night air, and was
answered
by a fainter howl from a remoter distance. Tom was in an
agony.
At last he was satisfied that time had ceased and eternity
begun;
he began to doze, in spite of himself; the clock chimed eleven,
but
he did not hear it. And then there came, mingling with his
half-formed
dreams, a most melancholy caterwauling. The raising of a
neighboring
window disturbed him. A cry of "Scat! you devil!" and the
crash
of an empty bottle against the back of his aunt's woodshed
brought
him wide awake, and a single minute later he was dressed and
out
of the window and creeping along the roof of the "ell" on all
fours.
He "meow'd" with caution once or twice, as he went; then jumped
to
the roof of the woodshed and thence to the ground. Huckleberry Finn
was
there, with his dead cat. The boys moved off and disappeared in the
gloom.
At the end of half an hour they were wading through the tall
grass
of the graveyard.
It
was a graveyard of the old-fashioned Western kind. It was on a
hill,
about a mile and a half from the village. It had a crazy board
fence
around it, which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest of
the
time, but stood upright nowhere. Grass and weeds grew rank over the
whole
cemetery. All the old graves were sunken in, there was not a
tombstone
on the place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards staggered over
the
graves, leaning for support and finding none. "Sacred to the memory
of"
So-and-So had been painted on them once, but it could no longer
have
been read, on the most of them, now, even if there had been light.
A
faint wind moaned through the trees, and Tom feared it might be the
spirits
of the dead, complaining at being disturbed. The boys talked
little,
and only under their breath, for the time and the place and the
pervading
solemnity and silence oppressed their spirits. They found the
sharp
new heap they were seeking, and ensconced themselves within the
protection
of three great elms that grew in a bunch within a few feet
of
the grave.
Then
they waited in silence for what seemed a long time. The hooting
of a
distant owl was all the sound that troubled the dead stillness.
Tom's
reflections grew oppressive. He must force some talk. So he said
in a
whisper:
"Hucky,
do you believe the dead people like it for us to be here?"
Huckleberry
whispered:
"I
wisht I knowed. It's awful solemn like, AIN'T it?"
"I
bet it is."
There
was a considerable pause, while the boys canvassed this matter
inwardly.
Then Tom whispered:
"Say,
Hucky--do you reckon Hoss Williams hears us talking?"
"O'
course he does. Least his sperrit does."
Tom,
after a pause:
"I
wish I'd said Mister Williams. But I never meant any harm.
Everybody
calls him Hoss."
"A
body can't be too partic'lar how they talk 'bout these-yer dead
people,
Tom."
This
was a damper, and conversation died again.
Presently
Tom seized his comrade's arm and said:
"Sh!"
"What
is it, Tom?" And the two clung together with beating hearts.
"Sh!
There 'tis again! Didn't you hear it?"
"I--"
"There!
Now you hear it."
"Lord,
Tom, they're coming! They're coming, sure. What'll we do?"
"I
dono. Think they'll see us?"
"Oh,
Tom, they can see in the dark, same as cats. I wisht I hadn't
come."
"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."
"I'll
try to, Tom, but, Lord, I'm all of a shiver."
"Listen!"
The
boys bent their heads together and scarcely breathed. A muffled
sound
of voices floated up from the far end of the graveyard.
"Look!
See there!" whispered Tom. "What is it?"
"It's
devil-fire. Oh, Tom, this is awful."
Some
vague figures approached through the gloom, swinging an
old-fashioned
tin lantern that freckled the ground with innumerable
little
spangles of light. Presently Huckleberry whispered with a
shudder:
"It's
the devils sure enough. Three of 'em! Lordy, Tom, we're goners!
Can
you pray?"
"I'll
try, but don't you be afeard. They ain't going to hurt us. 'Now
I lay
me down to sleep, I--'"
"Sh!"
"What
is it, Huck?"
"They're
HUMANS! One of 'em is, anyway. One of 'em's old Muff Potter's
voice."
"No--'tain't
so, is it?"
"I
bet I know it. Don't you stir nor budge. He ain't sharp enough to
notice
us. Drunk, the same as usual, likely--blamed old rip!"
"All
right, I'll keep still. Now they're stuck. Can't find it. Here
they
come again. Now they're hot. Cold again. Hot again. Red hot!
They're
p'inted right, this time. Say, Huck, I know another o' them
voices;
it's Injun Joe."
"That's
so--that murderin' half-breed! I'd druther they was devils a
dern
sight. What kin they be up to?"
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.
"Here
it is," said the third voice; and the owner of it held the
lantern
up and revealed the face of young Doctor Robinson.
Potter
and Injun Joe were carrying a handbarrow with a rope and a
couple
of shovels on it. They cast down their load and began to open
the
grave. The doctor put the lantern at the head of the grave and came
and
sat down with his back against one of the elm trees. He was so
close
the boys could have touched him.
"Hurry,
men!" he said, in a low voice; "the moon might come out at any
moment."
They
growled a response and went on digging. For some time there was
no
noise but the grating sound of the spades discharging their freight
of
mould and gravel. It was very monotonous. Finally a spade struck
upon
the coffin with a dull woody accent, and within another minute or
two
the men had hoisted it out on the ground. They pried off the lid
with
their shovels, got out the body and dumped it rudely on the
ground.
The moon drifted from behind the clouds and exposed the pallid
face.
The barrow was got ready and the corpse placed on it, covered
with
a blanket, and bound to its place with the rope. Potter took out a
large
spring-knife and cut off the dangling end of the rope and then
said:
"Now
the cussed thing's ready, Sawbones, and you'll just out with
another
five, or here she stays."
"That's
the talk!" said Injun Joe.
"Look
here, what does this mean?" said the doctor. "You required your
pay
in advance, and I've paid you."
"Yes,
and you done more than that," said Injun Joe, approaching the
doctor,
who was now standing. "Five 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 GOT you, and you got to SETTLE, you know!"
He
was threatening the doctor, with his fist in his face, by this
time.
The doctor struck out suddenly and stretched the ruffian on the
ground.
Potter dropped his knife, and exclaimed:
"Here,
now, don't you hit my pard!" and the next moment he had
grappled
with the doctor and the two were struggling with might and
main,
trampling the grass and tearing the ground with their heels.
Injun
Joe sprang to his feet, his eyes flaming with passion, snatched
up
Potter's knife, and went creeping, catlike and stooping, round and
round
about the combatants, seeking an opportunity. All at once the
doctor
flung himself free, seized the heavy 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.
Presently,
when the moon emerged again, Injun Joe was standing over
the
two forms, contemplating them. The doctor murmured inarticulately,
gave
a long gasp or two and was still. The half-breed muttered:
"THAT
score is settled--damn you."
Then
he robbed the body. After which he put the fatal knife in
Potter's
open right hand, and sat down on the dismantled coffin. Three
--four--five
minutes passed, and then Potter began to stir and moan. His
hand
closed upon the knife; he raised it, glanced at it, and let it
fall,
with a shudder. Then he sat up, pushing the body from him, and
gazed
at it, and then around him, confusedly. His eyes met Joe's.
"Lord,
how is this, Joe?" he said.
"It's
a dirty business," said Joe, without moving.
"What
did you do it for?"
"I!
I never done it!"
"Look
here! That kind of talk won't wash."
Potter
trembled and grew white.
"I
thought I'd got sober. I'd no business to drink to-night. But it's
in my
head yet--worse'n when we started here. I'm all in a muddle;
can't
recollect anything of it, hardly. Tell me, Joe--HONEST, now, old
feller--did
I do it? Joe, I never meant to--'pon my soul and honor, I
never
meant to, Joe. Tell me how it was, Joe. Oh, it's awful--and him
so
young and promising."
"Why,
you two was scuffling, and he fetched you one with the headboard
and
you fell flat; and then up you come, all reeling and staggering
like,
and snatched the knife and jammed it into him, just as he fetched
you
another awful clip--and here you've laid, as dead as a wedge til
now."
"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 WON'T tell, WILL you,
Joe?"
And the poor creature dropped on his knees before the stolid
murderer,
and clasped his appealing hands.
"No,
you've always been fair and square with me, Muff Potter, and I
won't
go back on you. There, now, that's as fair as a man can say."
"Oh,
Joe, you're an angel. I'll bless you for this the longest day I
live."
And Potter began to cry.
"Come,
now, that's enough of that. This ain't any time for blubbering.
You
be off yonder way and I'll go this. Move, now, and don't leave any
tracks
behind you."
Potter
started on a trot that quickly increased to a run. The
half-breed
stood looking after him. He muttered:
"If
he's as much stunned with the lick and fuddled with the rum as he
had
the look of being, he won't think of the knife till he's gone so
far
he'll be afraid to come back after it to such a place by himself
--chicken-heart!"
Two
or three minutes later the murdered man, the blanketed corpse, the
lidless
coffin, and the open grave were under no inspection but the
moon's.
The stillness was complete again, too.
THE
two boys flew on and on, toward the village, speechless with
horror.
They glanced backward over their shoulders from time to time,
apprehensively,
as if they feared they might be followed. Every stump
that
started up in their path seemed a man and an enemy, and made them
catch
their breath; and as they sped by some outlying cottages that lay
near
the village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed to give
wings
to their feet.
"If
we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!"
whispered
Tom, in short catches between breaths. "I can't stand it much
longer."
Huckleberry's
hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed
their
eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it.
They
gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst
through
the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering
shadows
beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered:
"Huckleberry,
what do you reckon'll come of this?"
"If
Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon hanging'll come of it."
"Do
you though?"
"Why,
I KNOW it, Tom."
Tom
thought a while, then he said:
"Who'll
tell? We?"
"What
are you talking about? S'pose something happened and Injun Joe
DIDN'T
hang? Why, he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as
we're
a laying here."
"That's
just what I was thinking to myself, Huck."
"If
anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he's fool enough. He's
generally
drunk enough."
Tom
said nothing--went on thinking. Presently he whispered:
"Huck,
Muff Potter don't know it. How can he tell?"
"What's
the reason he don't know it?"
"Because
he'd just got that whack when Injun Joe done it. D'you reckon
he
could see anything? D'you reckon he knowed anything?"
"By
hokey, that's so, Tom!"
"And
besides, look-a-here--maybe that whack done for HIM!"
"No,
'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."
After
another reflective silence, Tom said:
"Hucky,
you sure you can keep mum?"
"Tom,
we GOT to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil wouldn't
make
any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to
squeak
'bout this and they didn't hang him. Now, look-a-here, Tom, less
take
and swear to one another--that's what we got to do--swear to keep
mum."
"I'm
agreed. It's the best thing. Would you just hold hands and swear
that
we--"
"Oh
no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good enough for little
rubbishy
common things--specially with gals, cuz THEY go back on you
anyway,
and blab if they get in a huff--but there orter be writing
'bout
a big thing like this. And blood."
Tom's
whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and
awful;
the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping
with
it. He picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moonlight,
took
a little fragment of "red keel" out of his pocket, got the moon o=
n
his
work, and painfully scrawled these lines, emphasizing each slow
down-stroke
by clamping his tongue between his teeth, and letting up
the
pressure on the up-strokes. [See next page.]
"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."
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:
"Hold
on! Don't do that. A pin's brass. It might have verdigrease on
it."
"What's
verdigrease?"
"It's
p'ison. That's what it is. You just swaller some of it once
--you'll
see."
So
Tom unwound the thread from one of his needles, and each boy
pricked
the ball of his thumb and squeezed out a drop of blood. In
time,
after many squeezes, Tom managed to sign his initials, using the
ball
of his little finger for a pen. Then he showed Huckleberry how to
make
an H and an F, and the oath was complete. They buried the shingle
close
to the wall, with some dismal ceremonies and incantations, and
the
fetters that bound their tongues were considered to be locked and
the
key thrown away.
A
figure crept stealthily through a break in the other end of the
ruined
building, now, but they did not notice it.
"Tom,"
whispered Huckleberry, "does this keep us from EVER telling
--ALWAYS?"
"Of
course it does. It don't make any difference WHAT happens, we got
to
keep mum. We'd drop down dead--don't YOU know that?"
"Yes,
I reckon that's so."
They
continued to whisper for some little time. Presently a dog set up
a
long, lugubrious howl just outside--within ten feet of them. The boys
clasped
each other suddenly, in an agony of fright.
"Which
of us does he mean?" gasped Huckleberry.
"I
dono--peep through the crack. Quick!"
"No,
YOU, Tom!"
"I
can't--I can't DO it, Huck!"
"Please,
Tom. There 'tis again!"
"Oh,
lordy, I'm thankful!" whispered Tom. "I know his voice. It's Bull=
Harbison."
*
[* 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 "B=
ull
Harbison."]
"Oh,
that's good--I tell you, Tom, I was most scared to death; I'd a
bet
anything it was a STRAY dog."
The
dog howled again. The boys' hearts sank once more.
"Oh,
my! that ain't no Bull Harbison!" whispered Huckleberry. "DO,
Tom!"
Tom,
quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye to the crack. His
whisper
was hardly audible when he said:
"Oh,
Huck, IT S A STRAY DOG!"
"Quick,
Tom, quick! Who does he mean?"
"Huck,
he must mean us both--we're right together."
"Oh,
Tom, I reckon we're goners. I reckon there ain't no mistake 'bout
where
I'LL go to. I been so wicked."
"Dad
fetch it! This comes of playing hookey and doing everything a
feller's
told NOT to do. I might a been good, like Sid, if I'd a tried
--but
no, I wouldn't, of course. But if ever I get off this time, I lay
I'll
just WALLER in Sunday-schools!" And Tom began to snuffle a little.
"YOU
bad!" and Huckleberry began to snuffle too. "Consound it, Tom
Sawyer,
you're just old pie, 'longside o' what I am. Oh, LORDY, lordy,
lordy,
I wisht I only had half your chance."
Tom
choked off and whispered:
"Look,
Hucky, look! He's got his BACK to us!"
Hucky
looked, with joy in his heart.
"Well,
he has, by jingoes! Did he before?"
"Yes,
he did. But I, like a fool, never thought. Oh, this is bully,
you
know. NOW who can he mean?"
The
howling stopped. Tom pricked up his ears.
"Sh!
What's that?" he whispered.
"Sounds
like--like hogs grunting. No--it's somebody snoring, Tom."
"That
IS it! Where 'bouts is it, Huck?"
"I
bleeve it's down at 'tother end. Sounds so, anyway. Pap used to
sleep
there, sometimes, 'long with the hogs, but laws bless you, he
just
lifts things when HE snores. Besides, I reckon he ain't ever
coming
back to this town any more."
The spirit
of adventure rose in the boys' souls once more.
"Hucky,
do you das't to go if I lead?"
"I
don't like to, much. Tom, s'pose it's Injun Joe!"
Tom
quailed. But presently the temptation rose up strong again and the
boys
agreed to try, with the understanding that they would take to
their
heels if the snoring stopped. So they went 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 tiptoed
out,
through the broken weather-boarding, and stopped at a little
distance
to exchange a parting word. That long, lugubrious howl rose on
the
night air again! They turned and saw the strange dog standing
within
a few feet of where Potter was lying, and FACING Potter, with
his
nose pointing heavenward.
"Oh,
geeminy, it's HIM!" exclaimed both boys, in a breath.
"Say,
Tom--they say a stray dog come howling around Johnny Miller's
house,
'bout midnight, as much as two weeks ago; and a whippoorwill
come
in and lit on the banisters and sung, the very same evening; and
there
ain't anybody dead there yet."
"Well,
I know that. And suppose there ain't. Didn't Gracie Miller fall
in
the kitchen fire and burn herself terrible the very next Saturday?"
"Yes,
but she ain't DEAD. And what's more, she's getting better, too."
"All
right, you wait and see. She's a goner, just as dead sure as Muff
Potter's
a goner. That's what the niggers say, and they know all about
these
kind of things, Huck."
Then
they separated, cogitating. When Tom crept in at his bedroom
window
the night was almost spent. He undressed with excessive caution,
and
fell asleep congratulating himself that nobody knew of his
escapade.
He was not aware that the gently-snoring Sid was awake, and
had
been so for an hour.
When
Tom awoke, Sid was dressed and gone. There was a late look in the
light,
a late sense in the atmosphere. He was startled. Why had he not
been
called--persecuted till he was up, as usual? The thought filled
him
with bodings. Within five minutes he was dressed and down-stairs,
feeling
sore and drowsy. The family were still at table, but they had
finished
breakfast. There was no voice of rebuke; but there were
averted
eyes; there was a silence and an air of solemnity that struck a
chill
to the culprit's heart. He sat down and tried to seem gay, but it
was
up-hill work; it roused no smile, no response, and he lapsed into
silence
and let his heart sink down to the depths.
After
breakfast his aunt took him aside, and Tom almost brightened in
the
hope that he was going to be flogged; but it was not so. His aunt
wept
over him and asked him how he could go and break her old heart so;
and
finally told him to go on, and ruin himself and bring her gray
hairs
with sorrow to the grave, for it was no use for her to try any
more.
This was worse than a thousand whippings, and Tom's heart was
sorer
now than his body. He cried, he pleaded for forgiveness, promised
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.
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!
This
final feather broke the camel's back.
CLOSE
upon the hour of noon the whole village was suddenly electrified
with
the ghastly news. No need of the as yet undreamed-of telegraph;
the
tale flew from man to man, from group to group, from house to
house,
with little less than telegraphic speed. Of course the
schoolmaster
gave holiday for that afternoon; the town would have
thought
strangely of him if he had not.
A
gory knife had been found close to the murdered man, and it had been
recognized
by somebody as belonging to Muff Potter--so the story ran.
And
it was said that a belated citizen had come upon Potter washing
himself
in the "branch" about one or two o'clock in the morning, and
that
Potter had at once sneaked off--suspicious circumstances,
especially
the washing which was not a habit with Potter. It was also
said that the town had been ransacked for this "murderer" (the public<= o:p>
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" tha=
t
he
would be captured before night.
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.
"Poor
fellow!" "Poor young fellow!" "This ought to be a lesso=
n to
grave
robbers!" "Muff Potter'll hang for this if they catch him!" =
This
was
the drift of remark; and the minister said, "It was a judgment; His
hand
is here."
Now
Tom shivered from head to heel; for his eye fell upon the stolid
face
of Injun Joe. At this moment the crowd began to sway and struggle,
and
voices shouted, "It's him! it's him! he's coming himself!"
"Who?
Who?" from twenty voices.
"Muff
Potter!"
"Hallo,
he's stopped!--Look out, he's turning! Don't let him get away!"
People
in the branches of the trees over Tom's head said he wasn't
trying
to get away--he only looked doubtful and perplexed.
"Infernal
impudence!" said a bystander; "wanted to come and take a
quiet
look at his work, I reckon--didn't expect any company."
The
crowd fell apart, now, and the Sheriff came through,
ostentatiously
leading Potter by the arm. The poor fellow's face was
haggard,
and his eyes showed the fear that was upon him. When he stood
before
the murdered man, he shook as with a palsy, and he put his face
in
his hands and burst into tears.
"I
didn't do it, friends," he sobbed; "'pon my word and honor I neve=
r
done
it."
"Who's
accused you?" shouted a voice.
This
shot seemed to carry home. Potter lifted his face and looked
around
him with a pathetic hopelessness in his eyes. He saw Injun Joe,
and
exclaimed:
"Oh,
Injun Joe, you promised me you'd never--"
"Is
that your knife?" and it was thrust before him by the Sheriff.
Potter
would have fallen if they had not caught him and eased him to
the
ground. Then he said:
"Something
told me 't if I didn't come back and get--" He shuddered;
then
waved his nerveless hand with a vanquished gesture and said, "Tell
'em,
Joe, tell 'em--it ain't any use any more."
Then
Huckleberry and Tom stood dumb and staring, and heard the
stony-hearted
liar reel off his serene statement, they expecting every
moment
that the clear sky would deliver God's lightnings upon his head,
and
wondering to see how long the stroke was delayed. And when he had
finished
and still stood alive and whole, their wavering impulse to
break
their oath and save the poor betrayed prisoner's life faded and
vanished
away, for plainly this miscreant had sold himself to Satan and
it
would be fatal to meddle with the property of such a power as that.
"Why
didn't you leave? What did you want to come here for?" somebody
said.
"I
couldn't help it--I couldn't help it," Potter moaned. "I wanted t=
o
run
away, but I couldn't seem to come anywhere but here." And he fell
to
sobbing again.
Injun
Joe repeated his statement, just as calmly, a few minutes
afterward
on the inquest, under oath; and the boys, seeing that the
lightnings
were still withheld, were confirmed in their belief that Joe
had
sold himself to the devil. He was now become, to them, the most
balefully
interesting object they had ever looked upon, and they could
not
take their fascinated eyes from his face.
They
inwardly resolved to watch him nights, when opportunity should
offer,
in the hope of getting a glimpse of his dread master.
Injun
Joe helped to raise the body of the murdered man and put it in a
wagon
for removal; and it was whispered through the shuddering crowd
that
the wound bled a little! The boys thought that this happy
circumstance
would turn suspicion in the right direction; but they were
disappointed,
for more than one villager remarked:
"It
was within three feet of Muff Potter when it done it."
Tom's
fearful secret and gnawing conscience disturbed his sleep for as
much
as a week after this; and at breakfast one morning Sid said:
"Tom,
you pitch around and talk in your sleep so much that you keep me
awake
half the time."
Tom
blanched and dropped his eyes.
"It's
a bad sign," said Aunt Polly, gravely. "What you got on your
mind,
Tom?"
"Nothing.
Nothing 't I know of." But the boy's hand shook so that he
spilled
his coffee.
"And
you do talk such stuff," Sid said. "Last night you said, 'It's
blood,
it's blood, that's what it is!' You said that over and over. And
you
said, 'Don't torment me so--I'll tell!' Tell WHAT? What is it
you'll
tell?"
Everything
was swimming before Tom. There is no telling what might
have
happened, now, but luckily the concern passed out of Aunt Polly's
face
and she came to Tom's relief without knowing it. She said:
"Sho!
It's that dreadful murder. I dream about it most every night
myself.
Sometimes I dream it's me that done it."
Mary
said she had been affected much the same way. Sid seemed
satisfied.
Tom got out of the presence as quick as he plausibly could,
and
after that he complained of toothache for a week, and tied up his
jaws
every night. He never knew that Sid lay nightly watching, and
frequently
slipped the bandage free and then leaned on his elbow
listening
a good while at a time, and afterward slipped the bandage
back
to its place again. Tom's distress of mind wore off gradually and
the
toothache grew irksome and was discarded. If Sid really managed to
make
anything out of Tom's disjointed mutterings, he kept it to himself.
It
seemed to Tom that his schoolmates never would get done holding
inquests
on dead cats, and thus keeping his trouble present to his
mind.
Sid noticed that Tom never was coroner at one of these inquiries,
though
it had been his habit to take the lead in all new enterprises;
he
noticed, too, that Tom never acted as a witness--and that was
strange;
and Sid did not overlook the fact that Tom even showed a
marked
aversion to these inquests, and always avoided them when he
could.
Sid marvelled, but said nothing. However, even inquests went out
of
vogue at last, and ceased to torture Tom's conscience.
Every
day or two, during this time of sorrow, Tom watched his
opportunity
and went to the little grated jail-window and smuggled such
small
comforts through to the "murderer" as he could get hold of. The
jail
was a trifling little brick den that stood in a marsh at the edge
of
the village, and no guards were afforded for it; indeed, it was
seldom
occupied. These offerings greatly helped to ease Tom's
conscience.
The
villagers had a strong desire to tar-and-feather Injun Joe and
ride
him on a rail, for body-snatching, but so formidable was his
character
that nobody could be found who was willing to take the lead
in
the matter, so it was dropped. He had been careful to begin both of
his
inquest-statements with the fight, without confessing the
grave-robbery
that preceded it; therefore it was deemed wisest not
to
try the case in the courts at present.
ONE
of the reasons why Tom's mind had drifted away from its secret
troubles
was, that it had found a new and weighty matter to interest
itself
about. Becky Thatcher had stopped coming to school. Tom had
struggled
with his pride a few days, and tried to "whistle her down the
wind,"
but failed. He began to find himself hanging around her father's
house,
nights, and feeling very miserable. She was ill. What if she
should
die! There was distraction in the thought. He no longer took an
interest
in war, nor even in piracy. The charm of life was gone; there
was
nothing but dreariness left. He put his hoop away, and his bat;
there
was no joy in them any more. His aunt was concerned. She began to
try
all manner of remedies on him. She was one of those people who are
infatuated
with patent medicines and all new-fangled methods of
producing
health or mending it. She was an inveterate experimenter in
these
things. When something fresh in this line came out she was in a
fever,
right away, to try it; not on herself, for she was never ailing,
but
on anybody else that came handy. She was a subscriber for all the
"Health"
periodicals and phrenological frauds; and the solemn ignorance
they
were inflated with was breath to her nostrils. All the "rot" they=
contained
about ventilation, and how to go to bed, and how to get up,
and
what to eat, and what to drink, and how much exercise to take, and
what
frame of mind to keep one's self in, and what sort of clothing to
wear,
was all gospel to her, and she never observed that her
health-journals
of the current month customarily upset everything they
had
recommended the month before. She was as simple-hearted and honest
as
the day was long, and so she was an easy victim. She gathered
together
her quack periodicals and her quack medicines, and thus armed
with
death, went about on her pale horse, metaphorically speaking, with
"hell
following after." But she never suspected that she was not an
angel
of healing and the balm of Gilead in disguise, to the suffering
neighbors.
The
water treatment was new, now, and Tom's low condition was a
windfall
to her. She had him out at daylight every morning, stood him
up in
the woodshed and drowned him with a deluge of cold water; then
she
scrubbed him down with a towel like a file, and so brought him to;
then
she rolled him up in a wet sheet and put him away under blankets
till
she sweated his soul clean and "the yellow stains of it came
through
his pores"--as Tom said.
Yet
notwithstanding all this, the boy grew more and more melancholy
and
pale and dejected. She added hot baths, sitz baths, shower baths,
and
plunges. The boy remained as dismal as a hearse. She began to
assist
the water with a slim oatmeal diet and blister-plasters. She
calculated
his capacity as she would a jug's, and filled him up every
day
with quack cure-alls.
Tom
had become indifferent to persecution by this time. This phase
filled
the old lady's heart with consternation. This indifference must
be
broken up at any cost. Now she heard of Pain-killer for the first
time.
She ordered a lot at once. She tasted it and was filled with
gratitude.
It was simply fire in a liquid form. She dropped the water
treatment
and everything else, and pinned her faith to Pain-killer. She
gave
Tom a 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<= o:p>
wilder,
heartier interest, if she had built a fire under him.
Tom
felt that it was time to wake up; this sort of life might be
romantic
enough, in his blighted condition, but it was getting to have
too
little sentiment and too much distracting variety about it. So he
thought
over various plans for relief, and finally hit pon that of
professing
to be fond of Pain-killer. He asked for it so often that he
became
a nuisance, and his aunt ended by telling him to help himself
and
quit bothering her. If it had been Sid, she would have had no
misgivings
to alloy her delight; but since it was Tom, she watched the
bottle
clandestinely. She found that the medicine did really diminish,
but
it did not occur to her that the boy was mending the health of a
crack
in the sitting-room floor with it.
One
day Tom was in the act of dosing the crack when his aunt's yellow
cat
came along, purring, eying the teaspoon avariciously, and begging
for a
taste. Tom said:
"Don't
ask for it unless you want it, Peter."
But
Peter signified that he did want it.
"You
better make sure."
Peter
was sure.
"Now
you've asked for it, and I'll give it to you, because there ain't
anything
mean about me; but if you find you don't like it, you mustn't
blame
anybody but your own self."
Peter
was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth open and poured down the
Pain-killer.
Peter sprang a couple of yards 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.
"Tom,
what on earth ails that cat?"
"I
don't know, aunt," gasped the boy.
"Why,
I never see anything like it. What did make him act so?"
"Deed
I don't know, Aunt Polly; cats always act so when they're having
a
good time."
"They
do, do they?" There was something in the tone that made Tom
apprehensive.
"Yes'm.
That is, I believe they do."
"You
DO?"
"Yes'm."
The
old lady was bending down, Tom watching, with interest emphasized
by
anxiety. Too late he divined her "drift." The handle of the tellt=
ale
teaspoon
was visible under the bed-valance. Aunt Polly took it, held it
up.
Tom winced, and dropped his eyes. Aunt Polly raised him by the
usual
handle--his ear--and cracked his head soundly with her thimble.
"Now,
sir, what did you want to treat that poor dumb beast so, for?"
"I
done it out of pity for him--because he hadn't any aunt."
"Hadn't
any aunt!--you numskull. What has that got to do with it?"
"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!"
Aunt
Polly felt a sudden pang of remorse. This was putting the thing
in a
new light; what was cruelty to a cat MIGHT be cruelty to a boy,
too.
She began to soften; she felt sorry. Her eyes watered a little,
and
she put her hand on Tom's head and said gently:
"I
was meaning for the best, Tom. And, Tom, it DID do you good."
Tom
looked up in her face with just a perceptible twinkle peeping
through
his gravity.
"I
know you was meaning for the best, aunty, and so was I with Peter.
It
done HIM good, too. I never see him get around so since--"
"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."
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!"
Tom's
cheeks burned. He gathered himself up and sneaked off, crushed
and
crestfallen.
TOM'S
mind was made up now. He was gloomy and desperate. He was a
forsaken,
friendless boy, he said; nobody loved him; when they found
out
what they had driven him to, perhaps they would be sorry; he had
tried
to do right and get along, but they would not let him; since
nothing
would do them but to be rid of him, let it be so; and let them
blame
HIM for the consequences--why shouldn't they? What right had the
friendless
to complain? Yes, they had forced him to it at last: he
would
lead a life of crime. There was no choice.
By
this time he was far down Meadow Lane, and the bell for school to
"take
up" tinkled faintly upon his ear. He sobbed, now, to think he
should
never, never hear that old familiar sound any more--it was very
hard,
but it was forced on him; since he was driven out into the cold
world,
he must submit--but he forgave them. Then the sobs came thick
and
fast.
Just
at this point he met his soul's sworn comrade, 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.
But
it transpired that this was a request which Joe had just been
going
to make of Tom, and had come to hunt him up for that purpose. His
mother
had whipped him for drinking some cream which he had never
tasted
and knew nothing about; it was plain that she was tired of him
and
wished him to go; if she felt that way, there was nothing for him
to do
but succumb; he hoped she would be happy, and never regret having
driven
her poor boy out into the unfeeling world to suffer and die.
As
the two boys walked sorrowing along, they made a new compact to
stand
by each other and be brothers and never separate till death
relieved
them of their troubles. Then they began to lay their plans.
Joe
was for being a hermit, and living on crusts in a remote cave, and
dying,
some time, of cold and want and grief; but after listening to
Tom,
he conceded that there were some conspicuous advantages about a
life
of crime, and so he consented to be a pirate.
Three
miles below St. Petersburg, at a point where the Mississippi
River
was a trifle over a mile wide, there was a long, narrow, wooded
island,
with a shallow bar at the head of it, and this offered well as
a
rendezvous. It was not inhabited; it lay far over toward the further
shore,
abreast a dense and almost wholly unpeopled forest. So Jackson's
Island
was chosen. Who were to be the subjects of their piracies was a
matter
that did not occur to them. Then they hunted up Huckleberry
Finn,
and he joined them promptly, for all careers were one to him; he
was
indifferent. They presently separated to meet at a lonely spot on
the
river-bank two miles above the village at the favorite hour--which
was
midnight. There was a small log raft there which they meant to
capture.
Each would bring hooks and lines, and such provision as he
could
steal in the most dark and mysterious way--as became outlaws. And
before
the afternoon was done, they had all managed to enjoy the sweet
glory
of spreading the fact that pretty soon the town would "hear
something."
All who got this vague hint were cautioned to "be mum and
wait."
About
midnight Tom arrived with a boiled ham and a few trifles,
and
stopped in a dense undergrowth on a small bluff overlooking the
meeting-place.
It was starlight, and very still. The mighty river lay
like
an ocean at rest. Tom listened a moment, but no sound disturbed the
quiet.
Then he gave a low, distinct whistle. It was answered from under
the
bluff. Tom whistled twice more; these signals were answered in the
same
way. Then a guarded voice said:
"Who
goes there?"
"Tom
Sawyer, the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main. Name your names."
"Huck
Finn the Red-Handed, and Joe Harper the Terror of the Seas." Tom
had
furnished these titles, from his favorite literature.
"'Tis
well. Give the countersign."
Two
hoarse whispers delivered the same awful word simultaneously to
the
brooding night:
"BLOOD!"
Then
Tom tumbled his ham over the bluff and let himself down after it,
tearing
both skin and clothes to some extent in the effort. There was
an
easy, comfortable path along the shore under the bluff, but it
lacked
the advantages of difficulty and danger so valued by a pirate.
The
Terror of the Seas had brought a side of bacon, and had about worn
himself
out with getting it there. Finn the Red-Handed had stolen a
skillet
and a quantity of half-cured leaf tobacco, and had also brought
a few
corn-cobs to make pipes with. But none of the pirates smoked or
"chewed"
but himself. The Black Avenger of the Spanish Main said it
would
never do to start without some fire. That was a wise thought;
matches
were hardly known there in that day. They saw a fire
smouldering
upon a great raft a hundred yards above, and they went
stealthily
thither and helped themselves to a chunk. They made an
imposing
adventure of it, saying, "Hist!" every now and then, and
suddenly
halting with finger on lip; moving with hands on imaginary
dagger-hilts;
and giving orders in dismal whispers that if "the foe"
stirred, to "let him have it to the hilt," because "dead men tell no<= o:p>
tales."
They knew well enough that the raftsmen were all down at the
village
laying in stores or having a spree, but still that was no
excuse
for their conducting this thing in an unpiratical way.
They
shoved off, presently, Tom in command, Huck at the after oar and
Joe
at the forward. Tom stood amidships, gloomy-browed, and with folded
arms,
and gave his orders in a low, stern whisper:
"Luff,
and bring her to the wind!"
"Aye-aye,
sir!"
"Steady,
steady-y-y-y!"
"Steady
it is, sir!"
"Let
her go off a point!"
"Point
it is, sir!"
As
the boys steadily and monotonously drove the raft toward mid-stream
it
was no doubt understood that these orders were given only for
"style,"
and were not intended to mean anything in particular.
"What
sail's she carrying?"
"Courses,
tops'ls, and flying-jib, sir."
"Send
the r'yals up! Lay out aloft, there, half a dozen of ye
--foretopmaststuns'l!
Lively, now!"
"Aye-aye,
sir!"
"Shake
out that maintogalans'l! Sheets and braces! NOW my hearties!"
"Aye-aye,
sir!"
"Hellum-a-lee--hard
a port! Stand by to meet her when she comes! Port,
port!
NOW, men! With a will! Stead-y-y-y!"
"Steady
it is, sir!"
The
raft drew beyond the middle of the river; the boys pointed her
head
right, and then lay on their oars. The river was not high, so
there
was not more than a two or three mile current. Hardly a word was
said
during the next three-quarters of an hour. Now the raft was
passing
before the distant town. Two or three glimmering lights showed
where
it lay, peacefully sleeping, beyond the vague vast sweep of
star-gemmed
water, unconscious of the tremendous event that was happening.
The
Black Avenger stood still with folded arms, "looking his last" up=
on
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
eyeshot 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.
They
built a fire against the side of a great log twenty or thirty
steps
within the sombre depths of the forest, and then cooked some
bacon
in the frying-pan for supper, and used up half of the corn "pone"=
stock
they had brought. It seemed glorious sport to be feasting in that
wild,
free way in the virgin forest of an unexplored and uninhabited
island,
far from the haunts of men, and they said they never would
return
to civilization. The climbing fire lit up their faces and threw
its
ruddy glare upon the pillared tree-trunks of their forest temple,
and
upon the varnished foliage and festooning vines.
When
the last crisp slice of bacon was gone, and the last allowance of
corn
pone devoured, the boys stretched themselves out on the grass,
filled
with contentment. They could have found a cooler place, but they
would
not deny themselves such a romantic feature as the roasting
camp-fire.
"AIN'T
it gay?" said Joe.
"It's
NUTS!" said Tom. "What would the boys say if they could see us?&q=
uot;
"Say?
Well, they'd just die to be here--hey, Hucky!"
"I reckon so," said Huckleberry; "anyways, I'm suited. I don't want<= o:p>
nothing
better'n this. I don't ever get enough to eat, gen'ally--and
here
they can't come and pick at a feller and bullyrag him so."
"It's
just the life for me," said Tom. "You don't have to get up,
mornings,
and you don't have to go to school, and wash, and all that
blame
foolishness. You see a pirate don't have to do ANYTHING, Joe,
when
he's ashore, but a hermit HE has to be praying considerable, and
then
he don't have any fun, anyway, all by himself that way."
"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."
"You see," said Tom, "people don't go much on hermits, nowadays, like<= o:p>
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--"
"What
does he put sackcloth and ashes on his head for?" inquired Huck.
"I
dono. But they've GOT to do it. Hermits always do. You'd have to do
that
if you was a hermit."
"Dern'd
if I would," said Huck.
"Well,
what would you do?"
"I
dono. But I wouldn't do that."
"Why,
Huck, you'd HAVE to. How'd you get around it?"
"Why,
I just wouldn't stand it. I'd run away."
"Run
away! Well, you WOULD be a nice old slouch of a hermit. You'd be
a
disgrace."
The
Red-Handed made no response, being better employed. He had
finished
gouging out a cob, and now he fitted a weed stem to it, loaded
it
with tobacco, and was pressing a coal to the charge and blowing a
cloud
of fragrant smoke--he was in the full bloom of luxurious
contentment.
The other pirates envied him this majestic vice, and
secretly
resolved to acquire it shortly. Presently Huck said:
"What
does pirates have to do?"
Tom
said:
"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."
"And
they carry the women to the island," said Joe; "they don't kill
the
women."
"No,"
assented Tom, "they don't kill the women--they're too noble. And
the
women's always beautiful, too.
"And
don't they wear the bulliest clothes! Oh no! All gold and silver
and
di'monds," said Joe, with enthusiasm.
"Who?"
said Huck.
"Why,
the pirates."
Huck
scanned his own clothing forlornly.
"I
reckon I ain't dressed fitten for a pirate," said he, with a
regretful
pathos in his voice; "but I ain't got none but these."
But
the other boys told him the fine clothes would come fast enough,
after
they should have begun their adventures. They made him understand
that
his poor rags would do to begin with, though it was customary for
wealthy
pirates to start with a proper wardrobe.
Gradually
their talk died out and drowsiness began to steal upon the
eyelids
of the little waifs. The pipe dropped from the fingers of the
Red-Handed,
and he slept the sleep of the conscience-free and the
weary.
The Terror of the Seas and the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main
had
more difficulty in getting to sleep. They said their prayers
inwardly,
and lying down, since there was nobody there with authority
to
make them kneel and recite aloud; in truth, they had a mind not to
say
them at all, but they were afraid to proceed to such lengths as
that,
lest they might call down a sudden and special thunderbolt from
heaven.
Then at once they reached and hovered upon the imminent verge
of
sleep--but an intruder came, now, that would not "down." It was
conscience.
They began to feel a vague fear that they had been doing
wrong
to run away; and next they thought of the stolen meat, and then
the
real torture came. They tried to argue it away by reminding
conscience
that they had purloined sweetmeats and apples scores of
times;
but conscience was not to be appeased by such thin
plausibilities;
it seemed to them, in the end, that there was no
getting
around the stubborn fact that taking sweetmeats was only
"hooking,"
while taking bacon and hams and such valuables was plain
simple
stealing--and there was a command against that in the Bible. So
they
inwardly resolved that so long as they remained in the business,
their
piracies should not again be sullied with the crime of stealing.
Then
conscience granted a truce, and these curiously inconsistent
pirates
fell peacefully to sleep.
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.
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<= o:p>
intervals
to inspect and chatter at the boys, for the wild things had
probably
never seen a human being before and scarcely knew whether to
be
afraid or not. All Nature was wide awake and stirring, now; long
lances
of sunlight pierced down through the dense foliage far and near,
and a
few butterflies came fluttering upon the scene.
Tom
stirred up the other pirates and they all clattered away with a
shout,
and in a minute or two were stripped and chasing after and
tumbling
over each other in the shallow limpid water of the white
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.
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.
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.
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.
For
some time, now, the boys had been dully conscious of a peculiar
sound
in the distance, just as one sometimes is of the ticking of a
clock
which he takes no distinct note of. But now this mysterious sound
became
more pronounced, and forced a recognition. The boys started,
glanced
at each other, and then each assumed a listening attitude.
There
was a long silence, profound and unbroken; then a deep, sullen
boom
came floating down out of the distance.
"What
is it!" exclaimed Joe, under his breath.
"I
wonder," said Tom in a whisper.
"'Tain't
thunder," said Huckleberry, in an awed tone, "becuz thunder--&quo=
t;
"Hark!"
said Tom. "Listen--don't talk."
They
waited a time that seemed an age, and then the same muffled boom
troubled
the solemn hush.
"Let's
go and see."
They
sprang to their feet and hurried to the shore toward the town.
They
parted the bushes on the bank and peered out over the water. The
little
steam ferryboat 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.
"I
know now!" exclaimed Tom; "somebody's drownded!"
"That's
it!" said Huck; "they done that last summer, when Bill Turner
got
drownded; they shoot a cannon over the water, and that makes him
come
up to the top. Yes, and they take loaves of bread and put
quicksilver
in 'em and set 'em afloat, and wherever there's anybody
that's
drownded, they'll float right there and stop."
"Yes, I've heard about that," said Joe. "I wonder what makes the bread<= o:p>
do
that."
"Oh,
it ain't the bread, so much," said Tom; "I reckon it's mostly
what
they SAY over it before they start it out."
"But
they don't say anything over it," said Huck. "I've seen 'em and
they
don't."
"Well,
that's funny," said Tom. "But maybe they say it to themselves.
Of
COURSE they do. Anybody might know that."
The
other boys agreed that there was reason in what Tom said, because
an
ignorant lump of bread, uninstructed by an incantation, could not be
expected
to act very intelligently when set upon an errand of such
gravity.
"By
jings, I wish I was over there, now," said Joe.
"I
do too" said Huck "I'd give heaps to know who it is."
The
boys still listened and watched. Presently a revealing thought
flashed
through Tom's mind, and he exclaimed:
"Boys,
I know who's drownded--it's us!"
They
felt like heroes in an instant. Here was a gorgeous triumph; they
were
missed; they were mourned; hearts were breaking on their account;
tears
were being shed; accusing memories of 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.
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<= o:p>
might
look upon a return to civilization--not right now, but--
Tom
withered him with derision! Huck, being uncommitted as yet, joined
in
with Tom, and the waverer quickly "explained," and was glad to ge=
t
out
of the scrape with as little taint of chicken-hearted homesickness
clinging
to his garments as he could. Mutiny was effectually laid to
rest
for the moment.
As
the night deepened, Huck began to nod, and presently to snore. Joe
followed
next. Tom lay upon his elbow motionless, for some time,
watching
the two intently. At last he got up cautiously, on his knees,
and
went searching among the grass and the flickering reflections flung
by
the camp-fire. He picked up and inspected several large
semi-cylinders
of the thin white bark of a sycamore, and finally chose
two which
seemed to suit him. Then he knelt by the fire and painfully
wrote
something upon each of these with his "red keel"; one he rolled u=
p
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<= o:p>
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.
A FEW
minutes later Tom was in the shoal water of the bar, wading
toward
the
half-way
over; the current would permit no more wading, now, so he
struck
out confidently to swim the remaining hundred yards. He swam
quartering
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.
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.
He
flew along unfrequented alleys, and shortly found himself at his
aunt's back fence. He climbed over, approached the "ell," and looked in<= o:p>
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.
"What
makes the candle blow so?" said Aunt Polly. Tom hurried up.
"Why,
that door's open, I believe. Why, of course it is. No end of
strange
things now. Go 'long and shut it, Sid."
Tom
disappeared under the bed just in time. He lay and "breathed"
himself
for a time, and then crept to where he could almost touch his
aunt's
foot.
"But
as I was saying," said Aunt Polly, "he warn't BAD, so to say
--only
mischEEvous. Only just giddy, and harum-scarum, you know. He
warn't
any more responsible than a colt. HE never meant any harm, and
he
was the best-hearted boy that ever was"--and she began to cry.
"It
was just so with my Joe--always full of his devilment, and up to
every
kind of mischief, but he was just as unselfish and kind as he
could
be--and laws bless me, to think I went and whipped him for taking
that
cream, never once recollecting that I throwed it out myself
because
it was sour, and I never to see him again in this world, never,
never,
never, poor abused boy!" And Mrs. Harper sobbed as if her heart
would
break.
"I
hope Tom's better off where he is," said Sid, "but if he'd been
better
in some ways--"
"SID!"
Tom felt the glare of the old lady's eye, though he could not
see
it. "Not a word against my Tom, now that he's gone! God'll take
care
of HIM--never you trouble YOURself, sir! Oh, Mrs. Harper, I don't
know
how to give him up! I don't know how to give him up! He was such a
comfort
to me, although he tormented my old heart out of me, 'most."
"The
Lord giveth and the Lord hath taken away--Blessed be the name of
the
Lord! But it's so hard--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."
"Yes,
yes, yes, I know just how you feel, Mrs. Harper, I know just
exactly
how you feel. No longer ago than yesterday noon, my Tom took
and
filled the cat full of Pain-killer, and I did think the cretur
would
tear the house down. And God forgive me, I cracked Tom's head
with
my thimble, poor boy, poor dead boy. But he's out of all his
troubles
now. And the last words I ever heard him say was to reproach--"
But
this memory was too much for the old lady, and she broke entirely
down.
Tom was snuffling, now, himself--and more in pity of himself than
anybody
else. He could hear Mary crying, and putting in a kindly word
for
him from time to time. He began to have a nobler opinion of himself
than
ever before. Still, he was sufficiently touched by his aunt's
grief
to long to rush out from under the bed and overwhelm her with
joy--and
the theatrical gorgeousness of the thing appealed strongly to
his
nature, too, but he resisted and lay still.
He
went on listening, and gathered by odds and ends that it was
conjectured
at first that the boys had got drowned while taking a swim;
then
the small raft had been missed; next, certain boys said the
missing
lads had promised that the village should "hear something"
soon; the wise-heads had "put this and that together" and decided that<= o:p>
the
lads had gone off on that raft and would turn up at the next town
below,
presently; but toward noon the raft had been found, lodged
against
the Missouri shore some five or six miles below the village
--and
then hope perished; they must be drowned, else hunger would have
driven
them home by nightfall if not sooner. It was believed that the
search
for the bodies had been a fruitless effort merely because the
drowning
must have occurred in mid-channel, since the boys, being good
swimmers,
would otherwise have escaped to shore. This was Wednesday
night.
If the bodies continued missing until Sunday, all hope would be
given
over, and the funerals would be preached on that morning. Tom
shuddered.
Mrs.
Harper gave a sobbing good-night and turned to go. Then with a
mutual
impulse the two bereaved women flung themselves into each
other's
arms and had a good, consoling cry, and then parted. Aunt Polly
was
tender far beyond her wont, in her good-night to Sid and Mary. Sid
snuffled
a bit and Mary went off crying with all her heart.
Aunt
Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom so touchingly, so
appealingly,
and with such measureless love in her words and her old
trembling
voice, that he was weltering in tears again, long before she
was
through.
He
had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she kept making
broken-hearted
ejaculations from time to time, tossing unrestfully, and
turning
over. But at last she was still, only moaning a little in her
sleep.
Now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside, shaded the
candle-light
with his hand, and stood regarding her. His heart was full
of
pity for her. He took out his sycamore scroll and placed it by the
candle.
But something occurred to him, and he lingered considering. His
face
lighted with a happy solution of his thought; he put the bark
hastily
in his pocket. Then he bent over and kissed the faded lips, and
straightway
made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind him.
He
threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found nobody at large
there,
and walked boldly on board the boat, for he knew she was
tenantless
except that there was a watchman, who always turned in and
slept
like a graven image. He untied the skiff at the stern, slipped
into
it, and was soon rowing cautiously 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.
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:
"No,
Tom's true-blue, Huck, and he'll come back. He won't desert. He
knows
that would be a disgrace to a pirate, and Tom's too proud for
that
sort of thing. He's up to something or other. Now I wonder what?"
"Well,
the things is ours, anyway, ain't they?"
"Pretty
near, but not yet, Huck. The writing says they are if he ain't
back
here to breakfast."
"Which
he is!" exclaimed Tom, with fine dramatic effect, stepping
grandly
into camp.
A
sumptuous breakfast of bacon and fish was shortly provided, and as
the
boys set to work upon it, Tom recounted (and adorned) his
adventures.
They were a vain and boastful company of heroes when the
tale
was done. Then Tom hid himself away in a shady nook to sleep till
noon,
and the other pirates got ready to fish and explore.
AFTER
dinner all the gang turned out to hunt for turtle eggs on the
bar.
They went about poking sticks into the sand, and when they found a
soft
place they went down on their knees and dug with their hands.
Sometimes
they would take fifty or sixty eggs out of one hole. They
were
perfectly round white things a trifle smaller than an English
walnut.
They had a famous fried-egg feast that night, and another on
Friday
morning.
After
breakfast they went whooping and prancing out on the bar, and
chased
each other round and round, shedding clothes as they went, until
they
were naked, and then continued the frolic far away up the shoal
water
of the bar, against the stiff current, which latter tripped their
legs
from under them from time to time and greatly increased the fun.
And
now and then they stooped in a group and splashed water in each
other's
faces with their palms, gradually approaching each other, with
averted
faces to avoid the strangling sprays, and finally gripping and
struggling
till the best man ducked his neighbor, and then they all
went
under in a tangle of white legs and arms and came up blowing,
sputtering,
laughing, and gasping for breath at one and the same time.
When
they were well exhausted, they would run out and sprawl on the
dry,
hot sand, and lie there and cover themselves up with it, and by
and
by break for the water again and go through the original
performance
once more. Finally it occurred to them that their naked
skin
represented flesh-colored "tights" very fairly; so they drew a
ring
in the sand and had a circus--with three clowns in it, for none
would
yield this proudest post to his neighbor.
Next
they got their marbles and played "knucks" and "ring-taw&quo=
t;
and
"keeps"
till that amusement grew stale. Then Joe and Huck had another
swim,
but Tom would not venture, because he found that in kicking off
his
trousers he had kicked his string of rattlesnake rattles off his
ankle,
and he wondered how he had escaped cramp so long without the
protection
of this mysterious charm. He did not venture again until he
had
found it, and by that time the other boys were tired and ready to
rest.
They gradually wandered apart, dropped into the "dumps," and fell=
to
gazing longingly across the wide river to where the village lay
drowsing
in the sun. Tom found himself writing "BECKY" in the sand with
his
big toe; he scratched it out, and was angry with himself for his
weakness.
But he wrote it again, nevertheless; he could not help it. He
erased
it once more and then took himself out of temptation by driving
the
other boys together and joining them.
But
Joe's spirits had gone down almost beyond resurrection. He was so
homesick
that he could hardly endure the misery of it. The tears lay
very
near the surface. Huck was melancholy, too. Tom was downhearted,
but
tried hard not to show it. He had a secret which he was not ready
to
tell, yet, but if this mutinous depression was not broken up soon,
he
would have to bring it out. He said, with a great show of
cheerfulness:
"I
bet there's been pirates on this island before, boys. We'll explore
it
again. They've hid treasures here somewhere. How'd you feel to light
on a
rotten chest full of gold and silver--hey?"
But
it roused only 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:
"Oh,
boys, let's give it up. I want to go home. It's so lonesome."
"Oh no, Joe, you'll feel better by and by," said Tom. "Just think of<= o:p>
the
fishing that's here."
"I
don't care for fishing. I want to go home."
"But,
Joe, there ain't such another swimming-place anywhere."
"Swimming's
no good. I don't seem to care for it, somehow, when there
ain't
anybody to say I sha'n't go in. I mean to go home."
"Oh,
shucks! Baby! You want to see your mother, I reckon."
"Yes,
I DO want to see my mother--and you would, too, if you had one.
I ain't
any more baby than you are." And Joe snuffled a little.
"Well,
we'll let the cry-baby go home to his mother, won't we, Huck?
Poor
thing--does it want to see its mother? And so it shall. You like
it
here, don't you, Huck? We'll stay, won't we?"
Huck
said, "Y-e-s"--without any heart in it.
"I'll
never speak to you again as long as I live," said Joe, rising.
"There
now!" And he moved moodily away and began to dress himself.
"Who
cares!" said Tom. "Nobody wants you to. Go 'long home and get
laughed
at. Oh, you're a nice pirate. Huck and me ain't cry-babies.
We'll
stay, won't we, Huck? Let him go if he wants to. I reckon we can
get
along without him, per'aps."
But
Tom was uneasy, nevertheless, and was alarmed to see Joe go
sullenly
on with his dressing. And then it was discomforting to see
Huck
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:
"I
want to go, too, Tom. It was getting so lonesome anyway, and now
it'll
be worse. Let's us go, too, Tom."
"I
won't! You can all go, if you want to. I mean to stay."
"Tom,
I better go."
"Well,
go 'long--who's hendering you."
Huck
began to pick up his scattered clothes. He said:
"Tom,
I wisht you'd come, too. Now you think it over. We'll wait for
you
when we get to shore."
"Well,
you'll wait a blame long time, that's all."
Huck
started sorrowfully away, and Tom stood looking after him, with a
strong
desire tugging at his heart to yield his pride and go along too.
He
hoped the boys would stop, but they still waded slowly on. It
suddenly
dawned on Tom that it was become very lonely and still. He
made
one final struggle with his pride, and then darted after his
comrades,
yelling:
"Wait!
Wait! I want to tell you something!"
They
presently stopped and turned around. When he got to where they
were,
he began unfolding his secret, and they listened moodily till at
last
they saw the "point" he was driving at, and then they set up a
war-whoop
of applause and said it was "splendid!" and said if he had
told
them at first, they wouldn't have started away. He made a plausible
excuse;
but his real reason had been the fear that not even the secret
would
keep them with him any very great length of time, and so he had
meant
to hold it in reserve as a last seduction.
The
lads came 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 grape-vine, and they "bit"
the
tongue, and were not considered manly anyway.
Now
they stretched themselves out on their elbows and began to puff,
charily,
and with slender confidence. The smoke had an unpleasant
taste,
and they gagged a little, but Tom said:
"Why,
it's just as easy! If I'd a knowed this was all, I'd a learnt
long
ago."
"So
would I," said Joe. "It's just nothing."
"Why,
many a time I've looked at people smoking, and thought well I
wish
I could do that; but I never thought I could," said Tom.
"That's
just the way with me, hain't it, Huck? You've heard me talk
just
that way--haven't you, Huck? I'll leave it to Huck if I haven't."
"Yes--heaps
of times," said Huck.
"Well,
I have too," said Tom; "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?"
"Yes,
that's so," said Huck. "That was the day after I lost a white
alley.
No, 'twas the day before."
"There--I
told you so," said Tom. "Huck recollects it."
"I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day," said Joe. "I don't feel<= o:p>
sick."
"Neither
do I," said Tom. "I could smoke it all day. But I bet you
Jeff
Thatcher couldn't."
"Jeff
Thatcher! Why, he'd keel over just with two draws. Just let him
try
it once. HE'D see!"
"I
bet he would. And Johnny Miller--I wish could see Johnny Miller
tackle
it once."
"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 HIM."
"'Deed
it would, Joe. Say--I wish the boys could see us now."
"So
do I."
"Say--boys,
don't say anything about it, and some time when they're
around,
I'll come up to you and say, 'Joe, got a pipe? I want a smoke.'
And
you'll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything, you'll
say,
'Yes, I got my OLD pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain't
very
good.' And I'll say, 'Oh, that's all right, if it's STRONG
enough.'
And then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up just as
ca'm,
and then just see 'em look!"
"By
jings, that'll be gay, Tom! I wish it was NOW!"
"So
do I! And when we tell 'em we learned when we was off pirating,
won't
they wish they'd been along?"
"Oh,
I reckon not! I'll just BET they will!"
So
the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag a trifle, and grow
disjointed.
The silences widened; the expectoration 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:
"I've
lost my knife. I reckon I better go and find it."
Tom
said, with quivering lips and halting utterance:
"I'll
help you. You go over that way and I'll hunt around by the
spring.
No, you needn't come, Huck--we can find it."
So
Huck sat down again, and waited an hour. Then he found it lonesome,
and
went to find his comrades. They were wide apart in the woods, both
very
pale, both fast asleep. But something informed him that if they
had
had any trouble they had got rid of it.
They
were not talkative at supper that night. They had a humble look,
and
when Huck prepared his pipe after the meal and was going to prepare
theirs,
they said no, they were not feeling very well--something they
ate
at dinner had disagreed with them.
About
midnight Joe awoke, and called the boys. There was a brooding
oppressiveness
in the air that seemed to bode something. The boys
huddled
themselves together and sought the friendly companionship of
the
fire, though the dull dead heat of the breathless atmosphere was
stifling.
They sat still, intent and waiting. The solemn hush
continued.
Beyond the light of the fire everything was swallowed up in
the
blackness of darkness. Presently there came a quivering glow that
vaguely
revealed the foliage for a moment and then vanished. By and by
another
came, a little stronger. Then another. Then a faint moan came
sighing
through the branches of the forest and the boys felt a fleeting
breath
upon their cheeks, and shuddered with the fancy that the Spirit
of
the Night had gone by. There was a pause. Now a weird flash turned
night
into day and showed every little grass-blade, separate and
distinct,
that grew about their feet. And it showed three white,
startled
faces, too. A deep peal of thunder went rolling and tumbling
down
the heavens and lost itself in sullen rumblings in the distance. A
sweep
of chilly air passed by, rustling all the leaves and snowing the
flaky
ashes broadcast about the fire. Another fierce glare lit up the
forest
and an instant crash followed that seemed to rend the tree-tops
right
over the boys' heads. They clung together in terror, in the thick
gloom
that followed. A few big rain-drops fell pattering upon the
leaves.
"Quick!
boys, go for the tent!" exclaimed Tom.
They
sprang away, stumbling over roots and among vines in the dark, no
two
plunging in the same direction. A furious blast roared through the
trees,
making everything sing as it went. One blinding flash after
another
came, and peal on peal of deafening thunder. And now a
drenching
rain poured down and the rising hurricane drove it in sheets
along
the ground. The boys cried out to each other, but the roaring
wind
and the booming thunder-blasts drowned their voices utterly.
However,
one by one they straggled in at last and took shelter under
the
tent, cold, scared, and streaming with water; but to have company
in
misery seemed something to be grateful for. They could not talk, the
old
sail flapped so furiously, even if the other noises would have
allowed
them. The tempest rose higher and higher, and presently the
sail
tore loose from its fastenings and went winging away on the blast.
The
boys seized each others' hands and fled, with many tumblings and
bruises,
to the shelter of a great oak that stood upon the river-bank.
Now
the battle was at its highest. Under the ceaseless conflagration of
lightning
that flamed in the skies, everything below stood out in
clean-cut
and shadowless distinctness: the bending trees, the billowy
river,
white with foam, the driving spray of spume-flakes, the dim
outlines
of the high bluffs on the other side, glimpsed through the
drifting
cloud-rack and the slanting veil of rain. Every little while
some
giant tree yielded the fight and fell crashing through the younger
growth;
and the unflagging thunder-peals came now in ear-splitting
explosive
bursts, keen and sharp, and unspeakably appalling. The storm
culminated
in one matchless effort that seemed likely to tear the island
to
pieces, burn it up, drown it to the tree-tops, blow it away, and
deafen
every creature in it, all at one and the same moment. It was a
wild
night for homeless young heads to be out in.
But
at last the battle was done, and the forces retired with weaker
and
weaker threatenings and grumblings, and peace resumed her sway. The
boys
went back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there was
still
something to be thankful for, because the great sycamore, the
shelter
of their beds, was a ruin, now, blasted by the lightnings, and
they
were not under it when the catastrophe happened.
Everything
in camp was drenched, the camp-fire as well; for they were
but
heedless lads, like their generation, and had made no provision
against
rain. Here was matter for dismay, for they were soaked through
and
chilled. They were eloquent in their distress; but they presently
discovered
that the fire had eaten so far up under the great log it had
been
built against (where it curved upward and separated itself from
the
ground), that a 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
glad-hearted once more. They dried their boiled ham and had a
feast,
and after that they sat by the fire and expanded and glorified
their
midnight adventure until morning, for there was not a dry spot to
sleep
on, anywhere around.
As
the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over them,
and
they went out on the 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.
By
and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon
each other
from ambush with dreadful war-whoops, and killed and scalped
each
other by thousands. It was a gory day. Consequently it was an
extremely
satisfactory one.
They
assembled in camp toward supper-time, hungry and happy; but now a
difficulty
arose--hostile Indians could not break the bread of
hospitality
together without first making peace, and this was a simple
impossibility
without smoking a pipe of peace. There was no other
process
that ever they had heard of. Two of the savages almost wished
they
had remained pirates. However, there was no other way; so with
such
show of cheerfulness as they could muster they called for the pipe
and
took their whiff as it passed, in due form.
And
behold, they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had
gained
something; they found that they could now smoke a little without
having
to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to
be
seriously uncomfortable. They were not likely to fool away this high
promise
for lack of effort. No, they 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.
BUT
there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil
Saturday
afternoon. The Harpers, and Aunt Polly's family, were being
put
into mourning, with great grief and many tears. An unusual quiet
possessed
the village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all
conscience.
The villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air,
and
talked little; but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday seemed a
burden
to the children. They had no heart in their sports, and
gradually
gave them up.
In
the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the
deserted
schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy. But she found
nothing
there to comfort her. She soliloquized:
"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.
Presently
she stopped, and said to herself:
"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."
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!"
Then
there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life, and
many
claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences, more or
less
tampered with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided
who
DID see the departed last, and exchanged the last words with them,
the
lucky parties took upon themselves a sort of sacred importance, and
were
gaped at and envied by all the rest. One poor chap, who had no
other
grandeur to offer, said with tolerably manifest pride in the
remembrance:
"Well,
Tom Sawyer he licked me once."
But
that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the boys could say that,
and
so that cheapened the distinction too much. The group loitered
away,
still recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices.
When
the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell
began
to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way. It was a very still
Sabbath,
and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush
that
lay upon nature. The villagers began to gather, loitering a moment
in
the vestibule to converse in whispers about the sad event. But there
was
no whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses
as
the women gathered to their seats disturbed the silence there. None
could
remember when the little church had been so full before. There
was
finally a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then Aunt Polly
entered,
followed by Sid and Mary, and they by the Harper family, all
in
deep black, and the whole congregation, the old minister as well,
rose
reverently and stood until the mourners were seated in the front
pew.
There was another communing silence, broken at intervals by
muffled
sobs, and then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed.
A
moving hymn was sung, and the text followed: "I am the Resurrection
and
the Life."
As
the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such pictures of the
graces,
the winning ways, and the rare promise of the lost lads that
every
soul there, thinking he recognized these pictures, felt a pang in
remembering
that he had persistently blinded himself to them always
before,
and had as persistently seen only faults and flaws in the poor
boys.
The minister related many a touching incident in the lives of the
departed,
too, which illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the
people
could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes
were,
and remembered with grief that at the time they occurred they had
seemed
rank rascalities, well deserving of the cowhide. The
congregation
became more and more moved, as the pathetic tale went on,
till
at last the whole company broke down and joined the weeping
mourners
in a chorus of anguished sobs, the preacher himself giving way
to
his feelings, and crying in the pulpit.
There
was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody noticed; a moment
later
the church door creaked; the minister raised his streaming eyes
above
his handkerchief, and stood transfixed! First one and then
another
pair of eyes followed the minister's, and then almost with one
impulse
the congregation rose and stared while the three dead boys came
marching
up the aisle, Tom in the lead, Joe next, and Huck, a ruin of
drooping
rags, sneaking sheepishly in the rear! They had been hid in
the
unused gallery listening to their own funeral sermon!
Aunt
Polly, Mary, and the Harpers threw themselves upon their restored
ones,
smothered them with kisses and poured out thanksgivings, while
poor
Huck stood abashed and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what to
do or
where to hide from so many unwelcoming eyes. He wavered, and
started
to slink away, but Tom seized him and said:
"Aunt
Polly, it ain't fair. Somebody's got to be glad to see Huck."
"And
so they shall. I'm glad to see him, poor motherless thing!" And
the
loving attentions Aunt Polly lavished upon him were the one thing
capable
of making him more uncomfortable than he was before.
Suddenly
the minister shouted at the top of his voice: "Praise God
from
whom all blessings flow--SING!--and put your hearts in it!"
And
they did. Old Hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and
while
it shook the rafters Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around upon the
envying
juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that this was
the
proudest moment of his life.
As
the "sold" congregation trooped out they said they would almost b=
e
willing
to be made ridiculous again to hear Old Hundred sung like that
once
more.
Tom
got more cuffs and kisses that day--according to Aunt Polly's
varying
moods--than he had earned before in a year; and he hardly knew
which
expressed the most gratefulness to God and affection for himself.
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
miles
below the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge of the
town
till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and
alleys
and finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a
chaos
of invalided benches.
At
breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to
Tom,
and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of
talk.
In the course of it Aunt Polly said:
"Well,
I don't say it wasn't a fine joke, Tom, to keep everybody
suffering
'most a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity
you
could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you could come
over
on a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give
me a
hint some way that you warn't dead, but only run off."
"Yes,
you could have done that, Tom," said Mary; "and I believe you
would
if you had thought of it."
"Would
you, Tom?" said Aunt Polly, her face lighting wistfully. "Say,
now,
would you, if you'd thought of it?"
"I--well,
I don't know. 'Twould 'a' spoiled everything."
"Tom,
I hoped you loved me that much," said Aunt Polly, with a grieved
tone
that discomforted the boy. "It would have been something if you'd
cared
enough to THINK of it, even if you didn't DO it."
"Now,
auntie, that ain't any harm," pleaded Mary; "it's only Tom's
giddy
way--he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of
anything."
"More's
the pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid would have come and
DONE
it, too. Tom, you'll look back, some day, when it's too late, and
wish
you'd cared a little more for me when it would have cost you so
little."
"Now,
auntie, you know I do care for you," said Tom.
"I'd
know it better if you acted more like it."
"I
wish now I'd thought," said Tom, with a repentant tone; "but I
dreamt
about you, anyway. That's something, ain't it?"
"It
ain't much--a cat does that much--but it's better than nothing.
What
did you dream?"
"Why,
Wednesday night I dreamt that you was sitting over there by the
bed,
and Sid was sitting by the woodbox, and Mary next to him."
"Well,
so we did. So we always do. I'm glad your dreams could take
even
that much trouble about us."
"And
I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was here."
"Why,
she was here! Did you dream any more?"
"Oh,
lots. But it's so dim, now."
"Well,
try to recollect--can't you?"
"Somehow
it seems to me that the wind--the wind blowed the--the--"
"Try
harder, Tom! The wind did blow something. Come!"
Tom
pressed his fingers on his forehead an anxious minute, and then
said:
"I've
got it now! I've got it now! It blowed the candle!"
"Mercy
on us! Go on, Tom--go on!"
"And
it seems to me that you said, 'Why, I believe that that door--'"
"Go
ON, Tom!"
"Just
let me study a moment--just a moment. Oh, yes--you said you
believed
the door was open."
"As
I'm sitting here, I did! Didn't I, Mary! Go on!"
"And
then--and then--well I won't be certain, but it seems like as if
you
made Sid go and--and--"
"Well?
Well? What did I make him do, Tom? What did I make him do?"
"You
made him--you--Oh, you made him shut it."
"Well,
for the land's sake! I never heard the beat of that in all my
days!
Don't tell ME there ain't anything in dreams, any more. Sereny
Harper
shall know of this before I'm an hour older. I'd like to see her
get
around THIS with her rubbage 'bout superstition. Go on, Tom!"
"Oh,
it's all getting just as bright as day, now. Next you said I
warn't
BAD, only mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any more
responsible
than--than--I think it was a colt, or something."
"And
so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go on, Tom!"
"And
then you began to cry."
"So
I did. So I did. Not the first time, neither. And then--"
"Then
Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said Joe was just the same,
and
she wished she hadn't whipped him for taking cream when she'd
throwed
it out her own self--"
"Tom!
The sperrit was upon you! You was a prophesying--that's what you
was
doing! Land alive, go on, Tom!"
"Then
Sid he said--he said--"
"I
don't think I said anything," said Sid.
"Yes
you did, Sid," said Mary.
"Shut
your heads and let Tom go on! What did he say, Tom?"
"He
said--I THINK he said he hoped I was better off where I was gone
to,
but if I'd been better sometimes--"
"THERE,
d'you hear that! It was his very words!"
"And
you shut him up sharp."
"I
lay I did! There must 'a' been an angel there. There WAS an angel
there,
somewheres!"
"And
Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her with a firecracker, and
you
told about Peter and the Painkiller--"
"Just
as true as I live!"
"And
then there was a whole lot of talk 'bout dragging the river for
us,
and 'bout having the funeral Sunday, and then you and old Miss
Harper
hugged and cried, and she went."
"It
happened just so! It happened just so, as sure as I'm a-sitting in
these
very tracks. Tom, you couldn't told it more like if you'd 'a'
seen
it! And then what? Go on, Tom!"
"Then
I thought you prayed for me--and I could see you and hear every
word
you said. And you went to bed, and I was so sorry that I took and
wrote
on a piece of sycamore bark, 'We ain't dead--we are only off
being
pirates,' and put it on the table by the candle; and then you
looked
so good, laying there asleep, that I thought I went and leaned
over
and kissed you on the lips."
"Did
you, Tom, DID you! I just forgive you everything for that!" And
she
seized the boy in a crushing embrace that made him feel like the
guiltiest
of villains.
"It
was very kind, even though it was only a--dream," Sid soliloquized
just
audibly.
"Shut
up, Sid! A body does just the same in a dream as he'd do if he
was
awake. Here's a big Milum apple I've been saving for you, Tom, if
you
was ever found again--now go 'long to school. I'm thankful to the
good
God and Father of us all I've got you back, that's long-suffering
and
merciful to them that believe on Him and keep His word, though
goodness
knows I'm unworthy of it, but if only the worthy ones got His
blessings
and had His hand to help them over the rough places, there's
few
enough would smile here or ever enter into His rest when the long
night
comes. Go 'long Sid, Mary, Tom--take yourselves off--you've
hendered
me long enough."
The
children left for school, and the old lady to call on Mrs. Harper
and
vanquish her realism with Tom's 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!"
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 suntanned skin of his, and his
glittering
notoriety; and Tom would not have parted with either for a
circus.
At
school the children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered
such
eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not
long
in becoming insufferably "stuck-up." They began to tell their
adventures
to hungry listeners--but they only began; it was not a thing
likely
to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish
material.
And finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely
puffing
around, the very summit of glory was reached.
Tom
decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now. Glory
was
sufficient. He would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished,
maybe she would be wanting to "make up." Well, let her--she should see<= o:p>
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:
"Why,
Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn't you come to Sunday-school?"
"I
did come--didn't you see me?"
"Why,
no! Did you? Where did you sit?"
"I
was in Miss Peters' class, where I always go. I saw YOU."
"Did
you? Why, it's funny I didn't see you. I wanted to tell you about
the
picnic."
"Oh,
that's jolly. Who's going to give it?"
"My
ma's going to let me have one."
"Oh,
goody; I hope she'll let ME come."
"Well,
she will. The picnic's for me. She'll let anybody come that I
want,
and I want you."
"That's
ever so nice. When is it going to be?"
"By
and by. Maybe about vacation."
"Oh,
won't it be fun! You going to have all the girls and boys?"
"Yes,
every one that's friends to me--or wants to be"; and she glanced
ever
so furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy Lawrence
about
the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the
great
sycamore tree "all to flinders" while he was "standing withi=
n
three
feet of it."
"Oh,
may I come?" said Grace Miller.
"Yes."
"And
me?" said Sally Rogers.
"Yes."
"And
me, too?" said Susy Harper. "And Joe?"
"Yes."
And
so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the group had begged
for
invitations but Tom and Amy. Then Tom turned coolly away, still
talking,
and took Amy with him. Becky's lips trembled and the tears
came
to her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gayety and went on
chattering,
but the life had gone out of the picnic, now, and out of
everything
else; she got away as soon as she could and hid herself and
had what her sex call "a good cry." Then she sat moody, with wounded<= o:p>
pride,
till the bell rang. She roused up, now, with a vindictive cast
in
her eye, and gave her plaited tails a shake and said she knew what
SHE'D
do.
At
recess Tom continued his flirtation with Amy with jubilant
self-satisfaction.
And he kept drifting about to find Becky and lacerate
her
with the performance. At last he spied her, but there was a sudden
falling
of his mercury. She was sitting cosily on a little bench behind
the
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.
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.
"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--"
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.
Tom
fled home at noon. His conscience could not endure any more of
Amy's
grateful happiness, and his jealousy could bear no more of the
other
distress. Becky resumed her picture inspections with Alfred, but
as
the minutes dragged along and no Tom came to suffer, her triumph
began
to cloud and she lost interest; gravity and absent-mindedness
followed,
and then melancholy; two or three times she pricked up her
ear
at a footstep, but it was a false hope; no Tom came. At last she
grew
entirely miserable and wished she hadn't carried it so far. When
poor
Alfred, seeing that he was losing her, he did not know how, 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.
Alfred
dropped alongside and was going to try to comfort her, but she
said:
"Go
away and leave me alone, can't you! I hate you!"
So
the boy halted, wondering what he could have done--for she had said
she
would look at pictures all through the nooning--and she walked on,
crying.
Then Alfred went musing into the deserted schoolhouse. He was
humiliated
and angry. He easily guessed his way to the truth--the girl
had
simply made a convenience of him to vent her spite upon Tom Sawyer.
He
was far from hating Tom the less when this thought occurred to him.
He
wished there was some way to get that boy into trouble without much
risk
to himself. Tom's spelling-book fell under his eye. Here was his
opportunity.
He gratefully opened to the lesson for the afternoon and
poured
ink upon the page.
Becky,
glancing in at a window behind him at the moment, saw the act,
and
moved on, without discovering herself. She started homeward, now,
intending
to find Tom and tell him; Tom would be thankful and their
troubles
would be healed. Before she was half way home, however, she
had
changed her mind. The thought of Tom's treatment of her when she
was
talking about her picnic came scorching back and filled her with
shame.
She resolved to let him get whipped on the damaged
spelling-book's
account, and to hate him forever, into the bargain.
TOM
arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt
said
to him showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an
unpromising
market:
"Tom,
I've a notion to skin you alive!"
"Auntie,
what have I done?"
"Well,
you've done enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper, like an
old
softy, expecting I'm going to make her believe all that rubbage
about
that dream, when lo and behold you she'd found out from Joe that
you
was over here and heard all the talk we had that night. Tom, I
don't
know what is to become of a boy that will act like that. It makes
me
feel so bad to think you could let me go to Sereny Harper and make
such
a fool of myself and never say a word."
This
was a new aspect of the thing. His smartness of the morning had
seemed
to Tom a good joke before, and very ingenious. It merely looked
mean
and shabby now. He hung his head and could not think of anything
to
say for a moment. Then he said:
"Auntie,
I wish I hadn't done it--but I didn't think."
"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."
"Auntie,
I know now it was mean, but I didn't mean to be mean. I
didn't,
honest. And besides, I didn't come over here to laugh at you
that
night."
"What
did you come for, then?"
"It
was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got
drownded."
"Tom,
Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul in this world if I could
believe
you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never
did--and
I know it, Tom."
"Indeed
and 'deed I did, auntie--I wish I may never stir if I didn't."
"Oh,
Tom, don't lie--don't do it. It only makes things a hundred times
worse."
"It
ain't a lie, auntie; it's the truth. I wanted to keep you from
grieving--that
was all that made me come."
"I'd
give the whole world to believe that--it would cover up a power
of
sins, Tom. I'd 'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. But it
ain't
reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?"
"Why,
you see, when you got to talking about the funeral, I just got
all
full of the idea of our coming and hiding in the church, and I
couldn't
somehow bear to spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my
pocket
and kept mum."
"What
bark?"
"The
bark I had wrote on to tell you we'd gone pirating. I wish, now,
you'd
waked up when I kissed you--I do, honest."
The
hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a sudden tenderness
dawned
in her eyes.
"DID
you kiss me, Tom?"
"Why,
yes, I did."
"Are
you sure you did, Tom?"
"Why,
yes, I did, auntie--certain sure."
"What
did you kiss me for, Tom?"
"Because
I loved you so, and you laid there moaning and I was so sorry."
The
words sounded like truth. The old lady could not hide a tremor in
her
voice when she said:
"Kiss
me again, Tom!--and be off with you to school, now, and don't
bother
me any more."
The
moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a
jacket
which Tom had gone pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her
hand,
and said to herself:
"No,
I don't dare. Poor boy, I reckon he's lied about it--but it's a
blessed,
blessed lie, there's such a comfort come from it. I hope the
Lord--I
KNOW the Lord will forgive him, because it was such
goodheartedness
in him to tell it. But I don't want to find out it's a
lie.
I won't look."
She
put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute. Twice she put
out
her hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained. Once
more
she ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the
thought:
"It's a good lie--it's a good lie--I won't let it grieve me."
So
she sought the jacket pocket. A moment later she was reading Tom's
piece
of bark through flowing tears and saying: "I could forgive the
boy,
now, if he'd committed a million sins!"
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
manner.
Without a moment's hesitation he ran to her and said:
"I
acted mighty mean to-day, Becky, and I'm so sorry. I won't ever,
ever
do that way again, as long as ever I live--please make up, won't
you?"
The
girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face:
"I'll
thank you to keep yourself TO yourself, Mr. Thomas Sawyer. I'll
never
speak to you again."
She
tossed her head and passed on. Tom was so stunned that he had not
even
presence of mind enough to say "Who cares, Miss Smarty?" until th=
e
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.
Poor
girl, she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble herself.
The
master, Mr. Dobbins, had reached middle age with an unsatisfied
ambition.
The darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but poverty
had
decreed that he should be nothing higher than a village
schoolmaster.
Every day he took a mysterious book out of his desk and
absorbed
himself in it at times when no classes were reciting. He kept
that
book under lock and key. There was not an urchin in school but was
perishing
to have a glimpse of it, but the chance never came. Every boy
and
girl had a theory about the nature of that book; but no two
theories
were alike, and there was no way of getting at the facts in
the case.
Now, as Becky was passing by the desk, which stood near the
door,
she noticed that the key was in the lock! It was a precious
moment.
She glanced around; found herself alone, and the next instant
she
had the book in her hands. The title-page--Professor Somebody's
ANATOMY--carried
no information to her mind; so she began to turn the
leaves.
She came at once upon a handsomely engraved and colored
frontispiece--a
human figure, stark naked. At that moment a shadow fell
on
the page and Tom Sawyer stepped in at the door and caught a glimpse
of
the picture. Becky snatched at the book to close it, and had the
hard
luck to tear the pictured page half down the middle. She thrust
the
volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out crying with
shame
and vexation.
"Tom
Sawyer, you are just as mean as you can be, to sneak up on a
person
and look at what they're looking at."
"How
could I know you was looking at anything?"
"You
ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Sawyer; you know you're
going
to tell on me, and oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! I'll be
whipped,
and I never was whipped in school."
Then
she stamped her little foot and said:
"BE
so mean if you want to! I know something that's going to happen.
You
just wait and you'll see! Hateful, hateful, hateful!"--and she
flung
out of the house with a new explosion of crying.
Tom
stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught. Presently he said
to
himself:
"What
a curious kind of a fool a girl is! Never been licked in school!
Shucks!
What's a licking! That's just like a girl--they're so
thin-skinned
and chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain't going to tell
old
Dobbins on this little fool, because there's other ways of getting
even
on her, that ain't so mean; but what of it? Old Dobbins will ask
who
it was tore his book. Nobody'll answer. Then he'll do just the way
he
always does--ask first one and then t'other, and when he comes to the
right
girl he'll know it, without any telling. Girls' faces always tell
on
them. They ain't got any backbone. She'll get licked. Well, it's a
kind
of a tight place for Becky Thatcher, because there ain't any way
out
of it." Tom conned the thing a moment longer, and then added: "Al=
l
right,
though; she'd like to see me in just such a fix--let her sweat it
out!"
Tom
joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. In a few moments
the
master arrived and school "took in." Tom did not feel a strong
interest
in his studies. Every time he stole a glance at the girls'
side
of the room Becky's face troubled him. Considering all things, he
did
not want to pity her, and yet it was all he could do to help it. He
could
get up no exultation that was really worthy the name. Presently
the
spelling-book discovery was made, and Tom's mind was entirely full
of
his own matters for a while after that. Becky roused up from her
lethargy
of distress and showed good interest in the proceedings. She
did
not expect that Tom could get out of his trouble by denying that he
spilt
the ink on the book himself; and she was right. The denial only
seemed
to make the thing worse for Tom. Becky supposed she would be
glad
of that, and she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she
found
she was not certain. When the worst came to the worst, she had an
impulse
to get up and tell on Alfred Temple, but she made an effort and
forced
herself to keep still--because, said she to herself, "he'll tell
about
me tearing the picture sure. I wouldn't say a word, not to save
his
life!"
Tom
took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all
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.
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?&qu=
ot;
There
was not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The stillness
continued;
the master searched face after face for signs of guilt.
"Benjamin
Rogers, did you tear this book?"
A
denial. Another pause.
"Joseph
Harper, did you?"
Another
denial. Tom's uneasiness grew more and more intense under the
slow
torture of these proceedings. The master scanned the ranks of
boys--considered
a while, then turned to the girls:
"Amy
Lawrence?"
A
shake of the head.
"Gracie
Miller?"
The
same sign.
"Susan
Harper, did you do this?"
Another
negative. The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was trembling
from
head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of
the
situation.
"Rebecca
Thatcher" [Tom glanced at her face--it was white with terror]
--"did
you tear--no, look me in the face" [her hands rose in appeal]
--"did
you tear this book?"
A
thought shot like lightning through Tom's brain. He sprang to his
feet
and shouted--"I done it!"
The
school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a
moment,
to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped
forward
to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the
adoration
that shone upon him out of poor Becky's eyes seemed pay
enough
for a hundred floggings. Inspired by the splendor of his own
act,
he took without an outcry the most merciless flaying that even Mr.
Dobbins
had ever administered; and also received with indifference the
added
cruelty of a command to remain two hours after school should be
dismissed--for
he knew who would wait for him outside till his
captivity
was done, and not count the tedious time as loss, either.
Tom
went to bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple;
for
with shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting
her
own treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way,
soon,
to pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last with Becky's
latest
words lingering dreamily in his ear--
"Tom,
how COULD you be so noble!"
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<= o:p>
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 sign-painter's
boy,
told him the scheme, and asked his help. He had his own reasons
for
being delighted, for the master boarded in his father's family and
had
given the boy ample cause to hate him. The master's wife would go
on a
visit to the country in a few days, and there would be nothing to
interfere
with the plan; the master always prepared himself for great
occasions
by getting pretty well fuddled, and the sign-painter's boy
said
that when the dominie had reached the proper condition on
Examination
Evening he would "manage the thing" while he napped in his
chair;
then he would have him awakened at the right time and hurried
away
to school.
In
the 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.
The
exercises began. A very little boy stood up and sheepishly
recited,
"You'd scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on the
stage,"
etc.--accompanying himself with the painfully exact and
spasmodic
gestures which a machine might have used--supposing the
machine
to be a trifle out of order. But he got through safely, though
cruelly
scared, and got a fine round of applause when he made his
manufactured
bow and retired.
A
little 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.
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.
"The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck" followed; also "The Assyrian Came<= o:p>
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 Oth=
er
Days";
"Religion in History"; "Dream Land"; "The Advantag=
es
of
Culture";
"Forms of Political Government Compared and Contrasted";
"Melancholy";
"Filial Love"; "Heart Longings," etc., etc.
A
prevalent feature in these compositions was a nursed and petted
melancholy;
another was a wasteful and opulent gush of "fine language";
another
was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly prized words
and
phrases until they were worn entirely out; and a peculiarity that
conspicuously
marked and marred them was the inveterate and intolerable
sermon
that wagged its crippled tail at the end of each and every one
of
them. No matter what the subject might be, a brain-racking effort
was
made to squirm it into some aspect or other that the moral and
religious
mind could contemplate with edification. The glaring
insincerity
of these sermons was not sufficient to compass the
banishment
of the fashion from the schools, and it is not sufficient
to-day;
it never will be sufficient while the world stands, perhaps.
There
is no school in all our land where the young ladies do not feel
obliged
to close their compositions with a sermon; and you will find
that
the sermon of the most frivolous and the least religious girl in
the
school is always the longest and the most relentlessly pious. But
enough
of this. Homely truth is unpalatable.
Let
us return to the "Examination." The first composition that was
read
was one entitled "Is this, then, Life?" Perhaps the reader can
endure
an extract from it:
"In the common walks of life,=
with
what delightful
emotions does the youthful m=
ind
look forward to some
anticipated scene of festivi=
ty!
Imagination is busy
sketching rose-tinted pictur=
es of
joy. In fancy, the
voluptuous votary of fashion=
sees
herself amid the
festive throng, 'the observe=
d of
all observers.' Her
graceful form, arrayed in sn=
owy
robes, is whirling
through the mazes of the joy=
ous
dance; her eye is
brightest, her step is light=
est in
the gay assembly.
"In such delicious fancies ti=
me
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 n=
ew
scene is more charming
than the last. But after a w=
hile
she finds that
beneath this goodly exterior=
, all
is vanity, the
flattery which once charmed =
her
soul, now grates
harshly upon her ear; the
ball-room has lost its
charms; and with wasted heal=
th and
imbittered heart,
she turns away with the conv=
iction
that earthly
pleasures cannot satisfy the
longings of the soul!"
And
so forth and so on. There was a buzz of gratification from time to
time
during the reading, accompanied by whispered ejaculations of "How
sweet!"
"How eloquent!" "So true!" etc., and after the thing had
closed
with
a peculiarly afflicting sermon the applause was enthusiastic.
Then
arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the "interesting"
paleness
that comes of pills and indigestion, and read a "poem." Two
stanzas
of it will do:
"A MISSOURI MAIDEN'S FA=
REWELL
TO ALABAMA
"Alabama, good-bye! I l=
ove
thee well!
But yet fo=
r a
while do I leave thee now!
Sad, yes, sad thoughts=
of
thee my heart doth swell,
And burning
recollections throng my brow!
For I have wandered th=
rough
thy flowery woods;
Have roame=
d and
read near Tallapoosa's stream;
Have listened to Talla=
ssee's
warring floods,
And wooed =
on
Coosa's side Aurora's beam.
"Yet shame I not to bea=
r an
o'er-full heart,
Nor blush =
to
turn behind my tearful eyes;
'Tis from no stranger =
land I
now must part,
'Tis to no
strangers left I yield these sighs.
Welcome and home were =
mine
within this State,
Whose vale=
s I
leave--whose spires fade fast from me
And cold must be mine =
eyes,
and heart, and tete,
When, dear
Alabama! they turn cold on thee!"
There were very few there who knew what "tete" meant, but the poem was<= o:p>
very
satisfactory, nevertheless.
Next
appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, black-haired young
lady,
who paused an impressive moment, assumed a tragic expression, and
began
to read in a measured, solemn tone:
"A VISION
"Dark and tempestuous w=
as
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 o=
ver
its terror by
the illustrious Franklin! Ev=
en the
boisterous
winds unanimously came forth=
from
their mystic
homes, and blustered about a=
s if
to enhance by
their aid the wildness of the
scene.
"At such a time, so dar=
k, so
dreary, for human
sympathy my very spirit sigh=
ed;
but instead thereof,
"'My dearest friend, my
counsellor, my comforter
and guide--My joy in grief, =
my
second bliss
in joy,' came to my side. She
moved like one of
those bright beings pictured=
in
the sunny walks
of fancy's Eden by the roman=
tic
and young, a
queen of beauty unadorned sa=
ve 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 h=
er
genial touch, as
other unobtrusive beauties, =
she
would have glided
away un-perceived--unsought.=
A
strange sadness
rested upon her features, li=
ke icy
tears upon
the robe of December, as she=
pointed
to the
contending elements without,=
and
bade me contemplate
the two beings presented.&qu=
ot;
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 tha=
t
Daniel
Webster himself might well be proud of it.
It
may be remarked, in passing, that the number of compositions in
which
the word "beauteous" was over-fondled, and human experience
referred
to as "life's page," was up to the usual average.
Now
the master, mellow almost to the verge of geniality, put his chair
aside,
turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a map of
America
on the blackboard, to exercise the geography class upon. But he
made
a sad business of it with his unsteady hand, and a smothered
titter
rippled over the house. He knew what the matter was, and set
himself
to right it. He sponged out lines and 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 sign-painter's boy
had
GILDED it!
That
broke up the meeting. The boys were avenged. Vacation had come.
NOTE:--The pretended
"compositions" quoted in
this chapter are taken witho=
ut
alteration from a
volume entitled "Prose =
and
Poetry, by a Western
Lady"--but they are exa=
ctly
and precisely after
the schoolgirl pattern, and =
hence
are much
happier than any mere imitat=
ions
could be.
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.
The
funeral was a fine thing. The Cadets paraded in a style calculated
to
kill the late member with envy. Tom was a free boy again, however
--there
was something in that. He could drink and swear, now--but found
to
his surprise that he did not want to. The simple fact that he could,
took
the desire away, and the charm of it.
Tom
presently wondered to find that his coveted vacation was beginning
to
hang a little heavily on his hands.
He
attempted a diary--but nothing happened during three days, and so
he
abandoned it.
The
first of all the negro minstrel shows came to town, and made a
sensation.
Tom and Joe Harper got up a band of performers and were
happy
for two days.
Even
the Glorious Fourth was in some sense a failure, for it rained
hard,
there was no procession in consequence, and the greatest man in
the
world (as Tom supposed), Mr. Benton, an actual United States
Senator,
proved an overwhelming disappointment--for he was not
twenty-five
feet high, nor even anywhere in the neighborhood of it.
A
circus came. The boys played circus for three days afterward in
tents
made of rag carpeting--admission, three pins for boys, two for
girls--and
then circusing was abandoned.
A
phrenologist and a mesmerizer came--and went again and left the
village
duller and drearier than ever.
There
were some boys-and-girls' parties, but they were so few and so
delightful
that they only made the aching voids between ache the harder.
Becky
Thatcher was gone to her Constantinople home to stay with her
parents
during vacation--so there was no bright side to life anywhere.
The
dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic misery. It was a very
cancer
for permanency and pain.
Then
came the measles.
During
two long weeks Tom lay a prisoner, dead to the world and its
happenings.
He was very ill, he was interested in nothing. When he got
upon
his feet at last and moved feebly down-town, a melancholy change
had
come over everything and every creature. There had been a
"revival,"
and everybody had "got religion," not only the adults, but
even
the boys and girls. Tom went about, hoping against hope for the
sight
of one blessed sinful face, but disappointment crossed him
everywhere.
He found Joe Harper studying a Testament, and turned sadly
away
from the depressing spectacle. He sought Ben Rogers, and found him
visiting
the poor with a basket of tracts. He hunted up Jim Hollis, who
called
his attention to the precious blessing of his late measles as a
warning.
Every boy he encountered added another ton to his depression;
and
when, in desperation, he flew for refuge at last to the bosom of
Huckleberry
Finn and was received with a Scriptural quotation, his
heart
broke and he crept home and to bed realizing that he alone of all
the
town was lost, forever and forever.
And
that night there came on a terrific storm, with driving rain,
awful
claps of thunder and blinding sheets of lightning. He covered his
head
with the bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his
doom;
for he had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was
about
him. He believed he had taxed the forbearance of the powers above
to
the extremity of endurance and that this was the result. It might
have
seemed to him a waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a
battery
of artillery, but there seemed nothing incongruous about the
getting
up such an expensive thunderstorm as this to knock the turf
from
under an insect like himself.
By
and by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing its
object.
The boy's first impulse was to be grateful, and reform. His
second
was to wait--for there might not be any more storms.
The
next day the doctors were back; Tom had relapsed. The three weeks
he
spent on his back this time seemed an entire age. When he got abroad
at
last he was hardly grateful that he had been spared, remembering how
lonely
was his estate, how companionless and forlorn he was. He drifted
listlessly
down the street and found Jim Hollis acting as judge in a
juvenile
court that was trying a cat for murder, in the presence of her
victim,
a bird. He found Joe Harper and Huck Finn up an alley eating a
stolen
melon. Poor lads! they--like Tom--had suffered a relapse.
AT
last the sleepy atmosphere was stirred--and vigorously: the murder
trial
came on in the court. It became the absorbing topic of village
talk
immediately. Tom could not get away from it. Every reference to
the
murder sent a shudder to his heart, for his troubled conscience and
fears
almost persuaded him that these remarks were put forth in his
hearing
as "feelers"; he did not see how he could be suspected of
knowing
anything about the murder, but still he could not be
comfortable
in the midst of this gossip. It kept him in a cold shiver
all
the time. He took Huck to a lonely place to have a talk with him.
It
would be some relief to unseal his tongue for a little while; to
divide
his burden of distress with another sufferer. Moreover, he
wanted
to assure himself that Huck had remained discreet.
"Huck,
have you ever told anybody about--that?"
"'Bout
what?"
"You
know what."
"Oh--'course
I haven't."
"Never
a word?"
"Never
a solitary word, so help me. What makes you ask?"
"Well,
I was afeard."
"Why,
Tom Sawyer, we wouldn't be alive two days if that got found out.
YOU
know that."
Tom
felt more comfortable. After a pause:
"Huck,
they couldn't anybody get you to tell, could they?"
"Get
me to tell? Why, if I wanted that half-breed devil to drownd me
they
could get me to tell. They ain't no different way."
"Well,
that's all right, then. I reckon we're safe as long as we keep
mum.
But let's swear again, anyway. It's more surer."
"I'm
agreed."
So
they swore again with dread solemnities.
"What
is the talk around, Huck? I've heard a power of it."
"Talk?
Well, it's just Muff Potter, Muff Potter, Muff Potter all the
time.
It keeps me in a sweat, constant, so's I want to hide som'ers."
"That's
just the same way they go on round me. I reckon he's a goner.
Don't
you feel sorry for him, sometimes?"
"Most
always--most always. He ain't no account; but then he hain't
ever
done anything to hurt anybody. Just fishes a little, to get money
to
get drunk on--and loafs around considerable; but lord, we all do
that--leastways
most of us--preachers and such like. But he's kind of
good--he
give me half a fish, once, when there warn't enough for two;
and
lots of times he's kind of stood by me when I was out of luck."
"Well,
he's mended kites for me, Huck, and knitted hooks on to my
line.
I wish we could get him out of there."
"My!
we couldn't get him out, Tom. And besides, 'twouldn't do any
good;
they'd ketch him again."
"Yes--so
they would. But I hate to hear 'em abuse him so like the
dickens
when he never done--that."
"I
do too, Tom. Lord, I hear 'em say he's the bloodiest looking
villain
in this country, and they wonder he wasn't ever hung before."
"Yes,
they talk like that, all the time. I've heard 'em say that if he
was
to get free they'd lynch him."
"And
they'd do it, too."
The
boys had a long talk, but it brought them little comfort. As the
twilight
drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood
of
the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that
something
would happen that might clear away their difficulties. But
nothing
happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in
this
luckless captive.
The
boys did as they had often done before--went to the cell grating
and
gave Potter some tobacco and matches. He was on the ground floor
and
there were no guards.
His
gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences
before--it
cut deeper than ever, this time. They felt cowardly and
treacherous
to the last degree when Potter said:
"You've
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--THEY
don't forget him, says I, 'and I don't forget them.' Well,
boys,
I done an awful thing--drunk and crazy at the time--that's the
only
way I account for it--and now I got to swing for it, and it's
right.
Right, and BEST, too, I reckon--hope so, anyway. Well, we won't
talk
about that. I don't want to make YOU feel bad; you've befriended
me.
But what I want to say, is, don't YOU ever get drunk--then you won't
ever
get here. Stand a 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."
Tom
went home miserable, and his dreams that night were full of
horrors.
The next day and the day after, he hung about the court-room,
drawn
by an almost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself
to
stay out. Huck was having the same experience. They studiously
avoided
each other. Each wandered away, from time to time, but the same
dismal
fascination always brought them back presently. Tom kept his
ears
open when idlers sauntered out of the court-room, but invariably
heard
distressing news--the toils were closing more and more
relentlessly
around poor Potter. At the end of the second day the
village
talk was to the effect that Injun Joe's evidence stood firm and
unshaken,
and that there was not the slightest question as to what the
jury's
verdict would be.
Tom
was out late, that night, and came to bed through the window. He
was
in a tremendous state of excitement. It was hours before he got to
sleep.
All the village flocked to the court-house the next morning, for
this
was to be the great day. Both sexes were about equally represented
in
the packed audience. After a long wait the jury filed in and took
their
places; shortly afterward, Potter, pale and haggard, timid and
hopeless,
was brought in, with chains upon him, and seated where all
the
curious eyes could stare at him; no less conspicuous was Injun Joe,
stolid
as ever. There was another pause, and then the judge arrived and
the
sheriff proclaimed the opening of the court. The usual whisperings
among
the lawyers and gathering together of papers followed. These
details
and accompanying delays worked up an atmosphere of preparation
that
was as impressive as it was fascinating.
Now a
witness was called who testified that he found Muff Potter
washing
in the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the murder
was
discovered, and that he immediately sneaked away. After some
further
questioning, counsel for the prosecution said:
"Take
the witness."
The
prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again when
his
own counsel said:
"I
have no questions to ask him."
The
next witness proved the finding of the knife near the corpse.
Counsel
for the prosecution said:
"Take
the witness."
"I
have no questions to ask him," Potter's lawyer replied.
A
third witness swore he had often seen the knife in Potter's
possession.
"Take
the witness."
Counsel
for Potter declined to question him. The faces of the audience
began
to betray annoyance. Did this attorney mean to throw away his
client's
life without an effort?
Several
witnesses deposed concerning Potter's guilty behavior when
brought
to the scene of the murder. They were allowed to leave the
stand
without being cross-questioned.
Every
detail of the damaging circumstances that occurred in the
graveyard
upon that morning which all present remembered so well was
brought
out by credible witnesses, but none of them were cross-examined
by
Potter's lawyer. The perplexity and dissatisfaction of the house
expressed
itself in murmurs and provoked a reproof from the bench.
Counsel
for the prosecution now said:
"By
the oaths of citizens whose simple word is above suspicion, we
have
fastened this awful crime, beyond all possibility of question,
upon
the unhappy prisoner at the bar. We rest our case here."
A
groan escaped from poor Potter, and he put his face in his hands and
rocked
his body softly to and fro, while a painful silence reigned in
the
court-room. Many men were moved, and many women's compassion
testified
itself in tears. Counsel for the defence rose and said:
"Your
honor, in our remarks at the opening of this trial, we
foreshadowed
our purpose to prove that our client did this fearful deed
while
under the influence of a blind and irresponsible delirium
produced
by drink. We have changed our mind. We shall not offer that
plea."
[Then to the clerk:] "Call Thomas Sawyer!"
A
puzzled amazement awoke in every face in the house, not even
excepting
Potter's. Every eye fastened itself with wondering interest
upon
Tom as he rose and took his place upon the stand. The boy looked
wild
enough, for he was badly scared. The oath was administered.
"Thomas
Sawyer, where were you on the seventeenth of June, about the
hour
of midnight?"
Tom
glanced at Injun Joe's iron face and his tongue failed him. The
audience
listened breathless, but the words refused to come. After a
few
moments, however, the boy got a little of his strength back, and
managed
to put enough of it into his voice to make part of the house
hear:
"In
the graveyard!"
"A
little bit louder, please. Don't be afraid. You were--"
"In
the graveyard."
A
contemptuous smile flitted across Injun Joe's face.
"Were
you anywhere near Horse Williams' grave?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Speak
up--just a trifle louder. How near were you?"
"Near
as I am to you."
"Were
you hidden, or not?"
"I
was hid."
"Where?"
"Behind
the elms that's on the edge of the grave."
Injun
Joe gave a barely perceptible start.
"Any
one with you?"
"Yes,
sir. I went there with--"
"Wait--wait
a moment. Never mind mentioning your companion's name. We
will
produce him at the proper time. Did you carry anything there with
you."
Tom
hesitated and looked confused.
"Speak
out, my boy--don't be diffident. The truth is always
respectable.
What did you take there?"
"Only
a--a--dead cat."
There
was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked.
"We
will produce the skeleton of that cat. Now, my boy, tell us
everything
that occurred--tell it in your own way--don't skip anything,
and
don't be afraid."
Tom
began--hesitatingly at first, but as he warmed to his subject his
words
flowed more and more easily; in a little while every sound ceased
but
his own voice; every eye fixed itself upon him; with parted lips
and
bated breath the audience hung upon his words, taking no note of
time,
rapt in the ghastly fascinations of the tale. The strain upon
pent
emotion reached its climax when the boy said:
"--and
as the doctor fetched the board around and Muff Potter fell,
Injun
Joe jumped with the knife and--"
Crash!
Quick as lightning the half-breed sprang for a window, tore his
way
through all opposers, and was gone!
TOM
was a glittering hero once more--the pet of the old, the envy of
the
young. His name even went into immortal print, for the village
paper
magnified him. There were some that believed he would be
President,
yet, if he escaped hanging.
As
usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff Potter to its bosom
and
fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before. But that sort
of
conduct is to the world's credit; therefore it is not well to find
fault
with it.
Tom's
days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his nights
were
seasons of horror. Injun Joe infested all his dreams, and always
with
doom in his eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade the boy to
stir
abroad after nightfall. Poor Huck was in the same state of
wretchedness
and terror, for Tom had told the whole story to the lawyer
the
night before the great day of the trial, and Huck was sore afraid
that
his share in the business might leak out, yet, notwithstanding
Injun
Joe's flight had saved him the suffering of testifying in court.
The poor
fellow had got the attorney to promise secrecy, but what of
that?
Since Tom's harassed conscience had managed to drive him to the
lawyer's
house by night and wring a dread tale from lips that had been
sealed
with the dismalest and most formidable of oaths, Huck's
confidence
in the human race was well-nigh obliterated.
Daily
Muff Potter's gratitude made Tom glad he had spoken; but nightly
he
wished he had sealed up his tongue.
Half
the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would never be captured; the
other
half he was afraid he would be. He felt sure he never could draw
a
safe breath again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse.
Rewards
had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no Injun
Joe
was found. One of those omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a
detective,
came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his head,
looked
wise, and made that sort of astounding success which members of
that
craft usually achieve. That is to say, he "found a 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.
The
slow days drifted on, and each left behind it a slightly lightened
weight
of apprehension.
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.
"Oh,
most anywhere."
"Why,
is it hid all around?"
"No,
indeed it ain't. It's hid in mighty particular places, Huck
--sometimes
on islands, sometimes in rotten chests under the end of a
limb
of an old dead tree, just where the shadow falls at midnight; but
mostly
under the floor in ha'nted houses."
"Who
hides it?"
"Why,
robbers, of course--who'd you reckon? Sunday-school
sup'rintendents?"
"I
don't know. If 'twas mine I wouldn't hide it; I'd spend it and have
a
good time."
"So
would I. But robbers don't do that way. They always hide it and
leave
it there."
"Don't
they come after it any more?"
"No,
they think they will, but they generally forget the marks, or
else
they die. Anyway, it lays there a long time and gets rusty; and by
and
by somebody finds an old yellow paper that tells how to find the
marks--a
paper that's got to be ciphered over about a week because it's
mostly
signs and hy'roglyphics."
"HyroQwhich?"
"Hy'roglyphics--pictures
and things, you know, that don't seem to mean
anything."
"Have
you got one of them papers, Tom?"
"No."
"Well
then, how you going to find the marks?"
"I
don't want any marks. They always bury it under a ha'nted house or
on an
island, or under a dead tree that's got one limb sticking out.
Well,
we've tried Jackson's Island a little, and we can try it again
some
time; and there's the old ha'nted house up the Still-House branch,
and
there's lots of dead-limb trees--dead loads of 'em."
"Is
it under all of them?"
"How
you talk! No!"
"Then
how you going to know which one to go for?"
"Go
for all of 'em!"
"Why,
Tom, it'll take all summer."
"Well,
what of that? Suppose you find a brass pot with a hundred
dollars
in it, all rusty and gray, or rotten chest full of di'monds.
How's
that?"
Huck's
eyes glowed.
"That's
bully. Plenty bully enough for me. Just you gimme the hundred
dollars
and I don't want no di'monds."
"All
right. But I bet you I ain't going to throw off on di'monds. Some
of
'em's worth twenty dollars apiece--there ain't any, hardly, but's
worth
six bits or a dollar."
"No!
Is that so?"
"Cert'nly--anybody'll
tell you so. Hain't you ever seen one, Huck?"
"Not
as I remember."
"Oh,
kings have slathers of them."
"Well,
I don' know no kings, Tom."
"I
reckon you don't. But if you was to go to Europe you'd see a raft
of
'em hopping around."
"Do
they hop?"
"Hop?--your
granny! No!"
"Well,
what did you say they did, for?"
"Shucks,
I only meant you'd SEE 'em--not hopping, of course--what do
they
want to hop for?--but I mean you'd just see 'em--scattered around,
you
know, in a kind of a general way. Like that old humpbacked Richard."
"Richard?
What's his other name?"
"He
didn't have any other name. Kings don't have any but a given name."
"No?"
"But
they don't."
"Well,
if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don't want to be a king
and
have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say--where you
going
to dig first?"
"Well,
I don't know. S'pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree on the
hill
t'other side of Still-House branch?"
"I'm
agreed."
So
they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set out on their
three-mile
tramp. They arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves
down
in the shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke.
"I
like this," said Tom.
"So
do I."
"Say,
Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with your
share?"
"Well,
I'll have pie and a glass of soda every day, and I'll go to
every
circus that comes along. I bet I'll have a gay time."
"Well,
ain't you going to save any of it?"
"Save
it? What for?"
"Why,
so as to have something to live on, by and by."
"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?"
"I'm
going to buy a new drum, and a sure-'nough sword, and a red
necktie
and a bull pup, and get married."
"Married!"
"That's
it."
"Tom,
you--why, you ain't in your right mind."
"Wait--you'll
see."
"Well,
that's the foolishest thing you could do. Look at pap and my
mother.
Fight! Why, they used to fight all the time. I remember, mighty
well."
"That
ain't anything. The girl I'm going to marry won't fight."
"Tom,
I reckon they're all alike. They'll all comb a body. Now you
better
think 'bout this awhile. I tell you you better. What's the name
of
the gal?"
"It
ain't a gal at all--it's a girl."
"It's
all the same, I reckon; some says gal, some says girl--both's
right,
like enough. Anyway, what's her name, Tom?"
"I'll
tell you some time--not now."
"All
right--that'll do. Only if you get married I'll be more lonesomer
than
ever."
"No
you won't. You'll come and live with me. Now stir out of this and
we'll
go to digging."
They
worked and sweated for half an hour. No result. They toiled
another
half-hour. Still no result. Huck said:
"Do
they always bury it as deep as this?"
"Sometimes--not
always. Not generally. I reckon we haven't got the
right
place."
So
they chose a new spot and began again. The labor dragged a little,
but
still they made progress. They pegged away in silence for some
time.
Finally Huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded drops from
his
brow with his sleeve, and said:
"Where
you going to dig next, after we get this one?"
"I
reckon maybe we'll tackle the old tree that's over yonder on
Cardiff
Hill back of the widow's."
"I
reckon that'll be a good one. But won't the widow take it away from
us,
Tom? It's on her land."
"SHE
take it away! Maybe she'd like to try it once. Whoever finds one
of
these hid treasures, it belongs to him. It don't make any difference
whose
land it's on."
That
was satisfactory. The work went on. By and by Huck said:
"Blame
it, we must be in the wrong place again. What do you think?"
"It
is mighty curious, Huck. I don't understand it. Sometimes witches
interfere.
I reckon maybe that's what's the trouble now."
"Shucks!
Witches ain't got no power in the daytime."
"Well,
that's so. I didn't think of that. Oh, I know what the matter
is!
What a blamed lot of fools we are! You got to find out where the
shadow
of the limb falls at midnight, and that's where you dig!"
"Then
consound it, we've fooled away all this work for nothing. Now
hang
it all, we got to come back in the night. It's an awful long way.
Can
you get out?"
"I
bet I will. We've got to do it to-night, too, because if somebody
sees
these holes they'll know in a minute what's here and they'll go
for
it."
"Well,
I'll come around and maow to-night."
"All
right. Let's hide the tools in the bushes."
The
boys were there that night, about the appointed time. They sat in
the
shadow waiting. It was a lonely place, and an hour made solemn by
old
traditions. Spirits whispered in the rustling leaves, ghosts lurked
in
the murky nooks, the deep baying of a hound floated up out of the
distance,
an owl answered with his sepulchral note. The boys were
subdued
by these solemnities, and talked little. By and by they judged
that
twelve had come; they marked where the shadow fell, and began to
dig.
Their hopes commenced to rise. Their interest grew stronger, and
their
industry kept pace with it. The hole deepened and still deepened,
but
every time their hearts jumped to hear the pick strike upon
something,
they only suffered a new disappointment. It was only a stone
or a
chunk. At last Tom said:
"It
ain't any use, Huck, we're wrong again."
"Well,
but we CAN'T be wrong. We spotted the shadder to a dot."
"I
know it, but then there's another thing."
"What's
that?".
"Why,
we only guessed at the time. Like enough it was too late or too
early."
Huck
dropped his shovel.
"That's
it," said he. "That's the very trouble. We got to give this
one
up. We can't ever tell the right time, and besides this kind of
thing's
too awful, here this time of night with witches and ghosts
a-fluttering
around so. I feel as if something's behind me all the time;
and
I'm afeard to turn around, becuz maybe there's others in front
a-waiting
for a chance. I been creeping all over, ever since I got here."
"Well,
I've been pretty much so, too, Huck. They most always put in a
dead
man when they bury a treasure under a tree, to look out for it."
"Lordy!"
"Yes,
they do. I've always heard that."
"Tom,
I don't like to fool around much where there's dead people. A
body's
bound to get into trouble with 'em, sure."
"I
don't like to stir 'em up, either. S'pose this one here was to
stick
his skull out and say something!"
"Don't
Tom! It's awful."
"Well,
it just is. Huck, I don't feel comfortable a bit."
"Say,
Tom, let's give this place up, and try somewheres else."
"All
right, I reckon we better."
"What'll
it be?"
Tom
considered awhile; and then said:
"The
ha'nted house. That's it!"
"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."
"Yes,
but, Huck, ghosts don't travel around only at night. They won't
hender
us from digging there in the daytime."
"Well,
that's so. But you know mighty well people don't go about that
ha'nted
house in the day nor the night."
"Well,
that's mostly because they don't like to go where a man's been
murdered,
anyway--but nothing's ever been seen around that house except
in
the night--just some blue lights slipping by the windows--no regular
ghosts."
"Well,
where you see one of them blue lights flickering around, Tom,
you
can bet there's a ghost mighty close behind it. It stands to
reason.
Becuz you know that they don't anybody but ghosts use 'em."
"Yes,
that's so. But anyway they don't come around in the daytime, so
what's
the use of our being afeard?"
"Well,
all right. We'll tackle the ha'nted house if you say so--but I
reckon
it's taking chances."
They
had started down the hill by this time. There in the middle of
the
moonlit valley below them stood the "ha'nted" house, utterly
isolated,
its fences gone long ago, rank weeds smothering the very
doorsteps,
the chimney crumbled to ruin, the window-sashes vacant, a
corner
of the roof caved in. The boys gazed 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.
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:
"Lookyhere,
Tom, do you know what day it is?"
Tom
mentally ran over the days of the week, and then quickly lifted
his
eyes with a startled look in them--
"My!
I never once thought of it, Huck!"
"Well,
I didn't neither, but all at once it popped onto me that it was
Friday."
"Blame
it, a body can't be too careful, Huck. We might 'a' got into an
awful
scrape, tackling such a thing on a Friday."
"MIGHT!
Better say we WOULD! There's some lucky days, maybe, but
Friday
ain't."
"Any
fool knows that. I don't reckon YOU was the first that found it
out,
Huck."
"Well,
I never said I was, did I? And Friday ain't all, neither. I had
a
rotten bad dream last night--dreampt about rats."
"No!
Sure sign of trouble. Did they fight?"
"No."
"Well,
that's good, Huck. When they don't fight it's only a sign that
there's
trouble around, you know. All we got to do is to look mighty
sharp
and keep out of it. We'll drop this thing for to-day, and play.
Do
you know Robin Hood, Huck?"
"No.
Who's Robin Hood?"
"Why,
he was one of the greatest men that was ever in England--and the
best.
He was a robber."
"Cracky,
I wisht I was. Who did he rob?"
"Only
sheriffs and bishops and rich people and kings, and such like.
But
he never bothered the poor. He loved 'em. He always divided up with
'em
perfectly square."
"Well,
he must 'a' been a brick."
"I
bet you he was, Huck. Oh, he was the noblest man that ever was.
They
ain't any such men now, I can tell you. He could lick any man in
England,
with one hand tied behind him; and he could take his yew bow
and
plug a ten-cent piece every time, a mile and a half."
"What's
a YEW bow?"
"I
don't know. It's some kind of a bow, of course. And if he hit that
dime
only on the edge he would set down and cry--and curse. But we'll
play
Robin Hood--it's nobby fun. I'll learn you."
"I'm
agreed."
So
they played Robin Hood all the afternoon, now and then casting a
yearning
eye down upon the haunted house and passing a remark about the
morrow's
prospects and possibilities there. As the sun began to sink
into
the west they took their way homeward athwart the long shadows of
the
trees and soon were buried from sight in the forests of Cardiff
Hill.
On
Saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were at the dead tree again.
They
had a smoke and a chat in the shade, and then dug a little in
their
last hole, not with great hope, but merely because Tom said there
were
so many cases where people had given up a treasure after getting
down
within six inches of it, and then somebody else had come along and
turned
it up with a single thrust of a shovel. The thing failed this
time,
however, so the boys shouldered their tools and went away feeling
that
they had not trifled with fortune, but had fulfilled all the
requirements
that belong to the business of treasure-hunting.
When
they reached the haunted house there was something so weird and
grisly
about the dead silence that reigned there under the baking sun,
and
something so depressing about the loneliness and desolation of the
place,
that they were afraid, for a moment, to venture in. Then they
crept
to the door and took a trembling peep. They saw a weed-grown,
floorless
room, unplastered, an ancient fireplace, vacant windows, a
ruinous
staircase; and here, there, and everywhere hung ragged and
abandoned
cobwebs. They presently entered, softly, with quickened
pulses,
talking in whispers, ears alert to catch the slightest sound,
and
muscles tense and ready for instant retreat.
In a
little while familiarity modified their fears and they gave the
place
a critical and interested examination, rather admiring their own
boldness,
and wondering at it, too. Next they wanted to look up-stairs.
This
was something like cutting off retreat, but they got to daring
each
other, and of course there could be but one result--they threw
their
tools into a corner and made the ascent. Up there were the same
signs
of decay. In one corner they found a closet that promised
mystery,
but the promise was a fraud--there was nothing in it. Their
courage
was up now and well in hand. They were about to go down and
begin
work when--
"Sh!"
said Tom.
"What
is it?" whispered Huck, blanching with fright.
"Sh!...
There!... Hear it?"
"Yes!...
Oh, my! Let's run!"
"Keep
still! Don't you budge! They're coming right toward the door."
The
boys stretched themselves upon the floor with their eyes to
knot-holes
in the planking, and lay waiting, in a misery of fear.
"They've
stopped.... No--coming.... Here they are. Don't whisper
another
word, Huck. My goodness, I wish I was out of this!"
Two
men entered. Each boy said to himself: "There's the old deaf and
dumb
Spaniard that's been about town once or twice lately--never saw
t'other
man before."
"T'other"
was a ragged, unkempt creature, with nothing very pleasant
in
his face. The Spaniard was wrapped in a serape; he had bushy white
whiskers;
long white hair flowed from under his sombrero, and he wore
green
goggles. When they came in, "t'other" was talking in a low voice;=
they
sat down on the ground, facing the door, with their backs to the
wall,
and the speaker continued his remarks. His manner became less
guarded
and his words more distinct as he proceeded:
"No,"
said he, "I've thought it all over, and I don't like it. It's
dangerous."
"Dangerous!"
grunted the "deaf and dumb" Spaniard--to the vast
surprise
of the boys. "Milksop!"
This
voice made the boys gasp and quake. It was Injun Joe's! There was
silence
for some time. Then Joe said:
"What's
any more dangerous than that job up yonder--but nothing's come
of
it."
"That's
different. Away up the river so, and not another house about.
'Twon't
ever be known that we tried, anyway, long as we didn't succeed."
"Well,
what's more dangerous than coming here in the daytime!--anybody
would
suspicion us that saw us."
"I
know that. But there warn't any other place as handy after that
fool
of a job. I want to quit this shanty. I wanted to yesterday, only
it
warn't any use trying to stir out of here, with those infernal boys
playing
over there on the hill right in full view."
"Those
infernal boys" quaked again under the inspiration of this
remark,
and thought how lucky it was that they had remembered it was
Friday
and concluded to wait a day. They wished in their hearts they
had
waited a year.
The
two men got out some food and made a luncheon. After a long and
thoughtful
silence, Injun Joe said:
"Look
here, lad--you go back up the river where you belong. Wait there
till
you hear from me. I'll take the chances on dropping into this town
just
once more, for a look. We'll do that 'dangerous' job after I've
spied
around a little and think things look well for it. Then for
Texas!
We'll leg it together!"
This
was satisfactory. Both men presently fell to yawning, and Injun
Joe
said:
"I'm
dead for sleep! It's your turn to watch."
He
curled down in the weeds and soon began to snore. His comrade
stirred
him once or twice and he became quiet. Presently the watcher
began
to nod; his head drooped lower and lower, both men began to snore
now.
The
boys drew a long, grateful breath. Tom whispered:
"Now's
our chance--come!"
Huck
said:
"I
can't--I'd die if they was to wake."
Tom
urged--Huck held back. At last Tom rose slowly and softly, and
started
alone. But the first step he made wrung such a hideous creak
from
the crazy floor that he sank down almost dead with fright. He
never
made a second attempt. The boys lay there counting the dragging
moments
till it seemed to them that time must be done and eternity
growing
gray; and then they were grateful to note that at last the sun
was
setting.
Now
one snore ceased. Injun Joe sat up, stared around--smiled grimly
upon
his comrade, whose head was drooping upon his knees--stirred him
up
with his foot and said:
"Here!
YOU'RE a watchman, ain't you! All right, though--nothing's
happened."
"My!
have I been asleep?"
"Oh,
partly, partly. Nearly time for us to be moving, pard. What'll we
do
with what little swag we've got left?"
"I
don't know--leave it here as we've always done, I reckon. No use to
take
it away till we start south. Six hundred and fifty in silver's
something
to carry."
"Well--all
right--it won't matter to come here once more."
"No--but
I'd say come in the night as we used to do--it's better."
"Yes:
but look here; it may be a good while before I get the right
chance
at that job; accidents might happen; 'tain't in such a very good
place;
we'll just regularly bury it--and bury it deep."
"Good
idea," said the comrade, who walked across the room, knelt down,
raised
one of the rearward 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.
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 NOW
we're
here!"
Joe's
knife struck upon something.
"Hello!"
said he.
"What
is it?" said his comrade.
"Half-rotten
plank--no, it's a box, I believe. Here--bear a hand and
we'll
see what it's here for. Never mind, I've broke a hole."
He
reached his hand in and drew it out--
"Man,
it's money!"
The
two men examined the handful of coins. They were gold. The boys
above
were as excited as themselves, and as delighted.
Joe's
comrade said:
"We'll
make quick work of this. There's an old rusty pick over amongst
the
weeds in the corner the other side of the fireplace--I saw it a
minute
ago."
He
ran and brought the boys' pick and shovel. Injun Joe took the pick,
looked
it over critically, shook his head, muttered something to
himself,
and then began to use it. The box was soon unearthed. It was
not
very large; it was iron bound and had been very strong before the
slow
years had injured it. The men contemplated the treasure awhile in
blissful
silence.
"Pard,
there's thousands of dollars here," said Injun Joe.
"'Twas
always said that Murrel's gang used to be around here one
summer,"
the stranger observed.
"I
know it," said Injun Joe; "and this looks like it, I should
say."
"Now
you won't need to do that job."
The
half-breed frowned. Said he:
"You
don't know me. Least you don't know all about that thing. 'Tain't
robbery
altogether--it's REVENGE!" and a wicked light flamed in his
eyes.
"I'll need your help in it. When it's finished--then Texas. Go
home
to your Nance and your kids, and stand by till you hear from me."
"Well--if
you say so; what'll we do with this--bury it again?"
"Yes.
[Ravishing delight overhead.] NO! by the great Sachem, no!
[Profound
distress overhead.] I'd nearly forgot. That pick had fresh
earth
on it! [The boys were sick with terror in a moment.] What
business
has a pick and a shovel here? What business with fresh earth
on
them? Who brought them here--and where are they gone? Have you heard
anybody?--seen
anybody? What! bury it again and leave them to come and
see
the ground disturbed? Not exactly--not exactly. We'll take it to my
den."
"Why,
of course! Might have thought of that before. You mean Number
One?"
"No--Number
Two--under the cross. The other place is bad--too common."
"All
right. It's nearly dark enough to start."
Injun
Joe got up and went about from window to window cautiously
peeping
out. Presently he said:
"Who
could have brought those tools here? Do you reckon they can be
up-stairs?"
The
boys' breath forsook them. Injun Joe put his hand on his knife,
halted
a moment, undecided, and then turned toward the stairway. The
boys
thought of the closet, but their strength was gone. The steps came
creaking
up the stairs--the intolerable distress of the situation woke
the
stricken resolution of the lads--they were about to spring for the
closet,
when there was a crash of rotten timbers and Injun Joe landed
on
the ground amid the debris of the ruined stairway. He gathered
himself
up cursing, and his comrade said:
"Now
what's the use of all that? If it's anybody, and they're up
there,
let them STAY there--who cares? If they want to jump down, now,
and
get into trouble, who objects? It will be dark in fifteen minutes
--and
then let them follow us if they want to. I'm willing. In my
opinion,
whoever hove those things in here caught a sight of us and
took
us for ghosts or devils or something. I'll bet they're running
yet."
Joe
grumbled 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.
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<= o:p>
misfortune
to find that money turn up missing. Bitter, bitter luck that
the
tools were ever brought there!
They
resolved to keep a lookout for that Spaniard when he should come
to
town spying out for chances to do his revengeful job, and follow him
to
"Number Two," wherever that might be. Then a ghastly thought
occurred
to Tom.
"Revenge?
What if he means US, Huck!"
"Oh,
don't!" said Huck, nearly fainting.
They
talked it all over, and as they entered town they agreed to
believe
that he might possibly mean somebody else--at least that he
might
at least mean nobody but Tom, since only Tom had testified.
Very,
very small comfort it was to Tom to be alone in danger! Company
would
be a palpable improvement, he thought.
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.
But
the incidents of his adventure grew sensibly sharper and clearer
under
the attrition of thinking them over, and so he presently found
himself
leaning to the impression that the thing might not have been a
dream,
after all. This uncertainty must be swept away. He would snatch
a
hurried breakfast and go and find Huck. Huck was sitting on the
gunwale
of a flatboat, listlessly dangling his feet in the water and
looking
very melancholy. Tom concluded to let Huck lead up to the
subject.
If he did not do it, then the adventure would be proved to
have
been only a dream.
"Hello,
Huck!"
"Hello,
yourself."
Silence,
for a minute.
"Tom,
if we'd 'a' left the blame tools at the dead tree, we'd 'a' got
the
money. Oh, ain't it awful!"
"'Tain't
a dream, then, 'tain't a dream! Somehow I most wish it was.
Dog'd
if I don't, Huck."
"What
ain't a dream?"
"Oh,
that thing yesterday. I been half thinking it was."
"Dream!
If them stairs hadn't broke down you'd 'a' seen how much dream
it
was! I've had dreams enough all night--with that patch-eyed Spanish
devil
going for me all through 'em--rot him!"
"No,
not rot him. FIND him! Track the money!"
"Tom,
we'll never find him. A feller don't have only one chance for
such
a pile--and that one's lost. I'd feel mighty shaky if I was to see
him,
anyway."
"Well,
so'd I; but I'd like to see him, anyway--and track him out--to
his
Number Two."
"Number
Two--yes, that's it. I been thinking 'bout that. But I can't
make
nothing out of it. What do you reckon it is?"
"I
dono. It's too deep. Say, Huck--maybe it's the number of a house!"
"Goody!...
No, Tom, that ain't it. If it is, it ain't in this
one-horse
town. They ain't no numbers here."
"Well,
that's so. Lemme think a minute. Here--it's the number of a
room--in
a tavern, you know!"
"Oh,
that's the trick! They ain't only two taverns. We can find out
quick."
"You
stay here, Huck, till I come."
Tom
was off at once. He did not care to have Huck's company in public
places.
He was gone half an hour. He found that in the best tavern, No.
2 had
long been occupied by a young lawyer, and was still so occupied.
In
the less ostentatious house, No. 2 was a mystery. The
tavern-keeper's
young son said it was kept locked all the time, and he
never
saw anybody go into it or come out of it except at night; he did
not
know any particular reason for this state of things; had had some
little
curiosity, but it was rather feeble; had made the most of the
mystery
by entertaining himself with the idea that that room was
"ha'nted";
had noticed that there was a light in there the night before.
"That's
what I've found out, Huck. I reckon that's the very No. 2
we're
after."
"I
reckon it is, Tom. Now what you going to do?"
"Lemme
think."
Tom
thought a long time. Then he said:
"I'll
tell you. The back door of that No. 2 is the door that comes out
into
that little close alley between the tavern and the old rattle trap
of a
brick store. Now you get hold of all the door-keys you can find,
and
I'll nip all of auntie's, and the first dark night we'll go there
and
try 'em. And mind you, keep a lookout for Injun Joe, because he
said
he was going to drop into town and spy around once more for a
chance
to get his revenge. If you see him, you just follow him; and if
he
don't go to that No. 2, that ain't the place."
"Lordy,
I don't want to foller him by myself!"
"Why,
it'll be night, sure. He mightn't ever see you--and if he did,
maybe
he'd never think anything."
"Well,
if it's pretty dark I reckon I'll track him. I dono--I dono.
I'll
try."
"You
bet I'll follow him, if it's dark, Huck. Why, he might 'a' found
out
he couldn't get his revenge, and be going right after that money."
"It's
so, Tom, it's so. I'll foller him; I will, by jingoes!"
"Now
you're TALKING! Don't you ever weaken, Huck, and I won't."
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.
Tuesday
the boys had the same ill luck. Also Wednesday. But Thursday
night
promised better. Tom slipped out in good season with his aunt's
old
tin lantern, and a large towel to blindfold it with. He hid the
lantern
in Huck's sugar hogshead and the watch began. An hour before
midnight
the tavern closed up and its lights (the only ones
thereabouts)
were put out. No Spaniard had been seen. Nobody had
entered
or left the alley. Everything was auspicious. The blackness of
darkness
reigned, the perfect stillness was interrupted only by
occasional
mutterings of distant thunder.
Tom
got his lantern, lit it in the hogshead, wrapped it closely in the
towel,
and the two adventurers crept in the gloom toward the tavern.
Huck
stood sentry and Tom felt his way into the alley. Then there was a
season
of waiting anxiety that weighed upon Huck's spirits like a
mountain.
He began to wish he could see a flash from the lantern--it
would
frighten him, but it would at least tell him that Tom was alive
yet.
It seemed hours since Tom had disappeared. Surely he must have
fainted;
maybe he was dead; maybe his heart had burst under terror and
excitement.
In his uneasiness Huck found himself drawing closer and
closer
to the alley; fearing all sorts of dreadful things, and
momentarily
expecting some catastrophe to happen that would take away
his
breath. There was not much to take away, for he seemed only able to
inhale
it by thimblefuls, and his heart would soon wear itself out, the
way
it was beating. Suddenly there was a flash of light and Tom came
tearing
by him: "Run!" said he; "run, for your life!"
He
needn't have repeated it; once was enough; Huck was making thirty
or
forty miles an hour before the repetition was uttered. The boys
never
stopped till they reached the shed of a deserted slaughter-house
at the
lower end of the village. Just as they got within its shelter
the
storm burst and the rain poured down. As soon as Tom got his breath
he
said:
"Huck,
it was awful! I tried two of the keys, just as soft as I could;
but
they seemed to make such a power of racket that I couldn't hardly
get
my breath I was so scared. They wouldn't turn in the lock, either.
Well,
without noticing what I was doing, I took hold of the knob, and
open
comes the door! It warn't locked! I hopped in, and shook off the
towel,
and, GREAT CAESAR'S GHOST!"
"What!--what'd
you see, Tom?"
"Huck,
I most stepped onto Injun Joe's hand!"
"No!"
"Yes!
He was lying there, sound asleep on the floor, with his old
patch
on his eye and his arms spread out."
"Lordy,
what did you do? Did he wake up?"
"No,
never budged. Drunk, I reckon. I just grabbed that towel and
started!"
"I'd
never 'a' thought of the towel, I bet!"
"Well,
I would. My aunt would make me mighty sick if I lost it."
"Say,
Tom, did you see that box?"
"Huck,
I didn't wait to look around. I didn't see the box, I didn't
see
the cross. I didn't see anything but a bottle and a tin cup on the
floor
by Injun Joe; yes, I saw two barrels and lots more bottles in the
room.
Don't you see, now, what's the matter with that ha'nted room?"
"How?"
"Why,
it's ha'nted with whiskey! Maybe ALL the Temperance Taverns have
got a
ha'nted room, hey, Huck?"
"Well,
I reckon maybe that's so. Who'd 'a' thought such a thing? But
say,
Tom, now's a mighty good time to get that box, if Injun Joe's
drunk."
"It
is, that! You try it!"
Huck
shuddered.
"Well,
no--I reckon not."
"And
I reckon not, Huck. Only one bottle alongside of Injun Joe ain't
enough.
If there'd been three, he'd be drunk enough and I'd do it."
There
was a long pause for reflection, and then Tom said:
"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."
"Well,
I'm agreed. I'll watch the whole night long, and I'll do it
every
night, too, if you'll do the other part of the job."
"All
right, I will. All you got to do is to trot up Hooper Street a
block
and maow--and if I'm asleep, you throw some gravel at the window
and
that'll fetch me."
"Agreed,
and good as wheat!"
"Now,
Huck, the storm's over, and I'll go home. It'll begin to be
daylight
in a couple of hours. You go back and watch that long, will
you?"
"I
said I would, Tom, and I will. I'll ha'nt that tavern every night
for a
year! I'll sleep all day and I'll stand watch all night."
"That's
all right. Now, where you going to sleep?"
"In
Ben Rogers' 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
WITH
him. But you needn't tell that. A body's got to do things when
he's
awful hungry he wouldn't want to do as a steady thing."
"Well,
if I don't want you in the daytime, 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."
THE
first thing Tom heard on Friday morning was a glad piece of news
--Judge
Thatcher's family had come back to town the night before. Both
Injun
Joe and the treasure sunk into secondary importance for a moment,
and
Becky took the chief place in the boy's interest. He saw her and
they
had an exhausting good time playing "hi-spy" and
"gully-keeper"
with
a crowd of their school-mates. 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.
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 ferryboat
was
chartered for the occasion; presently the gay throng filed up the
main
street laden with provision-baskets. Sid was sick and had to miss
the
fun; Mary remained at home to entertain him. The last thing Mrs.
Thatcher
said to Becky, was:
"You'll
not get back till late. Perhaps you'd better stay all night
with
some of the girls that live near the ferry-landing, child."
"Then
I'll stay with Susy Harper, mamma."
"Very
well. And mind and behave yourself and don't be any trouble."
Presently,
as they tripped along, Tom said to Becky:
"Say--I'll
tell you what we'll do. 'Stead of going to Joe Harper's
we'll
climb right up the hill and stop at the Widow Douglas'. She'll
have
ice-cream! She has it most every day--dead loads of it. And she'll
be
awful glad to have us."
"Oh,
that will be fun!"
Then
Becky reflected a moment and said:
"But
what will mamma say?"
"How'll
she ever know?"
The
girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said reluctantly:
"I
reckon it's wrong--but--"
"But
shucks! Your mother won't know, and so what's the harm? All she
wants
is that you'll be safe; and I bet you she'd 'a' said go there if
she'd
'a' thought of it. I know she would!"
The
Widow Douglas' splendid hospitality was a tempting bait. It and
Tom's
persuasions presently carried the day. So it was decided to say
nothing
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 to-night? The sure fun of the
evening
outweighed the uncertain treasure; and, boy-like, he determined
to
yield to the stronger inclination and not allow himself to think of
the
box of money another time that day.
Three
miles below town the 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:
"Who's
ready for the cave?"
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 ice-house, and
walled
by Nature with solid limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat.
It
was romantic and mysterious to stand here in the deep gloom and look
out
upon the green valley shining in the sun. But the impressiveness of
the
situation quickly wore off, and the romping began again. The moment
a
candle was lighted there was a general rush upon the owner of it; a
struggle
and a gallant 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.
The
procession moved along the main avenue some three-quarters of a
mile,
and then groups and couples began to slip aside into branch
avenues,
fly along the dismal corridors, and take each other by
surprise
at points where the corridors joined again. Parties were able
to
elude each other for the space of half an hour without going beyond
the
"known" ground.
By-and-by,
one group after another came straggling back to the mouth
of
the cave, panting, hilarious, smeared from head to foot with tallow
drippings,
daubed with clay, and entirely delighted with the success of
the
day. Then they were astonished to find that they had been taking no
note
of time and that night was about at hand. The clanging bell had
been
calling for half an hour. However, this sort of close to the day's
adventures
was romantic and therefore satisfactory. When the ferryboat
with her
wild freight pushed into the stream, nobody cared sixpence for
the
wasted time but the captain of the craft.
Huck
was already upon his watch when the 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?
A
noise fell upon his ear. He was all attention in an instant. The
alley
door closed softly. He sprang to the corner of the brick store.
The
next moment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have
something
under his arm. It must be that box! So they were going to
remove
the treasure. Why call Tom now? It would be absurd--the men
would
get away with the box and never be found again. No, he would
stick
to their wake and follow them; he would trust to the darkness for
security
from discovery. So communing with himself, Huck stepped out
and
glided along behind the men, cat-like, with bare feet, allowing
them
to keep just far enough ahead not to be invisible.
They
moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left
up a
cross-street. They went straight ahead, then, until they came to
the
path that led up Cardiff Hill; this they took. They passed by the
old
Welshman's house, half-way up the hill, without hesitating, and
still
climbed upward. Good, thought Huck, they will bury it in the old
quarry.
But they never stopped at the quarry. They passed on, up the
summit.
They plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumach
bushes,
and were at once hidden in the gloom. Huck closed up and
shortened
his distance, now, for they would never be able to see him.
He
trotted along 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.
Now
there was a voice--a very low voice--Injun Joe's:
"Damn
her, maybe she's got company--there's lights, late as it is."
"I
can't see any."
This
was that stranger's voice--the stranger of the haunted house. A
deadly
chill went to Huck's heart--this, then, was the "revenge" job!
His
thought was, to fly. Then he remembered that the Widow Douglas had
been
kind to him more than once, and maybe these men were going to
murder
her. He wished he dared venture to warn her; but he knew he
didn't
dare--they might come and catch him. He thought all this and
more
in the moment that elapsed between the stranger's remark and Injun
Joe's
next--which was--
"Because
the bush is in your way. Now--this way--now you see, don't
you?"
"Yes.
Well, there IS company there, I reckon. Better give it up."
"Give
it up, and I just leaving this country forever! Give it up and
maybe
never have another chance. I tell you again, as I've told you
before,
I don't care for her swag--you may have it. But her husband was
rough
on me--many times he was rough on me--and mainly he was the
justice
of the peace that jugged me for a vagrant. And that ain't all.
It
ain't a millionth part of it! He had me HORSEWHIPPED!--horsewhipped
in
front of the jail, like a nigger!--with all the town looking on!
HORSEWHIPPED!--do
you understand? He took advantage of me and died. But
I'll
take it out of HER."
"Oh,
don't kill her! Don't do that!"
"Kill?
Who said anything about killing? I would kill HIM if he was
here;
but not her. When you want to get revenge on a woman you don't
kill
her--bosh! you go for her looks. You slit her nostrils--you notch
her
ears like a sow!"
"By
God, that's--"
"Keep
your opinion to yourself! It will be safest for you. I'll tie
her
to the bed. If she bleeds to death, is that my fault? I'll not cry,
if
she does. My friend, you'll help me in this thing--for MY sake
--that's
why you're here--I mightn't be able alone. If you flinch, I'll
kill
you. Do you understand that? And if I have to kill you, I'll kill
her--and
then I reckon nobody'll ever know much about who done this
business."
"Well,
if it's got to be done, let's get at it. The quicker the
better--I'm
all in a shiver."
"Do
it NOW? And company there? Look here--I'll get suspicious of you,
first
thing you know. No--we'll wait till the lights are out--there's
no
hurry."
Huck
felt that a silence was going to ensue--a thing still more awful
than
any amount of murderous talk; so he held his breath and stepped
gingerly
back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing,
one-legged,
in a precarious way and almost toppling over, first on one
side
and then on the other. He took another step back, with the same
elaboration
and the same risks; then another and another, and--a twig
snapped
under his foot! His breath stopped and he listened. There was
no
sound--the stillness was perfect. His gratitude was measureless. Now
he
turned in his tracks, between the walls of sumach bushes--turned
himself
as carefully as if he were a ship--and then stepped quickly but
cautiously
along. When he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and so
he
picked up his nimble heels and flew. Down, down he sped, till he
reached
the Welshman's. He banged at the door, and presently the heads
of
the old man and his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows.
"What's
the row there? Who's banging? What do you want?"
"Let
me in--quick! I'll tell everything."
"Why,
who are you?"
"Huckleberry
Finn--quick, let me in!"
"Huckleberry
Finn, indeed! It ain't a name to open many doors, I
judge!
But let him in, lads, and let's see what's the trouble."
"Please
don't ever tell I told you," were Huck's first words when he
got
in. "Please don't--I'd be killed, sure--but the widow's been good
friends
to me sometimes, and I want to tell--I WILL tell if you'll
promise
you won't ever say it was me."
"By
George, he HAS got something to tell, or he wouldn't act so!"
exclaimed
the old man; "out with it and nobody here'll ever tell, lad."
Three
minutes later the old man and his sons, well armed, were up the
hill,
and just entering the sumach path on 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.
Huck
waited for no particulars. He sprang away and sped down the hill
as
fast as his legs could carry him.
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:
"Who's
there!"
Huck's
scared voice answered in a low tone:
"Please
let me in! It's only Huck Finn!"
"It's
a name that can open this door night or day, lad!--and welcome!"
These
were strange words to the vagabond boy's ears, and the
pleasantest
he had ever heard. He could not recollect that the closing
word
had ever been applied in his case before. The door was quickly
unlocked,
and he entered. Huck was given a seat and the old man and his
brace
of tall sons speedily dressed themselves.
"Now,
my boy, I hope you're good and hungry, because breakfast will be
ready
as soon as the sun's up, and we'll have a piping hot one, too
--make
yourself easy about that! I and the boys hoped you'd turn up and
stop
here last night."
"I
was awful scared," said Huck, "and I run. I took out when the
pistols
went off, and I didn't stop for three mile. I've come now becuz
I
wanted to know about it, you know; and I come before daylight becuz I
didn't
want to run across them devils, even if they was dead."
"Well,
poor chap, you do look as if you'd had a hard night of it--but
there's
a bed here for you when you've had your breakfast. No, they
ain't
dead, lad--we are sorry enough for that. You see we knew right
where
to put our hands on them, by your description; so we crept along
on
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?"
"Oh
yes; I saw them down-town and follered them."
"Splendid!
Describe them--describe them, my boy!"
"One's
the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that's ben around here once or
twice,
and t'other's a mean-looking, ragged--"
"That's
enough, lad, we know the men! Happened on them in the woods
back
of the widow's one day, and they slunk away. Off with you, boys,
and
tell the sheriff--get your breakfast to-morrow morning!"
The
Welshman's sons departed at once. As they were leaving the room
Huck
sprang up and exclaimed:
"Oh,
please don't tell ANYbody it was me that blowed on them! Oh,
please!"
"All
right if you say it, Huck, but you ought to have the credit of
what
you did."
"Oh
no, no! Please don't tell!"
When
the young men were gone, the old Welshman said:
"They
won't tell--and I won't. But why don't you want it known?"
Huck
would not explain, further than to say that he already knew too
much
about one of those men and would not have the man know that he
knew
anything against him for the whole world--he would be killed for
knowing
it, sure.
The
old man promised secrecy once more, and said:
"How
did you come to follow these fellows, lad? Were they looking
suspicious?"
Huck
was silent while he framed a duly cautious reply. Then he said:
"Well,
you see, I'm a kind of a hard lot,--least everybody says so,
and I
don't see nothing agin it--and sometimes I can't sleep much, on
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 up-street 'bout midnight, a-turning it all over, and when I
got
to that old shackly brick store by the Temperance Tavern, I backed
up
agin the wall to have another think. Well, just then along comes
these
two chaps slipping along close by me, with something under their
arm,
and I reckoned they'd stole it. One was a-smoking, and t'other one
wanted
a light; so they stopped right before me and the cigars lit up
their
faces and I see that the big one was the deaf and dumb Spaniard,
by
his white whiskers and the patch on his eye, and t'other one was a
rusty,
ragged-looking devil."
"Could
you see the rags by the light of the cigars?"
This
staggered Huck for a moment. Then he said:
"Well,
I don't know--but somehow it seems as if I did."
"Then
they went on, and you--"
"Follered
'em--yes. That was it. I wanted to see what was up--they
sneaked
along so. I dogged 'em to the widder's stile, and stood in the
dark
and heard the ragged one beg for the widder, and the Spaniard
swear
he'd spile her looks just as I told you and your two--"
"What!
The DEAF AND DUMB man said all that!"
Huck
had made another terrible mistake! He was trying his best to keep
the
old man from getting the faintest hint of who the Spaniard might
be,
and yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble in
spite
of all he could do. He made several efforts to creep out of his
scrape,
but the old man's eye was upon him and he made blunder after
blunder.
Presently the Welshman said:
"My
boy, don't be afraid of me. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head
for
all the world. No--I'd protect you--I'd protect you. This Spaniard
is
not deaf and dumb; you've let that slip without intending it; you
can't
cover that up now. You know something about that Spaniard that
you
want to keep dark. Now trust me--tell me what it is, and trust me
--I
won't betray you."
Huck
looked into the old man's honest eyes a moment, then bent over
and
whispered in his ear:
"'Tain't
a Spaniard--it's Injun Joe!"
The
Welshman almost jumped out of his chair. In a moment he said:
"It's
all plain enough, now. When you talked about notching ears and
slitting
noses I judged that that was your own embellishment, because
white
men don't take that sort of revenge. But an Injun! That's a
different
matter altogether."
During
breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old man
said
that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before going
to
bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for
marks
of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky bundle of--
"Of
WHAT?"
If
the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more
stunning
suddenness from Huck's blanched lips. His eyes were staring
wide,
now, and his breath suspended--waiting for the answer. The
Welshman
started--stared in return--three seconds--five seconds--ten
--then
replied:
"Of
burglar's tools. Why, what's the MATTER with you?"
Huck
sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful. The
Welshman
eyed him gravely, curiously--and presently said:
"Yes,
burglar's tools. That appears to relieve you a good deal. But
what
did give you that turn? What were YOU expecting we'd found?"
Huck
was in a close place--the inquiring eye was upon him--he would
have
given anything for material for a plausible answer--nothing
suggested
itself--the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper--a
senseless
reply offered--there was no time to weigh it, so at a venture
he
uttered it--feebly:
"Sunday-school
books, maybe."
Poor
Huck was too distressed to smile, but the old man laughed loud
and
joyously, shook up the details of his anatomy from head to foot,
and
ended by saying that such a laugh was money in a-man's pocket,
because
it cut down the doctor's bill like everything. Then he added:
"Poor
old chap, you're white and jaded--you ain't well a bit--no
wonder
you're a little flighty and off your balance. But you'll come
out
of it. Rest and sleep will fetch you out all right, I hope."
Huck
was irritated to think he had been such a goose and betrayed such
a
suspicious excitement, for he had dropped the idea that the parcel
brought
from the tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had heard the
talk
at the widow's stile. He had only thought it was not the treasure,
however--he
had not known that it wasn't--and so the suggestion of a
captured
bundle was too much for his self-possession. But on the whole
he
felt glad the little episode had happened, for now he knew beyond
all
question that that bundle was not THE bundle, and so his mind was
at
rest and exceedingly comfortable. In fact, everything seemed to be
drifting
just in the right direction, now; the treasure must be still
in
No. 2, the men would be captured and jailed that day, and he and Tom
could
seize the gold that night without any trouble or any fear of
interruption.
Just
as breakfast was completed there was a knock at the door. Huck
jumped
for a hiding-place, for he had no mind to be connected even
remotely
with the late event. The 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.
"Don't
say a word about it, madam. There's another that you're more
beholden
to than you are to me and my boys, maybe, but he don't allow
me to
tell his name. We wouldn't have been there but for him."
Of
course this excited a curiosity so vast that it almost belittled
the
main matter--but the 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:
"I
went to sleep reading in bed and slept straight through all that
noise.
Why didn't you come and wake me?"
"We
judged it warn't worth while. Those fellows warn't likely to come
again--they
hadn't any tools left to work with, and what was the use of
waking
you up and scaring you to death? My three negro men stood guard
at
your house all the rest of the night. They've just come back."
More
visitors came, and the story had to be told and retold for a
couple
of hours more.
There
was no Sabbath-school during day-school vacation, but everybody
was
early at church. The stirring event was well canvassed. News came
that
not a sign of the two villains had been yet discovered. When the
sermon
was finished, Judge Thatcher's wife dropped alongside of Mrs.
Harper
as she moved down the aisle with the crowd and said:
"Is
my Becky going to sleep all day? I just expected she would be
tired
to death."
"Your
Becky?"
"Yes,"
with a startled look--"didn't she stay with you last night?"
"Why,
no."
Mrs.
Thatcher turned pale, and sank into a pew, just as Aunt Polly,
talking
briskly with a friend, passed by. Aunt Polly said:
"Good-morning,
Mrs. Thatcher. Good-morning, Mrs. Harper. I've got a
boy
that's turned up missing. I reckon my Tom 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."
Mrs.
Thatcher shook her head feebly and turned paler than ever.
"He
didn't stay with us," said Mrs. Harper, beginning to look uneasy.
A
marked anxiety came into Aunt Polly's face.
"Joe
Harper, have you seen my Tom this morning?"
"No'm."
"When
did you see him last?"
Joe
tried to remember, but was not sure he could say. The people had
stopped
moving out of church. Whispers passed along, and a boding
uneasiness
took possession of every countenance. Children were
anxiously
questioned, and young teachers. They all said they had not
noticed
whether Tom and Becky were on board the 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.
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.
All
the long afternoon the village seemed empty and dead. Many women
visited
Aunt Polly and Mrs. Thatcher and tried to comfort them. They
cried
with them, too, and that was still better than words. All the
tedious
night the town waited for news; but when the morning dawned at
last,
all the word that came was, "Send more candles--and send food."
Mrs.
Thatcher was almost crazed; and Aunt Polly, also. Judge Thatcher
sent
messages of hope and encouragement from the cave, but they
conveyed
no real cheer.
The
old 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:
"You
can depend on it. That's the Lord's mark. He don't leave it off.
He
never does. Puts it somewhere on every creature that comes from his
hands."
Early
in the forenoon parties of jaded men began to straggle into the
village,
but the strongest of the citizens continued searching. All the
news
that could be gained was that remotenesses of the cavern were
being
ransacked that had never been visited before; that every corner
and
crevice was going to be thoroughly searched; that wherever one
wandered
through the maze of passages, lights were to be seen flitting
hither
and thither in the distance, and shoutings and pistol-shots sent
their
hollow reverberations to the ear down the 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.
Three
dreadful days and nights dragged their tedious hours along, and
the
village sank into a hopeless stupor. No one had heart for anything.
The
accidental discovery, just made, that the proprietor of the
Temperance
Tavern kept liquor on his premises, scarcely fluttered the
public
pulse, tremendous as the fact was. In a lucid interval, Huck
feebly
led up to the subject of taverns, and finally asked--dimly
dreading
the worst--if anything had been discovered at the Temperance
Tavern
since he had been ill.
"Yes,"
said the widow.
Huck
started up in bed, wild-eyed:
"What?
What was it?"
"Liquor!--and
the place has been shut up. Lie down, child--what a turn
you
did give me!"
"Only
tell me just one thing--only just one--please! Was it Tom Sawyer
that
found it?"
The
widow burst into tears. "Hush, hush, child, hush! I've told you
before,
you must NOT talk. You are very, very sick!"
Then
nothing but liquor had been found; there would have been a great
powwow
if it had been the gold. So the treasure was gone forever--gone
forever!
But what could she be crying about? Curious that she should
cry.
These
thoughts worked their dim way through Huck's mind, and under the
weariness
they gave him he fell asleep. The widow said to herself:
"There--he's
asleep, poor wreck. Tom Sawyer find it! Pity but somebody
could
find Tom Sawyer! Ah, there ain't many left, now, that's got hope
enough,
or strength enough, either, to go on searching."
NOW
to return to Tom and Becky's share in the picnic. They tripped
along
the murky aisles with the rest of the company, visiting the
familiar
wonders of the cave--wonders dubbed with rather
over-descriptive
names, such as "The Drawing-Room," "The Cathedral,"
"Aladdin's
Palace," and so on. Presently the hide-and-seek frolicking
began,
and Tom and Becky engaged in it with zeal until the exertion
began
to grow a trifle wearisome; then they wandered down a sinuous
avenue
holding their candles aloft and reading the tangled web-work of
names,
dates, post-office addresses, and mottoes with which the rocky
walls
had been frescoed (in candle-smoke). Still drifting along and
talking,
they scarcely noticed that they were now in a part of the cave
whose
walls were not frescoed. They smoked their own names under an
overhanging
shelf and moved on. Presently they came to a place where a
little
stream of water, trickling over a ledge and carrying a limestone
sediment
with it, had, in the slow-dragging ages, formed a laced and
ruffled
Niagara in gleaming and imperishable stone. Tom squeezed his
small
body behind it in order to illuminate it for Becky's
gratification.
He found that it curtained a sort of steep natural
stairway
which was enclosed between narrow walls, and at once the
ambition
to be a discoverer seized him. Becky responded to his call,
and
they made a smoke-mark for future guidance, and started upon their
quest.
They wound this way and that, far down into the secret depths of
the
cave, made another mark, and branched off in search of novelties to
tell
the upper world about. In one place they found a spacious cavern,
from
whose ceiling depended a multitude of shining stalactites of the
length
and circumference of a man's leg; they walked all about it,
wondering
and admiring, and presently left it by one of the numerous
passages
that opened into it. This shortly brought them to a bewitching
spring,
whose basin was 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:
"Why,
I didn't notice, but it seems ever so long since I heard any of
the
others."
"Come
to think, Becky, we are away down below them--and I don't know
how
far away north, or south, or east, or whichever it is. We couldn't
hear
them here."
Becky
grew apprehensive.
"I
wonder how long we've been down here, Tom? We better start back."
"Yes,
I reckon we better. P'raps we better."
"Can
you find the way, Tom? It's all a mixed-up crookedness to me."
"I
reckon I could find it--but then the bats. If they put our candles
out
it will be an awful fix. Let's try some other way, so as not to go
through
there."
"Well.
But I hope we won't get lost. It would be so awful!" and the
girl
shuddered at the thought of the dreadful possibilities.
They
started through a corridor, and traversed it in silence a long
way,
glancing at each new opening, to see if there was anything
familiar
about the look of it; but they were all strange. Every time
Tom
made an examination, Becky would watch his face for an encouraging
sign,
and he would say cheerily:
"Oh,
it's all right. This ain't the one, but we'll come to it right
away!"
But
he felt less and less hopeful with each failure, and presently
began
to turn off into diverging avenues at sheer random, in 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:
"Oh,
Tom, never mind the bats, let's go back that way! We seem to get
worse
and worse off all the time."
"Listen!"
said he.
Profound
silence; silence so deep that even their breathings were
conspicuous
in the hush. Tom shouted. The call went echoing down the
empty
aisles and died out in the distance in a faint sound that
resembled
a ripple of mocking laughter.
"Oh,
don't do it again, Tom, it is too horrid," said Becky.
"It
is horrid, but I better, Becky; they might hear us, you know," and
he
shouted again.
The "might" was even a chillier horror than the ghostly laughter, it<= o:p>
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!
"Oh,
Tom, you didn't make any marks!"
"Becky,
I was such a fool! Such a fool! I never thought we might want
to
come back! No--I can't find the way. It's all mixed up."
"Tom,
Tom, we're lost! we're lost! We never can get out of this awful
place!
Oh, why DID we ever leave the others!"
She
sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of crying that Tom
was
appalled with the idea that she might die, or lose her reason. He
sat
down by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in his
bosom,
she clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her unavailing
regrets,
and the far echoes turned them all to jeering laughter. Tom
begged
her to pluck up hope again, and she said she could not. He fell
to
blaming and abusing himself for getting her into this miserable
situation;
this had a better effect. She said she would try to hope
again,
she would get up and follow wherever he might lead if only he
would
not talk like that any more. For he was no more to blame than
she,
she said.
So
they moved on again--aimlessly--simply at random--all they could do
was
to move, keep moving. For a little while, hope made a show of
reviving--not
with any reason to back it, but only because it is its
nature
to revive when the spring has not been taken out of it by age
and
familiarity with failure.
By-and-by
Tom took Becky's candle and blew it out. This economy meant
so
much! Words were not needed. Becky understood, and her hope died
again.
She knew that Tom had a whole candle and three or four pieces in
his
pockets--yet he must economize.
By-and-by,
fatigue began to assert its claims; the children tried to
pay
attention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when time
was
grown to be so precious, moving, in some direction, in any
direction,
was at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down
was
to invite death and shorten its pursuit.
At
last Becky's frail limbs refused to carry her farther. She sat
down.
Tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends
there,
and the comfortable beds and, above all, the light! Becky cried,
and
Tom tried to think of some way of comforting her, but all his
encouragements
were grown threadbare with use, and sounded like
sarcasms.
Fatigue bore so heavily upon Becky that she drowsed off to
sleep.
Tom was grateful. He sat looking into her drawn face and saw it
grow
smooth and natural under the influence of pleasant dreams; and
by-and-by
a smile dawned and rested there. The peaceful face reflected
somewhat
of peace and healing into his own spirit, and his thoughts
wandered
away to bygone times and dreamy memories. While he was deep in
his
musings, Becky woke up with a breezy little laugh--but it was
stricken
dead upon her lips, and a groan followed it.
"Oh,
how COULD I sleep! I wish I never, never had waked! No! No, I
don't,
Tom! Don't look so! I won't say it again."
"I'm
glad you've slept, Becky; you'll feel rested, now, and we'll find
the
way out."
"We
can try, Tom; but I've seen such a beautiful country in my dream.
I
reckon we are going there."
"Maybe
not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and let's go on trying."
They
rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless. They tried
to
estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they knew was
that
it seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not
be,
for their candles were not gone yet. A long time after this--they
could
not tell how long--Tom said they must go softly and listen for
dripping
water--they must find a spring. They found one presently, and
Tom
said it was time to rest again. Both were cruelly tired, yet Becky
said
she thought she could go a little farther. She was surprised to
hear
Tom dissent. She could not understand it. They sat down, and Tom
fastened
his candle to the wall in front of them with some clay.
Thought
was soon busy; nothing was said for some time. Then Becky broke
the
silence:
"Tom,
I am so hungry!"
Tom
took something out of his pocket.
"Do
you remember this?" said he.
Becky
almost smiled.
"It's
our wedding-cake, Tom."
"Yes--I
wish it was as big as a barrel, for it's all we've got."
"I
saved it from the picnic for us to dream on, Tom, the way grown-up
people
do with wedding-cake--but it'll be our--"
She
dropped the sentence where it was. Tom divided the cake and Becky
ate
with good appetite, while Tom nibbled at his moiety. There was
abundance
of cold water to finish the feast with. By-and-by Becky
suggested
that they move on again. Tom was silent a moment. Then he
said:
"Becky,
can you bear it if I tell you something?"
Becky's
face paled, but she thought she could.
"Well,
then, Becky, we must stay here, where there's water to drink.
That
little piece is our last candle!"
Becky
gave loose to tears and wailings. Tom did what he could to
comfort
her, but with little effect. At length Becky said:
"Tom!"
"Well,
Becky?"
"They'll
miss us and hunt for us!"
"Yes,
they will! Certainly they will!"
"Maybe
they're hunting for us now, Tom."
"Why,
I reckon maybe they are. I hope they are."
"When
would they miss us, Tom?"
"When
they get back to the boat, I reckon."
"Tom,
it might be dark then--would they notice we hadn't come?"
"I
don't know. But anyway, your mother would miss you as soon as they
got
home."
A
frightened look in Becky's face brought Tom to his senses and he saw
that
he had made a blunder. Becky was not to have gone home that night!
The
children became silent and thoughtful. In a moment a new burst of
grief
from Becky showed Tom that the thing in his mind had struck hers
also--that
the Sabbath morning might be half spent before Mrs. Thatcher
discovered
that Becky was not at Mrs. Harper's.
The
children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and watched
it
melt slowly and pitilessly away; saw the half inch of wick stand
alone
at last; saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin
column
of smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then--the horror of
utter
darkness reigned!
How
long afterward it was that Becky came to a slow consciousness that
she
was crying in Tom's arms, neither could tell. All that they knew
was,
that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke out of
a
dead stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once more. Tom said
it
might be Sunday, now--maybe Monday. He tried to get Becky to talk,
but
her sorrows were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone. Tom said
that
they must have been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was
going
on. He would shout and maybe some one would come. He tried it;
but
in the darkness the distant echoes sounded so hideously that he
tried
it no more.
The
hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives again.
A
portion of Tom's half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it.
But
they seemed hungrier than before. The poor morsel of food only
whetted
desire.
By-and-by
Tom said:
"SH!
Did you hear that?"
Both
held their breath and listened. There was a sound like the
faintest,
far-off shout. Instantly Tom answered it, and leading Becky
by
the hand, started groping down the corridor in its direction.
Presently
he listened again; again the sound was heard, and apparently
a
little nearer.
"It's
them!" said Tom; "they're coming! Come along, Becky--we're all
right
now!"
The
joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. Their speed was
slow,
however, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be
guarded
against. They shortly came to one and had to stop. It might be
three
feet deep, it might be a hundred--there was no passing it at any
rate.
Tom got down on his breast and reached as far down as he could.
No
bottom. They must stay there and wait until the searchers came. They
listened;
evidently the distant shoutings were growing more distant! a
moment
or two more and they had gone altogether. The 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.
The
children groped their way back to the spring. The weary time
dragged
on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom
believed
it must be Tuesday by this time.
Now
an idea struck him. There were some side passages near at hand. It
would
be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the
heavy
time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to
a
projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the lead, unwinding the
line
as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps the corridor ended
in a
"jumping-off place." Tom got down on his knees and felt below, an=
d
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."
But
hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears in the long run.
Another
tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought
changes.
The children awoke tortured with a raging hunger. Tom believed
that
it must be Wednesday or Thursday or even Friday or Saturday, now,
and
that the search had been given over. He proposed to explore another
passage.
He felt willing to risk Injun Joe and all other terrors. But
Becky
was very weak. She had sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be
roused.
She said she would wait, now, where she was, and die--it would
not
be long. She told Tom to go with the kite-line and explore if he
chose;
but she implored him to come back every little while and speak
to
her; and she made him promise that when the awful time came, he
would
stay by her and hold her hand until all was over.
Tom
kissed her, with a choking sensation in his throat, and made a
show
of being confident of finding the searchers or an escape from the
cave;
then he took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one
of
the passages on his hands and knees, distressed with hunger and sick
with
bodings of coming doom.
TUESDAY
afternoon came, and waned to the twilight. The
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.
Away
in the middle of the night a wild peal burst from the village
bells,
and in a moment the streets were swarming with frantic half-clad
people,
who shouted, "Turn out! turn out! they're found! they're
found!"
Tin pans and horns were added to the din, the population massed
itself
and moved toward the river, met the children coming in an open
carriage
drawn by shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its
homeward
march, and swept magnificently up the main street roaring
huzzah
after huzzah!
The
village was illuminated; nobody went to bed again; it was the
greatest
night the little town had ever seen. During the first half-hour
a
procession of villagers filed through Judge Thatcher's house, seized
the
saved ones and kissed them, squeezed Mrs. Thatcher's hand, tried to
speak
but couldn't--and drifted out raining tears all over the place.
Aunt
Polly's happiness was complete, and Mrs. Thatcher's nearly so. It
would
be complete, however, as soon as the messenger dispatched with
the
great news to the cave should get the word to her husband. Tom lay
upon
a sofa with an eager auditory about him and told the history of
the
wonderful adventure, putting in many striking additions to adorn it
withal;
and closed with a description of how he left Becky and went on
an
exploring expedition; how he followed two avenues as far as his
kite-line
would reach; how he followed a third to the fullest stretch of
the
kite-line, and was about to turn back when he glimpsed a far-off
speck
that looked like daylight; dropped the line and groped toward it,
pushed
his head and shoulders through a small hole, and saw the broad
Mississippi
rolling by! And if it had only happened to be night he would
not
have seen that speck of daylight and would not have explored that
passage
any more! He told how he went back for Becky and broke the good
news
and she told him not to fret her with such stuff, for she was
tired,
and knew she was going to die, and wanted to. He described how he
labored
with her and convinced her; and how she almost died for joy when
she
had groped to where she actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how
he
pushed his way out at the hole and then helped her out; how they sat
there
and cried for gladness; how some men came along in a skiff and Tom
hailed
them and told them their situation and their famished condition;
how
the men didn't believe the wild tale at first, "because," said th=
ey,
"you
are five miles down the river below the valley the cave is in"
--then
took them aboard, rowed to a house, gave them supper, made them
rest
till two or three hours after dark and then brought them home.
Before
day-dawn, Judge Thatcher and the handful of searchers with him
were
tracked out, in the cave, by the twine clews they had strung
behind
them, and informed of the great news.
Three
days and nights of toil and hunger in the cave were not to be
shaken
off at once, as Tom and Becky soon discovered. They were
bedridden
all of Wednesday and Thursday, and seemed to grow more and
more
tired and worn, all the time. Tom got about, a little, on
Thursday,
was down-town Friday, and nearly as whole as ever Saturday;
but
Becky did not leave her room until Sunday, and then she looked as
if
she had passed through a wasting illness.
Tom
learned of Huck's sickness and went to see him on Friday, but
could
not be admitted to the bedroom; neither could he on Saturday or
Sunday.
He was admitted daily after that, but was warned to keep still
about
his adventure and introduce no exciting topic. The Widow Douglas
stayed
by to see that he obeyed. At home Tom learned of the Cardiff
Hill
event; also that the "ragged man's" body had eventually been foun=
d
in
the river near the ferry-landing; he had been drowned while trying
to
escape, perhaps.
About
a fortnight after Tom's rescue from the cave, he started off to
visit
Huck, who had grown plenty strong enough, now, to hear exciting
talk,
and Tom had some that would interest him, he thought. Judge
Thatcher's
house was on Tom's way, and he stopped to see Becky. The
Judge
and some friends set Tom to talking, and some one asked him
ironically
if he wouldn't like to go to the cave again. Tom said he
thought
he wouldn't mind it. The Judge said:
"Well,
there are others just like you, Tom, I've not the least doubt.
But
we have taken care of that. Nobody will get lost in that cave any
more."
"Why?"
"Because
I had its big door sheathed with boiler iron two weeks ago,
and
triple-locked--and I've got the keys."
Tom
turned as white as a sheet.
"What's
the matter, boy! Here, run, somebody! Fetch a glass of water!"
The
water was brought and thrown into Tom's face.
"Ah,
now you're all right. What was the matter with you, Tom?"
"Oh,
Judge, Injun Joe's in the cave!"
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.
When
the cave door was unlocked, a sorrowful sight presented itself in
the
dim twilight of the place. Injun Joe lay stretched upon the ground,
dead,
with his face close to the crack of the door, as if his longing
eyes
had been fixed, to the latest moment, upon the light and the cheer
of
the free world outside. Tom was touched, for he knew by his own
experience
how this wretch had suffered. His pity was moved, but
nevertheless
he felt an abounding sense of relief and security, now,
which
revealed to him in a degree which he had not fully appreciated
before
how vast a weight of dread had been lying upon him since the day
he
lifted his voice against this bloody-minded outcast.
Injun
Joe's bowie-knife lay close by, its blade broken in two. The
great
foundation-beam of the door had been chipped and hacked through,
with
tedious labor; useless labor, too, it was, for the native rock
formed
a sill outside it, and upon that stubborn material the knife had
wrought
no effect; the only damage done was to the knife itself. But if
there
had been no stony obstruction there the labor would have been
useless
still, for if the beam had been wholly cut away Injun Joe could
not
have squeezed his body under the door, and he knew it. So he had
only
hacked that place in order to be doing something--in order to pass
the
weary time--in order to employ his tortured faculties. Ordinarily
one
could find half a dozen bits of candle stuck around in the crevices
of
this vestibule, left there by tourists; but there were none now. The
prisoner
had searched them out and eaten them. He had also contrived to
catch
a few bats, and these, also, he had eaten, leaving only their
claws.
The poor unfortunate had starved to death. In one place, near at
hand,
a stalagmite had been slowly growing up from the ground for ages,
builded
by the water-drip from a stalactite overhead. The captive had
broken
off the stalagmite, and upon the stump had placed a stone,
wherein
he had scooped a shallow hollow to catch the precious drop
that
fell once in every three minutes with the dreary regularity of a
clock-tick--a
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." 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.
Injun
Joe was buried near the mouth of the cave; and people flocked
there
in boats and wagons from the towns and from all the farms and
hamlets
for seven miles around; they brought their children, and all
sorts
of provisions, and confessed that they had had almost as
satisfactory
a time at the funeral as they could have had at the
hanging.
This
funeral stopped the further growth of one thing--the petition to
the
governor for Injun Joe's pardon. The petition had been largely
signed;
many tearful and eloquent meetings had been held, and a
committee
of sappy women been appointed to go in deep mourning and wail
around
the governor, and implore him to be a merciful ass and trample
his
duty under foot. Injun Joe was believed to have killed five
citizens
of the village, but what of that? If he had been Satan himself
there
would have been plenty of weaklings ready to scribble their names
to a
pardon-petition, and drip a tear on it from their permanently
impaired
and leaky water-works.
The
morning after the funeral Tom took Huck to a private place to have
an
important talk. Huck had learned all about Tom's adventure from the
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:
"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."
"Why,
Huck, I never told on that tavern-keeper. YOU know his tavern
was
all right the Saturday I went to the picnic. Don't you remember you
was
to watch there that night?"
"Oh
yes! Why, it seems 'bout a year ago. It was that very night that I
follered
Injun Joe to the widder's."
"YOU
followed him?"
"Yes--but
you keep mum. I reckon Injun Joe's left friends behind him,
and I
don't want '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."
Then
Huck told his entire adventure in confidence to Tom, who had only
heard
of the Welshman's part of it before.
"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."
"Huck,
that money wasn't ever in No. 2!"
"What!"
Huck searched his comrade's face keenly. "Tom, have you got on
the
track of that money again?"
"Huck,
it's in the cave!"
Huck's
eyes blazed.
"Say
it again, Tom."
"The
money's in the cave!"
"Tom--honest
injun, now--is it fun, or earnest?"
"Earnest,
Huck--just as earnest as ever I was in my life. Will you go
in
there with me and help get it out?"
"I
bet I will! I will if it's where we can blaze our way to it and not
get
lost."
"Huck,
we can do that without the least little bit of trouble in the
world."
"Good
as wheat! What makes you think the money's--"
"Huck,
you just wait till we get in there. If we don't find it I'll
agree
to give you my drum and every thing I've got in the world. I
will,
by jings."
"All
right--it's a whiz. When do you say?"
"Right
now, if you say it. Are you strong enough?"
"Is
it far in the cave? I ben on my pins a little, three or four days,
now,
but I can't walk more'n a mile, Tom--least I don't think I could."
"It's
about five mile into there the way anybody but me would go,
Huck,
but there's a mighty short cut that they don't anybody but me
know
about. Huck, I'll take you right to it in a skiff. I'll float the
skiff
down there, and I'll pull it back again all by myself. You
needn't
ever turn your hand over."
"Less
start right off, Tom."
"All
right. We want some bread and meat, and our pipes, and a little
bag
or two, and two or three kite-strings, and some of these
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."
A
trifle after noon the boys borrowed a small skiff from a citizen who
was
absent, and got under way at once. When they were several miles
below
"Cave Hollow," Tom said:
"Now
you see this bluff here looks all alike all the way down from the
cave
hollow--no houses, no wood-yards, bushes all alike. But do you see
that
white place up yonder where there's been a landslide? Well, that's
one
of my marks. We'll get ashore, now."
They
landed.
"Now,
Huck, where we're a-standing you could touch that hole I got out
of
with a fishing-pole. See if you can find it."
Huck
searched all the place about, and found nothing. Tom proudly
marched
into a thick clump of sumach bushes and said:
"Here
you are! Look at it, Huck; it's the snuggest hole in this
country.
You just keep mum about it. All along I've been wanting to be
a
robber, but I knew I'd got to have a thing like this, and where to
run
across it was the bother. We've got it now, and we'll keep it
quiet,
only we'll let Joe Harper and Ben Rogers in--because of course
there's
got to be a Gang, or else there wouldn't be any style about it.
Tom
Sawyer's Gang--it sounds splendid, don't it, Huck?"
"Well,
it just does, Tom. And who'll we rob?"
"Oh,
most anybody. Waylay people--that's mostly the way."
"And
kill them?"
"No,
not always. Hive them in the cave till they raise a ransom."
"What's
a ransom?"
"Money.
You make them raise all they can, off'n their friends; and
after
you've kept them a year, if it ain't raised then you kill them.
That's
the general way. Only you don't kill the women. You shut up the
women,
but you don't kill them. They're always beautiful and rich, and
awfully
scared. You take their watches and things, but you always take
your
hat off and talk polite. They ain't anybody as polite as robbers
--you'll
see that in any book. Well, the women get to loving you, and
after
they've been in the cave a week or two weeks they stop crying and
after
that you couldn't get them to leave. If you drove them out they'd
turn
right around and come back. It's so in all the books."
"Why,
it's real bully, Tom. I believe it's better'n to be a pirate."
"Yes,
it's better in some ways, because it's close to home and
circuses
and all that."
By
this time everything was ready and the boys entered the hole, Tom
in
the lead. They toiled their way to the farther end of the tunnel,
then
made their spliced kite-strings fast and moved on. A few steps
brought
them to the spring, and Tom felt a shudder quiver all through
him.
He showed Huck the fragment of candle-wick perched on a lump of
clay
against the wall, and described how he and Becky had watched the
flame
struggle and expire.
The
boys began to quiet down to whispers, now, for the stillness and
gloom
of the place oppressed their spirits. They went on, and presently
entered
and followed Tom's other corridor until they reached the
"jumping-off
place." The candles revealed the fact that it was not
really
a precipice, but only a steep clay hill twenty or thirty feet
high.
Tom whispered:
"Now
I'll show you something, Huck."
He
held his candle aloft and said:
"Look
as far around the corner as you can. Do you see that? There--on
the
big rock over yonder--done with candle-smoke."
"Tom,
it's a CROSS!"
"NOW
where's your Number Two? 'UNDER THE CROSS,' hey? Right yonder's
where
I saw Injun Joe poke up his candle, Huck!"
Huck
stared at the mystic sign awhile, and then said with a shaky voice:
"Tom,
less git out of here!"
"What!
and leave the treasure?"
"Yes--leave
it. Injun Joe's ghost is round about there, certain."
"No
it ain't, Huck, no it ain't. It would ha'nt the place where he
died--away
out at the mouth of the cave--five mile from here."
"No,
Tom, it wouldn't. It would hang round the money. I know the ways
of
ghosts, and so do you."
Tom
began to fear that Huck was right. Misgivings gathered in his
mind.
But presently an idea occurred to him--
"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!"
The
point was well taken. It had its effect.
"Tom,
I didn't think of that. But that's so. It's luck for us, that
cross
is. I reckon we'll climb down there and have a hunt for that box."
Tom
went first, cutting rude steps in the clay hill as he descended.
Huck
followed. Four avenues opened out of the small cavern which the
great
rock stood in. The boys examined three of them with no result.
They
found a small recess in the one nearest the base of the rock, with
a
pallet of blankets spread down in it; also an old suspender, some
bacon
rind, and the well-gnawed bones of two or three fowls. But there
was
no money-box. The lads searched and researched this place, but in
vain.
Tom said:
"He
said UNDER the cross. Well, this comes nearest to being under the
cross.
It can't be under the rock itself, because that sets solid on
the
ground."
They
searched everywhere once more, and then sat down discouraged.
Huck
could suggest nothing. By-and-by Tom said:
"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 IS under the rock. I'm going to
dig
in the clay."
"That
ain't no bad notion, Tom!" said Huck with animation.
Tom's
"real Barlow" was out at once, and he had not dug four inches
before
he struck wood.
"Hey,
Huck!--you hear that?"
Huck
began to dig and scratch now. Some boards were soon uncovered and
removed.
They had concealed a natural chasm which led under the rock.
Tom
got into this and held his candle as far under the rock as he
could,
but said he could not see to the end of the rift. He proposed to
explore.
He stooped and passed under; the narrow way descended
gradually.
He followed its winding course, first to the right, then to
the
left, Huck at his heels. Tom turned a short curve, by-and-by, and
exclaimed:
"My
goodness, Huck, lookyhere!"
It
was the treasure-box, sure enough, occupying a snug little cavern,
along
with an empty powder-keg, a couple of guns in leather cases, two
or
three pairs of old moccasins, a leather belt, and some other rubbish
well
soaked with the water-drip.
"Got
it at last!" said Huck, ploughing among the tarnished coins with
his
hand. "My, but we're rich, Tom!"
"Huck,
I always reckoned we'd get it. It's just too good to believe,
but
we HAVE got it, sure! Say--let's not fool around here. Let's snake
it
out. Lemme see if I can lift the box."
It
weighed about fifty pounds. Tom could lift it, after an awkward
fashion,
but could not carry it conveniently.
"I
thought so," he said; "THEY carried it like it was heavy, that da=
y
at
the ha'nted house. I noticed that. I reckon I was right to think of
fetching
the little bags along."
The
money was soon in the bags and the boys took it up to the cross
rock.
"Now
less fetch the guns and things," said Huck.
"No,
Huck--leave them there. They're just the tricks to have when we
go to
robbing. We'll keep them there all the time, and we'll hold our
orgies
there, too. It's an awful snug place for orgies."
"What
orgies?"
"I
dono. But robbers always have orgies, and of course we've got to
have
them, too. Come along, Huck, we've been in here a long time. It's
getting
late, I reckon. I'm hungry, too. We'll eat and smoke when we
get
to the skiff."
They
presently emerged into the clump of sumach bushes, looked warily
out,
found the coast clear, and were soon lunching and smoking in the
skiff.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon they pushed out and got
under
way. Tom skimmed up the shore through the long twilight, chatting
cheerily
with Huck, and landed shortly after dark.
"Now,
Huck," said Tom, "we'll hide the money in the loft of the
widow's
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."
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:
"Hallo,
who's that?"
"Huck
and Tom Sawyer."
"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?"
"Old
metal," said Tom.
"I
judged so; the boys in this town will take more trouble and fool
away
more time hunting up six bits' worth of old iron to sell to the
foundry
than they would to make twice the money at regular work. But
that's
human nature--hurry along, hurry along!"
The
boys wanted to know what the hurry was about.
"Never
mind; you'll see, when we get to the Widow Douglas'."
Huck
said with some apprehension--for he was long used to being
falsely
accused:
"Mr.
Jones, we haven't been doing nothing."
The
Welshman laughed.
"Well,
I don't know, Huck, my boy. I don't know about that. Ain't you
and
the widow good friends?"
"Yes.
Well, she's ben good friends to me, anyway."
"All
right, then. What do you want to be afraid for?"
This
question was not entirely answered in Huck's slow mind before he
found
himself pushed, along with Tom, into Mrs. Douglas' drawing-room.
Mr.
Jones left the wagon near the door and followed.
The
place was grandly lighted, and everybody that was of any
consequence
in the village was there. The Thatchers were there, the
Harpers,
the Rogerses, Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, the minister, the editor,
and a
great many more, and all dressed in their best. The widow
received
the boys as heartily as any one could well receive two such
looking
beings. They were covered with clay and candle-grease. Aunt
Polly
blushed crimson with humiliation, and frowned and shook her head
at
Tom. Nobody suffered half as much as the two boys did, however. Mr.
Jones
said:
"Tom
wasn't at home, yet, so I gave him up; but I stumbled on him and
Huck
right at my door, and so I just brought them along in a hurry."
"And
you did just right," said the widow. "Come with me, boys."
She
took them to a bedchamber and said:
"Now
wash and dress yourselves. Here are two new suits of clothes
--shirts,
socks, everything complete. They're Huck's--no, no thanks,
Huck--Mr.
Jones bought one and I the other. But they'll fit both of you.
Get
into them. We'll wait--come down when you are slicked up enough."
Then
she left.
HUCK
said: "Tom, we can slope, if we can find a rope. The window ain't
high
from the ground."
"Shucks!
what do you want to slope for?"
"Well,
I ain't used to that kind of a crowd. I can't stand it. I ain't
going
down there, Tom."
"Oh,
bother! It ain't anything. I don't mind it a bit. I'll take care
of
you."
Sid
appeared.
"Tom,"
said he, "auntie has been waiting for you all the afternoon.
Mary
got your Sunday clothes ready, and everybody's been fretting about
you.
Say--ain't this grease and clay, on your clothes?"
"Now,
Mr. Siddy, you jist 'tend to your own business. What's all this
blow-out
about, anyway?"
"It's
one of the widow's parties that she's always having. This time
it's
for the 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."
"Well,
what?"
"Why,
old Mr. Jones is going to try to spring something on the people
here
to-night, but I overheard him tell auntie to-day about it, as a
secret,
but I reckon it's not much of a secret now. Everybody knows
--the
widow, too, for all she tries to let on she don't. Mr. Jones was
bound
Huck should be here--couldn't get along with his grand secret
without
Huck, you know!"
"Secret
about what, Sid?"
"About
Huck tracking the robbers to the widow's. I reckon Mr. Jones
was
going to make a grand time over his surprise, but I bet you it will
drop
pretty flat."
Sid
chuckled in a very contented and satisfied way.
"Sid,
was it you that told?"
"Oh,
never mind who it was. SOMEBODY told--that's enough."
"Sid,
there's only one person in this town mean enough to do that, and
that's
you. If you had been in Huck's place you'd 'a' sneaked down the
hill
and never told anybody on the robbers. You can't do any but mean
things,
and you can't bear to see anybody praised for doing good ones.
There--no
thanks, as the widow says"--and Tom cuffed Sid's ears and
helped
him to the door with several kicks. "Now go and tell auntie if
you
dare--and to-morrow you'll catch it!"
Some
minutes later the widow's guests were at the supper-table, and a
dozen
children were propped up at little side-tables in the same room,
after
the fashion of that country and that day. At the proper time Mr.
Jones
made his little speech, in which he thanked the widow for the
honor
she was doing himself and his sons, but said that there was
another
person whose modesty--
And
so forth and so on. He sprung his secret about Huck's share in the
adventure
in the finest dramatic manner he was master of, but the
surprise
it occasioned was largely counterfeit and not as clamorous and
effusive
as it might have been under happier circumstances. However,
the
widow made a pretty fair show of astonishment, and heaped so many
compliments
and so much gratitude upon Huck that he almost forgot the
nearly
intolerable discomfort of his new clothes in the entirely
intolerable
discomfort of being set up as a target for everybody's gaze
and
everybody's laudations.
The
widow said she meant to give Huck a home under her roof and have
him
educated; and that when she could spare the money she would start
him
in business in a modest way. Tom's chance was come. He said:
"Huck
don't need it. Huck's rich."
Nothing
but a heavy strain upon the good manners of the company kept
back
the due and proper complimentary laugh at this pleasant joke. But
the
silence was a little awkward. Tom broke it:
"Huck's
got money. Maybe you don't believe it, but he's got lots of
it.
Oh, you needn't smile--I reckon I can show you. You just wait a
minute."
Tom
ran out of doors. The company looked at each other with a
perplexed
interest--and inquiringly at Huck, who was tongue-tied.
"Sid, what ails Tom?" said Aunt Polly. "He--well, there ain't ever any<= o:p>
making
of that boy out. I never--"
Tom
entered, struggling with the weight of his sacks, and Aunt Polly
did
not finish her sentence. Tom poured the mass of yellow coin upon
the
table and said:
"There--what
did I tell you? Half of it's Huck's and half of it's mine!"
The
spectacle took the general breath away. All gazed, nobody spoke
for a
moment. Then there was a unanimous call for an explanation. Tom
said
he could furnish it, and he did. The tale was long, but 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:
"I
thought I had fixed up a little surprise for this occasion, but it
don't
amount to anything now. This one makes it sing mighty small, I'm
willing
to allow."
The
money was counted. The sum amounted to a little over twelve
thousand
dollars. It was more than any one present had ever seen at one
time
before, though several persons were there who were worth
considerably
more than that in property.
THE
reader may rest satisfied that Tom's and Huck's windfall made a
mighty
stir in the poor little
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
dissected,
plank by plank, and its foundations dug up and ransacked for
hidden
treasure--and not by boys, but men--pretty grave, unromantic
men,
too, some of them. Wherever Tom and Huck appeared they were
courted,
admired, stared at. The boys were not able to remember that
their
remarks had possessed weight before; but now their sayings were
treasured
and repeated; everything they did seemed somehow to be
regarded
as remarkable; they had evidently lost the power of doing and
saying
commonplace things; moreover, their past history was raked up
and
discovered to bear marks of conspicuous originality. The village
paper
published biographical sketches of the boys.
The
Widow Douglas put Huck's money out at six per cent., and Judge
Thatcher
did the same with Tom's at Aunt Polly's request. Each lad had
an
income, now, that was simply prodigious--a dollar for every week-day
in
the year and half of the Sundays. It was just what the minister got
--no,
it was what he was promised--he generally couldn't collect it. A
dollar
and a quarter a week would board, lodge, and school a boy in
those
old simple days--and clothe him and wash him, too, for that
matter.
Judge
Thatcher had conceived a great opinion of Tom. He said that no
commonplace
boy would ever have got his daughter out of the cave. When
Becky
told her father, in strict confidence, how Tom had taken her
whipping
at school, the Judge was visibly moved; and when she pleaded
grace
for the mighty lie which Tom had told in order to shift that
whipping
from her shoulders to his own, the Judge said with a fine
outburst
that it was a noble, a generous, a magnanimous lie--a lie that
was
worthy to hold up its head and march down through history breast to
breast
with George Washington's lauded Truth about the hatchet! Becky
thought
her father had never looked so tall and so superb as when he
walked
the floor and stamped his foot and said that. She went straight
off
and told Tom about it.
Judge
Thatcher hoped to see Tom a great lawyer or a great soldier some
day.
He said he meant to look to it that Tom should be admitted to the
National
Military Academy and afterward trained in the best law school
in
the country, in order that he might be ready for either career or
both.
Huck
Finn's wealth and the fact that he was now under the Widow
Douglas'
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.
He
bravely bore his miseries three weeks, and then one day turned up
missing.
For forty-eight hours the widow hunted for him everywhere in
great
distress. The public were profoundly concerned; they searched
high
and low, they dragged the river for his body. Early the third
morning
Tom Sawyer wisely went poking among some old empty hogsheads
down
behind the abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them he found
the
refugee. Huck had slept there; he had just breakfasted upon some
stolen
odds and ends of food, and was lying off, now, in comfort, with
his
pipe. He was unkempt, uncombed, and clad in the same old ruin of
rags
that had made him picturesque in the days when he was free and
happy.
Tom routed him out, told him the trouble he had been causing,
and
urged him to go home. Huck's face lost its tranquil content, and
took
a melancholy cast. He said:
"Don't
talk about it, Tom. I've tried it, and it don't work; it don't
work,
Tom. It ain't for me; I ain't used to it. The widder's good to
me,
and friendly; but I can't stand them ways. She makes me 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."
"Well,
everybody does that way, Huck."
"Tom,
it don't make no difference. I ain't everybody, and I can't
STAND
it. It's awful to be tied up so. And grub comes too easy--I don't
take
no interest in vittles, that way. I got to ask to go a-fishing; I
got
to ask to go in a-swimming--dern'd if I hain't got to ask to do
everything.
Well, I'd got to talk so nice it wasn't no comfort--I'd got
to go
up in the attic and rip out 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 HAD to shove, Tom--I just had to. And besides, that school's
going
to open, and I'd a had to go to it--well, I wouldn't stand THAT,
Tom.
Looky here, Tom, being rich ain't what it's cracked up to be. It's
just
worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead
all
the time. Now these clothes suits me, and this bar'l suits me, and
I
ain't ever going to shake 'em any more. Tom, I wouldn't ever got into
all
this trouble if it hadn't 'a' ben for that money; now you just take
my
sheer of it along with your'n, and gimme a ten-center sometimes--not
many
times, becuz I don't give a dern for a thing 'thout it's tollable
hard
to git--and you go and beg off for me with the widder."
"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."
"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!"
Tom
saw his opportunity--
"Lookyhere,
Huck, being rich ain't going to keep me back from turning
robber."
"No!
Oh, good-licks; are you in real dead-wood earnest, Tom?"
"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."
Huck's
joy was quenched.
"Can't
let me in, Tom? Didn't you let me go for a pirate?"
"Yes,
but that's different. A robber is more high-toned than what a
pirate
is--as a general thing. In most countries they're awful high up
in
the nobility--dukes and such."
"Now,
Tom, hain't you always ben friendly to me? You wouldn't shet me
out,
would you, Tom? You wouldn't do that, now, WOULD you, Tom?"
"Huck,
I wouldn't want to, and I DON'T want to--but what would people
say?
Why, they'd say, 'Mph! Tom Sawyer's Gang! pretty low characters in
it!'
They'd mean you, Huck. You wouldn't like that, and I wouldn't."
Huck
was silent for some time, engaged in a mental struggle. Finally
he
said:
"Well,
I'll go back to the widder for a month and tackle it and see if
I can
come to stand it, if you'll let me b'long to the gang, Tom."
"All
right, Huck, it's a whiz! Come along, old chap, and I'll ask the
widow
to let up on you a little, Huck."
"Will
you, Tom--now will you? That's good. If she'll let up on some of
the
roughest things, I'll smoke private and cuss private, and crowd
through
or bust. When you going to start the gang and turn robbers?"
"Oh,
right off. We'll get the boys together and have the initiation
to-night,
maybe."
"Have
the which?"
"Have
the initiation."
"What's
that?"
"It's
to swear to stand by one another, and never tell the gang's
secrets,
even if you're chopped all to flinders, and kill anybody and
all
his family that hurts one of the gang."
"That's
gay--that's mighty gay, Tom, I tell you."
"Well,
I bet it is. And all that swearing's got to be done at
midnight,
in the lonesomest, awfulest place you can find--a ha'nted
house
is the best, but they're all ripped up now."
"Well,
midnight's good, anyway, Tom."
"Yes,
so it is. And you've got to swear on a coffin, and sign it with
blood."
"Now,
that's something LIKE! Why, it's a million times bullier than
pirating.
I'll stick to the widder till I rot, Tom; and if I git to be
a
reg'lar ripper of a robber, and everybody talking 'bout it, I reckon
she'll
be proud she snaked me in out of the wet."
CONCLUSION
SO
endeth this chronicle. It being strictly a history of a BOY, it
must
stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming
the
history of a MAN. When one writes a novel about grown people, he
knows
exactly where to stop--that is, with a marriage; but when he
writes
of juveniles, he must stop where he best can.
Most
of the characters that perform in this book still live, and are
prosperous
and happy. Some day it may seem worth while to take up the
story
of the younger ones again and see what sort of men and women they
turned
out to be; therefore it will be wisest not to reveal any of that
part
of their lives at present.