THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

MARK TWAIN

Preface

Most of the adventures
recorded in this book
really occurred;
one or two
were experiences of my own,
the rest
those of boys
who were schoolmates of mine.
Huck Finn is drawn from life;
Tom Sawyer also,
but not from an individual—
he is a combination
of the characteristics
of three boys
whom I knew,
and therefore belongs
to the composite order
of architecture.

The odd superstitions touched upon
were all prevalent
among children
and slaves in the West
at the period of this story—
that is to say,
thirty or forty years ago.

Although my book is intended mainly
for the entertainment
of boys and girls,
I hope it will not be shunned
by men and women
on that account,
for part of my plan
has been to try
to pleasantly remind adults
of what they once were themselves,
and of how
they felt and thought and talked,
and what queer enterprises
they sometimes engaged in.

The author.

Hartford, 1876.

Chapter 1

“TOM!”

No answer.

“TOM!”

No answer.

“What’s gone with that boy,
I wonder?
You TOM!”

No answer.

The old lady
pulled her spectacles down
and looked over them
about the room;
then she put them up
and looked out under them.
She seldom or never
looked through them
for so small a thing
as a boy;
they were her state pair,
the pride of her heart,
and were built for “style,”
not service—
she could have seen
through a pair of stove-lids
just as well.
She looked perplexed for a moment,
and then said,
not fiercely,
but still loud enough
for the furniture
to hear:

“Well,
I lay if I get hold of you I’ll—”

She did not finish,
for by this time
she was bending down and punching
under the bed with the broom,
and so she needed breath
to punctuate the punches with.
She resurrected nothing
but the cat.

“I never did see
the beat of that boy!”

She went to the open door
and stood in it
and looked out
among the tomato vines
and “jimpson” weeds
that constituted the garden.
No Tom.
So she lifted up her voice
at an angle calculated for distance
and shouted:

“Y-o-u-u TOM!”

There was a slight noise behind her
and she turned
just in time to seize a small boy
by the slack of his roundabout
and arrest his flight.

“There!
I might ’a’ thought of that closet.
What you been doing in there?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing!
Look at your hands.
And look at your mouth.
What is that truck?”

“I don’t know,
aunt.”

“Well,
I know.
It’s jam—
that’s what it is.
Forty times I’ve said
if you didn’t let that jam alone
I’d skin you.
Hand me that switch.”

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

“My!
Look behind you,
aunt!”

The old lady whirled round,
and snatched her skirts
out of danger.
The lad fled on the instant,
scrambled up the high board-fence,
and disappeared over it.

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

“Hang the boy,
can’t I never learn anything?
Ain’t he played me tricks enough
like that for me
to be looking out for him
by this time?
But old fools
is the biggest fools
there is.
Can’t learn an old dog new tricks,
as the saying is.
But my goodness,
he never plays them alike,
two days,
and how is a body
to know what’s coming?
He ’pears to know
just how long he can torment me
before I get my dander up,
and he knows if he can make out
to put me off for a minute
or make me laugh,
it’s all down again
and I can’t hit him a lick.
I ain’t doing my duty by that boy,
and that’s the Lord’s truth,
goodness knows.
Spare the rod and spile the child,
as the Good Book says.
I’m a laying up sin
and suffering for us both,
I know.
He’s full of the Old Scratch,
but laws-a-me!
he’s my own dead sister’s boy,
poor thing,
and I ain’t got the heart
to lash him,
somehow.
Every time I let him off,
my conscience does hurt me so,
and every time I hit him
my old heart most breaks.
Well-a-well,
man that is born of woman
is of few days
and full of trouble,
as the Scripture says,
and I reckon it’s so.
He’ll play hookey this evening,
and I’ll just be obleeged
to make him work,
tomorrow,
to punish him.
It’s mighty hard
to make him work Saturdays,
when all the boys
is having holiday,
but he hates work
more than he hates anything else,
and I’ve 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,
trouble-some ways.

While Tom was eating his supper,
and stealing sugar
as opportunity offered,
Aunt Polly
asked him questions
that were full of guile,
and very deep—
for she wanted
to trap him
into damaging revealments.
Like many other simple-hearted souls,
it was her pet vanity
to believe she was endowed
with a talent
for dark and mysterious diplomacy,
and she loved to contemplate
her most transparent devices
as marvels of low cunning.
Said she:

“Tom,
it was middling warm in school,
warn’t it?”

“Yes’m.”

“Powerful warm,
warn’t it?”

“Yes’m.”

“Didn’t you want
to go in a-swimming,
Tom?”

A bit of a scare shot through Tom—
a touch of uncomfortable suspicion.
He searched Aunt Polly’s face,
but it told him nothing.
So he said:

“No’m—
well,
not very much.”

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

“But you ain’t too warm now,
though.”
And it flattered her to reflect
that she had discovered
that the shirt was dry
without anybody knowing
that that was
what she had in her mind.
But in spite of her,
Tom knew where the wind lay,
now.
So he forestalled
what might be
the next move:

“Some of us pumped on our heads—
mine’s damp yet.
See?”

Aunt Polly was vexed
to think she had overlooked
that bit of circumstantial evidence,
and missed a trick.
Then she had a new inspiration:

“Tom,
you didn’t have
to undo your shirt collar
where I sewed it,
to pump on your head,
did you?
Unbutton your jacket!”

The trouble vanished out
of Tom’s face.
He opened his jacket.
His shirt collar
was securely sewed.

“Bother!
Well,
go ’long with you.
I’d made sure
you’d played hookey
and been a-swimming.
But I forgive ye,
Tom.
I reckon
you’re a kind of a singed cat,
as the saying is—
better’n you look.
This time.”

She was half sorry
her sagacity
had miscarried,
and half glad
that Tom had stumbled
into obedient conduct for once.

But Sidney said:

“Well,
now,
if I didn’t think
you sewed his collar
with white thread,
but it’s black.”

“Why,
I did sew it with white!
Tom!”

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

“Siddy,
I’ll lick you for that.”

In a safe place
Tom examined
two large needles
which were thrust
into the 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 gee-miny
she’d stick to one or t’other—
I can’t keep the run of ’em.
But I bet you I’ll lam Sid
for that.
I’ll learn him!”

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 un-disturbed.
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 im-pressive curiosity
in the poor little shabby village
of St. Petersburg.
This boy was well dressed,
too—
well dressed on a week-day.
This was simply astounding.
His cap was a dainty thing,
his close-buttoned blue cloth
roundabout
was new and natty,
and so were his pantaloons.
He had shoes on—
and it was only Friday.
He even wore a necktie,
a bright bit of ribbon.
He had a citified air
about him
that ate into Tom’s vitals.

The more Tom stared
at the splendid marvel,
the higher he turned up his nose
at his finery
and the shabbier and shabbier
his own outfit
seemed to him to grow.
Neither boy spoke.
If one moved,
the other moved—
but only sidewise,
in a circle;
they kept face to face
and eye to eye all the time.
Finally Tom said:

“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.

Chapter 2

Saturday morning was come,
and all the summer world
was bright and fresh,
and brimming with life.
There was a song in every heart;
and if the heart was young
the music issued at the lips.
There was cheer in every face
and a spring
in every step.
The locust-trees were in bloom
and the fragrance of the blossoms
filled the air.
Cardiff Hill,
beyond the village and above it,
was green with vegetation
and it lay
just far enough away
to seem a Delectable Land,
dreamy,
reposeful,
and inviting.

Tom appeared on the sidewalk
with a bucket of whitewash
and a long-handled brush.
He surveyed the fence,
and all gladness left him
and a deep melancholy
settled down upon his spirit.
Thirty yards of board fence
nine feet high.
Life to him seemed hollow,
and existence but a burden.
Sighing,
he dipped his brush
and passed it
along the topmost plank;
repeated the operation;
did it again;
compared
the insignificant whitewashed streak
with the far-reaching continent
of unwhitewashed fence,
and sat down on a tree-box
discouraged.
Jim came
skipping out at the gate
with a tin pail,
and singing Buffalo Gals.
Bringing water from the town pump
had always been hateful work
in Tom’s eyes,
before,
but now it did not strike him so.
He remembered
that there was company
at the pump.
White,
mulatto,
and negro boys and girls
were always there
waiting their turns,
resting,
trading playthings,
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 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,
mean-time,
describing stately circles—
for it was representing
a forty-foot wheel.

“Let her go back on the labboard!
Ting-a-ling-ling!
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 door-knob,
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 Mont Blanc
is only amusement.
There are wealthy gentlemen
in England
who drive four-horse passenger-coaches
twenty or thirty miles
on a daily line,
in the summer,
because the privilege
costs them considerable money;
but if they were offered wages
for the service,
that would turn it into work
and then
they would resign.

The boy mused awhile
over the substantial change
which had taken place
in his worldly circumstances,
and then wended
toward headquarters
to report.

Chapter 3

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
white-washed,
and not only whitewashed
but elaborately coated
and recoated,
and even a streak
added to the ground,
her astonishment
was almost unspeakable.
She said:

“Well,
I never!
There’s no getting round it,
you can work when you’re a mind to,
Tom.”
And then she diluted the compliment
by adding,
“But it’s powerful seldom
you’re a mind to,
I’m bound to say.
Well,
go ’long and play;
but mind you get back
some time in a week,
or I’ll tan you.”

She was so overcome
by the splendor of his achievement
that she took him into the closet
and selected a choice apple
and delivered it to him,
along with an improving lecture
upon the added value and flavor
a treat took to itself
when it came without sin
through virtuous effort.
And while she closed
with a happy Scriptural flourish,
he “hooked” a doughnut.

Then he skipped out,
and saw Sid just starting up
the outside stairway
that led to the back rooms
on the second floor.
Clods were handy
and the air was full of them
in a twinkling.
They raged around Sid
like a hail-storm;
and before Aunt Polly
could collect her surprised faculties
and sally to the rescue,
six or seven clods
had taken personal effect,
and Tom was over the fence
and gone.
There was a gate,
but as a general thing
he was too crowded for time
to make use of it.
His soul was at peace,
now that he had settled with Sid
for calling attention
to his black thread
and getting him into trouble.

Tom skirted the block,
and came round into a muddy alley
that led by the back
of his aunt’s cow-stable.
He presently got safely
beyond the reach
of capture and punishment,
and 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 pan-talettes.
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 better of it
and held his peace,
for there was danger in Tom’s eye.

Tom turned in
without the added vexation of prayers,
and Sid made mental note
of the omission.

Chapter 4

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 dressed himself;
she buttoned
his neat roundabout
up to his chin,
turned his vast shirt collar
down over his shoulders,
brushed him off
and crowned him
with his speckled straw hat.
He now looked
exceedingly improved
and uncomfortable.
He was fully as uncomfortable
as he looked;
for there was a restraint
about whole clothes and cleanliness
that galled him.
He hoped
that Mary would forget his shoes,
but the hope was blighted;
she coated them thoroughly
with tallow,
as was the custom,
and brought them out.
He lost his temper and said
he was always being made
to do everything
he didn’t want to do.
But Mary said,
persuasively:

“Please,
Tom—
that’s a good boy.”

So he got into the shoes snarling.
Mary was soon ready,
and the three children set out
for Sunday-school—
a place that Tom hated
with his whole heart;
but Sid and Mary were fond of it.

Sabbath-school hours
were from nine to half-past ten;
and then church service.
Two of the children
always remained for the sermon
voluntarily,
and the other always remained too—
for stronger reasons.
The church’s high-backed,
uncushioned pews
would seat
about three hundred persons;
the edifice was but a small,
plain affair,
with a sort of pine board tree-box
on top of it
for a steeple.
At the door Tom dropped back a step
and accosted
a Sunday-dressed comrade:

“Say,
Billy,
got a yaller ticket?”

“Yes.”

“What’ll you take for her?”

“What’ll you give?”

“Piece of lickrish
and a fish-hook.”

“Less see ’em.”

Tom exhibited.
They were satisfactory,
and the property changed hands.
Then Tom traded
a couple of white alleys
for three red tickets,
and some small trifle or other
for a couple of blue ones.
He waylaid other boys as they came,
and went on
buying tickets of various colors
ten or fifteen minutes longer.
He entered the church,
now,
with a swarm
of clean and noisy boys and girls,
proceeded to his seat
and started a quarrel
with the first boy
that came handy.
The teacher,
a grave,
elderly man,
interfered;
then turned his back a moment
and Tom pulled a boy’s hair
in the next bench,
and was absorbed
in his book
when the boy turned around;
stuck a pin in another boy,
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 newcomer
his soul was all ablaze
with bliss
in a moment.
The next moment
he was “showing off”
with all his might—
cuffing boys,
pulling hair,
making faces—
in a word,
using every art
that seemed likely
to fascinate a girl
and win her applause.
His exaltation had but one alloy—
the memory of his humiliation
in this angel’s garden—
and that record in sand
was fast washing out,
under the waves of happiness
that were sweeping over it now.

The visitors
were given
the highest seat of honor,
and as soon as Mr. Walters’ speech
was finished,
he introduced them to the school.
The middle-aged man
turned out
to be a prodigious personage—
no less a one than the county judge—
altogether the most august creation
these children
had ever looked upon—
and they wondered
what kind of material
he was made of—
and they half wanted
to hear him roar,
and were half afraid he might,
too.
He was from Constantinople,
twelve miles away—
so he had travelled,
and seen the world—
these very eyes
had looked
upon the county court-house—
which was said to have a tin roof.
The awe
which these reflections inspired
was attested
by the impressive silence
and the ranks of staring eyes.
This was the great Judge Thatcher,
brother of their own lawyer.
Jeff Thatcher immediately went forward,
to be familiar with the great man
and be envied by the school.
It would have been music
to his soul
to hear the whisperings:

“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.

Chapter 5

About half-past ten
the cracked bell
of the small church
began to ring,
and presently
the people began to gather
for the morning sermon.
The Sunday-school children
distributed themselves
about the house
and occupied pews
with their parents,
so as to be under supervision.
Aunt Polly came,
and Tom and Sid and Mary
sat with her—
Tom being placed next the aisle,
in order
that he might be as far away
from the open window
and the seductive
outside summer scenes
as possible.
The crowd filed up the aisles:
the aged and needy postmaster,
who had seen better days;
the mayor and his wife—
for they had a mayor there,
among other unnecessaries;
the justice of the peace;
the widow Douglas,
fair,
smart,
and forty,
a generous,
good-hearted soul
and well-to-do,
her hill mansion
the only palace in the town,
and the most hospitable
and much the most lavish
in the matter of festivities
that St. Petersburg could boast;
the bent and venerable Major
and Mrs. Ward;
lawyer Riverson,
the new notable from a distance;
next the belle of the village,
followed by a troop of lawn-clad
and ribbon-decked
young heart-breakers;
then all the young clerks
in town
in a body—
for they had stood in the vestibule
sucking their cane-heads,
a circling wall
of oiled and simpering admirers,
till the last girl
had run their gantlet;
and last of all came the Model Boy,
Willie Mufferson,
taking as heedful care
of his mother
as if she were cut glass.
He always brought his mother
to church,
and was the pride of all the matrons.
The boys all hated him,
he was so good.
And besides,
he had been “thrown up to them”
so much.
His white handkerchief
was hanging out of his pocket
behind,
as usual on Sundays—
accidentally.
Tom had no handkerchief,
and he looked upon boys
who had as snobs.

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 prize,
and sail thro’ blood-y seas?

He was regarded
as a wonderful reader.
At church “sociables”
he was always called upon
to read poetry;
and when he was through,
the ladies would lift up their hands
and let them fall helplessly
in their laps,
and “wall” their eyes,
and shake their heads,
as much as to say,
“Words cannot express it;
it is too beautiful,
too beautiful
for this mortal earth.”

After the hymn had been sung,
the Rev. Mr. Sprague turned himself
into a bulletin-board,
and read off “notices”
of meetings and societies
and things till it seemed
that the list would stretch out
to the crack of doom—
a queer custom
which is still kept up
in America,
even in cities,
away here
in this age
of abundant newspapers.
Often,
the less
there is to justify
a traditional custom,
the harder it is to get rid of it.

And now the minister prayed.
A good,
generous prayer it was,
and went into details:
it pleaded for the church,
and the little children
of the church;
for the other churches
of the village;
for the village itself;
for the county;
for the State;
for the State officers;
for the United States;
for the churches
of the United States;
for Congress;
for the President;
for the officers
of the Government;
for poor sailors,
tossed by stormy seas;
for the oppressed millions
groaning under the heel
of European monarchies
and Oriental despotisms;
for such as have
the light and the good tidings,
and yet have not eyes
to see nor ears
to hear withal;
for the heathen
in the far islands
of the sea;
and closed with a supplication
that the words
he was about to speak
might find grace and favor,
and be as seed sown
in fertile ground,
yielding in time
a grateful harvest of good.
Amen.

There was a rustling of dresses,
and the standing congregation
sat down.
The boy
whose history this book relates
did not enjoy the prayer,
he only endured it—
if he even did that much.
He was restive all through it;
he kept tally
of the details
of the prayer,
unconsciously—
for he was not listening,
but he knew the ground of old,
and the clergyman’s regular route
over it—
and when a little trifle
of new matter
was interlarded,
his ear detected
it and his whole nature
resented it;
he considered additions unfair,
and scoundrelly.
In the midst of the prayer
a fly had lit on the back
of the pew in front of him
and tortured his spirit
by calmly rubbing its hands together,
embracing its head with its arms,
and polishing it so vigorously
that it seemed
to almost part company
with the body,
and the slender thread
of a neck
was exposed to view;
scraping its wings with its hind legs
and smoothing them
to its body
as if they had been coat-tails;
going through its whole toilet
as tranquilly
as if it knew
it was perfectly safe.
As indeed it was;
for as sorely as Tom’s hands
itched to grab for it
they did not dare—
he believed his soul
would be instantly destroyed
if he did such a thing
while the prayer was going on.
But with the closing sentence
his hand began
to curve and steal forward;
and the instant the “Amen” was out
the fly was a prisoner of war.
His aunt
detected the act
and made him let it go.

The minister gave out his text
and droned along monotonously
through an argument
that was so prosy
that many a head by and by
began to nod—
and yet it was an argument
that dealt
in limitless fire and brimstone
and thinned the predestined elect
down to a company so small
as to be hardly worth the saving.
Tom counted the pages of the sermon;
after church
he always knew how many pages
there had been,
but he seldom knew
anything else
about the discourse.
However,
this time
he was really interested
for a little while.
The minister made a grand
and moving picture
of the assembling together
of the world’s hosts
at the millennium
when the lion and the lamb
should lie down together
and a little child should lead them.
But the pathos,
the lesson,
the moral
of the great spectacle
were lost upon the boy;
he only thought
of the conspicuousness
of the principal character
before the on-looking nations;
his face lit with the thought,
and he said to himself
that he wished
he could be that child,
if it was a tame lion.

Now he lapsed into suffering again,
as the dry argument was resumed.
Presently he bethought him
of a treasure
he had and got it out.
It was a large black beetle
with formidable jaws—
a “pinchbug,”
he called it.
It was in a percussion-cap box.
The first thing the beetle did
was to take him by the finger.

A natural fillip followed,
the beetle
went floundering into the aisle
and lit on its back,
and the hurt finger
went into the boy’s mouth.
The beetle lay there
working its helpless legs,
unable to turn over.
Tom eyed it,
and longed for it;
but it was safe out of his reach.
Other people
uninterested in the sermon
found relief in the beetle,
and they eyed it too.
Presently
a vagrant poodle dog
came idling along,
sad at heart,
lazy with the summer softness
and the quiet,
weary of captivity,
sighing for change.
He spied the beetle;
the drooping tail lifted
and wagged.
He surveyed the prize;
walked around it;
smelt at it from a safe distance;
walked around it again;
grew bolder,
and took a closer smell;
then lifted his lip
and made a gingerly snatch at it,
just missing it;
made another,
and another;
began to enjoy the diversion;
subsided to his stomach
with the beetle
between his paws,
and continued his experiments;
grew weary at last,
and then indifferent
and absent-minded.
His head nodded,
and little by little
his chin descended
and touched the enemy,
who seized it.
There was a sharp yelp,
a flirt of the poodle’s head,
and the beetle fell
a couple of yards away,
and lit on its back once more.
The neighboring spectators shook
with a gentle inward joy,
several faces
went behind fans
and hand-kerchiefs,
and Tom was entirely happy.
The dog looked foolish,
and probably felt so;
but there was resentment
in his heart,
too,
and a craving for revenge.
So he went to the beetle
and began a wary attack
on it again;
jumping at it
from every point of a circle,
lighting with his fore-paws
within an inch of the creature,
making even closer
snatches at it
with his teeth,
and jerking his head
till his ears flapped again.
But he grew tired once more,
after a while;
tried to amuse himself
with a fly
but found no relief;
followed an ant around,
with his nose close to the floor,
and quickly wearied of that;
yawned,
sighed,
forgot the beetle entirely,
and sat down on it.
Then there was a wild yelp of agony
and the poodle
went sailing up the aisle;
the yelps continued,
and so did the dog;
he crossed the house
in front of the altar;
he flew down the other aisle;
he crossed before the doors;
he clamored up the home-stretch;
his anguish grew with his progress,
till presently he was
but a woolly comet
moving in its orbit
with the gleam
and the speed of light.
At last
the frantic sufferer
sheered from its course,
and sprang into its master’s lap;
he flung it out of the window,
and the voice of distress
quickly thinned away
and died in the distance.

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.

Chapter 6

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 downstairs 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 upstairs,
nevertheless,
with Sid and Mary at her heels.
And her face grew white,
too,
and her lip trembled.
When she reached the bedside
she gasped out:

“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 St. Petersburg.

Tom hailed the romantic outcast:

“Hello,
Huckleberry!”

“Hello yourself,
and see how you like it.”

“What’s that you got?”

“Dead cat.”

“Lemme see him,
Huck.
My,
he’s pretty stiff.
Where’d you get him?”

“Bought him off’n a boy.”

“What did you give?”

“I give a blue ticket and a bladder
that I got at the slaughter-house.”

“Where’d you get the blue ticket?”

“Bought it off’n Ben Rogers
two weeks ago
for a hoop-stick.”

“Say—
what is dead cats good for,
Huck?”

“Good for?
Cure warts with.”

“No!
Is that so?
I know something that’s better.”

“I bet you don’t.
What is it?”

“Why,
spunk-water.”

“Spunk-water!
I wouldn’t give a 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-meal shorts,
Spunk-water,
spunk-water,
swaller these warts,’

and then walk away quick,
eleven steps,
with your eyes shut,
and then turn around three times
and walk home
without speaking to anybody.
Because if you speak
the charm’s busted.”

“Well,
that sounds like a good way;
but that ain’t the way
Bob Tanner done.”

“No,
sir,
you can bet he didn’t,
becuz he’s the wartiest boy
in this town;
and he wouldn’t have a wart on him
if he’d knowed
how to work spunk-water.
I’ve took off thousands of warts
off of my hands
that way,
Huck.
I play with frogs so much
that I’ve always got
considerable many warts.
Sometimes I take ’em off
with a bean.”

“Yes,
bean’s good.
I’ve done that.”

“Have you?
What’s your way?”

“You take and split the bean,
and cut the wart
so as to get some blood,
and then you put the blood
on one piece of the bean
and take and dig a hole and bury it
’bout midnight at the 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 grave-yard
’long about midnight
when somebody that was wicked
has been buried;
and when it’s midnight
a devil will come,
or maybe two or three,
but you can’t see ’em,
you can only hear
something like the wind,
or maybe hear ’em talk;
and when they’re taking
that feller away,
you heave your cat after ’em
and say,
‘Devil follow corpse,
cat follow devil,
warts follow cat,
I’m done with ye!’
That’ll fetch 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 school-house,
he strode in briskly,
with the manner of one
who had come
with all honest speed.
He hung his hat on a peg
and flung himself into his seat
with business-like alacrity.
The master,
throned on high
in his great splint-bottom arm-chair,
was dozing,
lulled by the drowsy hum of study.
The interruption roused him.

“Thomas Sawyer!”

Tom knew that
when his name was pronounced
in full,
it meant trouble.

“Sir!”

“Come up here.
Now,
sir,
why are you late again,
as usual?”

Tom was about
to take refuge in a lie,
when he saw two long tails
of yellow hair
hanging down a back
that he recognized
by the electric sympathy of love;
and by that form
was the only vacant place
on the girls’ side
of the school-house.
He instantly said:

“I stopped to talk
with Huckleberry Finn!”

The master’s pulse stood still,
and he stared helplessly.
The buzz of study ceased.
The pupils wondered
if this 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 non-committal attempt
to see,
but the boy
did not betray
that he was aware of it.
At last
she gave in
and hesitatingly whispered:

“Let me see it.”

Tom partly uncovered
a dismal caricature of a house
with two gable ends to it
and a 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 brought up at the foot
and yielded up the pewter medal
which he had worn with ostentation
for months.

Chapter 7

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.

Chapter 8

Tom dodged hither and thither
through lanes
until he was well out of the track
of returning scholars,
and then fell into a moody jog.
He crossed a small “branch”
two or three times,
because of a prevailing
juvenile superstition
that to cross water baffled pursuit.
Half an hour later
he was disappearing
behind the Douglas mansion
on the summit of Cardiff Hill,
and the school-house
was hardly distinguishable
away off in the valley
behind him.
He entered a dense wood,
picked his pathless way
to the centre of it,
and sat down
on a mossy spot
under a spreading oak.
There was not even a zephyr stirring;
the dead noonday heat
had even stilled
the songs of the birds;
nature lay in a trance
that was broken by no sound
but the occasional far-off
hammering of a wood-pecker,
and this seemed to render
the pervading silence
and sense of loneliness
the more profound.
The boy’s soul
was steeped in melancholy;
his feelings
were in happy accord
with his surroundings.
He sat long
with his elbows on his knees
and his chin in his hands,
meditating.
It seemed to him
that life was but a trouble,
at best,
and he more than half
envied Jimmy Hodges,
so lately released;
it must be very peaceful,
he thought,
to lie and slumber and dream
forever and ever,
with the wind
whispering through the trees
and caressing the grass
and the flowers
over the grave,
and nothing to bother
and grieve about,
ever any more.
If he only had
a clean Sunday-school record
he could be willing to go,
and be done with it all.
Now as to this girl.
What had he done?
Nothing.
He had meant the best in the world,
and been treated like a dog—
like a very dog.
She would be sorry some day—
maybe when it was too late.
Ah,
if he could only die 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 blood-curdling war-whoop,
and sear the eyeballs
of all his companions
with unappeasable envy.
But no,
there was something gaudier
even than this.
He would be a pirate!
That was it!
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 bound-less!
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 and 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.”

“Why,
I can’t do that,
it ain’t in the book.”

“Well,
it’s blamed mean—
that’s all.”

“Well,
say,
Joe,
you can be Friar Tuck
or Much the miller’s son,
and lam me with a quarter-staff;
or I’ll be the Sheriff of Nottingham
and you be Robin Hood
a little while
and kill me.”

This was satisfactory,
and so these adventures
were carried out.
Then Tom became Robin Hood again,
and was allowed
by the treacherous nun
to bleed his strength away
through his neglected wound.
And at last Joe,
representing a whole tribe
of weeping outlaws,
dragged him sadly forth,
gave his bow into his feeble hands,
and Tom said,
“Where this arrow falls,
there bury
poor Robin Hood
under the greenwood tree.”
Then he shot the arrow
and fell back and would have died,
but he lit on a nettle
and sprang up
too gaily for a corpse.

The boys dressed themselves,
hid their accoutrements,
and went off grieving
that there were no outlaws
any more,
and wondering what modern civilization
could claim to have done
to compensate for their loss.
They said they would rather be outlaws
a year in Sherwood Forest
than President of the United States
forever.

Chapter 9

At half-past nine,
that night,
Tom and Sid were sent to bed,
as usual.
They said their prayers,
and Sid was soon asleep.
Tom lay awake and waited,
in restless impatience.
When it seemed to him
that it must be
nearly daylight,
he heard the clock strike ten!
This was despair.
He would have tossed and fidgeted,
as his nerves demanded,
but he was afraid he might wake Sid.
So he lay still,
and stared up into the dark.
Everything was dismally still.
By and by,
out of the stillness,
little,
scarcely perceptible noises
began to emphasize themselves.
The ticking of the clock
began to bring itself
into notice.
Old beams began to crack mysteriously.
The stairs creaked faintly.
Evidently spirits were abroad.
A measured,
muffled snore issued
from Aunt Polly’s chamber.
And now
the tiresome chirping of a cricket
that no human ingenuity could locate,
began.
Next the ghastly ticking
of a death-watch in the wall
at the bed’s head
made Tom shudder—
it meant
that somebody’s days
were numbered.
Then the howl of a far-off dog
rose on the night air,
and was answered
by a fainter howl
from a remoter distance.
Tom was in an agony.
At last
he was satisfied
that time had ceased
and eternity begun;
he began to doze,
in spite of himself;
the clock chimed eleven,
but he did not hear it.
And then there came,
mingling with his half-formed dreams,
a most melancholy caterwauling.
The raising
of a neighboring window
disturbed him.
A cry of “Scat!
you devil!”
and the crash of an empty bottle
against the back
of his aunt’s woodshed
brought him wide awake,
and a single minute later
he was dressed
and out of the window
and creeping along the roof
of the “ell”
on all fours.
He “meow’d” with caution
once or twice,
as he went;
then jumped to the roof
of the woodshed
and thence to the ground.
Huckleberry Finn was there,
with his dead cat.
The boys moved off
and disappeared in the gloom.
At the end of half an hour
they were wading
through the tall grass
of the graveyard.

It was a graveyard
of the old-fashioned Western kind.
It was on a hill,
about a mile and a half
from the village.
It had a crazy board fence around it,
which leaned inward in places,
and outward the rest of the time,
but stood upright nowhere.
Grass and weeds
grew rank
over the whole cemetery.

All the old graves were sunken in,
there was not a tombstone on the place;
round-topped,
worm-eaten boards
staggered over the graves,
leaning for support and finding none.
“Sacred to the memory
of” So-and-So
had been painted on them once,
but it could no longer have been read,
on the most of them,
now,
even if there had been light.

A faint wind moaned through the trees,
and Tom feared
it might be
the spirits of the dead,
complaining at being disturbed.
The boys talked little,
and only under their breath,
for the time and the place
and the pervading solemnity
and silence
oppressed their spirits.
They found
the sharp new heap
they were seeking,
and ensconced themselves
within the protection
of three great elms
that grew in a bunch
within a few feet of the grave.

Then they waited in silence
for what seemed
a long time.
The hooting of a distant owl
was all the sound
that troubled the dead stillness.
Tom’s reflections grew oppressive.
He must force some talk.
So he said in a whisper:

“Hucky,
do you believe
the dead people like it
for us to be here?”

Huckleberry whispered:

“I wisht I knowed.
It’s awful solemn like,
ain’t it?”

“I bet it is.”

There was a considerable pause,
while the boys
canvassed this matter
inwardly.
Then Tom whispered:

“Say,
Hucky—
do you reckon Hoss Williams
hears us talking?”

“O’ course he does.
Least his sperrit does.”

Tom,
after a pause:

“I wish I’d said Mister Williams.
But I never meant any harm.
Everybody calls him Hoss.”

“A body can’t be too partic’lar
how they talk
’bout these-yer dead people,
Tom.”

This was a damper,
and conversation died again.

Presently Tom seized
his comrade’s arm
and said:

“Sh!”

“What is it,
Tom?”
And the two clung together
with beating hearts.

“Sh!
There ’tis again!
Didn’t you hear it?”

“I—”

“There!
Now you hear it.”

“Lord,
Tom,
they’re coming!
They’re coming,
sure.
What’ll we do?”

“I dono.
Think they’ll see us?”

“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.

Chapter 10

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 moon-light,
took a little fragment
of “red keel”
out of his pocket,
got the moon on his work,
and painfully scrawled these lines,
emphasizing each slow down-stroke
by clamping his tongue
between his teeth,
and letting up the pressure
on the up-strokes.
[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.”

“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,
its 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, ’
long-side 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 tip-toed out,
through the broken weather-boarding,
and stopped
at a little distance
to exchange a parting word.
That long,
lugubrious howl
rose on the night air
again!
They turned and saw the strange dog
standing within a few feet
of where Potter was lying,
and facing Potter,
with his nose pointing heavenward.

“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.

Chapter 11

Close upon the hour of noon
the whole village
was suddenly electrified
with the ghastly news.
No need
of the as yet
un-dreamed-of telegraph;
the tale flew from man to man,
from group to group,
from house to house,
with little less
than telegraphic speed.
Of course
the schoolmaster gave holi-day
for that afternoon;
the town
would have thought strangely of him
if he had not.

A gory knife
had been found
close to the murdered man,
and it had been recognized
by somebody
as belonging to Muff Potter—
so the story ran.
And it was said
that a belated citizen
had come upon Potter
washing himself
in the “branch”
about one or two o’clock
in the morning,
and that Potter had at once
sneaked off—
suspicious circumstances,
especially the washing
which was not a habit
with Potter.
It was also said
that the town had been ransacked
for this “murderer”
(the public are not slow
in the matter of sifting evidence
and arriving at a verdict),
but that he could not be found.
Horsemen had departed down
all the roads
in every direction,
and the Sheriff “was confident”
that he would be captured
before night.

All the town
was drifting
toward the graveyard.
Tom’s 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 lesson
to grave robbers!”
“Muff Potter’ll hang for this
if they catch him!”
This was the drift of remark;
and the minister said,
“It was a judgment;
His hand is here.”

Now Tom shivered
from head to heel;
for his eye fell
upon the stolid face
of Injun Joe.
At this moment
the crowd began to sway
and struggle,
and voices shouted,
“It’s him!
it’s him!
he’s coming himself!”

“Who?
Who?”
from twenty voices.

“Muff Potter!”

“Hallo,
he’s stopped!—
Look out,
he’s turning!
Don’t let him get away!”

People in the branches of the trees
over Tom’s head
said he wasn’t trying to get away—
he only looked doubtful
and perplexed.

“Infernal impudence!”
said a bystander;
“wanted to come and take
a quiet look
at his work,
I reckon—
didn’t expect any company.”

The crowd fell apart,
now,
and the Sheriff came through,
ostentatiously leading Potter
by the arm.
The poor fellow’s face was haggard,
and his eyes
showed the fear
that was upon him.
When he stood
before the murdered man,
he shook as with a palsy,
and he put his face in his hands
and burst into tears.

“I didn’t do it,
friends,”
he sobbed;
“’pon my word and honor
I never done it.”

“Who’s accused you?”
shouted a voice.

This shot seemed to carry home.
Potter lifted his face
and looked around him
with a pathetic hopelessness
in his eyes.
He saw Injun Joe,
and exclaimed:

“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 to run away,
but I couldn’t seem to come
anywhere but here.”
And he fell to sobbing again.

Injun Joe repeated his statement,
just as calmly,
a few minutes afterward
on the inquest,
under oath;
and the boys,
seeing that the lightnings
were still withheld,
were confirmed in their belief
that Joe had sold himself
to the devil.
He was now become,
to them,
the most balefully interesting object
they had ever looked upon,
and they could not take
their fascinated eyes
from his face.

They inwardly resolved
to watch him nights,
when opportunity should offer,
in the hope
of getting a glimpse
of his dread master.

Injun Joe helped to raise the body
of the murdered man
and put it in a wagon
for removal;
and it was whispered
through the shuddering crowd
that the wound bled a little!
The boys thought
that this happy circumstance
would turn suspicion
in the right direction;
but they were disappointed,
for more than one villager remarked:

“It was within three feet
of Muff Potter
when it done it.”

Tom’s fearful secret
and gnawing conscience
disturbed his sleep
for as much as a week after this;
and at breakfast one morning
Sid said:

“Tom,
you pitch around and talk
in your sleep
so much
that you keep me awake
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.

Chapter 12

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 wood-shed
and drowned him
with a deluge of cold water;
then she scrubbed him down
with a towel
like a file,
and so brought him to;
then she rolled him up in a wet sheet
and put him away
under blankets
till she sweated his soul clean
and “the yellow stains of it
came through his pores”—
as Tom said.

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 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 upon that
of professing
to be fond of Pain-killer.
He asked for it
so often
that he became a nuisance,
and his aunt ended
by telling him
to help himself
and quit bothering her.
If it had been Sid,
she would have had
no misgivings
to alloy her delight;
but since it was Tom,
she watched the bottle clandestinely.
She found
that the medicine
did really diminish,
but it did not occur to her
that the boy was mending
the health of a crack
in the sitting-room floor with it.

One day Tom was in the act
of dosing the crack
when his aunt’s yellow cat
came along,
purring,
eyeing 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 telltale tea-spoon
was visible
under the bed-valance.
Aunt Polly took it,
held it up.
Tom winced,
and dropped his eyes.
Aunt Polly raised him
by the usual handle—
his ear—
and cracked his head
soundly
with her thimble.

“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.

Chapter 13

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,
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 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”
upon the scene
of his former joys
and his later sufferings,
and wishing “she” could see him now,
abroad on the wild sea,
facing peril and death
with dauntless heart,
going to his doom
with a grim smile
on his lips.
It was but a small strain
on his imagination
to remove Jackson’s Island
beyond eye-shot of the village,
and so he “looked his last”
with a broken and satisfied heart.
The other pirates
were looking their last,
too;
and they all looked so long
that they came near
letting the current drift them
out of the range of the island.
But they discovered the danger in time,
and made shift to avert it.
About two o’clock in the morning
the raft grounded on the bar
two hundred yards
above the head of the island,
and they waded back and forth
until they had landed their freight.
Part of the little raft’s belongings
consisted of an old sail,
and this they spread
over a nook in the bushes
for a tent
to shelter their provisions;
but they themselves
would sleep in the open air
in good weather,
as became outlaws.

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 campfire.

“Ain’t it gay?”
said Joe.

“It’s nuts!”
said Tom.
“What would the boys say
if they could see us?”

“Say?
Well,
they’d just die to be here—
hey,
Hucky!”

“I reckon so,”
said Huckleberry;
“anyways,
I’m suited.
I don’t want nothing better’n this.
I don’t ever get enough to eat,
gen’ally—
and here
they can’t come and pick at a feller
and bullyrag him so.”

“It’s just the life for me,”
said Tom.
“You don’t have to get up,
mornings,
and you don’t have to go to school,
and wash,
and all that blame foolishness.
You see a pirate
don’t have to do anything,
Joe,
when he’s ashore,
but a hermit
he has to be praying
considerable,
and then he don’t have any fun,
anyway,
all by himself that way.”

“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 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.

Chapter 14

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 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—”

“Hark!”
said Tom.
“Listen—
don’t talk.”

They waited a time that seemed an age,
and then
the same muffled boom
troubled the solemn hush.

“Let’s go and see.”

They sprang to their feet
and hurried to the shore
toward the town.
They parted the bushes
on the bank
and peered out over the water.

The little steam ferry-boat
was about a mile
below the village,
drifting with the current.
Her broad deck
seemed crowded
with people.
There were a great many skiffs
rowing about or floating
with the stream
in the neighborhood of the 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 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 might look
upon a return to civilization—
not right now,
but—
Tom withered him with derision!
Huck,
being uncommitted as yet,
joined in with Tom,
and the waverer quickly “explained,”
and was glad to get out of the scrape
with as little taint
of chicken-hearted home-sickness
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 campfire.
He picked up and inspected
several large semi-cylinders
of the thin white bark
of a sycamore,
and finally chose two
which seemed to suit him.
Then he knelt by the fire
and painfully wrote something
upon each of these
with his “red keel”;
one he rolled up
and put in his jacket pocket,
and the other
he put in Joe’s hat
and removed it to a little distance
from the owner.
And he also put into the hat
certain schoolboy treasures
of almost inestimable value—
among them a lump of chalk,
an India-rubber ball,
three fishhooks,
and one of that kind of marbles
known as a “sure ’nough crystal.”
Then he tiptoed his way cautiously
among the trees
till he felt
that he was out of hearing,
and straightway broke
into a keen run
in the direction of the sandbar.

Chapter 15

A few minutes later
Tom was in the shoal water
of the bar,
wading toward the Illinois shore.
Before the depth
reached his middle
he was halfway over;
the current would permit
no more wading,
now,
so he struck out confidently
to swim
the remaining hundred yards.
He swam quartering upstream,
but still was swept downward
rather faster
than he had expected.
However,
he reached the shore finally,
and drifted along
till he found a low place
and drew himself out.
He put his hand on his jacket pocket,
found his piece of bark safe,
and then struck through the woods,
following the shore,
with streaming garments.
Shortly before ten o’clock
he came out into an open place
opposite the village,
and saw the ferryboat
lying in the shadow of the trees
and the high bank.
Everything was quiet
under the blinking stars.
He crept down the bank,
watching with all his eyes,
slipped into the water,
swam three or four strokes
and climbed into the skiff
that did “yawl” duty
at the boat’s stern.
He laid himself down
under the thwarts
and waited,
panting.

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
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 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 goodnight
and turned to go.
Then with a mutual impulse
the two bereaved women flung themselves
into each other’s arms
and had a good,
consoling cry,
and then parted.
Aunt Polly
was tender
far beyond her wont,
in her goodnight to Sid and Mary.
Sid snuffled a bit
and Mary went off crying
with all her heart.

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.

Chapter 16

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 “ringtaw”
and “keeps”
till that amusement grew stale.
Then Joe and Huck had another swim,
but Tom would not venture,
because he found that
in kicking off his trousers
he had kicked his string
of rattlesnake rattles off his ankle,
and he wondered
how he had escaped cramp so long
without the protection
of this mysterious charm.
He did not venture again
until he had found it,
and by that time
the other boys
were tired and ready to rest.
They gradually wandered apart,
dropped into the “dumps,”
and fell to gazing longingly
across the wide river
to where the village
lay drowsing in the sun.

Tom found himself writing
“BECKY” in the sand
with his big toe;
he scratched it out,
and was angry with himself
for his weakness.
But he wrote it again,
nevertheless;
he could not help it.
He erased it once more
and then took himself out of temptation
by driving the other boys together
and joining them.

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 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 crybaby
go home to his mother,
won’t we,
Huck?
Poor thing—
does it want to see its mother?
And so it shall.
You like it here,
don’t you, Huck?
We’ll stay,
won’t we?”

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 crybabies.
We’ll stay,
won’t we,
Huck?
Let him go if he wants to.
I reckon we can get along without him,
per’aps.”

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 warwhoop of applause
and said it was “splendid!”
and said if he had told them at first,
they wouldn’t have started away.
He made a plausible excuse;
but his real reason had been the fear
that not even the secret
would keep them with him
any very great length of time,
and so he had meant
to hold it in reserve
as a last seduction.

The lads came gayly back
and went at their sports again
with a will,
chattering all the time
about Tom’s stupendous plan
and admiring
the genius of it.
After a dainty egg and fish dinner,
Tom said he wanted to learn to smoke,
now.
Joe caught at the idea
and said he would like to try,
too.
So Huck made pipes and filled them.
These novices
had never smoked anything before
but cigars made of grapevine,
and they “bit” the tongue,
and were not considered manly anyway.

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 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 grassblade,
separate and distinct,
that grew about their feet.
And it showed three white,
startled faces,
too.
A deep peal of thunder
went rolling and tumbling
down the heavens and lost itself
in sullen rumblings in the distance.
A sweep of chilly air passed by,
rustling all the leaves
and snowing the flaky ashes
broadcast about the fire.
Another fierce glare
lit up the forest
and an instant crash followed
that seemed to rend the treetops
right over the boys’ heads.
They clung together in terror,
in the thick gloom that followed.
A few big raindrops
fell pattering
upon the leaves.

“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 thunderblasts
drowned their voices utterly.
However,
one by one
they straggled in at last
and took shelter under the tent,
cold,
scared,
and streaming with water;
but to have company in misery
seemed something
to be grateful for.

They could not talk,
the old sail flapped so furiously,
even if the other noises
would have allowed them.
The tempest rose higher and higher,
and presently
the sail tore loose
from its fastenings
and went winging away on the blast.
The boys seized each others’ hands
and fled,
with many tumblings and bruises,
to the shelter of a great oak
that stood upon the riverbank.
Now the battle was at its highest.
Under the ceaseless conflagration
of lightning
that flamed in the skies,
everything below stood out
in cleancut and shadowless distinctness:
the bending trees,
the billowy river,
white with foam,
the driving spray of spumeflakes,
the dim outlines of the high bluffs
on the other side,
glimpsed through the drifting cloudrack
and the slanting veil of rain.
Every little while
some giant tree yielded the fight
and fell crashing
through the younger growth;
and the unflagging thunderpeals
came now
in ear-splitting explosive bursts,
keen and sharp,
and unspeakably appalling.
The storm culminated
in one matchless effort
that seemed likely
to tear the island to pieces,
burn it up,
drown it to the treetops,
blow it away,
and deafen every creature in it,
all at one and the same moment.
It was a wild night
for homeless young heads
to be out in.

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 campfire as well;
for they were but heedless lads,
like their generation,
and had made no provision against rain.
Here was matter for dismay,
for they were soaked through
and chilled.
They were eloquent in their distress;
but they presently discovered
that the fire had eaten so far up
under the great log
it had been built against
(where it curved upward
and separated itself from the ground),
that a handbreadth or so of it
had escaped wetting;
so they patiently wrought until,
with shreds and bark
gathered from the under sides
of sheltered logs,
they coaxed the fire to burn again.
Then they piled on
great dead boughs
till they had a roaring furnace,
and were gladhearted once more.
They dried
their boiled ham
and had a feast,
and after that they sat by the fire
and expanded and glorified
their midnight adventure
until morning,
for there was not a dry spot
to sleep on,
anywhere around.

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 warwhoops,
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 suppertime,
hungry and happy;
but now a difficulty arose—
hostile Indians
could not break the bread
of hospitality together
without first making peace,
and this was
a simple impossibility
without smoking a pipe of peace.
There was no other process
that ever
they had heard of.
Two of the savages
almost wished
they had remained pirates.
However,
there was no other way;
so with such show of cheerfulness
as they could muster
they called for the pipe
and took their whiff as it passed,
in due form.

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.

Chapter 17

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 be willing
to be made ridiculous again
to hear Old Hundred
sung like that once more.

Tom got more cuffs and kisses that day—
according to Aunt Polly’s varying moods—
than he had earned before in a year;
and he hardly knew
which expressed the most gratefulness
to God
and affection for himself.

Chapter 18

That was Tom’s great secret—
the scheme
to return home
with his brother pirates
and attend their own funerals.
They had paddled over
to the Missouri shore
on a log,
at dusk on Saturday,
landing
five or six miles
below the village;
they had slept in the woods
at the edge of the town
till nearly daylight,
and had then crept through
back lanes and alleys
and finished their sleep
in the gallery of the church
among a chaos of invalided benches.

At breakfast,
Monday morning,
Aunt Polly and Mary
were very loving
to Tom,
and very attentive to his wants.
There was an unusual amount of talk.
In the course of it Aunt Polly said:

“Well,
I don’t say it wasn’t a fine joke,
Tom,
to keep everybody suffering
'most a week
so you boys had a good time,
but it is a pity
you could be so hard-hearted
as to let me suffer so.
If you could come over
on a log
to go to your funeral,
you could have come over and give me
a hint some way
that you warn’t dead,
but only run off.”

“Yes,
you could have done that,
Tom,”
said Mary;
“and I believe you would
if you had thought of it.”

“Would you,
Tom?”
said Aunt Polly,
her face lighting wistfully.
“Say,
now,
would you,
if you’d thought of it?”

“I—
well,
I don’t know.
’Twould ’a’ spoiled everything.”

“Tom,
I hoped you loved me that much,”
said Aunt Polly,
with a grieved tone
that discomforted the boy.
“It would 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 Pain-killer—”

“Just as true as I live!”

“And then there was
a whole lot of talk
’bout dragging the river for us,
and ’bout having the funeral Sunday,
and then
you and old Miss Harper
hugged and cried,
and she went.”

“It happened just so!
It happened just so,
as sure
as I’m a-sitting
in these very tracks.
Tom,
you couldn’t told it
more like if you’d ’a’ seen it!
And then what?
Go on,
Tom!”

“Then I thought you prayed for me—
and I could see you and hear
every word you said.
And you went to bed,
and I was so sorry
that I took and wrote
on a piece of sycamore bark,
‘We ain’t dead—
we are only off being pirates,’
and put it on the table
by the candle;
and then you looked so good,
laying there asleep,
that I thought
I went and leaned over
and kissed you
on the lips.”

“Did you,
Tom,
did you!
I just forgive you everything for that!”
And she seized the boy
in a crushing embrace
that made him feel
like the guiltiest of villains.

“It was very kind,
even though it was only a—
dream,”
Sid 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 sun-tanned skin of his,
and his glittering notoriety;
and Tom
would not have parted with
either for a circus.

At school
the children made
so much of him and of Joe,
and delivered
such eloquent admiration
from their eyes,
that the two heroes were not long
in becoming insufferably
“stuck-up.”

They began
to tell their adventures
to hungry listeners—
but they only began;
it was not a thing
likely to have an end,
with imaginations
like theirs
to furnish material.

And finally,
when they got out their pipes
and went serenely puffing around,
the very summit of glory was reached.

Tom decided
that he could be independent
of Becky Thatcher now.
Glory was sufficient.
He would live for glory.
Now that he was distinguished,
maybe she would be wanting to “make up.”
Well,
let her—
she should see
that he could be as indifferent
as some other people.
Presently she arrived.
Tom pretended not to see her.
He moved away
and joined a group of boys and girls
and began to talk.
Soon he observed
that she was tripping gayly
back and forth
with flushed face and dancing eyes,
pretending to be busy
chasing 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
within 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 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 absentmindedness followed,
and then melancholy;
two or three times
she pricked up her ear
at a footstep,
but it was a false hope;
no Tom came.
At last
she grew entirely miserable
and wished she hadn’t carried it so far.
When poor Alfred,
seeing that he was losing her,
he did not know how,
kept exclaiming:
“Oh,
here’s a jolly one!
look at this!”
she lost patience at last,
and said,
“Oh, don’t bother me!
I don’t care for them!”
and burst into tears,
and got up and walked away.

Alfred dropped alongside
and was going to try to comfort her,
but she said:

“Go away and leave me alone,
can’t you!
I hate you!”

So the boy halted,
wondering what he could have done—
for she had said
she would look at pictures
all through the nooning—
and she walked on,
crying.
Then Alfred went musing
into the deserted schoolhouse.
He was humiliated and angry.
He easily guessed his way to the truth—
the girl
had simply made a convenience of him
to vent her spite upon Tom Sawyer.
He was far from hating Tom the less
when this thought
occurred to him.
He wished there was some way
to get that boy
into trouble
without much risk to himself.
Tom’s spelling-book fell under his eye.
Here was his opportunity.
He gratefully opened to the lesson
for the afternoon
and poured ink upon the page.

Becky,
glancing in
at a window behind him
at the moment,
saw the act,
and moved on,
without discovering herself.
She started homeward,
now,
intending to find Tom and tell him;
Tom would be thankful
and their troubles would be healed.
Before she was half way home,
however,
she had changed her mind.
The thought of Tom’s treatment of her
when she was talking
about her picnic
came scorching back
and filled her with shame.
She resolved
to let him get whipped
on the damaged spelling-book’s account,
and to hate him forever,
into the bargain.

Chapter 19

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 good-heartedness
in him
to tell it.
But I don’t want to find out it’s a lie.
I won’t look.”

She put the jacket away,
and stood by musing a minute.
Twice she put out her hand
to take the garment again,
and twice she refrained.
Once more she ventured,
and this time
she fortified herself
with the thought:
“It’s a good lie—
it’s a good lie—
I won’t let it grieve me.”
So she sought the jacket pocket.
A moment later
she was reading Tom’s piece of bark
through flowing tears
and saying:
“I could forgive the boy,
now,
if he’d committed a million sins!”

Chapter 20

There was something
about Aunt Polly’s manner,
when she kissed Tom,
that swept away his low spirits
and made him lighthearted
and happy again.
He started to school
and had the luck
of coming upon Becky Thatcher
at the head of Meadow Lane.
His mood always determined his manner.
Without a moment’s hesitation
he ran to her
and said:

“I acted mighty mean today,
Becky,
and I’m so sorry.
I won’t ever,
ever do that way again,
as long as ever I live—
please make up,
won’t you?”

The girl
stopped and looked him scornfully
in the face:

“I’ll thank you
to keep yourself to yourself,
Mr. Thomas Sawyer.
I’ll never speak to you again.”

She tossed her head and passed on.
Tom was so stunned
that he had not even presence of mind
enough to say
“Who cares,
Miss Smarty?”
until the right time
to say
it had gone by.
So he said nothing.
But he was in a fine rage,
nevertheless.
He moped into the 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 titlepage—
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:
“All right,
though;
she’d like to see me
in just such a fix—
let her sweat it out!”

Tom joined the mob
of skylarking scholars
outside.
In a few moments
the master arrived
and school “took in.”
Tom did not feel
a strong interest
in his studies.
Every time
he stole a glance
at the girls’ side of the room
Becky’s face troubled him.
Considering all things,
he did not want to pity her,
and yet it was all he could do
to help it.
He could get up
no exultation
that was really worthy the name.
Presently
the spelling-book discovery
was made,
and Tom’s mind
was entirely full of his own matters
for a while after that.
Becky roused up
from her lethargy of distress
and showed good interest
in the proceedings.
She did not expect
that Tom could get out of his trouble
by denying that he spilt the ink
on the book himself;
and she was right.
The denial
only seemed to make the thing worse
for Tom.
Becky supposed
she would be glad of that,
and she tried to believe
she was glad of it,
but she found she was not certain.
When the worst came to the worst,
she had an impulse to get up
and tell on Alfred Temple,
but she made an effort
and forced herself to keep still—
because,
said she to herself,
“he’ll tell
about me tearing the picture sure.
I wouldn’t say a word,
not to save his life!”

Tom took his whipping
and went back to his seat
not at all 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?”

There was not a sound.
One could have heard a pin drop.
The stillness continued;
the master searched face after face
for signs of guilt.

“Benjamin Rogers,
did you tear this book?”

A denial.
Another pause.

“Joseph Harper,
did you?”

Another denial.
Tom’s uneasiness grew
more and more intense
under the slow torture
of these proceedings.
The master scanned the ranks of boys—
considered a while,
then turned to the girls:

“Amy Lawrence?”

A shake of the head.

“Gracie Miller?”

The same sign.

“Susan Harper,
did you do this?”

Another negative.
The next girl was Becky Thatcher.
Tom was trembling from head to foot
with excitement
and a sense
of the hopelessness of the situation.

“Rebecca Thatcher”
[Tom glanced at her face—
it was white with terror]—
“did you tear—
no,
look me in the face”
[her hands rose in appeal]—
“did you tear this book?”

A thought shot like lightning
through Tom’s brain.
He sprang to his feet and shouted—
“I done it!”

The school stared
in perplexity
at this incredible folly.
Tom stood a moment,
to gather his dismembered faculties;
and when he stepped forward
to go to his punishment
the surprise,
the gratitude,
the adoration that shone upon him
out of poor Becky’s eyes
seemed pay enough
for a hundred floggings.

Inspired by the splendor
of his own act,
he took without an outcry
the most merciless flaying
that even Mr. Dobbins
had ever administered;
and also received with indifference
the added cruelty of a command
to remain two hours
after school should be dismissed—
for he knew
who would wait for him outside
till his captivity was done,
and not count the tedious time as loss,
either.

Tom went to bed that night
planning vengeance
against Alfred Temple;
for with shame and repentance
Becky had told him all,
not forgetting her own treachery;
but even the longing for vengeance
had to give way,
soon,
to pleasanter musings,
and he fell asleep at last
with Becky’s latest words
lingering dreamily
in his ear—

“Tom,
how could you be so noble!”

Chapter 21

Vacation was approaching.
The schoolmaster,
always severe,
grew severer
and more exacting than ever,
for he wanted the school
to make a good showing
on “Examination” day.
His rod and his ferule
were seldom idle now—
at least among the smaller pupils.
Only the biggest boys,
and young ladies
of eighteen and twenty,
escaped lashing.
Mr. Dobbins’ lashings
were very vigorous ones,
too;
for although he carried,
under his wig,
a perfectly bald and shiny head,
he had only reached middle age,
and there was no sign
of feebleness
in his muscle.
As the great day approached,
all the tyranny
that was in him
came to the surface;
he seemed to take a vindictive pleasure
in punishing
the least shortcomings.
The consequence was,
that the smaller boys
spent their days in terror
and suffering
and their nights
in plotting revenge.
They threw away
no opportunity
to do the master a mischief.
But he kept ahead all the time.
The retribution
that followed every vengeful success
was so sweeping and majestic
that the boys always retired
from the field badly worsted.
At last
they conspired together
and hit upon a plan
that promised a dazzling victory.
They swore in the signpainter’s boy,
told him the scheme,
and asked his help.
He had his own reasons
for being delighted,
for the master
boarded in his father’s family
and had given the boy
ample cause to hate him.
The master’s wife
would go on a visit to the country
in a few days,
and there would be nothing
to interfere
with the plan;
the master always prepared himself
for great occasions
by getting pretty well fuddled,
and the signpainter’s boy said
that when the dominie
had reached the proper condition
on Examination Evening
he would “manage the thing”
while he napped in his chair;
then he would have him awakened
at the right time
and hurried away to school.

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 Down,”
and other declamatory gems.
Then there were reading exercises,
and a spelling fight.
The meagre Latin class
recited with honor.
The prime feature
of the evening
was in order,
now—
original “compositions”
by the young ladies.
Each in her turn
stepped forward
to the edge of the platform,
cleared her throat,
held up her manuscript
(tied with dainty ribbon),
and proceeded to read,
with labored attention
to “expression” and punctuation.
The themes were the same
that had been illuminated
upon similar occasions
by their mothers
before them,
their grandmothers,
and doubtless all their ancestors
in the female line
clear back to the Crusades.
“Friendship” was one;
“Memories of Other Days”;
“Religion in History”;
“Dream Land”;
“The Advantages of Culture”;
“Forms of Political Government
Compared and Contrasted”;
“Melancholy”;
“Filial Love”;
“Heart Longings,”
etc.,
etc.

A prevalent feature
in these compositions
was a nursed and petted melancholy;
another was a wasteful
and opulent gush
of “fine language”;
another was a tendency
to lug in by the ears
particularly prized words and phrases
until they were worn entirely out;
and a peculiarity
that conspicuously marked
and marred them was
the inveterate and intolerable sermon
that wagged its crippled tail
at the end of each
and every one of them.
No matter what the subject might be,
a brainracking effort
was made to squirm it
into some aspect or other
that the moral and religious mind
could contemplate with edification.
The glaring insincerity
of these sermons
was not sufficient to compass
the banishment of the fashion
from the schools,
and it is not sufficient today;
it never will be sufficient
while the world stands,
perhaps.
There is no school in all our land
where the young ladies
do not feel obliged to close
their compositions with a sermon;
and you will find
that the sermon of the most frivolous
and the least religious girl
in the school
is always the longest
and the most relentlessly pious.
But enough of this.
Homely truth is unpalatable.

Let us return to the “Examination.”
The first composition that was read
was one entitled
“Is this,
then,
Life?”
Perhaps
the reader can endure
an extract from it:

“In the common walks of life,
with what delightful emotions
does the youthful mind
look forward
to some anticipated scene of festivity!
Imagination is busy
sketching rose-tinted pictures
of joy.
In fancy,
the voluptuous votary of fashion
sees herself amid the festive throng,
‘the observed of all observers.’
Her graceful form,
arrayed in snowy robes,
is whirling
through the mazes
of the joyous dance;
her eye is brightest,
her step is lightest
in the gay assembly.

“In such delicious fancies
time quickly glides by,
and the welcome hour
arrives for her entrance
into the Elysian world,
of which she has had
such bright dreams.
How fairy-like
does everything appear
to her enchanted vision!
Each new scene
is more charming
than the last.

But after a while
she finds that
beneath this goodly exterior,
all is vanity,
the flattery which
once charmed her soul,
now grates harshly upon her ear;
the ballroom has lost its charms;
and with wasted health
and imbittered heart,
she turns away with the conviction
that earthly pleasures
cannot satisfy
the longings of the soul!”

And so forth and so on.
There was a buzz of gratification
from time to time
during the reading,
accompanied
by whispered ejaculations
of “How sweet!”
“How eloquent!”
“So true!” etc.,
and after the thing had closed
with a peculiarly afflicting sermon
the applause
was enthusiastic.

Then arose a slim,
melancholy girl,
whose face had
the “interesting” paleness
that comes of pills and indigestion,
and read a “poem.”
Two stanzas of it will do:

“A MISSOURI MAIDEN'S FAREWELL TO ALABAMA

“Alabama,
goodbye!
I love thee well!
But yet for 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
through thy flowery woods;
Have roamed and read
near Tallapoosa’s stream;
Have listened
to Tallassee’s warring floods,
And wooed
on Coosa’s side Aurora’s beam.

“Yet shame
I not to bear
an o’erfull heart,
Nor blush
to turn behind my tearful eyes;
’Tis from no stranger land
I now must part,
’Tis to no strangers left
I yield these sighs.
Welcome and home
were mine
within this State,
Whose vales I leave—
whose spires fade fast from me
And cold must be mine eyes,
and heart,
and tete,
When,
dear Alabama!
they turn cold on thee!”

There were very few there
who knew what “tete” meant,
but the poem was very satisfactory,
nevertheless.

Next appeared a dark-complexioned,
black-eyed,
black-haired young lady,
who paused an impressive moment,
assumed a tragic expression,
and began to read in a measured,
solemn tone:

“A VISION

“Dark and tempestuous was night.
Around the throne on high
not a single star quivered;
but the deep intonations
of the heavy thunder
constantly vibrated upon the ear;
whilst the terrific lightning
revelled in angry mood
through the cloudy chambers of heaven,
seeming to scorn the power
exerted over its terror
by the illustrious Franklin!
Even the boisterous winds
unanimously came forth
from their mystic homes,
and blustered about
as if to enhance
by their aid
the wildness of the scene.

“At such a time,
so dark,
so dreary,
for human sympathy
my very spirit sighed;
but instead thereof,

“‘My dearest friend,
my counsellor,
my comforter and guide—
My joy in grief,
my second bliss in joy,’
came to my side.
She moved like one
of those bright beings pictured
in the sunny walks of fancy’s Eden
by the romantic and young,
a queen of beauty
unadorned save
by her own transcendent loveliness.

So soft was her step,
it failed to make even a sound,
and but for the magical thrill
imparted by her genial touch,
as other unobtrusive beauties,
she would have glided away unperceived—
unsought.
A strange sadness
rested upon her features,
like icy tears
upon the robe of December,
as she pointed
to the contending elements
without,
and bade me
contemplate the two beings
presented.”

This nightmare occupied
some ten pages of manuscript
and wound up
with a sermon so destructive
of all hope to non-Presbyterians
that it took the first prize.
This composition
was considered to be
the very finest effort of the evening.
The mayor of the village,
in delivering the prize
to the author of it,
made a warm speech
in which he said that it was by far
the most “eloquent” thing
he had ever listened to,
and that Daniel Webster himself
might well be proud of it.

It may be remarked,
in passing,
that the number of compositions
in which the word “beauteous”
was over-fondled,
and human experience
referred to
as “life’s page,”
was up to the usual average.

Now the master,
mellow almost to the verge of geniality,
put his chair aside,
turned his back to the audience,
and began to draw
a map of America
on the blackboard,
to exercise the geography class upon.
But he made
a sad business of it
with his unsteady hand,
and a smothered titter
rippled over the house.
He knew what the matter was,
and set himself to right it.
He sponged out lines
and remade them;
but he only distorted them
more than ever,
and the tittering was more pronounced.
He threw
his entire attention
upon his work,
now,
as if determined
not to be put down
by the mirth.
He felt
that all eyes
were fastened upon him;
he imagined he was succeeding,
and yet the tittering continued;
it even manifestly increased.
And well it might.
There was a garret above,
pierced with a scuttle over his head;
and down through this scuttle
came a cat,
suspended
around the haunches
by a string;
she had a rag tied
about her head and jaws
to keep her from mewing;
as she slowly descended
she curved upward
and clawed at the string,
she swung downward
and clawed at the intangible air.
The tittering rose higher and higher—
the cat was within six inches
of the absorbed teacher’s head—
down,
down,
a little lower,
and she grabbed his wig
with her desperate claws,
clung to it,
and was snatched up into the garret
in an instant
with her trophy
still in her possession!
And how the light did blaze abroad
from the master’s bald pate—
for the signpainter’s boy
had gilded it!

That broke up the meeting.
The boys were avenged.
Vacation had come.

Chapter 22

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 downtown,
a melancholy change
had come over everything
and every creature.
There had been a “revival,”
and everybody had “got religion,”
not only the adults,
but even the boys and girls.
Tom went about,
hoping against hope
for the sight
of one blessed sinful face,
but disappointment crossed him
everywhere.
He found Joe Harper
studying a Testament,
and turned sadly away
from the depressing spectacle.
He sought Ben Rogers,
and found him visiting the poor
with a basket of tracts.
He hunted up Jim Hollis,
who called his attention
to the precious blessing
of his late measles
as a warning.
Every boy he encountered
added another ton
to his depression;
and when,
in desperation,
he flew for refuge at last
to the bosom of Huckleberry Finn
and was received
with a Scriptural quotation,
his heart broke
and he crept home and to bed
realizing that he alone of all the town
was lost,
forever and forever.

And that night
there came on a terrific storm,
with driving rain,
awful claps of thunder
and blinding sheets of lightning.
He covered his head with the bedclothes
and waited
in a horror of suspense
for his doom;
for he had not the shadow of a doubt
that all this hubbub
was about him.
He believed
he had taxed the forbearance
of the powers above
to the extremity of endurance
and that this was the result.
It might have seemed to him
a waste of pomp and ammunition
to kill a bug
with a battery of artillery,
but there seemed nothing incongruous
about the getting up
such an expensive thunderstorm
as this to knock the turf
from under an insect like himself.

By and by the tempest
spent itself and died
without accomplishing its object.
The boy’s first impulse
was to be grateful,
and reform.
His second was to wait—
for there might not be any more storms.

The next day the doctors were back;
Tom had relapsed.
The three weeks
he spent on his back
this time seemed an entire age.
When he got abroad at last
he was hardly grateful
that he had been spared,
remembering how lonely was his estate,
how companionless and forlorn he was.
He drifted listlessly down the street
and found Jim Hollis
acting as judge
in a juvenile court
that was trying a cat for murder,
in the presence of her victim,
a bird.
He found Joe Harper and Huck Finn
up an alley
eating a stolen melon.
Poor lads!
they—
like Tom—
had suffered a relapse.

Chapter 23

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 halfbreed 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 courtroom,
drawn
by an almost irresistible impulse
to go in,
but forcing himself to stay out.
Huck was having the same experience.
They studiously avoided each other.
Each wandered away,
from time to time,
but the same dismal fascination
always brought them back presently.
Tom kept his ears open
when idlers sauntered
out of the courtroom,
but invariably heard distressing news—
the toils
were closing more and more relentlessly
around poor Potter.
At the end of the second day
the village talk was to the effect
that Injun Joe’s evidence
stood firm and unshaken,
and that there was not
the slightest question
as to what the jury’s verdict would be.

Tom was out late,
that night,
and came to bed through the window.
He was
in a tremendous state
of excitement.
It was hours before he got to sleep.
All the village
flocked to the courthouse
the next morning,
for this was to be the great day.
Both sexes
were about equally represented
in the packed audience.
After a long wait
the jury filed in
and took their places;
shortly afterward,
Potter,
pale and haggard,
timid and hopeless,
was brought in,
with chains upon him,
and seated
where all the curious eyes
could stare at him;
no less conspicuous was Injun Joe,
stolid as ever.
There was another pause,
and then the judge arrived
and the sheriff proclaimed
the opening of the court.
The usual whisperings
among the lawyers
and gathering together of papers
followed.
These details and accompanying delays
worked up an atmosphere of preparation
that was as impressive
as it was fascinating.

Now a witness was called
who testified
that he found Muff Potter
washing in the brook,
at an early hour of the morning
that the murder was discovered,
and that he immediately sneaked away.
After some further questioning,
counsel for the prosecution said:

“Take the witness.”

The prisoner
raised his eyes
for a moment,
but dropped them again
when his own counsel said:

“I have no questions to ask him.”

The next witness
proved the finding of the knife
near the corpse.
Counsel for the prosecution said:

“Take the witness.”

“I have no questions to ask him,”
Potter’s lawyer replied.

A third witness
swore he had often seen the knife
in Potter’s possession.

“Take the witness.”

Counsel for Potter
declined to question him.
The faces of the audience
began to betray annoyance.
Did this attorney mean
to throw away his client’s life
without an effort?

Several witnesses deposed
concerning Potter’s guilty behavior
when brought to the scene
of the murder.
They were allowed
to leave the stand
without being cross-questioned.

Every detail
of the damaging circumstances
that occurred in the graveyard
upon that morning
which all present remembered so well
was brought out by credible witnesses,
but none of them
were cross-examined
by Potter’s lawyer.
The perplexity and dissatisfaction
of the house
expressed itself in murmurs
and provoked a reproof
from the bench.
Counsel for the prosecution now said:

“By the oaths of citizens
whose simple word
is above suspicion,
we have fastened this awful crime,
beyond all possibility of question,
upon the unhappy prisoner at the bar.
We rest our case here.”

A groan escaped from poor Potter,
and he put his face in his hands
and rocked his body softly
to and fro,
while a painful silence
reigned in the courtroom.
Many men were moved,
and many women’s compassion
testified itself in tears.
Counsel for the 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 halfbreed
sprang for a window,
tore his way through all opposers,
and was gone!

Chapter 24

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 wellnigh 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 aweinspiring 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.

Chapter 25

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.”

“Hyro—
which?”

“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 halfhour.
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 tonight,
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 tonight.”

“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.

Chapter 26

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 today,
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 weedgrown,
floorless room,
unplastered,
an ancient fireplace,
vacant windows,
a ruinous staircase;
and here,
there,
and everywhere hung
ragged and abandoned cobwebs.
They presently entered,
softly,
with quickened pulses,
talking in whispers,
ears alert
to catch the slightest sound,
and muscles tense and ready
for instant retreat.

In a little while
familiarity modified their fears
and they gave the place
a critical and interested examination,
rather admiring their own boldness,
and wondering at it,
too.
Next they wanted to look upstairs.
This was something
like cutting off retreat,
but they got to daring each other,
and of course
there could be but one result—
they threw their tools
into a corner
and made the ascent.
Up there were the same signs of decay.
In one corner
they found a closet
that promised mystery,
but the promise was a fraud—
there was nothing in it.
Their courage was up now
and well in hand.
They were about
to go down and begin work
when—

“Sh!” said Tom.

“What is it?”
whispered Huck,
blanching with fright.

“Sh!...
There!...
Hear it?”

“Yes!...
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 knotholes
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 halfbreed frowned.
Said he:

“You don’t know me.
Least you don’t know
all about that thing.
’Tain’t robbery altogether—
it’s revenge!”
and a wicked light
flamed in his eyes.
“I’ll need your help in it.
When it’s finished—
then Texas.
Go home to your Nance and your kids,
and stand by till you hear from me.”

“Well—
if you say so;
what’ll we do with this—
bury it again?”

“Yes.
[Ravishing delight overhead.]
No!
by the great Sachem,
no!
[Profound distress overhead.]
I’d nearly forgot.
That pick had fresh earth on it!
[The boys were sick with terror
in a moment. ]
What business
has a pick and a shovel here?
What business
with fresh earth on them?
Who brought them here—
and where are they gone?
Have you heard anybody?—
seen anybody?
What!
bury it again
and leave them to come
and see the ground disturbed?
Not exactly—
not exactly.
We’ll take it to my den.”

“Why,
of course!
Might have thought of that before.
You mean Number One?”

“No—
Number Two—
under the cross.
The other place is bad—
too common.”

“All right.
It’s nearly dark enough to start.”

Injun Joe got up and went about
from window to window
cautiously peeping out.
Presently he said:

“Who could have brought
those tools here?
Do you reckon they can be upstairs?”

The boys’ breath forsook them.
Injun Joe put his hand on his knife,
halted a moment,
undecided,
and then turned toward the stairway.
The boys thought of the closet,
but their strength was gone.
The steps came creaking up the stairs—
the intolerable distress
of the situation
woke the stricken resolution
of the lads—
they were about to spring
for the closet,
when there was a crash
of rotten timbers
and Injun Joe landed on the ground
amid the debris
of the ruined stairway.
He gathered himself up cursing,
and his comrade said:

“Now what’s the use of all that?
If it’s anybody,
and they’re up there,
let them stay there—
who cares?
If they want to jump down,
now,
and get into trouble,
who objects?
It will be dark in fifteen minutes—
and then let them follow us
if they want to.
I’m willing.
In my opinion,
whoever hove those things in here
caught a sight of us
and took us
for ghosts or devils or something.
I’ll bet they’re running yet.”

Joe grumbled 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 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.

Chapter 27

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 doorkeys
you can find,
and I’ll nip all of auntie’s,
and the first dark night
we’ll go there and try ’em.
And mind you,
keep a lookout for Injun Joe,
because he said he was going
to drop into town
and spy around once more
for a chance to get his revenge.
If you see him,
you just follow him;
and if he don’t go to that No. 2,
that ain’t the place.”

“Lordy,
I don’t want to foller him by myself!”

“Why,
it’ll be night,
sure.
He mightn’t ever see you—
and if he did,
maybe he’d never think anything.”

“Well,
if it’s pretty dark
I reckon I’ll track him.
I dono—
I dono.
I’ll try.”

“You bet I’ll follow him,
if it’s dark,
Huck.
Why,
he might ’a’ found out
he couldn’t get his revenge,
and be going right after that money.”

“It’s so,
Tom,
it’s so.
I’ll foller him;
I will,
by jingoes!”

“Now you’re talking!
Don’t you ever weaken,
Huck,
and I won’t.”

Chapter 28

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.”

Chapter 29

The first thing Tom heard
on Friday morning
was a glad piece of news—
Judge Thatcher’s family
had come back to town
the night before.
Both Injun Joe and the treasure
sunk into secondary importance
for a moment,
and Becky took the chief place
in the boy’s interest.
He saw her
and they had an exhausting good time
playing “hispy” and “gully-keeper”
with a crowd of their schoolmates.
The day
was completed and crowned
in a peculiarly satisfactory way:
Becky teased her mother
to appoint the next day
for the long-promised
and long-delayed picnic,
and she consented.
The child’s delight was boundless;
and Tom’s not more moderate.
The invitations
were sent out
before sunset,
and straightway the young folks
of the village
were thrown into a fever of preparation
and pleasurable anticipation.
Tom’s excitement
enabled him to keep awake
until a pretty late hour,
and he had good hopes
of hearing Huck’s “maow,”
and of having his treasure
to astonish Becky
and the picnickers with,
next day;
but he was disappointed.
No signal came that night.

Morning came,
eventually,
and by ten or eleven o’clock
a giddy and rollicking company
were gathered
at Judge Thatcher’s,
and everything was ready for a start.
It was not the custom
for elderly people
to mar the picnics with their presence.
The children were considered
safe enough
under the wings
of a few young ladies of eighteen
and a few young gentlemen
of twenty-three or thereabouts.
The old steam ferry-boat
was chartered for the occasion;
presently the gay throng
filed up the main street
laden with provision-baskets.
Sid was sick and had to miss the fun;
Mary remained at home
to entertain him.
The last thing Mrs. Thatcher
said to Becky,
was:

“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 to anybody
about the night’s programme.
Presently it occurred to Tom
that maybe Huck might come
this very night
and give the signal.
The thought
took a deal of the spirit
out of his anticipations.
Still he could not bear
to give up the fun
at Widow Douglas’.
And why should he give it up,
he reasoned—
the signal did not come
the night before,
so why should it be
any more likely
to come tonight?
The sure fun of the evening
outweighed
the uncertain treasure;
and,
boy-like,
he determined to yield
to the stronger inclination
and not allow himself
to think of the box of money
another time that day.

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 icehouse,
and walled by Nature
with solid limestone
that was dewy with a cold sweat.
It was romantic and mysterious
to stand here in the deep gloom
and look out upon the green valley
shining in the sun.
But the impressiveness
of the situation
quickly wore off,
and the romping began again.
The moment a candle was lighted
there was a general rush
upon the owner of it;
a struggle and a gallant defence
followed,
but the candle
was soon knocked down or blown out,
and then there was
a glad clamor of laughter
and a new chase.
But all things have an end.
By-and-by the procession
went filing down the steep descent
of the main avenue,
the flickering rank of lights
dimly revealing
the lofty walls of rock
almost to their point of junction
sixty feet overhead.
This main avenue
was not more than eight or ten feet
wide.
Every few steps
other lofty and still narrower crevices
branched from it
on either hand—
for McDougal’s cave was
but a vast labyrinth of crooked aisles
that ran into each other
and out again
and led nowhere.
It was said
that one might wander days and nights
together through its intricate tangle
of rifts and chasms,
and never find the end of the cave;
and that he might go down,
and down,
and still down,
into the earth,
and it was just the same—
labyrinth under labyrinth,
and no end to any of them.
No man “knew” the cave.
That was an impossible thing.
Most of the young men
knew a portion of it,
and it was not customary
to venture
much beyond this known portion.
Tom Sawyer
knew as much of the cave
as any one.

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 crossstreet.
They went straight ahead,
then,
until they came to the path
that led up Cardiff Hill;
this they took.
They passed
by the old Welshman’s house,
halfway up the hill,
without hesitating,
and still climbed upward.
Good,
thought Huck,
they will bury it in the old quarry.
But they never stopped at the quarry.
They passed on,
up the summit.
They plunged
into the narrow path
between the tall sumach bushes,
and were at once hidden in the gloom.
Huck closed up
and shortened his distance,
now,
for they would never be able
to see him.
He trotted along awhile;
then slackened his pace,
fearing he was gaining too fast;
moved on a piece,
then stopped altogether;
listened;
no sound;
none,
save that he seemed to hear
the beating of his own heart.
The hooting of an owl
came over the hill—
ominous sound!
But no footsteps.
Heavens,
was everything lost!
He was about to spring
with winged feet,
when a man
cleared his throat
not four feet from him!
Huck’s heart shot into his throat,
but he swallowed it again;
and then he stood there shaking
as if a dozen agues
had taken charge of him at once,
and so weak that he thought
he must surely fall to the ground.
He knew where he was.
He knew he was
within five steps of the stile
leading into Widow Douglas’ grounds.
Very well,
he thought,
let them bury it there;
it won’t be hard to find.

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.

Chapter 30

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 downtown 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 tomorrow 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 upstreet
’bout midnight,
a-turning it all over,
and when I got
to that old shackly brick store
by the Temperance Tavern,
I backed up agin the wall
to have another think.
Well,
just then along comes
these two chaps
slipping along close by me,
with something under their arm,
and I reckoned they’d stole it.
One was a-smoking,
and t’other one wanted a light;
so they stopped
right before me and the cigars
lit up their faces
and I see that the big one
was the deaf and dumb Spaniard,
by his white whiskers
and the patch on his eye,
and t’other one was a rusty,
ragged-looking devil.”

“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:

“Goodmorning, Mrs.
Thatcher.
Goodmorning,
Mrs. Harper.
I’ve got a boy
that’s turned up missing.
I reckon my Tom
stayed at your house
last night—
one of you.
And now he’s afraid to come to church.
I’ve got to settle with him.”

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,
wildeyed:

“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.”

Chapter 31

Now to return to Tom and Becky’s share
in the picnic.
They tripped along the murky aisles
with the rest of the company,
visiting the familiar wonders
of the cave—
wonders dubbed
with rather over-descriptive names,
such as “The Drawing-Room,”
“The Cathedral,”
“Aladdin’s Palace,”
and so on.
Presently the hide-and-seek
frolicking began,
and Tom and Becky
engaged in it with zeal
until the exertion began
to grow a trifle wearisome;
then they wandered
down a sinuous avenue
holding their candles aloft
and reading
the tangled webwork of names,
dates,
postoffice addresses,
and mottoes
with which the rocky walls
had been frescoed
(in candle-smoke).
Still drifting along and talking,
they scarcely noticed
that they were now
in a part of the cave
whose walls were not frescoed.
They smoked their own names
under an overhanging shelf
and moved on.
Presently they came to a place
where a little stream of water,
trickling over a ledge
and carrying a limestone sediment
with it,
had,
in the slow-dragging ages,
formed a laced and ruffled Niagara
in gleaming and imperishable stone.
Tom squeezed his small body behind it
in order to illuminate it
for Becky’s gratification.
He found that it curtained
a sort of steep natural stairway
which was enclosed
between narrow walls,
and at once
the ambition to be a discoverer
seized him.

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 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 thread-bare
with use,
and sounded like sarcasms.
Fatigue bore so heavily
upon Becky
that she drowsed off to sleep.
Tom was grateful.
He sat looking into her drawn face
and saw it grow smooth and natural
under the influence
of pleasant dreams;
and by-and-by a smile dawned
and rested there.
The peaceful face
reflected somewhat of peace and healing
into his own spirit,
and his thoughts wandered away
to bygone times and dreamy memories.
While he was deep in his musings,
Becky woke up
with a breezy little laugh—
but it was stricken dead upon her lips,
and a groan followed it.

“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 grownup 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,
and then as far around the corner
as he could reach with his hands
conveniently;
he made an effort
to stretch yet a little farther
to the right,
and at that moment,
not twenty yards away,
a human hand,
holding a candle,
appeared from behind a rock!
Tom lifted up a glorious shout,
and instantly that hand
was followed by the body
it belonged to—
Injun Joe’s!
Tom was paralyzed;
he could not move.
He was vastly gratified
the next moment,
to see the “Spaniard”
take to his heels
and get himself out of sight.
Tom wondered
that Joe had not recognized his voice
and come over and killed him
for testifying in court.
But the echoes
must have disguised the voice.
Without doubt,
that was it,
he reasoned.
Tom’s fright
weakened every muscle
in his body.
He said to himself
that if he had strength enough
to get back to the spring
he would stay there,
and nothing should tempt him to run
the risk of meeting
Injun Joe again.
He was careful
to keep from Becky
what it was he had seen.
He told her
he had only shouted
“for luck.”

But hunger and wretchedness
rise superior to fears
in the long run.
Another tedious wait at the spring
and another long sleep
brought changes.
The children awoke tortured
with a raging hunger.

Tom believed
that it must be Wednesday or Thursday
or even Friday or Saturday,
now,
and that the search
had been given over.
He proposed to explore another passage.
He felt willing
to risk Injun Joe
and all other terrors.
But Becky was very weak.
She had sunk
into a dreary apathy
and would not be roused.
She said she would wait,
now,
where she was,
and die—
it would not be long.
She told Tom
to go with the kite-line
and explore if he chose;
but she implored him
to come back every little while
and speak to her;
and she made him promise
that when the awful time came,
he would stay by her
and hold her hand
until all was over.

Tom kissed her,
with a choking sensation in his throat,
and made a show
of being confident
of finding the searchers or an escape
from the cave;
then he took the kite-line in his hand
and went groping down
one of the passages
on his hands and knees,
distressed with hunger and sick
with bodings of coming doom.

Chapter 32

Tuesday afternoon came,
and waned to the twilight.
The village of St. Petersburg
still mourned.
The lost children had not been found.
Public prayers
had been offered up for them,
and many and many a private prayer
that had the petitioner’s whole heart
in it;
but still no good news
came from the cave.
The majority of the searchers
had given up the quest
and gone back
to their daily avocations,
saying that it was plain
the children could never be found.
Mrs. Thatcher was very ill,
and a great part of the time delirious.
People said it was heartbreaking
to hear her call her child,
and raise her head
and listen
a whole minute at a time,
then lay it wearily
down again
with a moan.
Aunt Polly had drooped
into a settled melancholy,
and her gray hair
had grown almost white.
The village
went to its rest
on Tuesday night,
sad and forlorn.

Away in the middle of the night
a wild peal burst
from the village bells,
and in a moment
the streets were swarming
with frantic half-clad people,
who shouted,
“Turn out!
turn out!
they’re found!
they’re found!”
Tin pans and horns
were added to the din,
the population massed itself
and moved toward the river,
met the children
coming in an open carriage
drawn by shouting citizens,
thronged around it,
joined its homeward march,
and swept magnificently
up the main street
roaring huzzah after huzzah!

The village was illuminated;
nobody went to bed again;
it was the greatest night
the little town
had ever seen.

During the first half-hour
a procession of villagers
filed through Judge Thatcher’s house,
seized the saved ones and kissed them,
squeezed Mrs. Thatcher’s hand,
tried to speak but couldn’t—
and drifted out raining tears
all over the place.

Aunt Polly’s happiness was complete,
and Mrs. Thatcher’s nearly so.
It would be complete,
however,
as soon as the messenger dispatched
with the great news to the cave
should get the word
to her husband.

Tom lay upon a sofa
with an eager auditory about him
and told the history
of the wonderful adventure,
putting in many striking additions
to adorn it withal;
and closed with a description
of how he left Becky
and went on an exploring expedition;
how he followed two avenues
as far as his kite-line
would reach;
how he followed a third
to the fullest stretch
of the kite-line,
and was about to turn back
when he glimpsed
a far-off speck
that looked like daylight;
dropped the line and groped toward it,
pushed his head and shoulders
through a small hole,
and saw the broad Mississippi
rolling by!

And if it had only happened
to be night
he would not have seen
that speck of daylight
and would not have explored
that passage any more!
He told how he went back for Becky
and broke the good news
and she told him
not to fret her with such stuff,
for she was tired,
and knew she was going to die,
and wanted to.

He described
how he labored with her
and convinced her;
and how she almost died for joy
when she had groped
to where she actually saw
the blue speck of daylight;
how he pushed his way out at the hole
and then helped her out;
how they sat there
and cried for gladness;
how some men came along in a skiff
and Tom hailed them
and told them their situation
and their famished condition;
how the men
didn’t believe the wild tale
at first,
“because,”
said they,
“you are five miles down the river
below the valley
the cave is in”—
then took them aboard,
rowed to a house,
gave them supper,
made them rest
till two or three hours after dark
and then brought them home.

Before day-dawn,
Judge Thatcher
and the handful of searchers with him
were tracked out,
in the cave,
by the twine 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 downtown Friday,
and nearly as whole as ever Saturday;
but Becky
did not leave her room
until Sunday,
and then she looked
as if she had passed
through a wasting illness.

Tom learned of Huck’s sickness
and went to see him
on Friday,
but could not be admitted
to the bedroom;
neither could he on Saturday or Sunday.
He was admitted daily after that,
but was warned to keep still
about his adventure
and introduce no exciting topic.
The Widow Douglas stayed by
to see that he obeyed.
At home
Tom learned
of the Cardiff Hill event;
also that the “ragged man’s” body
had eventually been found
in the river
near the ferry-landing;
he had been drowned
while trying to escape,
perhaps.

About a fortnight
after Tom’s rescue
from the cave,
he started off to visit Huck,
who had grown plenty strong enough,
now,
to hear exciting talk,
and Tom had some
that would interest him,
he thought.
Judge Thatcher’s house
was on Tom’s way,
and he stopped to see Becky.
The Judge and some friends
set Tom to talking,
and some one asked him ironically
if he wouldn’t like to go to the cave
again.
Tom said
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!”

Chapter 33

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.
Mis-givings 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 moneybox.
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 day at the ha’nted house.
I noticed that.
I reckon I was right to think
of fetching the little bags along.”

The money was soon in the bags
and the boys took it up
to the cross rock.

“Now less fetch the guns and things,”
said Huck.

“No,
Huck—
leave them there.
They’re just the tricks to have
when we go to robbing.
We’ll keep them there all the time,
and we’ll hold our orgies there,
too.
It’s an awful snug place for orgies.”

“What 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.

Chapter 34

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 blowout 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 tonight,
but I overheard him
tell auntie today
about it,
as a secret,
but I reckon
it’s not much of a secret now.
Everybody knows—
the widow,
too,
for all she tries to let on she don’t.
Mr. Jones was bound Huck
should be here—
couldn’t get along
with his grand secret
without Huck,
you know!”

“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 tomorrow 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 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.

Chapter 35

The reader may rest satisfied
that Tom’s and Huck’s windfall
made a mighty stir
in the poor little village
of St. Petersburg.
So vast a sum,
all in actual cash,
seemed next to incredible.
It was talked about,
gloated over,
glorified,
until the reason
of many of the citizens
tottered under the strain
of the unhealthy excitement.
Every “haunted” house
in St. Petersburg
and the neighboring villages
was dissected,
plank by plank,
and its foundations
dug up and ransacked
for hidden treasure—
and not by boys,
but men—
pretty grave,
unromantic men,
too,
some of them.
Wherever Tom and Huck appeared
they were courted,
admired,
stared at.
The boys were not able to remember
that their remarks
had possessed weight before;
but now
their sayings
were treasured and repeated;
everything they did
seemed somehow
to be regarded
as remarkable;
they had evidently lost the power
of doing and saying
commonplace things;
moreover,
their past history
was raked up and discovered
to bear marks
of conspicuous originality.
The village paper
published biographical sketches
of the boys.

The Widow Douglas
put Huck’s money out
at six per cent,
and Judge Thatcher did the same
with Tom’s
at Aunt Polly’s request.
Each lad had an income,
now,
that was simply prodigious—
a dollar for every weekday
in the year
and half of the Sundays.
It was just what the minister got—
no,
it was what he was promised—
he generally couldn’t collect it.
A dollar and a quarter a week
would board,
lodge,
and school a boy
in those old simple days—
and clothe him and wash him,
too,
for that matter.

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 tonight,
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.