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.
T
O
M
S
A
W
Y
E
R
CHAPTER
I
"TOM!"
No
answer.
"TOM!"
No
answer.
"What's
gone
with
that
boy,
I
wonder?
You
TOM!"
No
answer.
The
old
lady
pulled
her
spectacles
down
and
looked
over
them
about
the
room;
then
she
put
them
up
and
looked
out
under
them.
She
seldom
or
never
looked
THROUGH
them
for
so
small
a
thing
as
a
boy;
they
were
her
state
pair,
the
pride
of
her
heart,
and
were
built
for
"style,"
not
service--she
could
have
seen
through
a
pair
of
stove-lids
just
as
well.
She
looked
perplexed
for
a
moment,
and
then
said,
not
fiercely,
but
still
loud
enough
for
the
furniture
to
hear:
"Well,
I
lay
if
I
get
hold
of
you
I'll--"
She
did
not
finish,
for
by
this
time
she
was
bending
down
and
punching
under
the
bed
with
the
broom,
and
so
she
needed
breath
to
punctuate
the
punches
with.
She
resurrected
nothing
but
the
cat.
"I
never
did
see
the
beat
of
that
boy!"
She
went
to
the
open
door
and
stood
in
it
and
looked
out
among
the
tomato
vines
and
"jimpson"
weeds
that
constituted
the
garden.
No
Tom.
So
she
lifted
up
her
voice
at
an
angle
calculated
for
distance
and
shouted:
"Y-o-u-u
TOM!"
There
was
a
slight
noise
behind
her
and
she
turned
just
in
time
to
seize
a
small
boy
by
the
slack
of
his
roundabout
and
arrest
his
flight.
"There!
I
might
'a'
thought
of
that
closet.
What
you
been
doing
in
there?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing!
Look
at
your
hands.
And
look
at
your
mouth.
What
IS
that
truck?"
"I
don't
know,
aunt."
"Well,
I
know.
It's
jam--that's
what
it
is.
Forty
times
I've
said
if
you
didn't
let
that
jam
alone
I'd
skin
you.
Hand
me
that
switch."
The
switch
hovered
in
the
air--the
peril
was
desperate--
"My!
Look
behind
you,
aunt!"
The
old
lady
whirled
round,
and
snatched
her
skirts
out
of
danger.
The
lad
fled
on
the
instant,
scrambled
up
the
high
board-fence,
and
disappeared
over
it.
His
aunt
Polly
stood
surprised
a
moment,
and
then
broke
into
a
gentle
laugh.
"Hang
the
boy,
can't
I
never
learn
anything?
Ain't
he
played
me
tricks
enough
like
that
for
me
to
be
looking
out
for
him
by
this
time?
But
old
fools
is
the
biggest
fools
there
is.
Can't
learn
an
old
dog
new
tricks,
as
the
saying
is.
But
my
goodness,
he
never
plays
them
alike,
two
days,
and
how
is
a
body
to
know
what's
coming?
He
'pears
to
know
just
how
long
he
can
torment
me
before
I
get
my
dander
up,
and
he
knows
if
he
can
make
out
to
put
me
off
for
a
minute
or
make
me
laugh,
it's
all
down
again
and
I
can't
hit
him
a
lick.
I
ain't
doing
my
duty
by
that
boy,
and
that's
the
Lord's
truth,
goodness
knows.
Spare
the
rod
and
spile
the
child,
as
the
Good
Book
says.
I'm
a
laying
up
sin
and
suffering
for
us
both,
I
know.
He's
full
of
the
Old
Scratch,
but
laws-a-me!
he's
my
own
dead
sister's
boy,
poor
thing,
and
I
ain't
got
the
heart
to
lash
him,
somehow.
Every
time
I
let
him
off,
my
conscience
does
hurt
me
so,
and
every
time
I
hit
him
my
old
heart
most
breaks.
Well-a-well,
man
that
is
born
of
woman
is
of
few
days
and
full
of
trouble,
as
the
Scripture
says,
and
I
reckon
it's
so.
He'll
play
hookey
this
evening,
*
and
[*
Southwestern
for
"afternoon"]
I'll
just
be
obleeged
to
make
him
work,
to-morrow,
to
punish
him.
It's
mighty
hard
to
make
him
work
Saturdays,
when
all
the
boys
is
having
holiday,
but
he
hates
work
more
than
he
hates
anything
else,
and
I've
GOT
to
do
some
of
my
duty
by
him,
or
I'll
be
the
ruination
of
the
child."
Tom
did
play
hookey,
and
he
had
a
very
good
time.
He
got
back
home
barely
in
season
to
help
Jim,
the
small
colored
boy,
saw
next-day's
wood
and
split
the
kindlings
before
supper--at
least
he
was
there
in
time
to
tell
his
adventures
to
Jim
while
Jim
did
three-fourths
of
the
work.
Tom's
younger
brother
(or
rather
half-brother)
Sid
was
already
through
with
his
part
of
the
work
(picking
up
chips),
for
he
was
a
quiet
boy,
and
had
no
adventurous,
troublesome
ways.
While
Tom
was
eating
his
supper,
and
stealing
sugar
as
opportunity
offered,
Aunt
Polly
asked
him
questions
that
were
full
of
guile,
and
very
deep--for
she
wanted
to
trap
him
into
damaging
revealments.
Like
many
other
simple-hearted
souls,
it
was
her
pet
vanity
to
believe
she
was
endowed
with
a
talent
for
dark
and
mysterious
diplomacy,
and
she
loved
to
contemplate
her
most
transparent
devices
as
marvels
of
low
cunning.
Said
she:
"Tom,
it
was
middling
warm
in
school,
warn't
it?"
"Yes'm."
"Powerful
warm,
warn't
it?"
"Yes'm."
"Didn't
you
want
to
go
in
a-swimming,
Tom?"
A
bit
of
a
scare
shot
through
Tom--a
touch
of
uncomfortable
suspicion.
He
searched
Aunt
Polly's
face,
but
it
told
him
nothing.
So
he
said:
"No'm--well,
not
very
much."
The
old
lady
reached
out
her
hand
and
felt
Tom's
shirt,
and
said:
"But
you
ain't
too
warm
now,
though."
And
it
flattered
her
to
reflect
that
she
had
discovered
that
the
shirt
was
dry
without
anybody
knowing
that
that
was
what
she
had
in
her
mind.
But
in
spite
of
her,
Tom
knew
where
the
wind
lay,
now.
So
he
forestalled
what
might
be
the
next
move:
"Some
of
us
pumped
on
our
heads--mine's
damp
yet.
See?"
Aunt
Polly
was
vexed
to
think
she
had
overlooked
that
bit
of
circumstantial
evidence,
and
missed
a
trick.
Then
she
had
a
new
inspiration:
"Tom,
you
didn't
have
to
undo
your
shirt
collar
where
I
sewed
it,
to
pump
on
your
head,
did
you?
Unbutton
your
jacket!"
The
trouble
vanished
out
of
Tom's
face.
He
opened
his
jacket.
His
shirt
collar
was
securely
sewed.
"Bother!
Well,
go
'long
with
you.
I'd
made
sure
you'd
played
hookey
and
been
a-swimming.
But
I
forgive
ye,
Tom.
I
reckon
you're
a
kind
of
a
singed
cat,
as
the
saying
is--better'n
you
look.
THIS
time."
She
was
half
sorry
her
sagacity
had
miscarried,
and
half
glad
that
Tom
had
stumbled
into
obedient
conduct
for
once.
But
Sidney
said:
"Well,
now,
if
I
didn't
think
you
sewed
his
collar
with
white
thread,
but
it's
black."
"Why,
I
did
sew
it
with
white!
Tom!"
But
Tom
did
not
wait
for
the
rest.
As
he
went
out
at
the
door
he
said:
"Siddy,
I'll
lick
you
for
that."
In
a
safe
place
Tom
examined
two
large
needles
which
were
thrust
into
the
lapels
of
his
jacket,
and
had
thread
bound
about
them--one
needle
carried
white
thread
and
the
other
black.
He
said:
"She'd
never
noticed
if
it
hadn't
been
for
Sid.
Confound
it!
sometimes
she
sews
it
with
white,
and
sometimes
she
sews
it
with
black.
I
wish
to
geeminy
she'd
stick
to
one
or
t'other--I
can't
keep
the
run
of
'em.
But
I
bet
you
I'll
lam
Sid
for
that.
I'll
learn
him!"
He
was
not
the
Model
Boy
of
the
village.
He
knew
the
model
boy
very
well
though--and
loathed
him.
Within
two
minutes,
or
even
less,
he
had
forgotten
all
his
troubles.
Not
because
his
troubles
were
one
whit
less
heavy
and
bitter
to
him
than
a
man's
are
to
a
man,
but
because
a
new
and
powerful
interest
bore
them
down
and
drove
them
out
of
his
mind
for
the
time--just
as
men's
misfortunes
are
forgotten
in
the
excitement
of
new
enterprises.
This
new
interest
was
a
valued
novelty
in
whistling,
which
he
had
just
acquired
from
a
negro,
and
he
was
suffering
to
practise
it
undisturbed.
It
consisted
in
a
peculiar
bird-like
turn,
a
sort
of
liquid
warble,
produced
by
touching
the
tongue
to
the
roof
of
the
mouth
at
short
intervals
in
the
midst
of
the
music--the
reader
probably
remembers
how
to
do
it,
if
he
has
ever
been
a
boy.
Diligence
and
attention
soon
gave
him
the
knack
of
it,
and
he
strode
down
the
street
with
his
mouth
full
of
harmony
and
his
soul
full
of
gratitude.
He
felt
much
as
an
astronomer
feels
who
has
discovered
a
new
planet--no
doubt,
as
far
as
strong,
deep,
unalloyed
pleasure
is
concerned,
the
advantage
was
with
the
boy,
not
the
astronomer.
The
summer
evenings
were
long.
It
was
not
dark,
yet.
Presently
Tom
checked
his
whistle.
A
stranger
was
before
him--a
boy
a
shade
larger
than
himself.
A
new-comer
of
any
age
or
either
sex
was
an
impressive
curiosity
in
the
poor
little
shabby
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
II
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
a
minute.
SHE
won't
ever
know."
"Oh,
I
dasn't,
Mars
Tom.
Ole
missis
she'd
take
an'
tar
de
head
off'n
me.
'Deed
she
would."
"SHE!
She
never
licks
anybody--whacks
'em
over
the
head
with
her
thimble--and
who
cares
for
that,
I'd
like
to
know.
She
talks
awful,
but
talk
don't
hurt--anyways
it
don't
if
she
don't
cry.
Jim,
I'll
give
you
a
marvel.
I'll
give
you
a
white
alley!"
Jim
began
to
waver.
"White
alley,
Jim!
And
it's
a
bully
taw."
"My!
Dat's
a
mighty
gay
marvel,
I
tell
you!
But
Mars
Tom
I's
powerful
'fraid
ole
missis--"
"And
besides,
if
you
will
I'll
show
you
my
sore
toe."
Jim
was
only
human--this
attraction
was
too
much
for
him.
He
put
down
his
pail,
took
the
white
alley,
and
bent
over
the
toe
with
absorbing
interest
while
the
bandage
was
being
unwound.
In
another
moment
he
was
flying
down
the
street
with
his
pail
and
a
tingling
rear,
Tom
was
whitewashing
with
vigor,
and
Aunt
Polly
was
retiring
from
the
field
with
a
slipper
in
her
hand
and
triumph
in
her
eye.
But
Tom's
energy
did
not
last.
He
began
to
think
of
the
fun
he
had
planned
for
this
day,
and
his
sorrows
multiplied.
Soon
the
free
boys
would
come
tripping
along
on
all
sorts
of
delicious
expeditions,
and
they
would
make
a
world
of
fun
of
him
for
having
to
work--the
very
thought
of
it
burnt
him
like
fire.
He
got
out
his
worldly
wealth
and
examined
it--bits
of
toys,
marbles,
and
trash;
enough
to
buy
an
exchange
of
WORK,
maybe,
but
not
half
enough
to
buy
so
much
as
half
an
hour
of
pure
freedom.
So
he
returned
his
straitened
means
to
his
pocket,
and
gave
up
the
idea
of
trying
to
buy
the
boys.
At
this
dark
and
hopeless
moment
an
inspiration
burst
upon
him!
Nothing
less
than
a
great,
magnificent
inspiration.
He
took
up
his
brush
and
went
tranquilly
to
work.
Ben
Rogers
hove
in
sight
presently--the
very
boy,
of
all
boys,
whose
ridicule
he
had
been
dreading.
Ben's
gait
was
the
hop-skip-and-jump--proof
enough
that
his
heart
was
light
and
his
anticipations
high.
He
was
eating
an
apple,
and
giving
a
long,
melodious
whoop,
at
intervals,
followed
by
a
deep-toned
ding-dong-dong,
ding-dong-dong,
for
he
was
personating
a
steamboat.
As
he
drew
near,
he
slackened
speed,
took
the
middle
of
the
street,
leaned
far
over
to
starboard
and
rounded
to
ponderously
and
with
laborious
pomp
and
circumstance--for
he
was
personating
the
Big
Missouri,
and
considered
himself
to
be
drawing
nine
feet
of
water.
He
was
boat
and
captain
and
engine-bells
combined,
so
he
had
to
imagine
himself
standing
on
his
own
hurricane-deck
giving
the
orders
and
executing
them:
"Stop
her,
sir!
Ting-a-ling-ling!"
The
headway
ran
almost
out,
and
he
drew
up
slowly
toward
the
sidewalk.
"Ship
up
to
back!
Ting-a-ling-ling!"
His
arms
straightened
and
stiffened
down
his
sides.
"Set
her
back
on
the
stabboard!
Ting-a-ling-ling!
Chow!
ch-chow-wow!
Chow!"
His
right
hand,
meantime,
describing
stately
circles--for
it
was
representing
a
forty-foot
wheel.
"Let
her
go
back
on
the
labboard!
Ting-a-lingling!
Chow-ch-chow-chow!"
The
left
hand
began
to
describe
circles.
"Stop
the
stabboard!
Ting-a-ling-ling!
Stop
the
labboard!
Come
ahead
on
the
stabboard!
Stop
her!
Let
your
outside
turn
over
slow!
Ting-a-ling-ling!
Chow-ow-ow!
Get
out
that
head-line!
LIVELY
now!
Come--out
with
your
spring-line--what're
you
about
there!
Take
a
turn
round
that
stump
with
the
bight
of
it!
Stand
by
that
stage,
now--let
her
go!
Done
with
the
engines,
sir!
Ting-a-ling-ling!
SH'T!
S'H'T!
SH'T!"
(trying
the
gauge-cocks).
Tom
went
on
whitewashing--paid
no
attention
to
the
steamboat.
Ben
stared
a
moment
and
then
said:
"Hi-YI!
YOU'RE
up
a
stump,
ain't
you!"
No
answer.
Tom
surveyed
his
last
touch
with
the
eye
of
an
artist,
then
he
gave
his
brush
another
gentle
sweep
and
surveyed
the
result,
as
before.
Ben
ranged
up
alongside
of
him.
Tom's
mouth
watered
for
the
apple,
but
he
stuck
to
his
work.
Ben
said:
"Hello,
old
chap,
you
got
to
work,
hey?"
Tom
wheeled
suddenly
and
said:
"Why,
it's
you,
Ben!
I
warn't
noticing."
"Say--I'm
going
in
a-swimming,
I
am.
Don't
you
wish
you
could?
But
of
course
you'd
druther
WORK--wouldn't
you?
Course
you
would!"
Tom
contemplated
the
boy
a
bit,
and
said:
"What
do
you
call
work?"
"Why,
ain't
THAT
work?"
Tom
resumed
his
whitewashing,
and
answered
carelessly:
"Well,
maybe
it
is,
and
maybe
it
ain't.
All
I
know,
is,
it
suits
Tom
Sawyer."
"Oh
come,
now,
you
don't
mean
to
let
on
that
you
LIKE
it?"
The
brush
continued
to
move.
"Like
it?
Well,
I
don't
see
why
I
oughtn't
to
like
it.
Does
a
boy
get
a
chance
to
whitewash
a
fence
every
day?"
That
put
the
thing
in
a
new
light.
Ben
stopped
nibbling
his
apple.
Tom
swept
his
brush
daintily
back
and
forth--stepped
back
to
note
the
effect--added
a
touch
here
and
there--criticised
the
effect
again--Ben
watching
every
move
and
getting
more
and
more
interested,
more
and
more
absorbed.
Presently
he
said:
"Say,
Tom,
let
ME
whitewash
a
little."
Tom
considered,
was
about
to
consent;
but
he
altered
his
mind:
"No--no--I
reckon
it
wouldn't
hardly
do,
Ben.
You
see,
Aunt
Polly's
awful
particular
about
this
fence--right
here
on
the
street,
you
know
--but
if
it
was
the
back
fence
I
wouldn't
mind
and
SHE
wouldn't.
Yes,
she's
awful
particular
about
this
fence;
it's
got
to
be
done
very
careful;
I
reckon
there
ain't
one
boy
in
a
thousand,
maybe
two
thousand,
that
can
do
it
the
way
it's
got
to
be
done."
"No--is
that
so?
Oh
come,
now--lemme
just
try.
Only
just
a
little--I'd
let
YOU,
if
you
was
me,
Tom."
"Ben,
I'd
like
to,
honest
injun;
but
Aunt
Polly--well,
Jim
wanted
to
do
it,
but
she
wouldn't
let
him;
Sid
wanted
to
do
it,
and
she
wouldn't
let
Sid.
Now
don't
you
see
how
I'm
fixed?
If
you
was
to
tackle
this
fence
and
anything
was
to
happen
to
it--"
"Oh,
shucks,
I'll
be
just
as
careful.
Now
lemme
try.
Say--I'll
give
you
the
core
of
my
apple."
"Well,
here--No,
Ben,
now
don't.
I'm
afeard--"
"I'll
give
you
ALL
of
it!"
Tom
gave
up
the
brush
with
reluctance
in
his
face,
but
alacrity
in
his
heart.
And
while
the
late
steamer
Big
Missouri
worked
and
sweated
in
the
sun,
the
retired
artist
sat
on
a
barrel
in
the
shade
close
by,
dangled
his
legs,
munched
his
apple,
and
planned
the
slaughter
of
more
innocents.
There
was
no
lack
of
material;
boys
happened
along
every
little
while;
they
came
to
jeer,
but
remained
to
whitewash.
By
the
time
Ben
was
fagged
out,
Tom
had
traded
the
next
chance
to
Billy
Fisher
for
a
kite,
in
good
repair;
and
when
he
played
out,
Johnny
Miller
bought
in
for
a
dead
rat
and
a
string
to
swing
it
with--and
so
on,
and
so
on,
hour
after
hour.
And
when
the
middle
of
the
afternoon
came,
from
being
a
poor
poverty-stricken
boy
in
the
morning,
Tom
was
literally
rolling
in
wealth.
He
had
besides
the
things
before
mentioned,
twelve
marbles,
part
of
a
jews-harp,
a
piece
of
blue
bottle-glass
to
look
through,
a
spool
cannon,
a
key
that
wouldn't
unlock
anything,
a
fragment
of
chalk,
a
glass
stopper
of
a
decanter,
a
tin
soldier,
a
couple
of
tadpoles,
six
fire-crackers,
a
kitten
with
only
one
eye,
a
brass
doorknob,
a
dog-collar--but
no
dog--the
handle
of
a
knife,
four
pieces
of
orange-peel,
and
a
dilapidated
old
window
sash.
He
had
had
a
nice,
good,
idle
time
all
the
while--plenty
of
company
--and
the
fence
had
three
coats
of
whitewash
on
it!
If
he
hadn't
run
out
of
whitewash
he
would
have
bankrupted
every
boy
in
the
village.
Tom
said
to
himself
that
it
was
not
such
a
hollow
world,
after
all.
He
had
discovered
a
great
law
of
human
action,
without
knowing
it--namely,
that
in
order
to
make
a
man
or
a
boy
covet
a
thing,
it
is
only
necessary
to
make
the
thing
difficult
to
attain.
If
he
had
been
a
great
and
wise
philosopher,
like
the
writer
of
this
book,
he
would
now
have
comprehended
that
Work
consists
of
whatever
a
body
is
OBLIGED
to
do,
and
that
Play
consists
of
whatever
a
body
is
not
obliged
to
do.
And
this
would
help
him
to
understand
why
constructing
artificial
flowers
or
performing
on
a
tread-mill
is
work,
while
rolling
ten-pins
or
climbing
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
III
TOM
presented
himself
before
Aunt
Polly,
who
was
sitting
by
an
open
window
in
a
pleasant
rearward
apartment,
which
was
bedroom,
breakfast-room,
dining-room,
and
library,
combined.
The
balmy
summer
air,
the
restful
quiet,
the
odor
of
the
flowers,
and
the
drowsing
murmur
of
the
bees
had
had
their
effect,
and
she
was
nodding
over
her
knitting
--for
she
had
no
company
but
the
cat,
and
it
was
asleep
in
her
lap.
Her
spectacles
were
propped
up
on
her
gray
head
for
safety.
She
had
thought
that
of
course
Tom
had
deserted
long
ago,
and
she
wondered
at
seeing
him
place
himself
in
her
power
again
in
this
intrepid
way.
He
said:
"Mayn't
I
go
and
play
now,
aunt?"
"What,
a'ready?
How
much
have
you
done?"
"It's
all
done,
aunt."
"Tom,
don't
lie
to
me--I
can't
bear
it."
"I
ain't,
aunt;
it
IS
all
done."
Aunt
Polly
placed
small
trust
in
such
evidence.
She
went
out
to
see
for
herself;
and
she
would
have
been
content
to
find
twenty
per
cent.
of
Tom's
statement
true.
When
she
found
the
entire
fence
whitewashed,
and
not
only
whitewashed
but
elaborately
coated
and
recoated,
and
even
a
streak
added
to
the
ground,
her
astonishment
was
almost
unspeakable.
She
said:
"Well,
I
never!
There's
no
getting
round
it,
you
can
work
when
you're
a
mind
to,
Tom."
And
then
she
diluted
the
compliment
by
adding,
"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
pantalettes.
The
fresh-crowned
hero
fell
without
firing
a
shot.
A
certain
Amy
Lawrence
vanished
out
of
his
heart
and
left
not
even
a
memory
of
herself
behind.
He
had
thought
he
loved
her
to
distraction;
he
had
regarded
his
passion
as
adoration;
and
behold
it
was
only
a
poor
little
evanescent
partiality.
He
had
been
months
winning
her;
she
had
confessed
hardly
a
week
ago;
he
had
been
the
happiest
and
the
proudest
boy
in
the
world
only
seven
short
days,
and
here
in
one
instant
of
time
she
had
gone
out
of
his
heart
like
a
casual
stranger
whose
visit
is
done.
He
worshipped
this
new
angel
with
furtive
eye,
till
he
saw
that
she
had
discovered
him;
then
he
pretended
he
did
not
know
she
was
present,
and
began
to
"show
off"
in
all
sorts
of
absurd
boyish
ways,
in
order
to
win
her
admiration.
He
kept
up
this
grotesque
foolishness
for
some
time;
but
by-and-by,
while
he
was
in
the
midst
of
some
dangerous
gymnastic
performances,
he
glanced
aside
and
saw
that
the
little
girl
was
wending
her
way
toward
the
house.
Tom
came
up
to
the
fence
and
leaned
on
it,
grieving,
and
hoping
she
would
tarry
yet
awhile
longer.
She
halted
a
moment
on
the
steps
and
then
moved
toward
the
door.
Tom
heaved
a
great
sigh
as
she
put
her
foot
on
the
threshold.
But
his
face
lit
up,
right
away,
for
she
tossed
a
pansy
over
the
fence
a
moment
before
she
disappeared.
The
boy
ran
around
and
stopped
within
a
foot
or
two
of
the
flower,
and
then
shaded
his
eyes
with
his
hand
and
began
to
look
down
street
as
if
he
had
discovered
something
of
interest
going
on
in
that
direction.
Presently
he
picked
up
a
straw
and
began
trying
to
balance
it
on
his
nose,
with
his
head
tilted
far
back;
and
as
he
moved
from
side
to
side,
in
his
efforts,
he
edged
nearer
and
nearer
toward
the
pansy;
finally
his
bare
foot
rested
upon
it,
his
pliant
toes
closed
upon
it,
and
he
hopped
away
with
the
treasure
and
disappeared
round
the
corner.
But
only
for
a
minute--only
while
he
could
button
the
flower
inside
his
jacket,
next
his
heart--or
next
his
stomach,
possibly,
for
he
was
not
much
posted
in
anatomy,
and
not
hypercritical,
anyway.
He
returned,
now,
and
hung
about
the
fence
till
nightfall,
"showing
off,"
as
before;
but
the
girl
never
exhibited
herself
again,
though
Tom
comforted
himself
a
little
with
the
hope
that
she
had
been
near
some
window,
meantime,
and
been
aware
of
his
attentions.
Finally
he
strode
home
reluctantly,
with
his
poor
head
full
of
visions.
All
through
supper
his
spirits
were
so
high
that
his
aunt
wondered
"what
had
got
into
the
child."
He
took
a
good
scolding
about
clodding
Sid,
and
did
not
seem
to
mind
it
in
the
least.
He
tried
to
steal
sugar
under
his
aunt's
very
nose,
and
got
his
knuckles
rapped
for
it.
He
said:
"Aunt,
you
don't
whack
Sid
when
he
takes
it."
"Well,
Sid
don't
torment
a
body
the
way
you
do.
You'd
be
always
into
that
sugar
if
I
warn't
watching
you."
Presently
she
stepped
into
the
kitchen,
and
Sid,
happy
in
his
immunity,
reached
for
the
sugar-bowl--a
sort
of
glorying
over
Tom
which
was
wellnigh
unbearable.
But
Sid's
fingers
slipped
and
the
bowl
dropped
and
broke.
Tom
was
in
ecstasies.
In
such
ecstasies
that
he
even
controlled
his
tongue
and
was
silent.
He
said
to
himself
that
he
would
not
speak
a
word,
even
when
his
aunt
came
in,
but
would
sit
perfectly
still
till
she
asked
who
did
the
mischief;
and
then
he
would
tell,
and
there
would
be
nothing
so
good
in
the
world
as
to
see
that
pet
model
"catch
it."
He
was
so
brimful
of
exultation
that
he
could
hardly
hold
himself
when
the
old
lady
came
back
and
stood
above
the
wreck
discharging
lightnings
of
wrath
from
over
her
spectacles.
He
said
to
himself,
"Now
it's
coming!"
And
the
next
instant
he
was
sprawling
on
the
floor!
The
potent
palm
was
uplifted
to
strike
again
when
Tom
cried
out:
"Hold
on,
now,
what
'er
you
belting
ME
for?--Sid
broke
it!"
Aunt
Polly
paused,
perplexed,
and
Tom
looked
for
healing
pity.
But
when
she
got
her
tongue
again,
she
only
said:
"Umf!
Well,
you
didn't
get
a
lick
amiss,
I
reckon.
You
been
into
some
other
audacious
mischief
when
I
wasn't
around,
like
enough."
Then
her
conscience
reproached
her,
and
she
yearned
to
say
something
kind
and
loving;
but
she
judged
that
this
would
be
construed
into
a
confession
that
she
had
been
in
the
wrong,
and
discipline
forbade
that.
So
she
kept
silence,
and
went
about
her
affairs
with
a
troubled
heart.
Tom
sulked
in
a
corner
and
exalted
his
woes.
He
knew
that
in
her
heart
his
aunt
was
on
her
knees
to
him,
and
he
was
morosely
gratified
by
the
consciousness
of
it.
He
would
hang
out
no
signals,
he
would
take
notice
of
none.
He
knew
that
a
yearning
glance
fell
upon
him,
now
and
then,
through
a
film
of
tears,
but
he
refused
recognition
of
it.
He
pictured
himself
lying
sick
unto
death
and
his
aunt
bending
over
him
beseeching
one
little
forgiving
word,
but
he
would
turn
his
face
to
the
wall,
and
die
with
that
word
unsaid.
Ah,
how
would
she
feel
then?
And
he
pictured
himself
brought
home
from
the
river,
dead,
with
his
curls
all
wet,
and
his
sore
heart
at
rest.
How
she
would
throw
herself
upon
him,
and
how
her
tears
would
fall
like
rain,
and
her
lips
pray
God
to
give
her
back
her
boy
and
she
would
never,
never
abuse
him
any
more!
But
he
would
lie
there
cold
and
white
and
make
no
sign--a
poor
little
sufferer,
whose
griefs
were
at
an
end.
He
so
worked
upon
his
feelings
with
the
pathos
of
these
dreams,
that
he
had
to
keep
swallowing,
he
was
so
like
to
choke;
and
his
eyes
swam
in
a
blur
of
water,
which
overflowed
when
he
winked,
and
ran
down
and
trickled
from
the
end
of
his
nose.
And
such
a
luxury
to
him
was
this
petting
of
his
sorrows,
that
he
could
not
bear
to
have
any
worldly
cheeriness
or
any
grating
delight
intrude
upon
it;
it
was
too
sacred
for
such
contact;
and
so,
presently,
when
his
cousin
Mary
danced
in,
all
alive
with
the
joy
of
seeing
home
again
after
an
age-long
visit
of
one
week
to
the
country,
he
got
up
and
moved
in
clouds
and
darkness
out
at
one
door
as
she
brought
song
and
sunshine
in
at
the
other.
He
wandered
far
from
the
accustomed
haunts
of
boys,
and
sought
desolate
places
that
were
in
harmony
with
his
spirit.
A
log
raft
in
the
river
invited
him,
and
he
seated
himself
on
its
outer
edge
and
contemplated
the
dreary
vastness
of
the
stream,
wishing,
the
while,
that
he
could
only
be
drowned,
all
at
once
and
unconsciously,
without
undergoing
the
uncomfortable
routine
devised
by
nature.
Then
he
thought
of
his
flower.
He
got
it
out,
rumpled
and
wilted,
and
it
mightily
increased
his
dismal
felicity.
He
wondered
if
she
would
pity
him
if
she
knew?
Would
she
cry,
and
wish
that
she
had
a
right
to
put
her
arms
around
his
neck
and
comfort
him?
Or
would
she
turn
coldly
away
like
all
the
hollow
world?
This
picture
brought
such
an
agony
of
pleasurable
suffering
that
he
worked
it
over
and
over
again
in
his
mind
and
set
it
up
in
new
and
varied
lights,
till
he
wore
it
threadbare.
At
last
he
rose
up
sighing
and
departed
in
the
darkness.
About
half-past
nine
or
ten
o'clock
he
came
along
the
deserted
street
to
where
the
Adored
Unknown
lived;
he
paused
a
moment;
no
sound
fell
upon
his
listening
ear;
a
candle
was
casting
a
dull
glow
upon
the
curtain
of
a
second-story
window.
Was
the
sacred
presence
there?
He
climbed
the
fence,
threaded
his
stealthy
way
through
the
plants,
till
he
stood
under
that
window;
he
looked
up
at
it
long,
and
with
emotion;
then
he
laid
him
down
on
the
ground
under
it,
disposing
himself
upon
his
back,
with
his
hands
clasped
upon
his
breast
and
holding
his
poor
wilted
flower.
And
thus
he
would
die--out
in
the
cold
world,
with
no
shelter
over
his
homeless
head,
no
friendly
hand
to
wipe
the
death-damps
from
his
brow,
no
loving
face
to
bend
pityingly
over
him
when
the
great
agony
came.
And
thus
SHE
would
see
him
when
she
looked
out
upon
the
glad
morning,
and
oh!
would
she
drop
one
little
tear
upon
his
poor,
lifeless
form,
would
she
heave
one
little
sigh
to
see
a
bright
young
life
so
rudely
blighted,
so
untimely
cut
down?
The
window
went
up,
a
maid-servant's
discordant
voice
profaned
the
holy
calm,
and
a
deluge
of
water
drenched
the
prone
martyr's
remains!
The
strangling
hero
sprang
up
with
a
relieving
snort.
There
was
a
whiz
as
of
a
missile
in
the
air,
mingled
with
the
murmur
of
a
curse,
a
sound
as
of
shivering
glass
followed,
and
a
small,
vague
form
went
over
the
fence
and
shot
away
in
the
gloom.
Not
long
after,
as
Tom,
all
undressed
for
bed,
was
surveying
his
drenched
garments
by
the
light
of
a
tallow
dip,
Sid
woke
up;
but
if
he
had
any
dim
idea
of
making
any
"references
to
allusions,"
he
thought
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
IV
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
new-comer
his
soul
was
all
ablaze
with
bliss
in
a
moment.
The
next
moment
he
was
"showing
off"
with
all
his
might
--cuffing
boys,
pulling
hair,
making
faces--in
a
word,
using
every
art
that
seemed
likely
to
fascinate
a
girl
and
win
her
applause.
His
exaltation
had
but
one
alloy--the
memory
of
his
humiliation
in
this
angel's
garden--and
that
record
in
sand
was
fast
washing
out,
under
the
waves
of
happiness
that
were
sweeping
over
it
now.
The
visitors
were
given
the
highest
seat
of
honor,
and
as
soon
as
Mr.
Walters'
speech
was
finished,
he
introduced
them
to
the
school.
The
middle-aged
man
turned
out
to
be
a
prodigious
personage--no
less
a
one
than
the
county
judge--altogether
the
most
august
creation
these
children
had
ever
looked
upon--and
they
wondered
what
kind
of
material
he
was
made
of--and
they
half
wanted
to
hear
him
roar,
and
were
half
afraid
he
might,
too.
He
was
from
Constantinople,
twelve
miles
away--so
he
had
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
V
ABOUT
half-past
ten
the
cracked
bell
of
the
small
church
began
to
ring,
and
presently
the
people
began
to
gather
for
the
morning
sermon.
The
Sunday-school
children
distributed
themselves
about
the
house
and
occupied
pews
with
their
parents,
so
as
to
be
under
supervision.
Aunt
Polly
came,
and
Tom
and
Sid
and
Mary
sat
with
her--Tom
being
placed
next
the
aisle,
in
order
that
he
might
be
as
far
away
from
the
open
window
and
the
seductive
outside
summer
scenes
as
possible.
The
crowd
filed
up
the
aisles:
the
aged
and
needy
postmaster,
who
had
seen
better
days;
the
mayor
and
his
wife--for
they
had
a
mayor
there,
among
other
unnecessaries;
the
justice
of
the
peace;
the
widow
Douglass,
fair,
smart,
and
forty,
a
generous,
good-hearted
soul
and
well-to-do,
her
hill
mansion
the
only
palace
in
the
town,
and
the
most
hospitable
and
much
the
most
lavish
in
the
matter
of
festivities
that
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'
BLOODY
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
handkerchiefs,
and
Tom
was
entirely
happy.
The
dog
looked
foolish,
and
probably
felt
so;
but
there
was
resentment
in
his
heart,
too,
and
a
craving
for
revenge.
So
he
went
to
the
beetle
and
began
a
wary
attack
on
it
again;
jumping
at
it
from
every
point
of
a
circle,
lighting
with
his
fore-paws
within
an
inch
of
the
creature,
making
even
closer
snatches
at
it
with
his
teeth,
and
jerking
his
head
till
his
ears
flapped
again.
But
he
grew
tired
once
more,
after
a
while;
tried
to
amuse
himself
with
a
fly
but
found
no
relief;
followed
an
ant
around,
with
his
nose
close
to
the
floor,
and
quickly
wearied
of
that;
yawned,
sighed,
forgot
the
beetle
entirely,
and
sat
down
on
it.
Then
there
was
a
wild
yelp
of
agony
and
the
poodle
went
sailing
up
the
aisle;
the
yelps
continued,
and
so
did
the
dog;
he
crossed
the
house
in
front
of
the
altar;
he
flew
down
the
other
aisle;
he
crossed
before
the
doors;
he
clamored
up
the
home-stretch;
his
anguish
grew
with
his
progress,
till
presently
he
was
but
a
woolly
comet
moving
in
its
orbit
with
the
gleam
and
the
speed
of
light.
At
last
the
frantic
sufferer
sheered
from
its
course,
and
sprang
into
its
master's
lap;
he
flung
it
out
of
the
window,
and
the
voice
of
distress
quickly
thinned
away
and
died
in
the
distance.
By
this
time
the
whole
church
was
red-faced
and
suffocating
with
suppressed
laughter,
and
the
sermon
had
come
to
a
dead
standstill.
The
discourse
was
resumed
presently,
but
it
went
lame
and
halting,
all
possibility
of
impressiveness
being
at
an
end;
for
even
the
gravest
sentiments
were
constantly
being
received
with
a
smothered
burst
of
unholy
mirth,
under
cover
of
some
remote
pew-back,
as
if
the
poor
parson
had
said
a
rarely
facetious
thing.
It
was
a
genuine
relief
to
the
whole
congregation
when
the
ordeal
was
over
and
the
benediction
pronounced.
Tom
Sawyer
went
home
quite
cheerful,
thinking
to
himself
that
there
was
some
satisfaction
about
divine
service
when
there
was
a
bit
of
variety
in
it.
He
had
but
one
marring
thought;
he
was
willing
that
the
dog
should
play
with
his
pinchbug,
but
he
did
not
think
it
was
upright
in
him
to
carry
it
off.
CHAPTER
VI
MONDAY
morning
found
Tom
Sawyer
miserable.
Monday
morning
always
found
him
so--because
it
began
another
week's
slow
suffering
in
school.
He
generally
began
that
day
with
wishing
he
had
had
no
intervening
holiday,
it
made
the
going
into
captivity
and
fetters
again
so
much
more
odious.
Tom
lay
thinking.
Presently
it
occurred
to
him
that
he
wished
he
was
sick;
then
he
could
stay
home
from
school.
Here
was
a
vague
possibility.
He
canvassed
his
system.
No
ailment
was
found,
and
he
investigated
again.
This
time
he
thought
he
could
detect
colicky
symptoms,
and
he
began
to
encourage
them
with
considerable
hope.
But
they
soon
grew
feeble,
and
presently
died
wholly
away.
He
reflected
further.
Suddenly
he
discovered
something.
One
of
his
upper
front
teeth
was
loose.
This
was
lucky;
he
was
about
to
begin
to
groan,
as
a
"starter,"
as
he
called
it,
when
it
occurred
to
him
that
if
he
came
into
court
with
that
argument,
his
aunt
would
pull
it
out,
and
that
would
hurt.
So
he
thought
he
would
hold
the
tooth
in
reserve
for
the
present,
and
seek
further.
Nothing
offered
for
some
little
time,
and
then
he
remembered
hearing
the
doctor
tell
about
a
certain
thing
that
laid
up
a
patient
for
two
or
three
weeks
and
threatened
to
make
him
lose
a
finger.
So
the
boy
eagerly
drew
his
sore
toe
from
under
the
sheet
and
held
it
up
for
inspection.
But
now
he
did
not
know
the
necessary
symptoms.
However,
it
seemed
well
worth
while
to
chance
it,
so
he
fell
to
groaning
with
considerable
spirit.
But
Sid
slept
on
unconscious.
Tom
groaned
louder,
and
fancied
that
he
began
to
feel
pain
in
the
toe.
No
result
from
Sid.
Tom
was
panting
with
his
exertions
by
this
time.
He
took
a
rest
and
then
swelled
himself
up
and
fetched
a
succession
of
admirable
groans.
Sid
snored
on.
Tom
was
aggravated.
He
said,
"Sid,
Sid!"
and
shook
him.
This
course
worked
well,
and
Tom
began
to
groan
again.
Sid
yawned,
stretched,
then
brought
himself
up
on
his
elbow
with
a
snort,
and
began
to
stare
at
Tom.
Tom
went
on
groaning.
Sid
said:
"Tom!
Say,
Tom!"
[No
response.]
"Here,
Tom!
TOM!
What
is
the
matter,
Tom?"
And
he
shook
him
and
looked
in
his
face
anxiously.
Tom
moaned
out:
"Oh,
don't,
Sid.
Don't
joggle
me."
"Why,
what's
the
matter,
Tom?
I
must
call
auntie."
"No--never
mind.
It'll
be
over
by
and
by,
maybe.
Don't
call
anybody."
"But
I
must!
DON'T
groan
so,
Tom,
it's
awful.
How
long
you
been
this
way?"
"Hours.
Ouch!
Oh,
don't
stir
so,
Sid,
you'll
kill
me."
"Tom,
why
didn't
you
wake
me
sooner?
Oh,
Tom,
DON'T!
It
makes
my
flesh
crawl
to
hear
you.
Tom,
what
is
the
matter?"
"I
forgive
you
everything,
Sid.
[Groan.]
Everything
you've
ever
done
to
me.
When
I'm
gone--"
"Oh,
Tom,
you
ain't
dying,
are
you?
Don't,
Tom--oh,
don't.
Maybe--"
"I
forgive
everybody,
Sid.
[Groan.]
Tell
'em
so,
Sid.
And
Sid,
you
give
my
window-sash
and
my
cat
with
one
eye
to
that
new
girl
that's
come
to
town,
and
tell
her--"
But
Sid
had
snatched
his
clothes
and
gone.
Tom
was
suffering
in
reality,
now,
so
handsomely
was
his
imagination
working,
and
so
his
groans
had
gathered
quite
a
genuine
tone.
Sid
flew
down-stairs
and
said:
"Oh,
Aunt
Polly,
come!
Tom's
dying!"
"Dying!"
"Yes'm.
Don't
wait--come
quick!"
"Rubbage!
I
don't
believe
it!"
But
she
fled
up-stairs,
nevertheless,
with
Sid
and
Mary
at
her
heels.
And
her
face
grew
white,
too,
and
her
lip
trembled.
When
she
reached
the
bedside
she
gasped
out:
"You,
Tom!
Tom,
what's
the
matter
with
you?"
"Oh,
auntie,
I'm--"
"What's
the
matter
with
you--what
is
the
matter
with
you,
child?"
"Oh,
auntie,
my
sore
toe's
mortified!"
The
old
lady
sank
down
into
a
chair
and
laughed
a
little,
then
cried
a
little,
then
did
both
together.
This
restored
her
and
she
said:
"Tom,
what
a
turn
you
did
give
me.
Now
you
shut
up
that
nonsense
and
climb
out
of
this."
The
groans
ceased
and
the
pain
vanished
from
the
toe.
The
boy
felt
a
little
foolish,
and
he
said:
"Aunt
Polly,
it
SEEMED
mortified,
and
it
hurt
so
I
never
minded
my
tooth
at
all."
"Your
tooth,
indeed!
What's
the
matter
with
your
tooth?"
"One
of
them's
loose,
and
it
aches
perfectly
awful."
"There,
there,
now,
don't
begin
that
groaning
again.
Open
your
mouth.
Well--your
tooth
IS
loose,
but
you're
not
going
to
die
about
that.
Mary,
get
me
a
silk
thread,
and
a
chunk
of
fire
out
of
the
kitchen."
Tom
said:
"Oh,
please,
auntie,
don't
pull
it
out.
It
don't
hurt
any
more.
I
wish
I
may
never
stir
if
it
does.
Please
don't,
auntie.
I
don't
want
to
stay
home
from
school."
"Oh,
you
don't,
don't
you?
So
all
this
row
was
because
you
thought
you'd
get
to
stay
home
from
school
and
go
a-fishing?
Tom,
Tom,
I
love
you
so,
and
you
seem
to
try
every
way
you
can
to
break
my
old
heart
with
your
outrageousness."
By
this
time
the
dental
instruments
were
ready.
The
old
lady
made
one
end
of
the
silk
thread
fast
to
Tom's
tooth
with
a
loop
and
tied
the
other
to
the
bedpost.
Then
she
seized
the
chunk
of
fire
and
suddenly
thrust
it
almost
into
the
boy's
face.
The
tooth
hung
dangling
by
the
bedpost,
now.
But
all
trials
bring
their
compensations.
As
Tom
wended
to
school
after
breakfast,
he
was
the
envy
of
every
boy
he
met
because
the
gap
in
his
upper
row
of
teeth
enabled
him
to
expectorate
in
a
new
and
admirable
way.
He
gathered
quite
a
following
of
lads
interested
in
the
exhibition;
and
one
that
had
cut
his
finger
and
had
been
a
centre
of
fascination
and
homage
up
to
this
time,
now
found
himself
suddenly
without
an
adherent,
and
shorn
of
his
glory.
His
heart
was
heavy,
and
he
said
with
a
disdain
which
he
did
not
feel
that
it
wasn't
anything
to
spit
like
Tom
Sawyer;
but
another
boy
said,
"Sour
grapes!"
and
he
wandered
away
a
dismantled
hero.
Shortly
Tom
came
upon
the
juvenile
pariah
of
the
village,
Huckleberry
Finn,
son
of
the
town
drunkard.
Huckleberry
was
cordially
hated
and
dreaded
by
all
the
mothers
of
the
town,
because
he
was
idle
and
lawless
and
vulgar
and
bad--and
because
all
their
children
admired
him
so,
and
delighted
in
his
forbidden
society,
and
wished
they
dared
to
be
like
him.
Tom
was
like
the
rest
of
the
respectable
boys,
in
that
he
envied
Huckleberry
his
gaudy
outcast
condition,
and
was
under
strict
orders
not
to
play
with
him.
So
he
played
with
him
every
time
he
got
a
chance.
Huckleberry
was
always
dressed
in
the
cast-off
clothes
of
full-grown
men,
and
they
were
in
perennial
bloom
and
fluttering
with
rags.
His
hat
was
a
vast
ruin
with
a
wide
crescent
lopped
out
of
its
brim;
his
coat,
when
he
wore
one,
hung
nearly
to
his
heels
and
had
the
rearward
buttons
far
down
the
back;
but
one
suspender
supported
his
trousers;
the
seat
of
the
trousers
bagged
low
and
contained
nothing,
the
fringed
legs
dragged
in
the
dirt
when
not
rolled
up.
Huckleberry
came
and
went,
at
his
own
free
will.
He
slept
on
doorsteps
in
fine
weather
and
in
empty
hogsheads
in
wet;
he
did
not
have
to
go
to
school
or
to
church,
or
call
any
being
master
or
obey
anybody;
he
could
go
fishing
or
swimming
when
and
where
he
chose,
and
stay
as
long
as
it
suited
him;
nobody
forbade
him
to
fight;
he
could
sit
up
as
late
as
he
pleased;
he
was
always
the
first
boy
that
went
barefoot
in
the
spring
and
the
last
to
resume
leather
in
the
fall;
he
never
had
to
wash,
nor
put
on
clean
clothes;
he
could
swear
wonderfully.
In
a
word,
everything
that
goes
to
make
life
precious
that
boy
had.
So
thought
every
harassed,
hampered,
respectable
boy
in
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
graveyard
'long
about
midnight
when
somebody
that
was
wicked
has
been
buried;
and
when
it's
midnight
a
devil
will
come,
or
maybe
two
or
three,
but
you
can't
see
'em,
you
can
only
hear
something
like
the
wind,
or
maybe
hear
'em
talk;
and
when
they're
taking
that
feller
away,
you
heave
your
cat
after
'em
and
say,
'Devil
follow
corpse,
cat
follow
devil,
warts
follow
cat,
I'm
done
with
ye!'
That'll
fetch
ANY
wart."
"Sounds
right.
D'you
ever
try
it,
Huck?"
"No,
but
old
Mother
Hopkins
told
me."
"Well,
I
reckon
it's
so,
then.
Becuz
they
say
she's
a
witch."
"Say!
Why,
Tom,
I
KNOW
she
is.
She
witched
pap.
Pap
says
so
his
own
self.
He
come
along
one
day,
and
he
see
she
was
a-witching
him,
so
he
took
up
a
rock,
and
if
she
hadn't
dodged,
he'd
a
got
her.
Well,
that
very
night
he
rolled
off'n
a
shed
wher'
he
was
a
layin
drunk,
and
broke
his
arm."
"Why,
that's
awful.
How
did
he
know
she
was
a-witching
him?"
"Lord,
pap
can
tell,
easy.
Pap
says
when
they
keep
looking
at
you
right
stiddy,
they're
a-witching
you.
Specially
if
they
mumble.
Becuz
when
they
mumble
they're
saying
the
Lord's
Prayer
backards."
"Say,
Hucky,
when
you
going
to
try
the
cat?"
"To-night.
I
reckon
they'll
come
after
old
Hoss
Williams
to-night."
"But
they
buried
him
Saturday.
Didn't
they
get
him
Saturday
night?"
"Why,
how
you
talk!
How
could
their
charms
work
till
midnight?--and
THEN
it's
Sunday.
Devils
don't
slosh
around
much
of
a
Sunday,
I
don't
reckon."
"I
never
thought
of
that.
That's
so.
Lemme
go
with
you?"
"Of
course--if
you
ain't
afeard."
"Afeard!
'Tain't
likely.
Will
you
meow?"
"Yes--and
you
meow
back,
if
you
get
a
chance.
Last
time,
you
kep'
me
a-meowing
around
till
old
Hays
went
to
throwing
rocks
at
me
and
says
'Dern
that
cat!'
and
so
I
hove
a
brick
through
his
window--but
don't
you
tell."
"I
won't.
I
couldn't
meow
that
night,
becuz
auntie
was
watching
me,
but
I'll
meow
this
time.
Say--what's
that?"
"Nothing
but
a
tick."
"Where'd
you
get
him?"
"Out
in
the
woods."
"What'll
you
take
for
him?"
"I
don't
know.
I
don't
want
to
sell
him."
"All
right.
It's
a
mighty
small
tick,
anyway."
"Oh,
anybody
can
run
a
tick
down
that
don't
belong
to
them.
I'm
satisfied
with
it.
It's
a
good
enough
tick
for
me."
"Sho,
there's
ticks
a
plenty.
I
could
have
a
thousand
of
'em
if
I
wanted
to."
"Well,
why
don't
you?
Becuz
you
know
mighty
well
you
can't.
This
is
a
pretty
early
tick,
I
reckon.
It's
the
first
one
I've
seen
this
year."
"Say,
Huck--I'll
give
you
my
tooth
for
him."
"Less
see
it."
Tom
got
out
a
bit
of
paper
and
carefully
unrolled
it.
Huckleberry
viewed
it
wistfully.
The
temptation
was
very
strong.
At
last
he
said:
"Is
it
genuwyne?"
Tom
lifted
his
lip
and
showed
the
vacancy.
"Well,
all
right,"
said
Huckleberry,
"it's
a
trade."
Tom
enclosed
the
tick
in
the
percussion-cap
box
that
had
lately
been
the
pinchbug's
prison,
and
the
boys
separated,
each
feeling
wealthier
than
before.
When
Tom
reached
the
little
isolated
frame
schoolhouse,
he
strode
in
briskly,
with
the
manner
of
one
who
had
come
with
all
honest
speed.
He
hung
his
hat
on
a
peg
and
flung
himself
into
his
seat
with
business-like
alacrity.
The
master,
throned
on
high
in
his
great
splint-bottom
arm-chair,
was
dozing,
lulled
by
the
drowsy
hum
of
study.
The
interruption
roused
him.
"Thomas
Sawyer!"
Tom
knew
that
when
his
name
was
pronounced
in
full,
it
meant
trouble.
"Sir!"
"Come
up
here.
Now,
sir,
why
are
you
late
again,
as
usual?"
Tom
was
about
to
take
refuge
in
a
lie,
when
he
saw
two
long
tails
of
yellow
hair
hanging
down
a
back
that
he
recognized
by
the
electric
sympathy
of
love;
and
by
that
form
was
THE
ONLY
VACANT
PLACE
on
the
girls'
side
of
the
schoolhouse.
He
instantly
said:
"I
STOPPED
TO
TALK
WITH
HUCKLEBERRY
FINN!"
The
master's
pulse
stood
still,
and
he
stared
helplessly.
The
buzz
of
study
ceased.
The
pupils
wondered
if
this
foolhardy
boy
had
lost
his
mind.
The
master
said:
"You--you
did
what?"
"Stopped
to
talk
with
Huckleberry
Finn."
There
was
no
mistaking
the
words.
"Thomas
Sawyer,
this
is
the
most
astounding
confession
I
have
ever
listened
to.
No
mere
ferule
will
answer
for
this
offence.
Take
off
your
jacket."
The
master's
arm
performed
until
it
was
tired
and
the
stock
of
switches
notably
diminished.
Then
the
order
followed:
"Now,
sir,
go
and
sit
with
the
girls!
And
let
this
be
a
warning
to
you."
The
titter
that
rippled
around
the
room
appeared
to
abash
the
boy,
but
in
reality
that
result
was
caused
rather
more
by
his
worshipful
awe
of
his
unknown
idol
and
the
dread
pleasure
that
lay
in
his
high
good
fortune.
He
sat
down
upon
the
end
of
the
pine
bench
and
the
girl
hitched
herself
away
from
him
with
a
toss
of
her
head.
Nudges
and
winks
and
whispers
traversed
the
room,
but
Tom
sat
still,
with
his
arms
upon
the
long,
low
desk
before
him,
and
seemed
to
study
his
book.
By
and
by
attention
ceased
from
him,
and
the
accustomed
school
murmur
rose
upon
the
dull
air
once
more.
Presently
the
boy
began
to
steal
furtive
glances
at
the
girl.
She
observed
it,
"made
a
mouth"
at
him
and
gave
him
the
back
of
her
head
for
the
space
of
a
minute.
When
she
cautiously
faced
around
again,
a
peach
lay
before
her.
She
thrust
it
away.
Tom
gently
put
it
back.
She
thrust
it
away
again,
but
with
less
animosity.
Tom
patiently
returned
it
to
its
place.
Then
she
let
it
remain.
Tom
scrawled
on
his
slate,
"Please
take
it--I
got
more."
The
girl
glanced
at
the
words,
but
made
no
sign.
Now
the
boy
began
to
draw
something
on
the
slate,
hiding
his
work
with
his
left
hand.
For
a
time
the
girl
refused
to
notice;
but
her
human
curiosity
presently
began
to
manifest
itself
by
hardly
perceptible
signs.
The
boy
worked
on,
apparently
unconscious.
The
girl
made
a
sort
of
noncommittal
attempt
to
see,
but
the
boy
did
not
betray
that
he
was
aware
of
it.
At
last
she
gave
in
and
hesitatingly
whispered:
"Let
me
see
it."
Tom
partly
uncovered
a
dismal
caricature
of
a
house
with
two
gable
ends
to
it
and
a
corkscrew
of
smoke
issuing
from
the
chimney.
Then
the
girl's
interest
began
to
fasten
itself
upon
the
work
and
she
forgot
everything
else.
When
it
was
finished,
she
gazed
a
moment,
then
whispered:
"It's
nice--make
a
man."
The
artist
erected
a
man
in
the
front
yard,
that
resembled
a
derrick.
He
could
have
stepped
over
the
house;
but
the
girl
was
not
hypercritical;
she
was
satisfied
with
the
monster,
and
whispered:
"It's
a
beautiful
man--now
make
me
coming
along."
Tom
drew
an
hour-glass
with
a
full
moon
and
straw
limbs
to
it
and
armed
the
spreading
fingers
with
a
portentous
fan.
The
girl
said:
"It's
ever
so
nice--I
wish
I
could
draw."
"It's
easy,"
whispered
Tom,
"I'll
learn
you."
"Oh,
will
you?
When?"
"At
noon.
Do
you
go
home
to
dinner?"
"I'll
stay
if
you
will."
"Good--that's
a
whack.
What's
your
name?"
"Becky
Thatcher.
What's
yours?
Oh,
I
know.
It's
Thomas
Sawyer."
"That's
the
name
they
lick
me
by.
I'm
Tom
when
I'm
good.
You
call
me
Tom,
will
you?"
"Yes."
Now
Tom
began
to
scrawl
something
on
the
slate,
hiding
the
words
from
the
girl.
But
she
was
not
backward
this
time.
She
begged
to
see.
Tom
said:
"Oh,
it
ain't
anything."
"Yes
it
is."
"No
it
ain't.
You
don't
want
to
see."
"Yes
I
do,
indeed
I
do.
Please
let
me."
"You'll
tell."
"No
I
won't--deed
and
deed
and
double
deed
won't."
"You
won't
tell
anybody
at
all?
Ever,
as
long
as
you
live?"
"No,
I
won't
ever
tell
ANYbody.
Now
let
me."
"Oh,
YOU
don't
want
to
see!"
"Now
that
you
treat
me
so,
I
WILL
see."
And
she
put
her
small
hand
upon
his
and
a
little
scuffle
ensued,
Tom
pretending
to
resist
in
earnest
but
letting
his
hand
slip
by
degrees
till
these
words
were
revealed:
"I
LOVE
YOU."
"Oh,
you
bad
thing!"
And
she
hit
his
hand
a
smart
rap,
but
reddened
and
looked
pleased,
nevertheless.
Just
at
this
juncture
the
boy
felt
a
slow,
fateful
grip
closing
on
his
ear,
and
a
steady
lifting
impulse.
In
that
wise
he
was
borne
across
the
house
and
deposited
in
his
own
seat,
under
a
peppering
fire
of
giggles
from
the
whole
school.
Then
the
master
stood
over
him
during
a
few
awful
moments,
and
finally
moved
away
to
his
throne
without
saying
a
word.
But
although
Tom's
ear
tingled,
his
heart
was
jubilant.
As
the
school
quieted
down
Tom
made
an
honest
effort
to
study,
but
the
turmoil
within
him
was
too
great.
In
turn
he
took
his
place
in
the
reading
class
and
made
a
botch
of
it;
then
in
the
geography
class
and
turned
lakes
into
mountains,
mountains
into
rivers,
and
rivers
into
continents,
till
chaos
was
come
again;
then
in
the
spelling
class,
and
got
"turned
down,"
by
a
succession
of
mere
baby
words,
till
he
brought
up
at
the
foot
and
yielded
up
the
pewter
medal
which
he
had
worn
with
ostentation
for
months.
CHAPTER
VII
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
VIII
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
schoolhouse
was
hardly
distinguishable
away
off
in
the
valley
behind
him.
He
entered
a
dense
wood,
picked
his
pathless
way
to
the
centre
of
it,
and
sat
down
on
a
mossy
spot
under
a
spreading
oak.
There
was
not
even
a
zephyr
stirring;
the
dead
noonday
heat
had
even
stilled
the
songs
of
the
birds;
nature
lay
in
a
trance
that
was
broken
by
no
sound
but
the
occasional
far-off
hammering
of
a
woodpecker,
and
this
seemed
to
render
the
pervading
silence
and
sense
of
loneliness
the
more
profound.
The
boy's
soul
was
steeped
in
melancholy;
his
feelings
were
in
happy
accord
with
his
surroundings.
He
sat
long
with
his
elbows
on
his
knees
and
his
chin
in
his
hands,
meditating.
It
seemed
to
him
that
life
was
but
a
trouble,
at
best,
and
he
more
than
half
envied
Jimmy
Hodges,
so
lately
released;
it
must
be
very
peaceful,
he
thought,
to
lie
and
slumber
and
dream
forever
and
ever,
with
the
wind
whispering
through
the
trees
and
caressing
the
grass
and
the
flowers
over
the
grave,
and
nothing
to
bother
and
grieve
about,
ever
any
more.
If
he
only
had
a
clean
Sunday-school
record
he
could
be
willing
to
go,
and
be
done
with
it
all.
Now
as
to
this
girl.
What
had
he
done?
Nothing.
He
had
meant
the
best
in
the
world,
and
been
treated
like
a
dog--like
a
very
dog.
She
would
be
sorry
some
day--maybe
when
it
was
too
late.
Ah,
if
he
could
only
die
TEMPORARILY!
But
the
elastic
heart
of
youth
cannot
be
compressed
into
one
constrained
shape
long
at
a
time.
Tom
presently
began
to
drift
insensibly
back
into
the
concerns
of
this
life
again.
What
if
he
turned
his
back,
now,
and
disappeared
mysteriously?
What
if
he
went
away--ever
so
far
away,
into
unknown
countries
beyond
the
seas--and
never
came
back
any
more!
How
would
she
feel
then!
The
idea
of
being
a
clown
recurred
to
him
now,
only
to
fill
him
with
disgust.
For
frivolity
and
jokes
and
spotted
tights
were
an
offense,
when
they
intruded
themselves
upon
a
spirit
that
was
exalted
into
the
vague
august
realm
of
the
romantic.
No,
he
would
be
a
soldier,
and
return
after
long
years,
all
war-worn
and
illustrious.
No--better
still,
he
would
join
the
Indians,
and
hunt
buffaloes
and
go
on
the
warpath
in
the
mountain
ranges
and
the
trackless
great
plains
of
the
Far
West,
and
away
in
the
future
come
back
a
great
chief,
bristling
with
feathers,
hideous
with
paint,
and
prance
into
Sunday-school,
some
drowsy
summer
morning,
with
a
bloodcurdling
war-whoop,
and
sear
the
eyeballs
of
all
his
companions
with
unappeasable
envy.
But
no,
there
was
something
gaudier
even
than
this.
He
would
be
a
pirate!
That
was
it!
NOW
his
future
lay
plain
before
him,
and
glowing
with
unimaginable
splendor.
How
his
name
would
fill
the
world,
and
make
people
shudder!
How
gloriously
he
would
go
plowing
the
dancing
seas,
in
his
long,
low,
black-hulled
racer,
the
Spirit
of
the
Storm,
with
his
grisly
flag
flying
at
the
fore!
And
at
the
zenith
of
his
fame,
how
he
would
suddenly
appear
at
the
old
village
and
stalk
into
church,
brown
and
weather-beaten,
in
his
black
velvet
doublet
and
trunks,
his
great
jack-boots,
his
crimson
sash,
his
belt
bristling
with
horse-pistols,
his
crime-rusted
cutlass
at
his
side,
his
slouch
hat
with
waving
plumes,
his
black
flag
unfurled,
with
the
skull
and
crossbones
on
it,
and
hear
with
swelling
ecstasy
the
whisperings,
"It's
Tom
Sawyer
the
Pirate!--the
Black
Avenger
of
the
Spanish
Main!"
Yes,
it
was
settled;
his
career
was
determined.
He
would
run
away
from
home
and
enter
upon
it.
He
would
start
the
very
next
morning.
Therefore
he
must
now
begin
to
get
ready.
He
would
collect
his
resources
together.
He
went
to
a
rotten
log
near
at
hand
and
began
to
dig
under
one
end
of
it
with
his
Barlow
knife.
He
soon
struck
wood
that
sounded
hollow.
He
put
his
hand
there
and
uttered
this
incantation
impressively:
"What
hasn't
come
here,
come!
What's
here,
stay
here!"
Then
he
scraped
away
the
dirt,
and
exposed
a
pine
shingle.
He
took
it
up
and
disclosed
a
shapely
little
treasure-house
whose
bottom
and
sides
were
of
shingles.
In
it
lay
a
marble.
Tom's
astonishment
was
boundless!
He
scratched
his
head
with
a
perplexed
air,
and
said:
"Well,
that
beats
anything!"
Then
he
tossed
the
marble
away
pettishly,
and
stood
cogitating.
The
truth
was,
that
a
superstition
of
his
had
failed,
here,
which
he
and
all
his
comrades
had
always
looked
upon
as
infallible.
If
you
buried
a
marble
with
certain
necessary
incantations,
and
left
it
alone
a
fortnight,
and
then
opened
the
place
with
the
incantation
he
had
just
used,
you
would
find
that
all
the
marbles
you
had
ever
lost
had
gathered
themselves
together
there,
meantime,
no
matter
how
widely
they
had
been
separated.
But
now,
this
thing
had
actually
and
unquestionably
failed.
Tom's
whole
structure
of
faith
was
shaken
to
its
foundations.
He
had
many
a
time
heard
of
this
thing
succeeding
but
never
of
its
failing
before.
It
did
not
occur
to
him
that
he
had
tried
it
several
times
before,
himself,
but
could
never
find
the
hiding-places
afterward.
He
puzzled
over
the
matter
some
time,
and
finally
decided
that
some
witch
had
interfered
and
broken
the
charm.
He
thought
he
would
satisfy
himself
on
that
point;
so
he
searched
around
till
he
found
a
small
sandy
spot
with
a
little
funnel-shaped
depression
in
it.
He
laid
himself
down
and
put
his
mouth
close
to
this
depression
and
called--
"Doodle-bug,
doodle-bug,
tell
me
what
I
want
to
know!
Doodle-bug,
doodle-bug,
tell
me
what
I
want
to
know!"
The
sand
began
to
work,
and
presently
a
small
black
bug
appeared
for
a
second
and
then
darted
under
again
in
a
fright.
"He
dasn't
tell!
So
it
WAS
a
witch
that
done
it.
I
just
knowed
it."
He
well
knew
the
futility
of
trying
to
contend
against
witches,
so
he
gave
up
discouraged.
But
it
occurred
to
him
that
he
might
as
well
have
the
marble
he
had
just
thrown
away,
and
therefore
he
went
and
made
a
patient
search
for
it.
But
he
could
not
find
it.
Now
he
went
back
to
his
treasure-house
and
carefully
placed
himself
just
as
he
had
been
standing
when
he
tossed
the
marble
away;
then
he
took
another
marble
from
his
pocket
and
tossed
it
in
the
same
way,
saying:
"Brother,
go
find
your
brother!"
He
watched
where
it
stopped,
and
went
there
and
looked.
But
it
must
have
fallen
short
or
gone
too
far;
so
he
tried
twice
more.
The
last
repetition
was
successful.
The
two
marbles
lay
within
a
foot
of
each
other.
Just
here
the
blast
of
a
toy
tin
trumpet
came
faintly
down
the
green
aisles
of
the
forest.
Tom
flung
off
his
jacket
and
trousers,
turned
a
suspender
into
a
belt,
raked
away
some
brush
behind
the
rotten
log,
disclosing
a
rude
bow
and
arrow,
a
lath
sword
and
a
tin
trumpet,
and
in
a
moment
had
seized
these
things
and
bounded
away,
barelegged,
with
fluttering
shirt.
He
presently
halted
under
a
great
elm,
blew
an
answering
blast,
and
then
began
to
tiptoe
and
look
warily
out,
this
way
and
that.
He
said
cautiously--to
an
imaginary
company:
"Hold,
my
merry
men!
Keep
hid
till
I
blow."
Now
appeared
Joe
Harper,
as
airily
clad
and
elaborately
armed
as
Tom.
Tom
called:
"Hold!
Who
comes
here
into
Sherwood
Forest
without
my
pass?"
"Guy
of
Guisborne
wants
no
man's
pass.
Who
art
thou
that--that--"
"Dares
to
hold
such
language,"
said
Tom,
prompting--for
they
talked
"by
the
book,"
from
memory.
"Who
art
thou
that
dares
to
hold
such
language?"
"I,
indeed!
I
am
Robin
Hood,
as
thy
caitiff
carcase
soon
shall
know."
"Then
art
thou
indeed
that
famous
outlaw?
Right
gladly
will
I
dispute
with
thee
the
passes
of
the
merry
wood.
Have
at
thee!"
They
took
their
lath
swords,
dumped
their
other
traps
on
the
ground,
struck
a
fencing
attitude,
foot
to
foot,
and
began
a
grave,
careful
combat,
"two
up
and
two
down."
Presently
Tom
said:
"Now,
if
you've
got
the
hang,
go
it
lively!"
So
they
"went
it
lively,"
panting
and
perspiring
with
the
work.
By
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
IX
AT
half-past
nine,
that
night,
Tom
and
Sid
were
sent
to
bed,
as
usual.
They
said
their
prayers,
and
Sid
was
soon
asleep.
Tom
lay
awake
and
waited,
in
restless
impatience.
When
it
seemed
to
him
that
it
must
be
nearly
daylight,
he
heard
the
clock
strike
ten!
This
was
despair.
He
would
have
tossed
and
fidgeted,
as
his
nerves
demanded,
but
he
was
afraid
he
might
wake
Sid.
So
he
lay
still,
and
stared
up
into
the
dark.
Everything
was
dismally
still.
By
and
by,
out
of
the
stillness,
little,
scarcely
perceptible
noises
began
to
emphasize
themselves.
The
ticking
of
the
clock
began
to
bring
itself
into
notice.
Old
beams
began
to
crack
mysteriously.
The
stairs
creaked
faintly.
Evidently
spirits
were
abroad.
A
measured,
muffled
snore
issued
from
Aunt
Polly's
chamber.
And
now
the
tiresome
chirping
of
a
cricket
that
no
human
ingenuity
could
locate,
began.
Next
the
ghastly
ticking
of
a
deathwatch
in
the
wall
at
the
bed's
head
made
Tom
shudder--it
meant
that
somebody's
days
were
numbered.
Then
the
howl
of
a
far-off
dog
rose
on
the
night
air,
and
was
answered
by
a
fainter
howl
from
a
remoter
distance.
Tom
was
in
an
agony.
At
last
he
was
satisfied
that
time
had
ceased
and
eternity
begun;
he
began
to
doze,
in
spite
of
himself;
the
clock
chimed
eleven,
but
he
did
not
hear
it.
And
then
there
came,
mingling
with
his
half-formed
dreams,
a
most
melancholy
caterwauling.
The
raising
of
a
neighboring
window
disturbed
him.
A
cry
of
"Scat!
you
devil!"
and
the
crash
of
an
empty
bottle
against
the
back
of
his
aunt's
woodshed
brought
him
wide
awake,
and
a
single
minute
later
he
was
dressed
and
out
of
the
window
and
creeping
along
the
roof
of
the
"ell"
on
all
fours.
He
"meow'd"
with
caution
once
or
twice,
as
he
went;
then
jumped
to
the
roof
of
the
woodshed
and
thence
to
the
ground.
Huckleberry
Finn
was
there,
with
his
dead
cat.
The
boys
moved
off
and
disappeared
in
the
gloom.
At
the
end
of
half
an
hour
they
were
wading
through
the
tall
grass
of
the
graveyard.
It
was
a
graveyard
of
the
old-fashioned
Western
kind.
It
was
on
a
hill,
about
a
mile
and
a
half
from
the
village.
It
had
a
crazy
board
fence
around
it,
which
leaned
inward
in
places,
and
outward
the
rest
of
the
time,
but
stood
upright
nowhere.
Grass
and
weeds
grew
rank
over
the
whole
cemetery.
All
the
old
graves
were
sunken
in,
there
was
not
a
tombstone
on
the
place;
round-topped,
worm-eaten
boards
staggered
over
the
graves,
leaning
for
support
and
finding
none.
"Sacred
to
the
memory
of"
So-and-So
had
been
painted
on
them
once,
but
it
could
no
longer
have
been
read,
on
the
most
of
them,
now,
even
if
there
had
been
light.
A
faint
wind
moaned
through
the
trees,
and
Tom
feared
it
might
be
the
spirits
of
the
dead,
complaining
at
being
disturbed.
The
boys
talked
little,
and
only
under
their
breath,
for
the
time
and
the
place
and
the
pervading
solemnity
and
silence
oppressed
their
spirits.
They
found
the
sharp
new
heap
they
were
seeking,
and
ensconced
themselves
within
the
protection
of
three
great
elms
that
grew
in
a
bunch
within
a
few
feet
of
the
grave.
Then
they
waited
in
silence
for
what
seemed
a
long
time.
The
hooting
of
a
distant
owl
was
all
the
sound
that
troubled
the
dead
stillness.
Tom's
reflections
grew
oppressive.
He
must
force
some
talk.
So
he
said
in
a
whisper:
"Hucky,
do
you
believe
the
dead
people
like
it
for
us
to
be
here?"
Huckleberry
whispered:
"I
wisht
I
knowed.
It's
awful
solemn
like,
AIN'T
it?"
"I
bet
it
is."
There
was
a
considerable
pause,
while
the
boys
canvassed
this
matter
inwardly.
Then
Tom
whispered:
"Say,
Hucky--do
you
reckon
Hoss
Williams
hears
us
talking?"
"O'
course
he
does.
Least
his
sperrit
does."
Tom,
after
a
pause:
"I
wish
I'd
said
Mister
Williams.
But
I
never
meant
any
harm.
Everybody
calls
him
Hoss."
"A
body
can't
be
too
partic'lar
how
they
talk
'bout
these-yer
dead
people,
Tom."
This
was
a
damper,
and
conversation
died
again.
Presently
Tom
seized
his
comrade's
arm
and
said:
"Sh!"
"What
is
it,
Tom?"
And
the
two
clung
together
with
beating
hearts.
"Sh!
There
'tis
again!
Didn't
you
hear
it?"
"I--"
"There!
Now
you
hear
it."
"Lord,
Tom,
they're
coming!
They're
coming,
sure.
What'll
we
do?"
"I
dono.
Think
they'll
see
us?"
"Oh,
Tom,
they
can
see
in
the
dark,
same
as
cats.
I
wisht
I
hadn't
come."
"Oh,
don't
be
afeard.
I
don't
believe
they'll
bother
us.
We
ain't
doing
any
harm.
If
we
keep
perfectly
still,
maybe
they
won't
notice
us
at
all."
"I'll
try
to,
Tom,
but,
Lord,
I'm
all
of
a
shiver."
"Listen!"
The
boys
bent
their
heads
together
and
scarcely
breathed.
A
muffled
sound
of
voices
floated
up
from
the
far
end
of
the
graveyard.
"Look!
See
there!"
whispered
Tom.
"What
is
it?"
"It's
devil-fire.
Oh,
Tom,
this
is
awful."
Some
vague
figures
approached
through
the
gloom,
swinging
an
old-fashioned
tin
lantern
that
freckled
the
ground
with
innumerable
little
spangles
of
light.
Presently
Huckleberry
whispered
with
a
shudder:
"It's
the
devils
sure
enough.
Three
of
'em!
Lordy,
Tom,
we're
goners!
Can
you
pray?"
"I'll
try,
but
don't
you
be
afeard.
They
ain't
going
to
hurt
us.
'Now
I
lay
me
down
to
sleep,
I--'"
"Sh!"
"What
is
it,
Huck?"
"They're
HUMANS!
One
of
'em
is,
anyway.
One
of
'em's
old
Muff
Potter's
voice."
"No--'tain't
so,
is
it?"
"I
bet
I
know
it.
Don't
you
stir
nor
budge.
He
ain't
sharp
enough
to
notice
us.
Drunk,
the
same
as
usual,
likely--blamed
old
rip!"
"All
right,
I'll
keep
still.
Now
they're
stuck.
Can't
find
it.
Here
they
come
again.
Now
they're
hot.
Cold
again.
Hot
again.
Red
hot!
They're
p'inted
right,
this
time.
Say,
Huck,
I
know
another
o'
them
voices;
it's
Injun
Joe."
"That's
so--that
murderin'
half-breed!
I'd
druther
they
was
devils
a
dern
sight.
What
kin
they
be
up
to?"
The
whisper
died
wholly
out,
now,
for
the
three
men
had
reached
the
grave
and
stood
within
a
few
feet
of
the
boys'
hiding-place.
"Here
it
is,"
said
the
third
voice;
and
the
owner
of
it
held
the
lantern
up
and
revealed
the
face
of
young
Doctor
Robinson.
Potter
and
Injun
Joe
were
carrying
a
handbarrow
with
a
rope
and
a
couple
of
shovels
on
it.
They
cast
down
their
load
and
began
to
open
the
grave.
The
doctor
put
the
lantern
at
the
head
of
the
grave
and
came
and
sat
down
with
his
back
against
one
of
the
elm
trees.
He
was
so
close
the
boys
could
have
touched
him.
"Hurry,
men!"
he
said,
in
a
low
voice;
"the
moon
might
come
out
at
any
moment."
They
growled
a
response
and
went
on
digging.
For
some
time
there
was
no
noise
but
the
grating
sound
of
the
spades
discharging
their
freight
of
mould
and
gravel.
It
was
very
monotonous.
Finally
a
spade
struck
upon
the
coffin
with
a
dull
woody
accent,
and
within
another
minute
or
two
the
men
had
hoisted
it
out
on
the
ground.
They
pried
off
the
lid
with
their
shovels,
got
out
the
body
and
dumped
it
rudely
on
the
ground.
The
moon
drifted
from
behind
the
clouds
and
exposed
the
pallid
face.
The
barrow
was
got
ready
and
the
corpse
placed
on
it,
covered
with
a
blanket,
and
bound
to
its
place
with
the
rope.
Potter
took
out
a
large
spring-knife
and
cut
off
the
dangling
end
of
the
rope
and
then
said:
"Now
the
cussed
thing's
ready,
Sawbones,
and
you'll
just
out
with
another
five,
or
here
she
stays."
"That's
the
talk!"
said
Injun
Joe.
"Look
here,
what
does
this
mean?"
said
the
doctor.
"You
required
your
pay
in
advance,
and
I've
paid
you."
"Yes,
and
you
done
more
than
that,"
said
Injun
Joe,
approaching
the
doctor,
who
was
now
standing.
"Five
years
ago
you
drove
me
away
from
your
father's
kitchen
one
night,
when
I
come
to
ask
for
something
to
eat,
and
you
said
I
warn't
there
for
any
good;
and
when
I
swore
I'd
get
even
with
you
if
it
took
a
hundred
years,
your
father
had
me
jailed
for
a
vagrant.
Did
you
think
I'd
forget?
The
Injun
blood
ain't
in
me
for
nothing.
And
now
I've
GOT
you,
and
you
got
to
SETTLE,
you
know!"
He
was
threatening
the
doctor,
with
his
fist
in
his
face,
by
this
time.
The
doctor
struck
out
suddenly
and
stretched
the
ruffian
on
the
ground.
Potter
dropped
his
knife,
and
exclaimed:
"Here,
now,
don't
you
hit
my
pard!"
and
the
next
moment
he
had
grappled
with
the
doctor
and
the
two
were
struggling
with
might
and
main,
trampling
the
grass
and
tearing
the
ground
with
their
heels.
Injun
Joe
sprang
to
his
feet,
his
eyes
flaming
with
passion,
snatched
up
Potter's
knife,
and
went
creeping,
catlike
and
stooping,
round
and
round
about
the
combatants,
seeking
an
opportunity.
All
at
once
the
doctor
flung
himself
free,
seized
the
heavy
headboard
of
Williams'
grave
and
felled
Potter
to
the
earth
with
it--and
in
the
same
instant
the
half-breed
saw
his
chance
and
drove
the
knife
to
the
hilt
in
the
young
man's
breast.
He
reeled
and
fell
partly
upon
Potter,
flooding
him
with
his
blood,
and
in
the
same
moment
the
clouds
blotted
out
the
dreadful
spectacle
and
the
two
frightened
boys
went
speeding
away
in
the
dark.
Presently,
when
the
moon
emerged
again,
Injun
Joe
was
standing
over
the
two
forms,
contemplating
them.
The
doctor
murmured
inarticulately,
gave
a
long
gasp
or
two
and
was
still.
The
half-breed
muttered:
"THAT
score
is
settled--damn
you."
Then
he
robbed
the
body.
After
which
he
put
the
fatal
knife
in
Potter's
open
right
hand,
and
sat
down
on
the
dismantled
coffin.
Three
--four--five
minutes
passed,
and
then
Potter
began
to
stir
and
moan.
His
hand
closed
upon
the
knife;
he
raised
it,
glanced
at
it,
and
let
it
fall,
with
a
shudder.
Then
he
sat
up,
pushing
the
body
from
him,
and
gazed
at
it,
and
then
around
him,
confusedly.
His
eyes
met
Joe's.
"Lord,
how
is
this,
Joe?"
he
said.
"It's
a
dirty
business,"
said
Joe,
without
moving.
"What
did
you
do
it
for?"
"I!
I
never
done
it!"
"Look
here!
That
kind
of
talk
won't
wash."
Potter
trembled
and
grew
white.
"I
thought
I'd
got
sober.
I'd
no
business
to
drink
to-night.
But
it's
in
my
head
yet--worse'n
when
we
started
here.
I'm
all
in
a
muddle;
can't
recollect
anything
of
it,
hardly.
Tell
me,
Joe--HONEST,
now,
old
feller--did
I
do
it?
Joe,
I
never
meant
to--'pon
my
soul
and
honor,
I
never
meant
to,
Joe.
Tell
me
how
it
was,
Joe.
Oh,
it's
awful--and
him
so
young
and
promising."
"Why,
you
two
was
scuffling,
and
he
fetched
you
one
with
the
headboard
and
you
fell
flat;
and
then
up
you
come,
all
reeling
and
staggering
like,
and
snatched
the
knife
and
jammed
it
into
him,
just
as
he
fetched
you
another
awful
clip--and
here
you've
laid,
as
dead
as
a
wedge
til
now."
"Oh,
I
didn't
know
what
I
was
a-doing.
I
wish
I
may
die
this
minute
if
I
did.
It
was
all
on
account
of
the
whiskey
and
the
excitement,
I
reckon.
I
never
used
a
weepon
in
my
life
before,
Joe.
I've
fought,
but
never
with
weepons.
They'll
all
say
that.
Joe,
don't
tell!
Say
you
won't
tell,
Joe--that's
a
good
feller.
I
always
liked
you,
Joe,
and
stood
up
for
you,
too.
Don't
you
remember?
You
WON'T
tell,
WILL
you,
Joe?"
And
the
poor
creature
dropped
on
his
knees
before
the
stolid
murderer,
and
clasped
his
appealing
hands.
"No,
you've
always
been
fair
and
square
with
me,
Muff
Potter,
and
I
won't
go
back
on
you.
There,
now,
that's
as
fair
as
a
man
can
say."
"Oh,
Joe,
you're
an
angel.
I'll
bless
you
for
this
the
longest
day
I
live."
And
Potter
began
to
cry.
"Come,
now,
that's
enough
of
that.
This
ain't
any
time
for
blubbering.
You
be
off
yonder
way
and
I'll
go
this.
Move,
now,
and
don't
leave
any
tracks
behind
you."
Potter
started
on
a
trot
that
quickly
increased
to
a
run.
The
half-breed
stood
looking
after
him.
He
muttered:
"If
he's
as
much
stunned
with
the
lick
and
fuddled
with
the
rum
as
he
had
the
look
of
being,
he
won't
think
of
the
knife
till
he's
gone
so
far
he'll
be
afraid
to
come
back
after
it
to
such
a
place
by
himself
--chicken-heart!"
Two
or
three
minutes
later
the
murdered
man,
the
blanketed
corpse,
the
lidless
coffin,
and
the
open
grave
were
under
no
inspection
but
the
moon's.
The
stillness
was
complete
again,
too.
CHAPTER
X
THE
two
boys
flew
on
and
on,
toward
the
village,
speechless
with
horror.
They
glanced
backward
over
their
shoulders
from
time
to
time,
apprehensively,
as
if
they
feared
they
might
be
followed.
Every
stump
that
started
up
in
their
path
seemed
a
man
and
an
enemy,
and
made
them
catch
their
breath;
and
as
they
sped
by
some
outlying
cottages
that
lay
near
the
village,
the
barking
of
the
aroused
watch-dogs
seemed
to
give
wings
to
their
feet.
"If
we
can
only
get
to
the
old
tannery
before
we
break
down!"
whispered
Tom,
in
short
catches
between
breaths.
"I
can't
stand
it
much
longer."
Huckleberry's
hard
pantings
were
his
only
reply,
and
the
boys
fixed
their
eyes
on
the
goal
of
their
hopes
and
bent
to
their
work
to
win
it.
They
gained
steadily
on
it,
and
at
last,
breast
to
breast,
they
burst
through
the
open
door
and
fell
grateful
and
exhausted
in
the
sheltering
shadows
beyond.
By
and
by
their
pulses
slowed
down,
and
Tom
whispered:
"Huckleberry,
what
do
you
reckon'll
come
of
this?"
"If
Doctor
Robinson
dies,
I
reckon
hanging'll
come
of
it."
"Do
you
though?"
"Why,
I
KNOW
it,
Tom."
Tom
thought
a
while,
then
he
said:
"Who'll
tell?
We?"
"What
are
you
talking
about?
S'pose
something
happened
and
Injun
Joe
DIDN'T
hang?
Why,
he'd
kill
us
some
time
or
other,
just
as
dead
sure
as
we're
a
laying
here."
"That's
just
what
I
was
thinking
to
myself,
Huck."
"If
anybody
tells,
let
Muff
Potter
do
it,
if
he's
fool
enough.
He's
generally
drunk
enough."
Tom
said
nothing--went
on
thinking.
Presently
he
whispered:
"Huck,
Muff
Potter
don't
know
it.
How
can
he
tell?"
"What's
the
reason
he
don't
know
it?"
"Because
he'd
just
got
that
whack
when
Injun
Joe
done
it.
D'you
reckon
he
could
see
anything?
D'you
reckon
he
knowed
anything?"
"By
hokey,
that's
so,
Tom!"
"And
besides,
look-a-here--maybe
that
whack
done
for
HIM!"
"No,
'taint
likely,
Tom.
He
had
liquor
in
him;
I
could
see
that;
and
besides,
he
always
has.
Well,
when
pap's
full,
you
might
take
and
belt
him
over
the
head
with
a
church
and
you
couldn't
phase
him.
He
says
so,
his
own
self.
So
it's
the
same
with
Muff
Potter,
of
course.
But
if
a
man
was
dead
sober,
I
reckon
maybe
that
whack
might
fetch
him;
I
dono."
After
another
reflective
silence,
Tom
said:
"Hucky,
you
sure
you
can
keep
mum?"
"Tom,
we
GOT
to
keep
mum.
You
know
that.
That
Injun
devil
wouldn't
make
any
more
of
drownding
us
than
a
couple
of
cats,
if
we
was
to
squeak
'bout
this
and
they
didn't
hang
him.
Now,
look-a-here,
Tom,
less
take
and
swear
to
one
another--that's
what
we
got
to
do--swear
to
keep
mum."
"I'm
agreed.
It's
the
best
thing.
Would
you
just
hold
hands
and
swear
that
we--"
"Oh
no,
that
wouldn't
do
for
this.
That's
good
enough
for
little
rubbishy
common
things--specially
with
gals,
cuz
THEY
go
back
on
you
anyway,
and
blab
if
they
get
in
a
huff--but
there
orter
be
writing
'bout
a
big
thing
like
this.
And
blood."
Tom's
whole
being
applauded
this
idea.
It
was
deep,
and
dark,
and
awful;
the
hour,
the
circumstances,
the
surroundings,
were
in
keeping
with
it.
He
picked
up
a
clean
pine
shingle
that
lay
in
the
moonlight,
took
a
little
fragment
of
"red
keel"
out
of
his
pocket,
got
the
moon
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."
*
[*
If
Mr.
Harbison
owned
a
slave
named
Bull,
Tom
would
have
spoken
of
him
as
"Harbison's
Bull,"
but
a
son
or
a
dog
of
that
name
was
"Bull
Harbison."]
"Oh,
that's
good--I
tell
you,
Tom,
I
was
most
scared
to
death;
I'd
a
bet
anything
it
was
a
STRAY
dog."
The
dog
howled
again.
The
boys'
hearts
sank
once
more.
"Oh,
my!
that
ain't
no
Bull
Harbison!"
whispered
Huckleberry.
"DO,
Tom!"
Tom,
quaking
with
fear,
yielded,
and
put
his
eye
to
the
crack.
His
whisper
was
hardly
audible
when
he
said:
"Oh,
Huck,
IT
S
A
STRAY
DOG!"
"Quick,
Tom,
quick!
Who
does
he
mean?"
"Huck,
he
must
mean
us
both--we're
right
together."
"Oh,
Tom,
I
reckon
we're
goners.
I
reckon
there
ain't
no
mistake
'bout
where
I'LL
go
to.
I
been
so
wicked."
"Dad
fetch
it!
This
comes
of
playing
hookey
and
doing
everything
a
feller's
told
NOT
to
do.
I
might
a
been
good,
like
Sid,
if
I'd
a
tried
--but
no,
I
wouldn't,
of
course.
But
if
ever
I
get
off
this
time,
I
lay
I'll
just
WALLER
in
Sunday-schools!"
And
Tom
began
to
snuffle
a
little.
"YOU
bad!"
and
Huckleberry
began
to
snuffle
too.
"Consound
it,
Tom
Sawyer,
you're
just
old
pie,
'longside
o'
what
I
am.
Oh,
LORDY,
lordy,
lordy,
I
wisht
I
only
had
half
your
chance."
Tom
choked
off
and
whispered:
"Look,
Hucky,
look!
He's
got
his
BACK
to
us!"
Hucky
looked,
with
joy
in
his
heart.
"Well,
he
has,
by
jingoes!
Did
he
before?"
"Yes,
he
did.
But
I,
like
a
fool,
never
thought.
Oh,
this
is
bully,
you
know.
NOW
who
can
he
mean?"
The
howling
stopped.
Tom
pricked
up
his
ears.
"Sh!
What's
that?"
he
whispered.
"Sounds
like--like
hogs
grunting.
No--it's
somebody
snoring,
Tom."
"That
IS
it!
Where
'bouts
is
it,
Huck?"
"I
bleeve
it's
down
at
'tother
end.
Sounds
so,
anyway.
Pap
used
to
sleep
there,
sometimes,
'long
with
the
hogs,
but
laws
bless
you,
he
just
lifts
things
when
HE
snores.
Besides,
I
reckon
he
ain't
ever
coming
back
to
this
town
any
more."
The
spirit
of
adventure
rose
in
the
boys'
souls
once
more.
"Hucky,
do
you
das't
to
go
if
I
lead?"
"I
don't
like
to,
much.
Tom,
s'pose
it's
Injun
Joe!"
Tom
quailed.
But
presently
the
temptation
rose
up
strong
again
and
the
boys
agreed
to
try,
with
the
understanding
that
they
would
take
to
their
heels
if
the
snoring
stopped.
So
they
went
tiptoeing
stealthily
down,
the
one
behind
the
other.
When
they
had
got
to
within
five
steps
of
the
snorer,
Tom
stepped
on
a
stick,
and
it
broke
with
a
sharp
snap.
The
man
moaned,
writhed
a
little,
and
his
face
came
into
the
moonlight.
It
was
Muff
Potter.
The
boys'
hearts
had
stood
still,
and
their
hopes
too,
when
the
man
moved,
but
their
fears
passed
away
now.
They
tiptoed
out,
through
the
broken
weather-boarding,
and
stopped
at
a
little
distance
to
exchange
a
parting
word.
That
long,
lugubrious
howl
rose
on
the
night
air
again!
They
turned
and
saw
the
strange
dog
standing
within
a
few
feet
of
where
Potter
was
lying,
and
FACING
Potter,
with
his
nose
pointing
heavenward.
"Oh,
geeminy,
it's
HIM!"
exclaimed
both
boys,
in
a
breath.
"Say,
Tom--they
say
a
stray
dog
come
howling
around
Johnny
Miller's
house,
'bout
midnight,
as
much
as
two
weeks
ago;
and
a
whippoorwill
come
in
and
lit
on
the
banisters
and
sung,
the
very
same
evening;
and
there
ain't
anybody
dead
there
yet."
"Well,
I
know
that.
And
suppose
there
ain't.
Didn't
Gracie
Miller
fall
in
the
kitchen
fire
and
burn
herself
terrible
the
very
next
Saturday?"
"Yes,
but
she
ain't
DEAD.
And
what's
more,
she's
getting
better,
too."
"All
right,
you
wait
and
see.
She's
a
goner,
just
as
dead
sure
as
Muff
Potter's
a
goner.
That's
what
the
niggers
say,
and
they
know
all
about
these
kind
of
things,
Huck."
Then
they
separated,
cogitating.
When
Tom
crept
in
at
his
bedroom
window
the
night
was
almost
spent.
He
undressed
with
excessive
caution,
and
fell
asleep
congratulating
himself
that
nobody
knew
of
his
escapade.
He
was
not
aware
that
the
gently-snoring
Sid
was
awake,
and
had
been
so
for
an
hour.
When
Tom
awoke,
Sid
was
dressed
and
gone.
There
was
a
late
look
in
the
light,
a
late
sense
in
the
atmosphere.
He
was
startled.
Why
had
he
not
been
called--persecuted
till
he
was
up,
as
usual?
The
thought
filled
him
with
bodings.
Within
five
minutes
he
was
dressed
and
down-stairs,
feeling
sore
and
drowsy.
The
family
were
still
at
table,
but
they
had
finished
breakfast.
There
was
no
voice
of
rebuke;
but
there
were
averted
eyes;
there
was
a
silence
and
an
air
of
solemnity
that
struck
a
chill
to
the
culprit's
heart.
He
sat
down
and
tried
to
seem
gay,
but
it
was
up-hill
work;
it
roused
no
smile,
no
response,
and
he
lapsed
into
silence
and
let
his
heart
sink
down
to
the
depths.
After
breakfast
his
aunt
took
him
aside,
and
Tom
almost
brightened
in
the
hope
that
he
was
going
to
be
flogged;
but
it
was
not
so.
His
aunt
wept
over
him
and
asked
him
how
he
could
go
and
break
her
old
heart
so;
and
finally
told
him
to
go
on,
and
ruin
himself
and
bring
her
gray
hairs
with
sorrow
to
the
grave,
for
it
was
no
use
for
her
to
try
any
more.
This
was
worse
than
a
thousand
whippings,
and
Tom's
heart
was
sorer
now
than
his
body.
He
cried,
he
pleaded
for
forgiveness,
promised
to
reform
over
and
over
again,
and
then
received
his
dismissal,
feeling
that
he
had
won
but
an
imperfect
forgiveness
and
established
but
a
feeble
confidence.
He
left
the
presence
too
miserable
to
even
feel
revengeful
toward
Sid;
and
so
the
latter's
prompt
retreat
through
the
back
gate
was
unnecessary.
He
moped
to
school
gloomy
and
sad,
and
took
his
flogging,
along
with
Joe
Harper,
for
playing
hookey
the
day
before,
with
the
air
of
one
whose
heart
was
busy
with
heavier
woes
and
wholly
dead
to
trifles.
Then
he
betook
himself
to
his
seat,
rested
his
elbows
on
his
desk
and
his
jaws
in
his
hands,
and
stared
at
the
wall
with
the
stony
stare
of
suffering
that
has
reached
the
limit
and
can
no
further
go.
His
elbow
was
pressing
against
some
hard
substance.
After
a
long
time
he
slowly
and
sadly
changed
his
position,
and
took
up
this
object
with
a
sigh.
It
was
in
a
paper.
He
unrolled
it.
A
long,
lingering,
colossal
sigh
followed,
and
his
heart
broke.
It
was
his
brass
andiron
knob!
This
final
feather
broke
the
camel's
back.
CHAPTER
XI
CLOSE
upon
the
hour
of
noon
the
whole
village
was
suddenly
electrified
with
the
ghastly
news.
No
need
of
the
as
yet
undreamed-of
telegraph;
the
tale
flew
from
man
to
man,
from
group
to
group,
from
house
to
house,
with
little
less
than
telegraphic
speed.
Of
course
the
schoolmaster
gave
holiday
for
that
afternoon;
the
town
would
have
thought
strangely
of
him
if
he
had
not.
A
gory
knife
had
been
found
close
to
the
murdered
man,
and
it
had
been
recognized
by
somebody
as
belonging
to
Muff
Potter--so
the
story
ran.
And
it
was
said
that
a
belated
citizen
had
come
upon
Potter
washing
himself
in
the
"branch"
about
one
or
two
o'clock
in
the
morning,
and
that
Potter
had
at
once
sneaked
off--suspicious
circumstances,
especially
the
washing
which
was
not
a
habit
with
Potter.
It
was
also
said
that
the
town
had
been
ransacked
for
this
"murderer"
(the
public
are
not
slow
in
the
matter
of
sifting
evidence
and
arriving
at
a
verdict),
but
that
he
could
not
be
found.
Horsemen
had
departed
down
all
the
roads
in
every
direction,
and
the
Sheriff
"was
confident"
that
he
would
be
captured
before
night.
All
the
town
was
drifting
toward
the
graveyard.
Tom's
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
XII
ONE
of
the
reasons
why
Tom's
mind
had
drifted
away
from
its
secret
troubles
was,
that
it
had
found
a
new
and
weighty
matter
to
interest
itself
about.
Becky
Thatcher
had
stopped
coming
to
school.
Tom
had
struggled
with
his
pride
a
few
days,
and
tried
to
"whistle
her
down
the
wind,"
but
failed.
He
began
to
find
himself
hanging
around
her
father's
house,
nights,
and
feeling
very
miserable.
She
was
ill.
What
if
she
should
die!
There
was
distraction
in
the
thought.
He
no
longer
took
an
interest
in
war,
nor
even
in
piracy.
The
charm
of
life
was
gone;
there
was
nothing
but
dreariness
left.
He
put
his
hoop
away,
and
his
bat;
there
was
no
joy
in
them
any
more.
His
aunt
was
concerned.
She
began
to
try
all
manner
of
remedies
on
him.
She
was
one
of
those
people
who
are
infatuated
with
patent
medicines
and
all
new-fangled
methods
of
producing
health
or
mending
it.
She
was
an
inveterate
experimenter
in
these
things.
When
something
fresh
in
this
line
came
out
she
was
in
a
fever,
right
away,
to
try
it;
not
on
herself,
for
she
was
never
ailing,
but
on
anybody
else
that
came
handy.
She
was
a
subscriber
for
all
the
"Health"
periodicals
and
phrenological
frauds;
and
the
solemn
ignorance
they
were
inflated
with
was
breath
to
her
nostrils.
All
the
"rot"
they
contained
about
ventilation,
and
how
to
go
to
bed,
and
how
to
get
up,
and
what
to
eat,
and
what
to
drink,
and
how
much
exercise
to
take,
and
what
frame
of
mind
to
keep
one's
self
in,
and
what
sort
of
clothing
to
wear,
was
all
gospel
to
her,
and
she
never
observed
that
her
health-journals
of
the
current
month
customarily
upset
everything
they
had
recommended
the
month
before.
She
was
as
simple-hearted
and
honest
as
the
day
was
long,
and
so
she
was
an
easy
victim.
She
gathered
together
her
quack
periodicals
and
her
quack
medicines,
and
thus
armed
with
death,
went
about
on
her
pale
horse,
metaphorically
speaking,
with
"hell
following
after."
But
she
never
suspected
that
she
was
not
an
angel
of
healing
and
the
balm
of
Gilead
in
disguise,
to
the
suffering
neighbors.
The
water
treatment
was
new,
now,
and
Tom's
low
condition
was
a
windfall
to
her.
She
had
him
out
at
daylight
every
morning,
stood
him
up
in
the
woodshed
and
drowned
him
with
a
deluge
of
cold
water;
then
she
scrubbed
him
down
with
a
towel
like
a
file,
and
so
brought
him
to;
then
she
rolled
him
up
in
a
wet
sheet
and
put
him
away
under
blankets
till
she
sweated
his
soul
clean
and
"the
yellow
stains
of
it
came
through
his
pores"--as
Tom
said.
Yet
notwithstanding
all
this,
the
boy
grew
more
and
more
melancholy
and
pale
and
dejected.
She
added
hot
baths,
sitz
baths,
shower
baths,
and
plunges.
The
boy
remained
as
dismal
as
a
hearse.
She
began
to
assist
the
water
with
a
slim
oatmeal
diet
and
blister-plasters.
She
calculated
his
capacity
as
she
would
a
jug's,
and
filled
him
up
every
day
with
quack
cure-alls.
Tom
had
become
indifferent
to
persecution
by
this
time.
This
phase
filled
the
old
lady's
heart
with
consternation.
This
indifference
must
be
broken
up
at
any
cost.
Now
she
heard
of
Pain-killer
for
the
first
time.
She
ordered
a
lot
at
once.
She
tasted
it
and
was
filled
with
gratitude.
It
was
simply
fire
in
a
liquid
form.
She
dropped
the
water
treatment
and
everything
else,
and
pinned
her
faith
to
Pain-killer.
She
gave
Tom
a
teaspoonful
and
watched
with
the
deepest
anxiety
for
the
result.
Her
troubles
were
instantly
at
rest,
her
soul
at
peace
again;
for
the
"indifference"
was
broken
up.
The
boy
could
not
have
shown
a
wilder,
heartier
interest,
if
she
had
built
a
fire
under
him.
Tom
felt
that
it
was
time
to
wake
up;
this
sort
of
life
might
be
romantic
enough,
in
his
blighted
condition,
but
it
was
getting
to
have
too
little
sentiment
and
too
much
distracting
variety
about
it.
So
he
thought
over
various
plans
for
relief,
and
finally
hit
pon
that
of
professing
to
be
fond
of
Pain-killer.
He
asked
for
it
so
often
that
he
became
a
nuisance,
and
his
aunt
ended
by
telling
him
to
help
himself
and
quit
bothering
her.
If
it
had
been
Sid,
she
would
have
had
no
misgivings
to
alloy
her
delight;
but
since
it
was
Tom,
she
watched
the
bottle
clandestinely.
She
found
that
the
medicine
did
really
diminish,
but
it
did
not
occur
to
her
that
the
boy
was
mending
the
health
of
a
crack
in
the
sitting-room
floor
with
it.
One
day
Tom
was
in
the
act
of
dosing
the
crack
when
his
aunt's
yellow
cat
came
along,
purring,
eying
the
teaspoon
avariciously,
and
begging
for
a
taste.
Tom
said:
"Don't
ask
for
it
unless
you
want
it,
Peter."
But
Peter
signified
that
he
did
want
it.
"You
better
make
sure."
Peter
was
sure.
"Now
you've
asked
for
it,
and
I'll
give
it
to
you,
because
there
ain't
anything
mean
about
me;
but
if
you
find
you
don't
like
it,
you
mustn't
blame
anybody
but
your
own
self."
Peter
was
agreeable.
So
Tom
pried
his
mouth
open
and
poured
down
the
Pain-killer.
Peter
sprang
a
couple
of
yards
in
the
air,
and
then
delivered
a
war-whoop
and
set
off
round
and
round
the
room,
banging
against
furniture,
upsetting
flower-pots,
and
making
general
havoc.
Next
he
rose
on
his
hind
feet
and
pranced
around,
in
a
frenzy
of
enjoyment,
with
his
head
over
his
shoulder
and
his
voice
proclaiming
his
unappeasable
happiness.
Then
he
went
tearing
around
the
house
again
spreading
chaos
and
destruction
in
his
path.
Aunt
Polly
entered
in
time
to
see
him
throw
a
few
double
summersets,
deliver
a
final
mighty
hurrah,
and
sail
through
the
open
window,
carrying
the
rest
of
the
flower-pots
with
him.
The
old
lady
stood
petrified
with
astonishment,
peering
over
her
glasses;
Tom
lay
on
the
floor
expiring
with
laughter.
"Tom,
what
on
earth
ails
that
cat?"
"I
don't
know,
aunt,"
gasped
the
boy.
"Why,
I
never
see
anything
like
it.
What
did
make
him
act
so?"
"Deed
I
don't
know,
Aunt
Polly;
cats
always
act
so
when
they're
having
a
good
time."
"They
do,
do
they?"
There
was
something
in
the
tone
that
made
Tom
apprehensive.
"Yes'm.
That
is,
I
believe
they
do."
"You
DO?"
"Yes'm."
The
old
lady
was
bending
down,
Tom
watching,
with
interest
emphasized
by
anxiety.
Too
late
he
divined
her
"drift."
The
handle
of
the
telltale
teaspoon
was
visible
under
the
bed-valance.
Aunt
Polly
took
it,
held
it
up.
Tom
winced,
and
dropped
his
eyes.
Aunt
Polly
raised
him
by
the
usual
handle--his
ear--and
cracked
his
head
soundly
with
her
thimble.
"Now,
sir,
what
did
you
want
to
treat
that
poor
dumb
beast
so,
for?"
"I
done
it
out
of
pity
for
him--because
he
hadn't
any
aunt."
"Hadn't
any
aunt!--you
numskull.
What
has
that
got
to
do
with
it?"
"Heaps.
Because
if
he'd
had
one
she'd
a
burnt
him
out
herself!
She'd
a
roasted
his
bowels
out
of
him
'thout
any
more
feeling
than
if
he
was
a
human!"
Aunt
Polly
felt
a
sudden
pang
of
remorse.
This
was
putting
the
thing
in
a
new
light;
what
was
cruelty
to
a
cat
MIGHT
be
cruelty
to
a
boy,
too.
She
began
to
soften;
she
felt
sorry.
Her
eyes
watered
a
little,
and
she
put
her
hand
on
Tom's
head
and
said
gently:
"I
was
meaning
for
the
best,
Tom.
And,
Tom,
it
DID
do
you
good."
Tom
looked
up
in
her
face
with
just
a
perceptible
twinkle
peeping
through
his
gravity.
"I
know
you
was
meaning
for
the
best,
aunty,
and
so
was
I
with
Peter.
It
done
HIM
good,
too.
I
never
see
him
get
around
so
since--"
"Oh,
go
'long
with
you,
Tom,
before
you
aggravate
me
again.
And
you
try
and
see
if
you
can't
be
a
good
boy,
for
once,
and
you
needn't
take
any
more
medicine."
Tom
reached
school
ahead
of
time.
It
was
noticed
that
this
strange
thing
had
been
occurring
every
day
latterly.
And
now,
as
usual
of
late,
he
hung
about
the
gate
of
the
schoolyard
instead
of
playing
with
his
comrades.
He
was
sick,
he
said,
and
he
looked
it.
He
tried
to
seem
to
be
looking
everywhere
but
whither
he
really
was
looking--down
the
road.
Presently
Jeff
Thatcher
hove
in
sight,
and
Tom's
face
lighted;
he
gazed
a
moment,
and
then
turned
sorrowfully
away.
When
Jeff
arrived,
Tom
accosted
him;
and
"led
up"
warily
to
opportunities
for
remark
about
Becky,
but
the
giddy
lad
never
could
see
the
bait.
Tom
watched
and
watched,
hoping
whenever
a
frisking
frock
came
in
sight,
and
hating
the
owner
of
it
as
soon
as
he
saw
she
was
not
the
right
one.
At
last
frocks
ceased
to
appear,
and
he
dropped
hopelessly
into
the
dumps;
he
entered
the
empty
schoolhouse
and
sat
down
to
suffer.
Then
one
more
frock
passed
in
at
the
gate,
and
Tom's
heart
gave
a
great
bound.
The
next
instant
he
was
out,
and
"going
on"
like
an
Indian;
yelling,
laughing,
chasing
boys,
jumping
over
the
fence
at
risk
of
life
and
limb,
throwing
handsprings,
standing
on
his
head--doing
all
the
heroic
things
he
could
conceive
of,
and
keeping
a
furtive
eye
out,
all
the
while,
to
see
if
Becky
Thatcher
was
noticing.
But
she
seemed
to
be
unconscious
of
it
all;
she
never
looked.
Could
it
be
possible
that
she
was
not
aware
that
he
was
there?
He
carried
his
exploits
to
her
immediate
vicinity;
came
war-whooping
around,
snatched
a
boy's
cap,
hurled
it
to
the
roof
of
the
schoolhouse,
broke
through
a
group
of
boys,
tumbling
them
in
every
direction,
and
fell
sprawling,
himself,
under
Becky's
nose,
almost
upsetting
her--and
she
turned,
with
her
nose
in
the
air,
and
he
heard
her
say:
"Mf!
some
people
think
they're
mighty
smart--always
showing
off!"
Tom's
cheeks
burned.
He
gathered
himself
up
and
sneaked
off,
crushed
and
crestfallen.
CHAPTER
XIII
TOM'S
mind
was
made
up
now.
He
was
gloomy
and
desperate.
He
was
a
forsaken,
friendless
boy,
he
said;
nobody
loved
him;
when
they
found
out
what
they
had
driven
him
to,
perhaps
they
would
be
sorry;
he
had
tried
to
do
right
and
get
along,
but
they
would
not
let
him;
since
nothing
would
do
them
but
to
be
rid
of
him,
let
it
be
so;
and
let
them
blame
HIM
for
the
consequences--why
shouldn't
they?
What
right
had
the
friendless
to
complain?
Yes,
they
had
forced
him
to
it
at
last:
he
would
lead
a
life
of
crime.
There
was
no
choice.
By
this
time
he
was
far
down
Meadow
Lane,
and
the
bell
for
school
to
"take
up"
tinkled
faintly
upon
his
ear.
He
sobbed,
now,
to
think
he
should
never,
never
hear
that
old
familiar
sound
any
more--it
was
very
hard,
but
it
was
forced
on
him;
since
he
was
driven
out
into
the
cold
world,
he
must
submit--but
he
forgave
them.
Then
the
sobs
came
thick
and
fast.
Just
at
this
point
he
met
his
soul's
sworn
comrade,
Joe
Harper
--hard-eyed,
and
with
evidently
a
great
and
dismal
purpose
in
his
heart.
Plainly
here
were
"two
souls
with
but
a
single
thought."
Tom,
wiping
his
eyes
with
his
sleeve,
began
to
blubber
out
something
about
a
resolution
to
escape
from
hard
usage
and
lack
of
sympathy
at
home
by
roaming
abroad
into
the
great
world
never
to
return;
and
ended
by
hoping
that
Joe
would
not
forget
him.
But
it
transpired
that
this
was
a
request
which
Joe
had
just
been
going
to
make
of
Tom,
and
had
come
to
hunt
him
up
for
that
purpose.
His
mother
had
whipped
him
for
drinking
some
cream
which
he
had
never
tasted
and
knew
nothing
about;
it
was
plain
that
she
was
tired
of
him
and
wished
him
to
go;
if
she
felt
that
way,
there
was
nothing
for
him
to
do
but
succumb;
he
hoped
she
would
be
happy,
and
never
regret
having
driven
her
poor
boy
out
into
the
unfeeling
world
to
suffer
and
die.
As
the
two
boys
walked
sorrowing
along,
they
made
a
new
compact
to
stand
by
each
other
and
be
brothers
and
never
separate
till
death
relieved
them
of
their
troubles.
Then
they
began
to
lay
their
plans.
Joe
was
for
being
a
hermit,
and
living
on
crusts
in
a
remote
cave,
and
dying,
some
time,
of
cold
and
want
and
grief;
but
after
listening
to
Tom,
he
conceded
that
there
were
some
conspicuous
advantages
about
a
life
of
crime,
and
so
he
consented
to
be
a
pirate.
Three
miles
below
St.
Petersburg,
at
a
point
where
the
Mississippi
River
was
a
trifle
over
a
mile
wide,
there
was
a
long,
narrow,
wooded
island,
with
a
shallow
bar
at
the
head
of
it,
and
this
offered
well
as
a
rendezvous.
It
was
not
inhabited;
it
lay
far
over
toward
the
further
shore,
abreast
a
dense
and
almost
wholly
unpeopled
forest.
So
Jackson's
Island
was
chosen.
Who
were
to
be
the
subjects
of
their
piracies
was
a
matter
that
did
not
occur
to
them.
Then
they
hunted
up
Huckleberry
Finn,
and
he
joined
them
promptly,
for
all
careers
were
one
to
him;
he
was
indifferent.
They
presently
separated
to
meet
at
a
lonely
spot
on
the
river-bank
two
miles
above
the
village
at
the
favorite
hour--which
was
midnight.
There
was
a
small
log
raft
there
which
they
meant
to
capture.
Each
would
bring
hooks
and
lines,
and
such
provision
as
he
could
steal
in
the
most
dark
and
mysterious
way--as
became
outlaws.
And
before
the
afternoon
was
done,
they
had
all
managed
to
enjoy
the
sweet
glory
of
spreading
the
fact
that
pretty
soon
the
town
would
"hear
something."
All
who
got
this
vague
hint
were
cautioned
to
"be
mum
and
wait."
About
midnight
Tom
arrived
with
a
boiled
ham
and
a
few
trifles,
and
stopped
in
a
dense
undergrowth
on
a
small
bluff
overlooking
the
meeting-place.
It
was
starlight,
and
very
still.
The
mighty
river
lay
like
an
ocean
at
rest.
Tom
listened
a
moment,
but
no
sound
disturbed
the
quiet.
Then
he
gave
a
low,
distinct
whistle.
It
was
answered
from
under
the
bluff.
Tom
whistled
twice
more;
these
signals
were
answered
in
the
same
way.
Then
a
guarded
voice
said:
"Who
goes
there?"
"Tom
Sawyer,
the
Black
Avenger
of
the
Spanish
Main.
Name
your
names."
"Huck
Finn
the
Red-Handed,
and
Joe
Harper
the
Terror
of
the
Seas."
Tom
had
furnished
these
titles,
from
his
favorite
literature.
"'Tis
well.
Give
the
countersign."
Two
hoarse
whispers
delivered
the
same
awful
word
simultaneously
to
the
brooding
night:
"BLOOD!"
Then
Tom
tumbled
his
ham
over
the
bluff
and
let
himself
down
after
it,
tearing
both
skin
and
clothes
to
some
extent
in
the
effort.
There
was
an
easy,
comfortable
path
along
the
shore
under
the
bluff,
but
it
lacked
the
advantages
of
difficulty
and
danger
so
valued
by
a
pirate.
The
Terror
of
the
Seas
had
brought
a
side
of
bacon,
and
had
about
worn
himself
out
with
getting
it
there.
Finn
the
Red-Handed
had
stolen
a
skillet
and
a
quantity
of
half-cured
leaf
tobacco,
and
had
also
brought
a
few
corn-cobs
to
make
pipes
with.
But
none
of
the
pirates
smoked
or
"chewed"
but
himself.
The
Black
Avenger
of
the
Spanish
Main
said
it
would
never
do
to
start
without
some
fire.
That
was
a
wise
thought;
matches
were
hardly
known
there
in
that
day.
They
saw
a
fire
smouldering
upon
a
great
raft
a
hundred
yards
above,
and
they
went
stealthily
thither
and
helped
themselves
to
a
chunk.
They
made
an
imposing
adventure
of
it,
saying,
"Hist!"
every
now
and
then,
and
suddenly
halting
with
finger
on
lip;
moving
with
hands
on
imaginary
dagger-hilts;
and
giving
orders
in
dismal
whispers
that
if
"the
foe"
stirred,
to
"let
him
have
it
to
the
hilt,"
because
"dead
men
tell
no
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
eyeshot
of
the
village,
and
so
he
"looked
his
last"
with
a
broken
and
satisfied
heart.
The
other
pirates
were
looking
their
last,
too;
and
they
all
looked
so
long
that
they
came
near
letting
the
current
drift
them
out
of
the
range
of
the
island.
But
they
discovered
the
danger
in
time,
and
made
shift
to
avert
it.
About
two
o'clock
in
the
morning
the
raft
grounded
on
the
bar
two
hundred
yards
above
the
head
of
the
island,
and
they
waded
back
and
forth
until
they
had
landed
their
freight.
Part
of
the
little
raft's
belongings
consisted
of
an
old
sail,
and
this
they
spread
over
a
nook
in
the
bushes
for
a
tent
to
shelter
their
provisions;
but
they
themselves
would
sleep
in
the
open
air
in
good
weather,
as
became
outlaws.
They
built
a
fire
against
the
side
of
a
great
log
twenty
or
thirty
steps
within
the
sombre
depths
of
the
forest,
and
then
cooked
some
bacon
in
the
frying-pan
for
supper,
and
used
up
half
of
the
corn
"pone"
stock
they
had
brought.
It
seemed
glorious
sport
to
be
feasting
in
that
wild,
free
way
in
the
virgin
forest
of
an
unexplored
and
uninhabited
island,
far
from
the
haunts
of
men,
and
they
said
they
never
would
return
to
civilization.
The
climbing
fire
lit
up
their
faces
and
threw
its
ruddy
glare
upon
the
pillared
tree-trunks
of
their
forest
temple,
and
upon
the
varnished
foliage
and
festooning
vines.
When
the
last
crisp
slice
of
bacon
was
gone,
and
the
last
allowance
of
corn
pone
devoured,
the
boys
stretched
themselves
out
on
the
grass,
filled
with
contentment.
They
could
have
found
a
cooler
place,
but
they
would
not
deny
themselves
such
a
romantic
feature
as
the
roasting
camp-fire.
"AIN'T
it
gay?"
said
Joe.
"It's
NUTS!"
said
Tom.
"What
would
the
boys
say
if
they
could
see
us?"
"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
XIV
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
ferryboat
was
about
a
mile
below
the
village,
drifting
with
the
current.
Her
broad
deck
seemed
crowded
with
people.
There
were
a
great
many
skiffs
rowing
about
or
floating
with
the
stream
in
the
neighborhood
of
the
ferryboat,
but
the
boys
could
not
determine
what
the
men
in
them
were
doing.
Presently
a
great
jet
of
white
smoke
burst
from
the
ferryboat's
side,
and
as
it
expanded
and
rose
in
a
lazy
cloud,
that
same
dull
throb
of
sound
was
borne
to
the
listeners
again.
"I
know
now!"
exclaimed
Tom;
"somebody's
drownded!"
"That's
it!"
said
Huck;
"they
done
that
last
summer,
when
Bill
Turner
got
drownded;
they
shoot
a
cannon
over
the
water,
and
that
makes
him
come
up
to
the
top.
Yes,
and
they
take
loaves
of
bread
and
put
quicksilver
in
'em
and
set
'em
afloat,
and
wherever
there's
anybody
that's
drownded,
they'll
float
right
there
and
stop."
"Yes,
I've
heard
about
that,"
said
Joe.
"I
wonder
what
makes
the
bread
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
homesickness
clinging
to
his
garments
as
he
could.
Mutiny
was
effectually
laid
to
rest
for
the
moment.
As
the
night
deepened,
Huck
began
to
nod,
and
presently
to
snore.
Joe
followed
next.
Tom
lay
upon
his
elbow
motionless,
for
some
time,
watching
the
two
intently.
At
last
he
got
up
cautiously,
on
his
knees,
and
went
searching
among
the
grass
and
the
flickering
reflections
flung
by
the
camp-fire.
He
picked
up
and
inspected
several
large
semi-cylinders
of
the
thin
white
bark
of
a
sycamore,
and
finally
chose
two
which
seemed
to
suit
him.
Then
he
knelt
by
the
fire
and
painfully
wrote
something
upon
each
of
these
with
his
"red
keel";
one
he
rolled
up
and
put
in
his
jacket
pocket,
and
the
other
he
put
in
Joe's
hat
and
removed
it
to
a
little
distance
from
the
owner.
And
he
also
put
into
the
hat
certain
schoolboy
treasures
of
almost
inestimable
value--among
them
a
lump
of
chalk,
an
India-rubber
ball,
three
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
XV
A
FEW
minutes
later
Tom
was
in
the
shoal
water
of
the
bar,
wading
toward
the
Illinois
shore.
Before
the
depth
reached
his
middle
he
was
half-way
over;
the
current
would
permit
no
more
wading,
now,
so
he
struck
out
confidently
to
swim
the
remaining
hundred
yards.
He
swam
quartering
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
good-night
and
turned
to
go.
Then
with
a
mutual
impulse
the
two
bereaved
women
flung
themselves
into
each
other's
arms
and
had
a
good,
consoling
cry,
and
then
parted.
Aunt
Polly
was
tender
far
beyond
her
wont,
in
her
good-night
to
Sid
and
Mary.
Sid
snuffled
a
bit
and
Mary
went
off
crying
with
all
her
heart.
Aunt
Polly
knelt
down
and
prayed
for
Tom
so
touchingly,
so
appealingly,
and
with
such
measureless
love
in
her
words
and
her
old
trembling
voice,
that
he
was
weltering
in
tears
again,
long
before
she
was
through.
He
had
to
keep
still
long
after
she
went
to
bed,
for
she
kept
making
broken-hearted
ejaculations
from
time
to
time,
tossing
unrestfully,
and
turning
over.
But
at
last
she
was
still,
only
moaning
a
little
in
her
sleep.
Now
the
boy
stole
out,
rose
gradually
by
the
bedside,
shaded
the
candle-light
with
his
hand,
and
stood
regarding
her.
His
heart
was
full
of
pity
for
her.
He
took
out
his
sycamore
scroll
and
placed
it
by
the
candle.
But
something
occurred
to
him,
and
he
lingered
considering.
His
face
lighted
with
a
happy
solution
of
his
thought;
he
put
the
bark
hastily
in
his
pocket.
Then
he
bent
over
and
kissed
the
faded
lips,
and
straightway
made
his
stealthy
exit,
latching
the
door
behind
him.
He
threaded
his
way
back
to
the
ferry
landing,
found
nobody
at
large
there,
and
walked
boldly
on
board
the
boat,
for
he
knew
she
was
tenantless
except
that
there
was
a
watchman,
who
always
turned
in
and
slept
like
a
graven
image.
He
untied
the
skiff
at
the
stern,
slipped
into
it,
and
was
soon
rowing
cautiously
upstream.
When
he
had
pulled
a
mile
above
the
village,
he
started
quartering
across
and
bent
himself
stoutly
to
his
work.
He
hit
the
landing
on
the
other
side
neatly,
for
this
was
a
familiar
bit
of
work
to
him.
He
was
moved
to
capture
the
skiff,
arguing
that
it
might
be
considered
a
ship
and
therefore
legitimate
prey
for
a
pirate,
but
he
knew
a
thorough
search
would
be
made
for
it
and
that
might
end
in
revelations.
So
he
stepped
ashore
and
entered
the
woods.
He
sat
down
and
took
a
long
rest,
torturing
himself
meanwhile
to
keep
awake,
and
then
started
warily
down
the
home-stretch.
The
night
was
far
spent.
It
was
broad
daylight
before
he
found
himself
fairly
abreast
the
island
bar.
He
rested
again
until
the
sun
was
well
up
and
gilding
the
great
river
with
its
splendor,
and
then
he
plunged
into
the
stream.
A
little
later
he
paused,
dripping,
upon
the
threshold
of
the
camp,
and
heard
Joe
say:
"No,
Tom's
true-blue,
Huck,
and
he'll
come
back.
He
won't
desert.
He
knows
that
would
be
a
disgrace
to
a
pirate,
and
Tom's
too
proud
for
that
sort
of
thing.
He's
up
to
something
or
other.
Now
I
wonder
what?"
"Well,
the
things
is
ours,
anyway,
ain't
they?"
"Pretty
near,
but
not
yet,
Huck.
The
writing
says
they
are
if
he
ain't
back
here
to
breakfast."
"Which
he
is!"
exclaimed
Tom,
with
fine
dramatic
effect,
stepping
grandly
into
camp.
A
sumptuous
breakfast
of
bacon
and
fish
was
shortly
provided,
and
as
the
boys
set
to
work
upon
it,
Tom
recounted
(and
adorned)
his
adventures.
They
were
a
vain
and
boastful
company
of
heroes
when
the
tale
was
done.
Then
Tom
hid
himself
away
in
a
shady
nook
to
sleep
till
noon,
and
the
other
pirates
got
ready
to
fish
and
explore.
CHAPTER
XVI
AFTER
dinner
all
the
gang
turned
out
to
hunt
for
turtle
eggs
on
the
bar.
They
went
about
poking
sticks
into
the
sand,
and
when
they
found
a
soft
place
they
went
down
on
their
knees
and
dug
with
their
hands.
Sometimes
they
would
take
fifty
or
sixty
eggs
out
of
one
hole.
They
were
perfectly
round
white
things
a
trifle
smaller
than
an
English
walnut.
They
had
a
famous
fried-egg
feast
that
night,
and
another
on
Friday
morning.
After
breakfast
they
went
whooping
and
prancing
out
on
the
bar,
and
chased
each
other
round
and
round,
shedding
clothes
as
they
went,
until
they
were
naked,
and
then
continued
the
frolic
far
away
up
the
shoal
water
of
the
bar,
against
the
stiff
current,
which
latter
tripped
their
legs
from
under
them
from
time
to
time
and
greatly
increased
the
fun.
And
now
and
then
they
stooped
in
a
group
and
splashed
water
in
each
other's
faces
with
their
palms,
gradually
approaching
each
other,
with
averted
faces
to
avoid
the
strangling
sprays,
and
finally
gripping
and
struggling
till
the
best
man
ducked
his
neighbor,
and
then
they
all
went
under
in
a
tangle
of
white
legs
and
arms
and
came
up
blowing,
sputtering,
laughing,
and
gasping
for
breath
at
one
and
the
same
time.
When
they
were
well
exhausted,
they
would
run
out
and
sprawl
on
the
dry,
hot
sand,
and
lie
there
and
cover
themselves
up
with
it,
and
by
and
by
break
for
the
water
again
and
go
through
the
original
performance
once
more.
Finally
it
occurred
to
them
that
their
naked
skin
represented
flesh-colored
"tights"
very
fairly;
so
they
drew
a
ring
in
the
sand
and
had
a
circus--with
three
clowns
in
it,
for
none
would
yield
this
proudest
post
to
his
neighbor.
Next
they
got
their
marbles
and
played
"knucks"
and
"ring-taw"
and
"keeps"
till
that
amusement
grew
stale.
Then
Joe
and
Huck
had
another
swim,
but
Tom
would
not
venture,
because
he
found
that
in
kicking
off
his
trousers
he
had
kicked
his
string
of
rattlesnake
rattles
off
his
ankle,
and
he
wondered
how
he
had
escaped
cramp
so
long
without
the
protection
of
this
mysterious
charm.
He
did
not
venture
again
until
he
had
found
it,
and
by
that
time
the
other
boys
were
tired
and
ready
to
rest.
They
gradually
wandered
apart,
dropped
into
the
"dumps,"
and
fell
to
gazing
longingly
across
the
wide
river
to
where
the
village
lay
drowsing
in
the
sun.
Tom
found
himself
writing
"BECKY"
in
the
sand
with
his
big
toe;
he
scratched
it
out,
and
was
angry
with
himself
for
his
weakness.
But
he
wrote
it
again,
nevertheless;
he
could
not
help
it.
He
erased
it
once
more
and
then
took
himself
out
of
temptation
by
driving
the
other
boys
together
and
joining
them.
But
Joe's
spirits
had
gone
down
almost
beyond
resurrection.
He
was
so
homesick
that
he
could
hardly
endure
the
misery
of
it.
The
tears
lay
very
near
the
surface.
Huck
was
melancholy,
too.
Tom
was
downhearted,
but
tried
hard
not
to
show
it.
He
had
a
secret
which
he
was
not
ready
to
tell,
yet,
but
if
this
mutinous
depression
was
not
broken
up
soon,
he
would
have
to
bring
it
out.
He
said,
with
a
great
show
of
cheerfulness:
"I
bet
there's
been
pirates
on
this
island
before,
boys.
We'll
explore
it
again.
They've
hid
treasures
here
somewhere.
How'd
you
feel
to
light
on
a
rotten
chest
full
of
gold
and
silver--hey?"
But
it
roused
only
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
cry-baby
go
home
to
his
mother,
won't
we,
Huck?
Poor
thing--does
it
want
to
see
its
mother?
And
so
it
shall.
You
like
it
here,
don't
you,
Huck?
We'll
stay,
won't
we?"
Huck
said,
"Y-e-s"--without
any
heart
in
it.
"I'll
never
speak
to
you
again
as
long
as
I
live,"
said
Joe,
rising.
"There
now!"
And
he
moved
moodily
away
and
began
to
dress
himself.
"Who
cares!"
said
Tom.
"Nobody
wants
you
to.
Go
'long
home
and
get
laughed
at.
Oh,
you're
a
nice
pirate.
Huck
and
me
ain't
cry-babies.
We'll
stay,
won't
we,
Huck?
Let
him
go
if
he
wants
to.
I
reckon
we
can
get
along
without
him,
per'aps."
But
Tom
was
uneasy,
nevertheless,
and
was
alarmed
to
see
Joe
go
sullenly
on
with
his
dressing.
And
then
it
was
discomforting
to
see
Huck
eying
Joe's
preparations
so
wistfully,
and
keeping
up
such
an
ominous
silence.
Presently,
without
a
parting
word,
Joe
began
to
wade
off
toward
the
Illinois
shore.
Tom's
heart
began
to
sink.
He
glanced
at
Huck.
Huck
could
not
bear
the
look,
and
dropped
his
eyes.
Then
he
said:
"I
want
to
go,
too,
Tom.
It
was
getting
so
lonesome
anyway,
and
now
it'll
be
worse.
Let's
us
go,
too,
Tom."
"I
won't!
You
can
all
go,
if
you
want
to.
I
mean
to
stay."
"Tom,
I
better
go."
"Well,
go
'long--who's
hendering
you."
Huck
began
to
pick
up
his
scattered
clothes.
He
said:
"Tom,
I
wisht
you'd
come,
too.
Now
you
think
it
over.
We'll
wait
for
you
when
we
get
to
shore."
"Well,
you'll
wait
a
blame
long
time,
that's
all."
Huck
started
sorrowfully
away,
and
Tom
stood
looking
after
him,
with
a
strong
desire
tugging
at
his
heart
to
yield
his
pride
and
go
along
too.
He
hoped
the
boys
would
stop,
but
they
still
waded
slowly
on.
It
suddenly
dawned
on
Tom
that
it
was
become
very
lonely
and
still.
He
made
one
final
struggle
with
his
pride,
and
then
darted
after
his
comrades,
yelling:
"Wait!
Wait!
I
want
to
tell
you
something!"
They
presently
stopped
and
turned
around.
When
he
got
to
where
they
were,
he
began
unfolding
his
secret,
and
they
listened
moodily
till
at
last
they
saw
the
"point"
he
was
driving
at,
and
then
they
set
up
a
war-whoop
of
applause
and
said
it
was
"splendid!"
and
said
if
he
had
told
them
at
first,
they
wouldn't
have
started
away.
He
made
a
plausible
excuse;
but
his
real
reason
had
been
the
fear
that
not
even
the
secret
would
keep
them
with
him
any
very
great
length
of
time,
and
so
he
had
meant
to
hold
it
in
reserve
as
a
last
seduction.
The
lads
came
gayly
back
and
went
at
their
sports
again
with
a
will,
chattering
all
the
time
about
Tom's
stupendous
plan
and
admiring
the
genius
of
it.
After
a
dainty
egg
and
fish
dinner,
Tom
said
he
wanted
to
learn
to
smoke,
now.
Joe
caught
at
the
idea
and
said
he
would
like
to
try,
too.
So
Huck
made
pipes
and
filled
them.
These
novices
had
never
smoked
anything
before
but
cigars
made
of
grape-vine,
and
they
"bit"
the
tongue,
and
were
not
considered
manly
anyway.
Now
they
stretched
themselves
out
on
their
elbows
and
began
to
puff,
charily,
and
with
slender
confidence.
The
smoke
had
an
unpleasant
taste,
and
they
gagged
a
little,
but
Tom
said:
"Why,
it's
just
as
easy!
If
I'd
a
knowed
this
was
all,
I'd
a
learnt
long
ago."
"So
would
I,"
said
Joe.
"It's
just
nothing."
"Why,
many
a
time
I've
looked
at
people
smoking,
and
thought
well
I
wish
I
could
do
that;
but
I
never
thought
I
could,"
said
Tom.
"That's
just
the
way
with
me,
hain't
it,
Huck?
You've
heard
me
talk
just
that
way--haven't
you,
Huck?
I'll
leave
it
to
Huck
if
I
haven't."
"Yes--heaps
of
times,"
said
Huck.
"Well,
I
have
too,"
said
Tom;
"oh,
hundreds
of
times.
Once
down
by
the
slaughter-house.
Don't
you
remember,
Huck?
Bob
Tanner
was
there,
and
Johnny
Miller,
and
Jeff
Thatcher,
when
I
said
it.
Don't
you
remember,
Huck,
'bout
me
saying
that?"
"Yes,
that's
so,"
said
Huck.
"That
was
the
day
after
I
lost
a
white
alley.
No,
'twas
the
day
before."
"There--I
told
you
so,"
said
Tom.
"Huck
recollects
it."
"I
bleeve
I
could
smoke
this
pipe
all
day,"
said
Joe.
"I
don't
feel
sick."
"Neither
do
I,"
said
Tom.
"I
could
smoke
it
all
day.
But
I
bet
you
Jeff
Thatcher
couldn't."
"Jeff
Thatcher!
Why,
he'd
keel
over
just
with
two
draws.
Just
let
him
try
it
once.
HE'D
see!"
"I
bet
he
would.
And
Johnny
Miller--I
wish
could
see
Johnny
Miller
tackle
it
once."
"Oh,
don't
I!"
said
Joe.
"Why,
I
bet
you
Johnny
Miller
couldn't
any
more
do
this
than
nothing.
Just
one
little
snifter
would
fetch
HIM."
"'Deed
it
would,
Joe.
Say--I
wish
the
boys
could
see
us
now."
"So
do
I."
"Say--boys,
don't
say
anything
about
it,
and
some
time
when
they're
around,
I'll
come
up
to
you
and
say,
'Joe,
got
a
pipe?
I
want
a
smoke.'
And
you'll
say,
kind
of
careless
like,
as
if
it
warn't
anything,
you'll
say,
'Yes,
I
got
my
OLD
pipe,
and
another
one,
but
my
tobacker
ain't
very
good.'
And
I'll
say,
'Oh,
that's
all
right,
if
it's
STRONG
enough.'
And
then
you'll
out
with
the
pipes,
and
we'll
light
up
just
as
ca'm,
and
then
just
see
'em
look!"
"By
jings,
that'll
be
gay,
Tom!
I
wish
it
was
NOW!"
"So
do
I!
And
when
we
tell
'em
we
learned
when
we
was
off
pirating,
won't
they
wish
they'd
been
along?"
"Oh,
I
reckon
not!
I'll
just
BET
they
will!"
So
the
talk
ran
on.
But
presently
it
began
to
flag
a
trifle,
and
grow
disjointed.
The
silences
widened;
the
expectoration
marvellously
increased.
Every
pore
inside
the
boys'
cheeks
became
a
spouting
fountain;
they
could
scarcely
bail
out
the
cellars
under
their
tongues
fast
enough
to
prevent
an
inundation;
little
overflowings
down
their
throats
occurred
in
spite
of
all
they
could
do,
and
sudden
retchings
followed
every
time.
Both
boys
were
looking
very
pale
and
miserable,
now.
Joe's
pipe
dropped
from
his
nerveless
fingers.
Tom's
followed.
Both
fountains
were
going
furiously
and
both
pumps
bailing
with
might
and
main.
Joe
said
feebly:
"I've
lost
my
knife.
I
reckon
I
better
go
and
find
it."
Tom
said,
with
quivering
lips
and
halting
utterance:
"I'll
help
you.
You
go
over
that
way
and
I'll
hunt
around
by
the
spring.
No,
you
needn't
come,
Huck--we
can
find
it."
So
Huck
sat
down
again,
and
waited
an
hour.
Then
he
found
it
lonesome,
and
went
to
find
his
comrades.
They
were
wide
apart
in
the
woods,
both
very
pale,
both
fast
asleep.
But
something
informed
him
that
if
they
had
had
any
trouble
they
had
got
rid
of
it.
They
were
not
talkative
at
supper
that
night.
They
had
a
humble
look,
and
when
Huck
prepared
his
pipe
after
the
meal
and
was
going
to
prepare
theirs,
they
said
no,
they
were
not
feeling
very
well--something
they
ate
at
dinner
had
disagreed
with
them.
About
midnight
Joe
awoke,
and
called
the
boys.
There
was
a
brooding
oppressiveness
in
the
air
that
seemed
to
bode
something.
The
boys
huddled
themselves
together
and
sought
the
friendly
companionship
of
the
fire,
though
the
dull
dead
heat
of
the
breathless
atmosphere
was
stifling.
They
sat
still,
intent
and
waiting.
The
solemn
hush
continued.
Beyond
the
light
of
the
fire
everything
was
swallowed
up
in
the
blackness
of
darkness.
Presently
there
came
a
quivering
glow
that
vaguely
revealed
the
foliage
for
a
moment
and
then
vanished.
By
and
by
another
came,
a
little
stronger.
Then
another.
Then
a
faint
moan
came
sighing
through
the
branches
of
the
forest
and
the
boys
felt
a
fleeting
breath
upon
their
cheeks,
and
shuddered
with
the
fancy
that
the
Spirit
of
the
Night
had
gone
by.
There
was
a
pause.
Now
a
weird
flash
turned
night
into
day
and
showed
every
little
grass-blade,
separate
and
distinct,
that
grew
about
their
feet.
And
it
showed
three
white,
startled
faces,
too.
A
deep
peal
of
thunder
went
rolling
and
tumbling
down
the
heavens
and
lost
itself
in
sullen
rumblings
in
the
distance.
A
sweep
of
chilly
air
passed
by,
rustling
all
the
leaves
and
snowing
the
flaky
ashes
broadcast
about
the
fire.
Another
fierce
glare
lit
up
the
forest
and
an
instant
crash
followed
that
seemed
to
rend
the
tree-tops
right
over
the
boys'
heads.
They
clung
together
in
terror,
in
the
thick
gloom
that
followed.
A
few
big
rain-drops
fell
pattering
upon
the
leaves.
"Quick!
boys,
go
for
the
tent!"
exclaimed
Tom.
They
sprang
away,
stumbling
over
roots
and
among
vines
in
the
dark,
no
two
plunging
in
the
same
direction.
A
furious
blast
roared
through
the
trees,
making
everything
sing
as
it
went.
One
blinding
flash
after
another
came,
and
peal
on
peal
of
deafening
thunder.
And
now
a
drenching
rain
poured
down
and
the
rising
hurricane
drove
it
in
sheets
along
the
ground.
The
boys
cried
out
to
each
other,
but
the
roaring
wind
and
the
booming
thunder-blasts
drowned
their
voices
utterly.
However,
one
by
one
they
straggled
in
at
last
and
took
shelter
under
the
tent,
cold,
scared,
and
streaming
with
water;
but
to
have
company
in
misery
seemed
something
to
be
grateful
for.
They
could
not
talk,
the
old
sail
flapped
so
furiously,
even
if
the
other
noises
would
have
allowed
them.
The
tempest
rose
higher
and
higher,
and
presently
the
sail
tore
loose
from
its
fastenings
and
went
winging
away
on
the
blast.
The
boys
seized
each
others'
hands
and
fled,
with
many
tumblings
and
bruises,
to
the
shelter
of
a
great
oak
that
stood
upon
the
river-bank.
Now
the
battle
was
at
its
highest.
Under
the
ceaseless
conflagration
of
lightning
that
flamed
in
the
skies,
everything
below
stood
out
in
clean-cut
and
shadowless
distinctness:
the
bending
trees,
the
billowy
river,
white
with
foam,
the
driving
spray
of
spume-flakes,
the
dim
outlines
of
the
high
bluffs
on
the
other
side,
glimpsed
through
the
drifting
cloud-rack
and
the
slanting
veil
of
rain.
Every
little
while
some
giant
tree
yielded
the
fight
and
fell
crashing
through
the
younger
growth;
and
the
unflagging
thunder-peals
came
now
in
ear-splitting
explosive
bursts,
keen
and
sharp,
and
unspeakably
appalling.
The
storm
culminated
in
one
matchless
effort
that
seemed
likely
to
tear
the
island
to
pieces,
burn
it
up,
drown
it
to
the
tree-tops,
blow
it
away,
and
deafen
every
creature
in
it,
all
at
one
and
the
same
moment.
It
was
a
wild
night
for
homeless
young
heads
to
be
out
in.
But
at
last
the
battle
was
done,
and
the
forces
retired
with
weaker
and
weaker
threatenings
and
grumblings,
and
peace
resumed
her
sway.
The
boys
went
back
to
camp,
a
good
deal
awed;
but
they
found
there
was
still
something
to
be
thankful
for,
because
the
great
sycamore,
the
shelter
of
their
beds,
was
a
ruin,
now,
blasted
by
the
lightnings,
and
they
were
not
under
it
when
the
catastrophe
happened.
Everything
in
camp
was
drenched,
the
camp-fire
as
well;
for
they
were
but
heedless
lads,
like
their
generation,
and
had
made
no
provision
against
rain.
Here
was
matter
for
dismay,
for
they
were
soaked
through
and
chilled.
They
were
eloquent
in
their
distress;
but
they
presently
discovered
that
the
fire
had
eaten
so
far
up
under
the
great
log
it
had
been
built
against
(where
it
curved
upward
and
separated
itself
from
the
ground),
that
a
handbreadth
or
so
of
it
had
escaped
wetting;
so
they
patiently
wrought
until,
with
shreds
and
bark
gathered
from
the
under
sides
of
sheltered
logs,
they
coaxed
the
fire
to
burn
again.
Then
they
piled
on
great
dead
boughs
till
they
had
a
roaring
furnace,
and
were
glad-hearted
once
more.
They
dried
their
boiled
ham
and
had
a
feast,
and
after
that
they
sat
by
the
fire
and
expanded
and
glorified
their
midnight
adventure
until
morning,
for
there
was
not
a
dry
spot
to
sleep
on,
anywhere
around.
As
the
sun
began
to
steal
in
upon
the
boys,
drowsiness
came
over
them,
and
they
went
out
on
the
sandbar
and
lay
down
to
sleep.
They
got
scorched
out
by
and
by,
and
drearily
set
about
getting
breakfast.
After
the
meal
they
felt
rusty,
and
stiff-jointed,
and
a
little
homesick
once
more.
Tom
saw
the
signs,
and
fell
to
cheering
up
the
pirates
as
well
as
he
could.
But
they
cared
nothing
for
marbles,
or
circus,
or
swimming,
or
anything.
He
reminded
them
of
the
imposing
secret,
and
raised
a
ray
of
cheer.
While
it
lasted,
he
got
them
interested
in
a
new
device.
This
was
to
knock
off
being
pirates,
for
a
while,
and
be
Indians
for
a
change.
They
were
attracted
by
this
idea;
so
it
was
not
long
before
they
were
stripped,
and
striped
from
head
to
heel
with
black
mud,
like
so
many
zebras--all
of
them
chiefs,
of
course--and
then
they
went
tearing
through
the
woods
to
attack
an
English
settlement.
By
and
by
they
separated
into
three
hostile
tribes,
and
darted
upon
each
other
from
ambush
with
dreadful
war-whoops,
and
killed
and
scalped
each
other
by
thousands.
It
was
a
gory
day.
Consequently
it
was
an
extremely
satisfactory
one.
They
assembled
in
camp
toward
supper-time,
hungry
and
happy;
but
now
a
difficulty
arose--hostile
Indians
could
not
break
the
bread
of
hospitality
together
without
first
making
peace,
and
this
was
a
simple
impossibility
without
smoking
a
pipe
of
peace.
There
was
no
other
process
that
ever
they
had
heard
of.
Two
of
the
savages
almost
wished
they
had
remained
pirates.
However,
there
was
no
other
way;
so
with
such
show
of
cheerfulness
as
they
could
muster
they
called
for
the
pipe
and
took
their
whiff
as
it
passed,
in
due
form.
And
behold,
they
were
glad
they
had
gone
into
savagery,
for
they
had
gained
something;
they
found
that
they
could
now
smoke
a
little
without
having
to
go
and
hunt
for
a
lost
knife;
they
did
not
get
sick
enough
to
be
seriously
uncomfortable.
They
were
not
likely
to
fool
away
this
high
promise
for
lack
of
effort.
No,
they
practised
cautiously,
after
supper,
with
right
fair
success,
and
so
they
spent
a
jubilant
evening.
They
were
prouder
and
happier
in
their
new
acquirement
than
they
would
have
been
in
the
scalping
and
skinning
of
the
Six
Nations.
We
will
leave
them
to
smoke
and
chatter
and
brag,
since
we
have
no
further
use
for
them
at
present.
CHAPTER
XVII
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
XVIII
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
Painkiller--"
"Just
as
true
as
I
live!"
"And
then
there
was
a
whole
lot
of
talk
'bout
dragging
the
river
for
us,
and
'bout
having
the
funeral
Sunday,
and
then
you
and
old
Miss
Harper
hugged
and
cried,
and
she
went."
"It
happened
just
so!
It
happened
just
so,
as
sure
as
I'm
a-sitting
in
these
very
tracks.
Tom,
you
couldn't
told
it
more
like
if
you'd
'a'
seen
it!
And
then
what?
Go
on,
Tom!"
"Then
I
thought
you
prayed
for
me--and
I
could
see
you
and
hear
every
word
you
said.
And
you
went
to
bed,
and
I
was
so
sorry
that
I
took
and
wrote
on
a
piece
of
sycamore
bark,
'We
ain't
dead--we
are
only
off
being
pirates,'
and
put
it
on
the
table
by
the
candle;
and
then
you
looked
so
good,
laying
there
asleep,
that
I
thought
I
went
and
leaned
over
and
kissed
you
on
the
lips."
"Did
you,
Tom,
DID
you!
I
just
forgive
you
everything
for
that!"
And
she
seized
the
boy
in
a
crushing
embrace
that
made
him
feel
like
the
guiltiest
of
villains.
"It
was
very
kind,
even
though
it
was
only
a--dream,"
Sid
soliloquized
just
audibly.
"Shut
up,
Sid!
A
body
does
just
the
same
in
a
dream
as
he'd
do
if
he
was
awake.
Here's
a
big
Milum
apple
I've
been
saving
for
you,
Tom,
if
you
was
ever
found
again--now
go
'long
to
school.
I'm
thankful
to
the
good
God
and
Father
of
us
all
I've
got
you
back,
that's
long-suffering
and
merciful
to
them
that
believe
on
Him
and
keep
His
word,
though
goodness
knows
I'm
unworthy
of
it,
but
if
only
the
worthy
ones
got
His
blessings
and
had
His
hand
to
help
them
over
the
rough
places,
there's
few
enough
would
smile
here
or
ever
enter
into
His
rest
when
the
long
night
comes.
Go
'long
Sid,
Mary,
Tom--take
yourselves
off--you've
hendered
me
long
enough."
The
children
left
for
school,
and
the
old
lady
to
call
on
Mrs.
Harper
and
vanquish
her
realism
with
Tom's
marvellous
dream.
Sid
had
better
judgment
than
to
utter
the
thought
that
was
in
his
mind
as
he
left
the
house.
It
was
this:
"Pretty
thin--as
long
a
dream
as
that,
without
any
mistakes
in
it!"
What
a
hero
Tom
was
become,
now!
He
did
not
go
skipping
and
prancing,
but
moved
with
a
dignified
swagger
as
became
a
pirate
who
felt
that
the
public
eye
was
on
him.
And
indeed
it
was;
he
tried
not
to
seem
to
see
the
looks
or
hear
the
remarks
as
he
passed
along,
but
they
were
food
and
drink
to
him.
Smaller
boys
than
himself
flocked
at
his
heels,
as
proud
to
be
seen
with
him,
and
tolerated
by
him,
as
if
he
had
been
the
drummer
at
the
head
of
a
procession
or
the
elephant
leading
a
menagerie
into
town.
Boys
of
his
own
size
pretended
not
to
know
he
had
been
away
at
all;
but
they
were
consuming
with
envy,
nevertheless.
They
would
have
given
anything
to
have
that
swarthy
suntanned
skin
of
his,
and
his
glittering
notoriety;
and
Tom
would
not
have
parted
with
either
for
a
circus.
At
school
the
children
made
so
much
of
him
and
of
Joe,
and
delivered
such
eloquent
admiration
from
their
eyes,
that
the
two
heroes
were
not
long
in
becoming
insufferably
"stuck-up."
They
began
to
tell
their
adventures
to
hungry
listeners--but
they
only
began;
it
was
not
a
thing
likely
to
have
an
end,
with
imaginations
like
theirs
to
furnish
material.
And
finally,
when
they
got
out
their
pipes
and
went
serenely
puffing
around,
the
very
summit
of
glory
was
reached.
Tom
decided
that
he
could
be
independent
of
Becky
Thatcher
now.
Glory
was
sufficient.
He
would
live
for
glory.
Now
that
he
was
distinguished,
maybe
she
would
be
wanting
to
"make
up."
Well,
let
her--she
should
see
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
absent-mindedness
followed,
and
then
melancholy;
two
or
three
times
she
pricked
up
her
ear
at
a
footstep,
but
it
was
a
false
hope;
no
Tom
came.
At
last
she
grew
entirely
miserable
and
wished
she
hadn't
carried
it
so
far.
When
poor
Alfred,
seeing
that
he
was
losing
her,
he
did
not
know
how,
kept
exclaiming:
"Oh,
here's
a
jolly
one!
look
at
this!"
she
lost
patience
at
last,
and
said,
"Oh,
don't
bother
me!
I
don't
care
for
them!"
and
burst
into
tears,
and
got
up
and
walked
away.
Alfred
dropped
alongside
and
was
going
to
try
to
comfort
her,
but
she
said:
"Go
away
and
leave
me
alone,
can't
you!
I
hate
you!"
So
the
boy
halted,
wondering
what
he
could
have
done--for
she
had
said
she
would
look
at
pictures
all
through
the
nooning--and
she
walked
on,
crying.
Then
Alfred
went
musing
into
the
deserted
schoolhouse.
He
was
humiliated
and
angry.
He
easily
guessed
his
way
to
the
truth--the
girl
had
simply
made
a
convenience
of
him
to
vent
her
spite
upon
Tom
Sawyer.
He
was
far
from
hating
Tom
the
less
when
this
thought
occurred
to
him.
He
wished
there
was
some
way
to
get
that
boy
into
trouble
without
much
risk
to
himself.
Tom's
spelling-book
fell
under
his
eye.
Here
was
his
opportunity.
He
gratefully
opened
to
the
lesson
for
the
afternoon
and
poured
ink
upon
the
page.
Becky,
glancing
in
at
a
window
behind
him
at
the
moment,
saw
the
act,
and
moved
on,
without
discovering
herself.
She
started
homeward,
now,
intending
to
find
Tom
and
tell
him;
Tom
would
be
thankful
and
their
troubles
would
be
healed.
Before
she
was
half
way
home,
however,
she
had
changed
her
mind.
The
thought
of
Tom's
treatment
of
her
when
she
was
talking
about
her
picnic
came
scorching
back
and
filled
her
with
shame.
She
resolved
to
let
him
get
whipped
on
the
damaged
spelling-book's
account,
and
to
hate
him
forever,
into
the
bargain.
CHAPTER
XIX
TOM
arrived
at
home
in
a
dreary
mood,
and
the
first
thing
his
aunt
said
to
him
showed
him
that
he
had
brought
his
sorrows
to
an
unpromising
market:
"Tom,
I've
a
notion
to
skin
you
alive!"
"Auntie,
what
have
I
done?"
"Well,
you've
done
enough.
Here
I
go
over
to
Sereny
Harper,
like
an
old
softy,
expecting
I'm
going
to
make
her
believe
all
that
rubbage
about
that
dream,
when
lo
and
behold
you
she'd
found
out
from
Joe
that
you
was
over
here
and
heard
all
the
talk
we
had
that
night.
Tom,
I
don't
know
what
is
to
become
of
a
boy
that
will
act
like
that.
It
makes
me
feel
so
bad
to
think
you
could
let
me
go
to
Sereny
Harper
and
make
such
a
fool
of
myself
and
never
say
a
word."
This
was
a
new
aspect
of
the
thing.
His
smartness
of
the
morning
had
seemed
to
Tom
a
good
joke
before,
and
very
ingenious.
It
merely
looked
mean
and
shabby
now.
He
hung
his
head
and
could
not
think
of
anything
to
say
for
a
moment.
Then
he
said:
"Auntie,
I
wish
I
hadn't
done
it--but
I
didn't
think."
"Oh,
child,
you
never
think.
You
never
think
of
anything
but
your
own
selfishness.
You
could
think
to
come
all
the
way
over
here
from
Jackson's
Island
in
the
night
to
laugh
at
our
troubles,
and
you
could
think
to
fool
me
with
a
lie
about
a
dream;
but
you
couldn't
ever
think
to
pity
us
and
save
us
from
sorrow."
"Auntie,
I
know
now
it
was
mean,
but
I
didn't
mean
to
be
mean.
I
didn't,
honest.
And
besides,
I
didn't
come
over
here
to
laugh
at
you
that
night."
"What
did
you
come
for,
then?"
"It
was
to
tell
you
not
to
be
uneasy
about
us,
because
we
hadn't
got
drownded."
"Tom,
Tom,
I
would
be
the
thankfullest
soul
in
this
world
if
I
could
believe
you
ever
had
as
good
a
thought
as
that,
but
you
know
you
never
did--and
I
know
it,
Tom."
"Indeed
and
'deed
I
did,
auntie--I
wish
I
may
never
stir
if
I
didn't."
"Oh,
Tom,
don't
lie--don't
do
it.
It
only
makes
things
a
hundred
times
worse."
"It
ain't
a
lie,
auntie;
it's
the
truth.
I
wanted
to
keep
you
from
grieving--that
was
all
that
made
me
come."
"I'd
give
the
whole
world
to
believe
that--it
would
cover
up
a
power
of
sins,
Tom.
I'd
'most
be
glad
you'd
run
off
and
acted
so
bad.
But
it
ain't
reasonable;
because,
why
didn't
you
tell
me,
child?"
"Why,
you
see,
when
you
got
to
talking
about
the
funeral,
I
just
got
all
full
of
the
idea
of
our
coming
and
hiding
in
the
church,
and
I
couldn't
somehow
bear
to
spoil
it.
So
I
just
put
the
bark
back
in
my
pocket
and
kept
mum."
"What
bark?"
"The
bark
I
had
wrote
on
to
tell
you
we'd
gone
pirating.
I
wish,
now,
you'd
waked
up
when
I
kissed
you--I
do,
honest."
The
hard
lines
in
his
aunt's
face
relaxed
and
a
sudden
tenderness
dawned
in
her
eyes.
"DID
you
kiss
me,
Tom?"
"Why,
yes,
I
did."
"Are
you
sure
you
did,
Tom?"
"Why,
yes,
I
did,
auntie--certain
sure."
"What
did
you
kiss
me
for,
Tom?"
"Because
I
loved
you
so,
and
you
laid
there
moaning
and
I
was
so
sorry."
The
words
sounded
like
truth.
The
old
lady
could
not
hide
a
tremor
in
her
voice
when
she
said:
"Kiss
me
again,
Tom!--and
be
off
with
you
to
school,
now,
and
don't
bother
me
any
more."
The
moment
he
was
gone,
she
ran
to
a
closet
and
got
out
the
ruin
of
a
jacket
which
Tom
had
gone
pirating
in.
Then
she
stopped,
with
it
in
her
hand,
and
said
to
herself:
"No,
I
don't
dare.
Poor
boy,
I
reckon
he's
lied
about
it--but
it's
a
blessed,
blessed
lie,
there's
such
a
comfort
come
from
it.
I
hope
the
Lord--I
KNOW
the
Lord
will
forgive
him,
because
it
was
such
goodheartedness
in
him
to
tell
it.
But
I
don't
want
to
find
out
it's
a
lie.
I
won't
look."
She
put
the
jacket
away,
and
stood
by
musing
a
minute.
Twice
she
put
out
her
hand
to
take
the
garment
again,
and
twice
she
refrained.
Once
more
she
ventured,
and
this
time
she
fortified
herself
with
the
thought:
"It's
a
good
lie--it's
a
good
lie--I
won't
let
it
grieve
me."
So
she
sought
the
jacket
pocket.
A
moment
later
she
was
reading
Tom's
piece
of
bark
through
flowing
tears
and
saying:
"I
could
forgive
the
boy,
now,
if
he'd
committed
a
million
sins!"
CHAPTER
XX
THERE
was
something
about
Aunt
Polly's
manner,
when
she
kissed
Tom,
that
swept
away
his
low
spirits
and
made
him
lighthearted
and
happy
again.
He
started
to
school
and
had
the
luck
of
coming
upon
Becky
Thatcher
at
the
head
of
Meadow
Lane.
His
mood
always
determined
his
manner.
Without
a
moment's
hesitation
he
ran
to
her
and
said:
"I
acted
mighty
mean
to-day,
Becky,
and
I'm
so
sorry.
I
won't
ever,
ever
do
that
way
again,
as
long
as
ever
I
live--please
make
up,
won't
you?"
The
girl
stopped
and
looked
him
scornfully
in
the
face:
"I'll
thank
you
to
keep
yourself
TO
yourself,
Mr.
Thomas
Sawyer.
I'll
never
speak
to
you
again."
She
tossed
her
head
and
passed
on.
Tom
was
so
stunned
that
he
had
not
even
presence
of
mind
enough
to
say
"Who
cares,
Miss
Smarty?"
until
the
right
time
to
say
it
had
gone
by.
So
he
said
nothing.
But
he
was
in
a
fine
rage,
nevertheless.
He
moped
into
the
schoolyard
wishing
she
were
a
boy,
and
imagining
how
he
would
trounce
her
if
she
were.
He
presently
encountered
her
and
delivered
a
stinging
remark
as
he
passed.
She
hurled
one
in
return,
and
the
angry
breach
was
complete.
It
seemed
to
Becky,
in
her
hot
resentment,
that
she
could
hardly
wait
for
school
to
"take
in,"
she
was
so
impatient
to
see
Tom
flogged
for
the
injured
spelling-book.
If
she
had
had
any
lingering
notion
of
exposing
Alfred
Temple,
Tom's
offensive
fling
had
driven
it
entirely
away.
Poor
girl,
she
did
not
know
how
fast
she
was
nearing
trouble
herself.
The
master,
Mr.
Dobbins,
had
reached
middle
age
with
an
unsatisfied
ambition.
The
darling
of
his
desires
was,
to
be
a
doctor,
but
poverty
had
decreed
that
he
should
be
nothing
higher
than
a
village
schoolmaster.
Every
day
he
took
a
mysterious
book
out
of
his
desk
and
absorbed
himself
in
it
at
times
when
no
classes
were
reciting.
He
kept
that
book
under
lock
and
key.
There
was
not
an
urchin
in
school
but
was
perishing
to
have
a
glimpse
of
it,
but
the
chance
never
came.
Every
boy
and
girl
had
a
theory
about
the
nature
of
that
book;
but
no
two
theories
were
alike,
and
there
was
no
way
of
getting
at
the
facts
in
the
case.
Now,
as
Becky
was
passing
by
the
desk,
which
stood
near
the
door,
she
noticed
that
the
key
was
in
the
lock!
It
was
a
precious
moment.
She
glanced
around;
found
herself
alone,
and
the
next
instant
she
had
the
book
in
her
hands.
The
title-page--Professor
Somebody's
ANATOMY--carried
no
information
to
her
mind;
so
she
began
to
turn
the
leaves.
She
came
at
once
upon
a
handsomely
engraved
and
colored
frontispiece--a
human
figure,
stark
naked.
At
that
moment
a
shadow
fell
on
the
page
and
Tom
Sawyer
stepped
in
at
the
door
and
caught
a
glimpse
of
the
picture.
Becky
snatched
at
the
book
to
close
it,
and
had
the
hard
luck
to
tear
the
pictured
page
half
down
the
middle.
She
thrust
the
volume
into
the
desk,
turned
the
key,
and
burst
out
crying
with
shame
and
vexation.
"Tom
Sawyer,
you
are
just
as
mean
as
you
can
be,
to
sneak
up
on
a
person
and
look
at
what
they're
looking
at."
"How
could
I
know
you
was
looking
at
anything?"
"You
ought
to
be
ashamed
of
yourself,
Tom
Sawyer;
you
know
you're
going
to
tell
on
me,
and
oh,
what
shall
I
do,
what
shall
I
do!
I'll
be
whipped,
and
I
never
was
whipped
in
school."
Then
she
stamped
her
little
foot
and
said:
"BE
so
mean
if
you
want
to!
I
know
something
that's
going
to
happen.
You
just
wait
and
you'll
see!
Hateful,
hateful,
hateful!"--and
she
flung
out
of
the
house
with
a
new
explosion
of
crying.
Tom
stood
still,
rather
flustered
by
this
onslaught.
Presently
he
said
to
himself:
"What
a
curious
kind
of
a
fool
a
girl
is!
Never
been
licked
in
school!
Shucks!
What's
a
licking!
That's
just
like
a
girl--they're
so
thin-skinned
and
chicken-hearted.
Well,
of
course
I
ain't
going
to
tell
old
Dobbins
on
this
little
fool,
because
there's
other
ways
of
getting
even
on
her,
that
ain't
so
mean;
but
what
of
it?
Old
Dobbins
will
ask
who
it
was
tore
his
book.
Nobody'll
answer.
Then
he'll
do
just
the
way
he
always
does--ask
first
one
and
then
t'other,
and
when
he
comes
to
the
right
girl
he'll
know
it,
without
any
telling.
Girls'
faces
always
tell
on
them.
They
ain't
got
any
backbone.
She'll
get
licked.
Well,
it's
a
kind
of
a
tight
place
for
Becky
Thatcher,
because
there
ain't
any
way
out
of
it."
Tom
conned
the
thing
a
moment
longer,
and
then
added:
"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
XXI
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
sign-painter's
boy,
told
him
the
scheme,
and
asked
his
help.
He
had
his
own
reasons
for
being
delighted,
for
the
master
boarded
in
his
father's
family
and
had
given
the
boy
ample
cause
to
hate
him.
The
master's
wife
would
go
on
a
visit
to
the
country
in
a
few
days,
and
there
would
be
nothing
to
interfere
with
the
plan;
the
master
always
prepared
himself
for
great
occasions
by
getting
pretty
well
fuddled,
and
the
sign-painter's
boy
said
that
when
the
dominie
had
reached
the
proper
condition
on
Examination
Evening
he
would
"manage
the
thing"
while
he
napped
in
his
chair;
then
he
would
have
him
awakened
at
the
right
time
and
hurried
away
to
school.
In
the
fulness
of
time
the
interesting
occasion
arrived.
At
eight
in
the
evening
the
schoolhouse
was
brilliantly
lighted,
and
adorned
with
wreaths
and
festoons
of
foliage
and
flowers.
The
master
sat
throned
in
his
great
chair
upon
a
raised
platform,
with
his
blackboard
behind
him.
He
was
looking
tolerably
mellow.
Three
rows
of
benches
on
each
side
and
six
rows
in
front
of
him
were
occupied
by
the
dignitaries
of
the
town
and
by
the
parents
of
the
pupils.
To
his
left,
back
of
the
rows
of
citizens,
was
a
spacious
temporary
platform
upon
which
were
seated
the
scholars
who
were
to
take
part
in
the
exercises
of
the
evening;
rows
of
small
boys,
washed
and
dressed
to
an
intolerable
state
of
discomfort;
rows
of
gawky
big
boys;
snowbanks
of
girls
and
young
ladies
clad
in
lawn
and
muslin
and
conspicuously
conscious
of
their
bare
arms,
their
grandmothers'
ancient
trinkets,
their
bits
of
pink
and
blue
ribbon
and
the
flowers
in
their
hair.
All
the
rest
of
the
house
was
filled
with
non-participating
scholars.
The
exercises
began.
A
very
little
boy
stood
up
and
sheepishly
recited,
"You'd
scarce
expect
one
of
my
age
to
speak
in
public
on
the
stage,"
etc.--accompanying
himself
with
the
painfully
exact
and
spasmodic
gestures
which
a
machine
might
have
used--supposing
the
machine
to
be
a
trifle
out
of
order.
But
he
got
through
safely,
though
cruelly
scared,
and
got
a
fine
round
of
applause
when
he
made
his
manufactured
bow
and
retired.
A
little
shamefaced
girl
lisped,
"Mary
had
a
little
lamb,"
etc.,
performed
a
compassion-inspiring
curtsy,
got
her
meed
of
applause,
and
sat
down
flushed
and
happy.
Tom
Sawyer
stepped
forward
with
conceited
confidence
and
soared
into
the
unquenchable
and
indestructible
"Give
me
liberty
or
give
me
death"
speech,
with
fine
fury
and
frantic
gesticulation,
and
broke
down
in
the
middle
of
it.
A
ghastly
stage-fright
seized
him,
his
legs
quaked
under
him
and
he
was
like
to
choke.
True,
he
had
the
manifest
sympathy
of
the
house
but
he
had
the
house's
silence,
too,
which
was
even
worse
than
its
sympathy.
The
master
frowned,
and
this
completed
the
disaster.
Tom
struggled
awhile
and
then
retired,
utterly
defeated.
There
was
a
weak
attempt
at
applause,
but
it
died
early.
"The
Boy
Stood
on
the
Burning
Deck"
followed;
also
"The
Assyrian
Came
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
brain-racking
effort
was
made
to
squirm
it
into
some
aspect
or
other
that
the
moral
and
religious
mind
could
contemplate
with
edification.
The
glaring
insincerity
of
these
sermons
was
not
sufficient
to
compass
the
banishment
of
the
fashion
from
the
schools,
and
it
is
not
sufficient
to-day;
it
never
will
be
sufficient
while
the
world
stands,
perhaps.
There
is
no
school
in
all
our
land
where
the
young
ladies
do
not
feel
obliged
to
close
their
compositions
with
a
sermon;
and
you
will
find
that
the
sermon
of
the
most
frivolous
and
the
least
religious
girl
in
the
school
is
always
the
longest
and
the
most
relentlessly
pious.
But
enough
of
this.
Homely
truth
is
unpalatable.
Let
us
return
to
the
"Examination."
The
first
composition
that
was
read
was
one
entitled
"Is
this,
then,
Life?"
Perhaps
the
reader
can
endure
an
extract
from
it:
"In
the
common
walks
of
life,
with
what
delightful
emotions
does
the
youthful
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
ball-room
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,
good-bye!
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'er-full
heart,
Nor
blush
to
turn
behind
my
tearful
eyes;
'Tis
from
no
stranger
land
I
now
must
part,
'Tis
to
no
strangers
left
I
yield
these
sighs.
Welcome
and
home
were
mine
within
this
State,
Whose
vales
I
leave--whose
spires
fade
fast
from
me
And
cold
must
be
mine
eyes,
and
heart,
and
tete,
When,
dear
Alabama!
they
turn
cold
on
thee!"
There
were
very
few
there
who
knew
what
"tete"
meant,
but
the
poem
was
very
satisfactory,
nevertheless.
Next
appeared
a
dark-complexioned,
black-eyed,
black-haired
young
lady,
who
paused
an
impressive
moment,
assumed
a
tragic
expression,
and
began
to
read
in
a
measured,
solemn
tone:
"A
VISION
"Dark
and
tempestuous
was
night.
Around
the
throne
on
high
not
a
single
star
quivered;
but
the
deep
intonations
of
the
heavy
thunder
constantly
vibrated
upon
the
ear;
whilst
the
terrific
lightning
revelled
in
angry
mood
through
the
cloudy
chambers
of
heaven,
seeming
to
scorn
the
power
exerted
over
its
terror
by
the
illustrious
Franklin!
Even
the
boisterous
winds
unanimously
came
forth
from
their
mystic
homes,
and
blustered
about
as
if
to
enhance
by
their
aid
the
wildness
of
the
scene.
"At
such
a
time,
so
dark,
so
dreary,
for
human
sympathy
my
very
spirit
sighed;
but
instead
thereof,
"'My
dearest
friend,
my
counsellor,
my
comforter
and
guide--My
joy
in
grief,
my
second
bliss
in
joy,'
came
to
my
side.
She
moved
like
one
of
those
bright
beings
pictured
in
the
sunny
walks
of
fancy's
Eden
by
the
romantic
and
young,
a
queen
of
beauty
unadorned
save
by
her
own
transcendent
loveliness.
So
soft
was
her
step,
it
failed
to
make
even
a
sound,
and
but
for
the
magical
thrill
imparted
by
her
genial
touch,
as
other
unobtrusive
beauties,
she
would
have
glided
away
un-perceived--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
sign-painter's
boy
had
GILDED
it!
That
broke
up
the
meeting.
The
boys
were
avenged.
Vacation
had
come.
NOTE:--The
pretended
"compositions"
quoted
in
this
chapter
are
taken
without
alteration
from
a
volume
entitled
"Prose
and
Poetry,
by
a
Western
Lady"--but
they
are
exactly
and
precisely
after
the
schoolgirl
pattern,
and
hence
are
much
happier
than
any
mere
imitations
could
be.
CHAPTER
XXII
TOM
joined
the
new
order
of
Cadets
of
Temperance,
being
attracted
by
the
showy
character
of
their
"regalia."
He
promised
to
abstain
from
smoking,
chewing,
and
profanity
as
long
as
he
remained
a
member.
Now
he
found
out
a
new
thing--namely,
that
to
promise
not
to
do
a
thing
is
the
surest
way
in
the
world
to
make
a
body
want
to
go
and
do
that
very
thing.
Tom
soon
found
himself
tormented
with
a
desire
to
drink
and
swear;
the
desire
grew
to
be
so
intense
that
nothing
but
the
hope
of
a
chance
to
display
himself
in
his
red
sash
kept
him
from
withdrawing
from
the
order.
Fourth
of
July
was
coming;
but
he
soon
gave
that
up
--gave
it
up
before
he
had
worn
his
shackles
over
forty-eight
hours--and
fixed
his
hopes
upon
old
Judge
Frazer,
justice
of
the
peace,
who
was
apparently
on
his
deathbed
and
would
have
a
big
public
funeral,
since
he
was
so
high
an
official.
During
three
days
Tom
was
deeply
concerned
about
the
Judge's
condition
and
hungry
for
news
of
it.
Sometimes
his
hopes
ran
high--so
high
that
he
would
venture
to
get
out
his
regalia
and
practise
before
the
looking-glass.
But
the
Judge
had
a
most
discouraging
way
of
fluctuating.
At
last
he
was
pronounced
upon
the
mend--and
then
convalescent.
Tom
was
disgusted;
and
felt
a
sense
of
injury,
too.
He
handed
in
his
resignation
at
once--and
that
night
the
Judge
suffered
a
relapse
and
died.
Tom
resolved
that
he
would
never
trust
a
man
like
that
again.
The
funeral
was
a
fine
thing.
The
Cadets
paraded
in
a
style
calculated
to
kill
the
late
member
with
envy.
Tom
was
a
free
boy
again,
however
--there
was
something
in
that.
He
could
drink
and
swear,
now--but
found
to
his
surprise
that
he
did
not
want
to.
The
simple
fact
that
he
could,
took
the
desire
away,
and
the
charm
of
it.
Tom
presently
wondered
to
find
that
his
coveted
vacation
was
beginning
to
hang
a
little
heavily
on
his
hands.
He
attempted
a
diary--but
nothing
happened
during
three
days,
and
so
he
abandoned
it.
The
first
of
all
the
negro
minstrel
shows
came
to
town,
and
made
a
sensation.
Tom
and
Joe
Harper
got
up
a
band
of
performers
and
were
happy
for
two
days.
Even
the
Glorious
Fourth
was
in
some
sense
a
failure,
for
it
rained
hard,
there
was
no
procession
in
consequence,
and
the
greatest
man
in
the
world
(as
Tom
supposed),
Mr.
Benton,
an
actual
United
States
Senator,
proved
an
overwhelming
disappointment--for
he
was
not
twenty-five
feet
high,
nor
even
anywhere
in
the
neighborhood
of
it.
A
circus
came.
The
boys
played
circus
for
three
days
afterward
in
tents
made
of
rag
carpeting--admission,
three
pins
for
boys,
two
for
girls--and
then
circusing
was
abandoned.
A
phrenologist
and
a
mesmerizer
came--and
went
again
and
left
the
village
duller
and
drearier
than
ever.
There
were
some
boys-and-girls'
parties,
but
they
were
so
few
and
so
delightful
that
they
only
made
the
aching
voids
between
ache
the
harder.
Becky
Thatcher
was
gone
to
her
Constantinople
home
to
stay
with
her
parents
during
vacation--so
there
was
no
bright
side
to
life
anywhere.
The
dreadful
secret
of
the
murder
was
a
chronic
misery.
It
was
a
very
cancer
for
permanency
and
pain.
Then
came
the
measles.
During
two
long
weeks
Tom
lay
a
prisoner,
dead
to
the
world
and
its
happenings.
He
was
very
ill,
he
was
interested
in
nothing.
When
he
got
upon
his
feet
at
last
and
moved
feebly
down-town,
a
melancholy
change
had
come
over
everything
and
every
creature.
There
had
been
a
"revival,"
and
everybody
had
"got
religion,"
not
only
the
adults,
but
even
the
boys
and
girls.
Tom
went
about,
hoping
against
hope
for
the
sight
of
one
blessed
sinful
face,
but
disappointment
crossed
him
everywhere.
He
found
Joe
Harper
studying
a
Testament,
and
turned
sadly
away
from
the
depressing
spectacle.
He
sought
Ben
Rogers,
and
found
him
visiting
the
poor
with
a
basket
of
tracts.
He
hunted
up
Jim
Hollis,
who
called
his
attention
to
the
precious
blessing
of
his
late
measles
as
a
warning.
Every
boy
he
encountered
added
another
ton
to
his
depression;
and
when,
in
desperation,
he
flew
for
refuge
at
last
to
the
bosom
of
Huckleberry
Finn
and
was
received
with
a
Scriptural
quotation,
his
heart
broke
and
he
crept
home
and
to
bed
realizing
that
he
alone
of
all
the
town
was
lost,
forever
and
forever.
And
that
night
there
came
on
a
terrific
storm,
with
driving
rain,
awful
claps
of
thunder
and
blinding
sheets
of
lightning.
He
covered
his
head
with
the
bedclothes
and
waited
in
a
horror
of
suspense
for
his
doom;
for
he
had
not
the
shadow
of
a
doubt
that
all
this
hubbub
was
about
him.
He
believed
he
had
taxed
the
forbearance
of
the
powers
above
to
the
extremity
of
endurance
and
that
this
was
the
result.
It
might
have
seemed
to
him
a
waste
of
pomp
and
ammunition
to
kill
a
bug
with
a
battery
of
artillery,
but
there
seemed
nothing
incongruous
about
the
getting
up
such
an
expensive
thunderstorm
as
this
to
knock
the
turf
from
under
an
insect
like
himself.
By
and
by
the
tempest
spent
itself
and
died
without
accomplishing
its
object.
The
boy's
first
impulse
was
to
be
grateful,
and
reform.
His
second
was
to
wait--for
there
might
not
be
any
more
storms.
The
next
day
the
doctors
were
back;
Tom
had
relapsed.
The
three
weeks
he
spent
on
his
back
this
time
seemed
an
entire
age.
When
he
got
abroad
at
last
he
was
hardly
grateful
that
he
had
been
spared,
remembering
how
lonely
was
his
estate,
how
companionless
and
forlorn
he
was.
He
drifted
listlessly
down
the
street
and
found
Jim
Hollis
acting
as
judge
in
a
juvenile
court
that
was
trying
a
cat
for
murder,
in
the
presence
of
her
victim,
a
bird.
He
found
Joe
Harper
and
Huck
Finn
up
an
alley
eating
a
stolen
melon.
Poor
lads!
they--like
Tom--had
suffered
a
relapse.
CHAPTER
XXIII
AT
last
the
sleepy
atmosphere
was
stirred--and
vigorously:
the
murder
trial
came
on
in
the
court.
It
became
the
absorbing
topic
of
village
talk
immediately.
Tom
could
not
get
away
from
it.
Every
reference
to
the
murder
sent
a
shudder
to
his
heart,
for
his
troubled
conscience
and
fears
almost
persuaded
him
that
these
remarks
were
put
forth
in
his
hearing
as
"feelers";
he
did
not
see
how
he
could
be
suspected
of
knowing
anything
about
the
murder,
but
still
he
could
not
be
comfortable
in
the
midst
of
this
gossip.
It
kept
him
in
a
cold
shiver
all
the
time.
He
took
Huck
to
a
lonely
place
to
have
a
talk
with
him.
It
would
be
some
relief
to
unseal
his
tongue
for
a
little
while;
to
divide
his
burden
of
distress
with
another
sufferer.
Moreover,
he
wanted
to
assure
himself
that
Huck
had
remained
discreet.
"Huck,
have
you
ever
told
anybody
about--that?"
"'Bout
what?"
"You
know
what."
"Oh--'course
I
haven't."
"Never
a
word?"
"Never
a
solitary
word,
so
help
me.
What
makes
you
ask?"
"Well,
I
was
afeard."
"Why,
Tom
Sawyer,
we
wouldn't
be
alive
two
days
if
that
got
found
out.
YOU
know
that."
Tom
felt
more
comfortable.
After
a
pause:
"Huck,
they
couldn't
anybody
get
you
to
tell,
could
they?"
"Get
me
to
tell?
Why,
if
I
wanted
that
half-breed
devil
to
drownd
me
they
could
get
me
to
tell.
They
ain't
no
different
way."
"Well,
that's
all
right,
then.
I
reckon
we're
safe
as
long
as
we
keep
mum.
But
let's
swear
again,
anyway.
It's
more
surer."
"I'm
agreed."
So
they
swore
again
with
dread
solemnities.
"What
is
the
talk
around,
Huck?
I've
heard
a
power
of
it."
"Talk?
Well,
it's
just
Muff
Potter,
Muff
Potter,
Muff
Potter
all
the
time.
It
keeps
me
in
a
sweat,
constant,
so's
I
want
to
hide
som'ers."
"That's
just
the
same
way
they
go
on
round
me.
I
reckon
he's
a
goner.
Don't
you
feel
sorry
for
him,
sometimes?"
"Most
always--most
always.
He
ain't
no
account;
but
then
he
hain't
ever
done
anything
to
hurt
anybody.
Just
fishes
a
little,
to
get
money
to
get
drunk
on--and
loafs
around
considerable;
but
lord,
we
all
do
that--leastways
most
of
us--preachers
and
such
like.
But
he's
kind
of
good--he
give
me
half
a
fish,
once,
when
there
warn't
enough
for
two;
and
lots
of
times
he's
kind
of
stood
by
me
when
I
was
out
of
luck."
"Well,
he's
mended
kites
for
me,
Huck,
and
knitted
hooks
on
to
my
line.
I
wish
we
could
get
him
out
of
there."
"My!
we
couldn't
get
him
out,
Tom.
And
besides,
'twouldn't
do
any
good;
they'd
ketch
him
again."
"Yes--so
they
would.
But
I
hate
to
hear
'em
abuse
him
so
like
the
dickens
when
he
never
done--that."
"I
do
too,
Tom.
Lord,
I
hear
'em
say
he's
the
bloodiest
looking
villain
in
this
country,
and
they
wonder
he
wasn't
ever
hung
before."
"Yes,
they
talk
like
that,
all
the
time.
I've
heard
'em
say
that
if
he
was
to
get
free
they'd
lynch
him."
"And
they'd
do
it,
too."
The
boys
had
a
long
talk,
but
it
brought
them
little
comfort.
As
the
twilight
drew
on,
they
found
themselves
hanging
about
the
neighborhood
of
the
little
isolated
jail,
perhaps
with
an
undefined
hope
that
something
would
happen
that
might
clear
away
their
difficulties.
But
nothing
happened;
there
seemed
to
be
no
angels
or
fairies
interested
in
this
luckless
captive.
The
boys
did
as
they
had
often
done
before--went
to
the
cell
grating
and
gave
Potter
some
tobacco
and
matches.
He
was
on
the
ground
floor
and
there
were
no
guards.
His
gratitude
for
their
gifts
had
always
smote
their
consciences
before--it
cut
deeper
than
ever,
this
time.
They
felt
cowardly
and
treacherous
to
the
last
degree
when
Potter
said:
"You've
been
mighty
good
to
me,
boys--better'n
anybody
else
in
this
town.
And
I
don't
forget
it,
I
don't.
Often
I
says
to
myself,
says
I,
'I
used
to
mend
all
the
boys'
kites
and
things,
and
show
'em
where
the
good
fishin'
places
was,
and
befriend
'em
what
I
could,
and
now
they've
all
forgot
old
Muff
when
he's
in
trouble;
but
Tom
don't,
and
Huck
don't--THEY
don't
forget
him,
says
I,
'and
I
don't
forget
them.'
Well,
boys,
I
done
an
awful
thing--drunk
and
crazy
at
the
time--that's
the
only
way
I
account
for
it--and
now
I
got
to
swing
for
it,
and
it's
right.
Right,
and
BEST,
too,
I
reckon--hope
so,
anyway.
Well,
we
won't
talk
about
that.
I
don't
want
to
make
YOU
feel
bad;
you've
befriended
me.
But
what
I
want
to
say,
is,
don't
YOU
ever
get
drunk--then
you
won't
ever
get
here.
Stand
a
litter
furder
west--so--that's
it;
it's
a
prime
comfort
to
see
faces
that's
friendly
when
a
body's
in
such
a
muck
of
trouble,
and
there
don't
none
come
here
but
yourn.
Good
friendly
faces--good
friendly
faces.
Git
up
on
one
another's
backs
and
let
me
touch
'em.
That's
it.
Shake
hands--yourn'll
come
through
the
bars,
but
mine's
too
big.
Little
hands,
and
weak--but
they've
helped
Muff
Potter
a
power,
and
they'd
help
him
more
if
they
could."
Tom
went
home
miserable,
and
his
dreams
that
night
were
full
of
horrors.
The
next
day
and
the
day
after,
he
hung
about
the
court-room,
drawn
by
an
almost
irresistible
impulse
to
go
in,
but
forcing
himself
to
stay
out.
Huck
was
having
the
same
experience.
They
studiously
avoided
each
other.
Each
wandered
away,
from
time
to
time,
but
the
same
dismal
fascination
always
brought
them
back
presently.
Tom
kept
his
ears
open
when
idlers
sauntered
out
of
the
court-room,
but
invariably
heard
distressing
news--the
toils
were
closing
more
and
more
relentlessly
around
poor
Potter.
At
the
end
of
the
second
day
the
village
talk
was
to
the
effect
that
Injun
Joe's
evidence
stood
firm
and
unshaken,
and
that
there
was
not
the
slightest
question
as
to
what
the
jury's
verdict
would
be.
Tom
was
out
late,
that
night,
and
came
to
bed
through
the
window.
He
was
in
a
tremendous
state
of
excitement.
It
was
hours
before
he
got
to
sleep.
All
the
village
flocked
to
the
court-house
the
next
morning,
for
this
was
to
be
the
great
day.
Both
sexes
were
about
equally
represented
in
the
packed
audience.
After
a
long
wait
the
jury
filed
in
and
took
their
places;
shortly
afterward,
Potter,
pale
and
haggard,
timid
and
hopeless,
was
brought
in,
with
chains
upon
him,
and
seated
where
all
the
curious
eyes
could
stare
at
him;
no
less
conspicuous
was
Injun
Joe,
stolid
as
ever.
There
was
another
pause,
and
then
the
judge
arrived
and
the
sheriff
proclaimed
the
opening
of
the
court.
The
usual
whisperings
among
the
lawyers
and
gathering
together
of
papers
followed.
These
details
and
accompanying
delays
worked
up
an
atmosphere
of
preparation
that
was
as
impressive
as
it
was
fascinating.
Now
a
witness
was
called
who
testified
that
he
found
Muff
Potter
washing
in
the
brook,
at
an
early
hour
of
the
morning
that
the
murder
was
discovered,
and
that
he
immediately
sneaked
away.
After
some
further
questioning,
counsel
for
the
prosecution
said:
"Take
the
witness."
The
prisoner
raised
his
eyes
for
a
moment,
but
dropped
them
again
when
his
own
counsel
said:
"I
have
no
questions
to
ask
him."
The
next
witness
proved
the
finding
of
the
knife
near
the
corpse.
Counsel
for
the
prosecution
said:
"Take
the
witness."
"I
have
no
questions
to
ask
him,"
Potter's
lawyer
replied.
A
third
witness
swore
he
had
often
seen
the
knife
in
Potter's
possession.
"Take
the
witness."
Counsel
for
Potter
declined
to
question
him.
The
faces
of
the
audience
began
to
betray
annoyance.
Did
this
attorney
mean
to
throw
away
his
client's
life
without
an
effort?
Several
witnesses
deposed
concerning
Potter's
guilty
behavior
when
brought
to
the
scene
of
the
murder.
They
were
allowed
to
leave
the
stand
without
being
cross-questioned.
Every
detail
of
the
damaging
circumstances
that
occurred
in
the
graveyard
upon
that
morning
which
all
present
remembered
so
well
was
brought
out
by
credible
witnesses,
but
none
of
them
were
cross-examined
by
Potter's
lawyer.
The
perplexity
and
dissatisfaction
of
the
house
expressed
itself
in
murmurs
and
provoked
a
reproof
from
the
bench.
Counsel
for
the
prosecution
now
said:
"By
the
oaths
of
citizens
whose
simple
word
is
above
suspicion,
we
have
fastened
this
awful
crime,
beyond
all
possibility
of
question,
upon
the
unhappy
prisoner
at
the
bar.
We
rest
our
case
here."
A
groan
escaped
from
poor
Potter,
and
he
put
his
face
in
his
hands
and
rocked
his
body
softly
to
and
fro,
while
a
painful
silence
reigned
in
the
court-room.
Many
men
were
moved,
and
many
women's
compassion
testified
itself
in
tears.
Counsel
for
the
defence
rose
and
said:
"Your
honor,
in
our
remarks
at
the
opening
of
this
trial,
we
foreshadowed
our
purpose
to
prove
that
our
client
did
this
fearful
deed
while
under
the
influence
of
a
blind
and
irresponsible
delirium
produced
by
drink.
We
have
changed
our
mind.
We
shall
not
offer
that
plea."
[Then
to
the
clerk:]
"Call
Thomas
Sawyer!"
A
puzzled
amazement
awoke
in
every
face
in
the
house,
not
even
excepting
Potter's.
Every
eye
fastened
itself
with
wondering
interest
upon
Tom
as
he
rose
and
took
his
place
upon
the
stand.
The
boy
looked
wild
enough,
for
he
was
badly
scared.
The
oath
was
administered.
"Thomas
Sawyer,
where
were
you
on
the
seventeenth
of
June,
about
the
hour
of
midnight?"
Tom
glanced
at
Injun
Joe's
iron
face
and
his
tongue
failed
him.
The
audience
listened
breathless,
but
the
words
refused
to
come.
After
a
few
moments,
however,
the
boy
got
a
little
of
his
strength
back,
and
managed
to
put
enough
of
it
into
his
voice
to
make
part
of
the
house
hear:
"In
the
graveyard!"
"A
little
bit
louder,
please.
Don't
be
afraid.
You
were--"
"In
the
graveyard."
A
contemptuous
smile
flitted
across
Injun
Joe's
face.
"Were
you
anywhere
near
Horse
Williams'
grave?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Speak
up--just
a
trifle
louder.
How
near
were
you?"
"Near
as
I
am
to
you."
"Were
you
hidden,
or
not?"
"I
was
hid."
"Where?"
"Behind
the
elms
that's
on
the
edge
of
the
grave."
Injun
Joe
gave
a
barely
perceptible
start.
"Any
one
with
you?"
"Yes,
sir.
I
went
there
with--"
"Wait--wait
a
moment.
Never
mind
mentioning
your
companion's
name.
We
will
produce
him
at
the
proper
time.
Did
you
carry
anything
there
with
you."
Tom
hesitated
and
looked
confused.
"Speak
out,
my
boy--don't
be
diffident.
The
truth
is
always
respectable.
What
did
you
take
there?"
"Only
a--a--dead
cat."
There
was
a
ripple
of
mirth,
which
the
court
checked.
"We
will
produce
the
skeleton
of
that
cat.
Now,
my
boy,
tell
us
everything
that
occurred--tell
it
in
your
own
way--don't
skip
anything,
and
don't
be
afraid."
Tom
began--hesitatingly
at
first,
but
as
he
warmed
to
his
subject
his
words
flowed
more
and
more
easily;
in
a
little
while
every
sound
ceased
but
his
own
voice;
every
eye
fixed
itself
upon
him;
with
parted
lips
and
bated
breath
the
audience
hung
upon
his
words,
taking
no
note
of
time,
rapt
in
the
ghastly
fascinations
of
the
tale.
The
strain
upon
pent
emotion
reached
its
climax
when
the
boy
said:
"--and
as
the
doctor
fetched
the
board
around
and
Muff
Potter
fell,
Injun
Joe
jumped
with
the
knife
and--"
Crash!
Quick
as
lightning
the
half-breed
sprang
for
a
window,
tore
his
way
through
all
opposers,
and
was
gone!
CHAPTER
XXIV
TOM
was
a
glittering
hero
once
more--the
pet
of
the
old,
the
envy
of
the
young.
His
name
even
went
into
immortal
print,
for
the
village
paper
magnified
him.
There
were
some
that
believed
he
would
be
President,
yet,
if
he
escaped
hanging.
As
usual,
the
fickle,
unreasoning
world
took
Muff
Potter
to
its
bosom
and
fondled
him
as
lavishly
as
it
had
abused
him
before.
But
that
sort
of
conduct
is
to
the
world's
credit;
therefore
it
is
not
well
to
find
fault
with
it.
Tom's
days
were
days
of
splendor
and
exultation
to
him,
but
his
nights
were
seasons
of
horror.
Injun
Joe
infested
all
his
dreams,
and
always
with
doom
in
his
eye.
Hardly
any
temptation
could
persuade
the
boy
to
stir
abroad
after
nightfall.
Poor
Huck
was
in
the
same
state
of
wretchedness
and
terror,
for
Tom
had
told
the
whole
story
to
the
lawyer
the
night
before
the
great
day
of
the
trial,
and
Huck
was
sore
afraid
that
his
share
in
the
business
might
leak
out,
yet,
notwithstanding
Injun
Joe's
flight
had
saved
him
the
suffering
of
testifying
in
court.
The
poor
fellow
had
got
the
attorney
to
promise
secrecy,
but
what
of
that?
Since
Tom's
harassed
conscience
had
managed
to
drive
him
to
the
lawyer's
house
by
night
and
wring
a
dread
tale
from
lips
that
had
been
sealed
with
the
dismalest
and
most
formidable
of
oaths,
Huck's
confidence
in
the
human
race
was
well-nigh
obliterated.
Daily
Muff
Potter's
gratitude
made
Tom
glad
he
had
spoken;
but
nightly
he
wished
he
had
sealed
up
his
tongue.
Half
the
time
Tom
was
afraid
Injun
Joe
would
never
be
captured;
the
other
half
he
was
afraid
he
would
be.
He
felt
sure
he
never
could
draw
a
safe
breath
again
until
that
man
was
dead
and
he
had
seen
the
corpse.
Rewards
had
been
offered,
the
country
had
been
scoured,
but
no
Injun
Joe
was
found.
One
of
those
omniscient
and
awe-inspiring
marvels,
a
detective,
came
up
from
St.
Louis,
moused
around,
shook
his
head,
looked
wise,
and
made
that
sort
of
astounding
success
which
members
of
that
craft
usually
achieve.
That
is
to
say,
he
"found
a
clew."
But
you
can't
hang
a
"clew"
for
murder,
and
so
after
that
detective
had
got
through
and
gone
home,
Tom
felt
just
as
insecure
as
he
was
before.
The
slow
days
drifted
on,
and
each
left
behind
it
a
slightly
lightened
weight
of
apprehension.
CHAPTER
XXV
THERE
comes
a
time
in
every
rightly-constructed
boy's
life
when
he
has
a
raging
desire
to
go
somewhere
and
dig
for
hidden
treasure.
This
desire
suddenly
came
upon
Tom
one
day.
He
sallied
out
to
find
Joe
Harper,
but
failed
of
success.
Next
he
sought
Ben
Rogers;
he
had
gone
fishing.
Presently
he
stumbled
upon
Huck
Finn
the
Red-Handed.
Huck
would
answer.
Tom
took
him
to
a
private
place
and
opened
the
matter
to
him
confidentially.
Huck
was
willing.
Huck
was
always
willing
to
take
a
hand
in
any
enterprise
that
offered
entertainment
and
required
no
capital,
for
he
had
a
troublesome
superabundance
of
that
sort
of
time
which
is
not
money.
"Where'll
we
dig?"
said
Huck.
"Oh,
most
anywhere."
"Why,
is
it
hid
all
around?"
"No,
indeed
it
ain't.
It's
hid
in
mighty
particular
places,
Huck
--sometimes
on
islands,
sometimes
in
rotten
chests
under
the
end
of
a
limb
of
an
old
dead
tree,
just
where
the
shadow
falls
at
midnight;
but
mostly
under
the
floor
in
ha'nted
houses."
"Who
hides
it?"
"Why,
robbers,
of
course--who'd
you
reckon?
Sunday-school
sup'rintendents?"
"I
don't
know.
If
'twas
mine
I
wouldn't
hide
it;
I'd
spend
it
and
have
a
good
time."
"So
would
I.
But
robbers
don't
do
that
way.
They
always
hide
it
and
leave
it
there."
"Don't
they
come
after
it
any
more?"
"No,
they
think
they
will,
but
they
generally
forget
the
marks,
or
else
they
die.
Anyway,
it
lays
there
a
long
time
and
gets
rusty;
and
by
and
by
somebody
finds
an
old
yellow
paper
that
tells
how
to
find
the
marks--a
paper
that's
got
to
be
ciphered
over
about
a
week
because
it's
mostly
signs
and
hy'roglyphics."
"HyroQwhich?"
"Hy'roglyphics--pictures
and
things,
you
know,
that
don't
seem
to
mean
anything."
"Have
you
got
one
of
them
papers,
Tom?"
"No."
"Well
then,
how
you
going
to
find
the
marks?"
"I
don't
want
any
marks.
They
always
bury
it
under
a
ha'nted
house
or
on
an
island,
or
under
a
dead
tree
that's
got
one
limb
sticking
out.
Well,
we've
tried
Jackson's
Island
a
little,
and
we
can
try
it
again
some
time;
and
there's
the
old
ha'nted
house
up
the
Still-House
branch,
and
there's
lots
of
dead-limb
trees--dead
loads
of
'em."
"Is
it
under
all
of
them?"
"How
you
talk!
No!"
"Then
how
you
going
to
know
which
one
to
go
for?"
"Go
for
all
of
'em!"
"Why,
Tom,
it'll
take
all
summer."
"Well,
what
of
that?
Suppose
you
find
a
brass
pot
with
a
hundred
dollars
in
it,
all
rusty
and
gray,
or
rotten
chest
full
of
di'monds.
How's
that?"
Huck's
eyes
glowed.
"That's
bully.
Plenty
bully
enough
for
me.
Just
you
gimme
the
hundred
dollars
and
I
don't
want
no
di'monds."
"All
right.
But
I
bet
you
I
ain't
going
to
throw
off
on
di'monds.
Some
of
'em's
worth
twenty
dollars
apiece--there
ain't
any,
hardly,
but's
worth
six
bits
or
a
dollar."
"No!
Is
that
so?"
"Cert'nly--anybody'll
tell
you
so.
Hain't
you
ever
seen
one,
Huck?"
"Not
as
I
remember."
"Oh,
kings
have
slathers
of
them."
"Well,
I
don'
know
no
kings,
Tom."
"I
reckon
you
don't.
But
if
you
was
to
go
to
Europe
you'd
see
a
raft
of
'em
hopping
around."
"Do
they
hop?"
"Hop?--your
granny!
No!"
"Well,
what
did
you
say
they
did,
for?"
"Shucks,
I
only
meant
you'd
SEE
'em--not
hopping,
of
course--what
do
they
want
to
hop
for?--but
I
mean
you'd
just
see
'em--scattered
around,
you
know,
in
a
kind
of
a
general
way.
Like
that
old
humpbacked
Richard."
"Richard?
What's
his
other
name?"
"He
didn't
have
any
other
name.
Kings
don't
have
any
but
a
given
name."
"No?"
"But
they
don't."
"Well,
if
they
like
it,
Tom,
all
right;
but
I
don't
want
to
be
a
king
and
have
only
just
a
given
name,
like
a
nigger.
But
say--where
you
going
to
dig
first?"
"Well,
I
don't
know.
S'pose
we
tackle
that
old
dead-limb
tree
on
the
hill
t'other
side
of
Still-House
branch?"
"I'm
agreed."
So
they
got
a
crippled
pick
and
a
shovel,
and
set
out
on
their
three-mile
tramp.
They
arrived
hot
and
panting,
and
threw
themselves
down
in
the
shade
of
a
neighboring
elm
to
rest
and
have
a
smoke.
"I
like
this,"
said
Tom.
"So
do
I."
"Say,
Huck,
if
we
find
a
treasure
here,
what
you
going
to
do
with
your
share?"
"Well,
I'll
have
pie
and
a
glass
of
soda
every
day,
and
I'll
go
to
every
circus
that
comes
along.
I
bet
I'll
have
a
gay
time."
"Well,
ain't
you
going
to
save
any
of
it?"
"Save
it?
What
for?"
"Why,
so
as
to
have
something
to
live
on,
by
and
by."
"Oh,
that
ain't
any
use.
Pap
would
come
back
to
thish-yer
town
some
day
and
get
his
claws
on
it
if
I
didn't
hurry
up,
and
I
tell
you
he'd
clean
it
out
pretty
quick.
What
you
going
to
do
with
yourn,
Tom?"
"I'm
going
to
buy
a
new
drum,
and
a
sure-'nough
sword,
and
a
red
necktie
and
a
bull
pup,
and
get
married."
"Married!"
"That's
it."
"Tom,
you--why,
you
ain't
in
your
right
mind."
"Wait--you'll
see."
"Well,
that's
the
foolishest
thing
you
could
do.
Look
at
pap
and
my
mother.
Fight!
Why,
they
used
to
fight
all
the
time.
I
remember,
mighty
well."
"That
ain't
anything.
The
girl
I'm
going
to
marry
won't
fight."
"Tom,
I
reckon
they're
all
alike.
They'll
all
comb
a
body.
Now
you
better
think
'bout
this
awhile.
I
tell
you
you
better.
What's
the
name
of
the
gal?"
"It
ain't
a
gal
at
all--it's
a
girl."
"It's
all
the
same,
I
reckon;
some
says
gal,
some
says
girl--both's
right,
like
enough.
Anyway,
what's
her
name,
Tom?"
"I'll
tell
you
some
time--not
now."
"All
right--that'll
do.
Only
if
you
get
married
I'll
be
more
lonesomer
than
ever."
"No
you
won't.
You'll
come
and
live
with
me.
Now
stir
out
of
this
and
we'll
go
to
digging."
They
worked
and
sweated
for
half
an
hour.
No
result.
They
toiled
another
half-hour.
Still
no
result.
Huck
said:
"Do
they
always
bury
it
as
deep
as
this?"
"Sometimes--not
always.
Not
generally.
I
reckon
we
haven't
got
the
right
place."
So
they
chose
a
new
spot
and
began
again.
The
labor
dragged
a
little,
but
still
they
made
progress.
They
pegged
away
in
silence
for
some
time.
Finally
Huck
leaned
on
his
shovel,
swabbed
the
beaded
drops
from
his
brow
with
his
sleeve,
and
said:
"Where
you
going
to
dig
next,
after
we
get
this
one?"
"I
reckon
maybe
we'll
tackle
the
old
tree
that's
over
yonder
on
Cardiff
Hill
back
of
the
widow's."
"I
reckon
that'll
be
a
good
one.
But
won't
the
widow
take
it
away
from
us,
Tom?
It's
on
her
land."
"SHE
take
it
away!
Maybe
she'd
like
to
try
it
once.
Whoever
finds
one
of
these
hid
treasures,
it
belongs
to
him.
It
don't
make
any
difference
whose
land
it's
on."
That
was
satisfactory.
The
work
went
on.
By
and
by
Huck
said:
"Blame
it,
we
must
be
in
the
wrong
place
again.
What
do
you
think?"
"It
is
mighty
curious,
Huck.
I
don't
understand
it.
Sometimes
witches
interfere.
I
reckon
maybe
that's
what's
the
trouble
now."
"Shucks!
Witches
ain't
got
no
power
in
the
daytime."
"Well,
that's
so.
I
didn't
think
of
that.
Oh,
I
know
what
the
matter
is!
What
a
blamed
lot
of
fools
we
are!
You
got
to
find
out
where
the
shadow
of
the
limb
falls
at
midnight,
and
that's
where
you
dig!"
"Then
consound
it,
we've
fooled
away
all
this
work
for
nothing.
Now
hang
it
all,
we
got
to
come
back
in
the
night.
It's
an
awful
long
way.
Can
you
get
out?"
"I
bet
I
will.
We've
got
to
do
it
to-night,
too,
because
if
somebody
sees
these
holes
they'll
know
in
a
minute
what's
here
and
they'll
go
for
it."
"Well,
I'll
come
around
and
maow
to-night."
"All
right.
Let's
hide
the
tools
in
the
bushes."
The
boys
were
there
that
night,
about
the
appointed
time.
They
sat
in
the
shadow
waiting.
It
was
a
lonely
place,
and
an
hour
made
solemn
by
old
traditions.
Spirits
whispered
in
the
rustling
leaves,
ghosts
lurked
in
the
murky
nooks,
the
deep
baying
of
a
hound
floated
up
out
of
the
distance,
an
owl
answered
with
his
sepulchral
note.
The
boys
were
subdued
by
these
solemnities,
and
talked
little.
By
and
by
they
judged
that
twelve
had
come;
they
marked
where
the
shadow
fell,
and
began
to
dig.
Their
hopes
commenced
to
rise.
Their
interest
grew
stronger,
and
their
industry
kept
pace
with
it.
The
hole
deepened
and
still
deepened,
but
every
time
their
hearts
jumped
to
hear
the
pick
strike
upon
something,
they
only
suffered
a
new
disappointment.
It
was
only
a
stone
or
a
chunk.
At
last
Tom
said:
"It
ain't
any
use,
Huck,
we're
wrong
again."
"Well,
but
we
CAN'T
be
wrong.
We
spotted
the
shadder
to
a
dot."
"I
know
it,
but
then
there's
another
thing."
"What's
that?".
"Why,
we
only
guessed
at
the
time.
Like
enough
it
was
too
late
or
too
early."
Huck
dropped
his
shovel.
"That's
it,"
said
he.
"That's
the
very
trouble.
We
got
to
give
this
one
up.
We
can't
ever
tell
the
right
time,
and
besides
this
kind
of
thing's
too
awful,
here
this
time
of
night
with
witches
and
ghosts
a-fluttering
around
so.
I
feel
as
if
something's
behind
me
all
the
time;
and
I'm
afeard
to
turn
around,
becuz
maybe
there's
others
in
front
a-waiting
for
a
chance.
I
been
creeping
all
over,
ever
since
I
got
here."
"Well,
I've
been
pretty
much
so,
too,
Huck.
They
most
always
put
in
a
dead
man
when
they
bury
a
treasure
under
a
tree,
to
look
out
for
it."
"Lordy!"
"Yes,
they
do.
I've
always
heard
that."
"Tom,
I
don't
like
to
fool
around
much
where
there's
dead
people.
A
body's
bound
to
get
into
trouble
with
'em,
sure."
"I
don't
like
to
stir
'em
up,
either.
S'pose
this
one
here
was
to
stick
his
skull
out
and
say
something!"
"Don't
Tom!
It's
awful."
"Well,
it
just
is.
Huck,
I
don't
feel
comfortable
a
bit."
"Say,
Tom,
let's
give
this
place
up,
and
try
somewheres
else."
"All
right,
I
reckon
we
better."
"What'll
it
be?"
Tom
considered
awhile;
and
then
said:
"The
ha'nted
house.
That's
it!"
"Blame
it,
I
don't
like
ha'nted
houses,
Tom.
Why,
they're
a
dern
sight
worse'n
dead
people.
Dead
people
might
talk,
maybe,
but
they
don't
come
sliding
around
in
a
shroud,
when
you
ain't
noticing,
and
peep
over
your
shoulder
all
of
a
sudden
and
grit
their
teeth,
the
way
a
ghost
does.
I
couldn't
stand
such
a
thing
as
that,
Tom--nobody
could."
"Yes,
but,
Huck,
ghosts
don't
travel
around
only
at
night.
They
won't
hender
us
from
digging
there
in
the
daytime."
"Well,
that's
so.
But
you
know
mighty
well
people
don't
go
about
that
ha'nted
house
in
the
day
nor
the
night."
"Well,
that's
mostly
because
they
don't
like
to
go
where
a
man's
been
murdered,
anyway--but
nothing's
ever
been
seen
around
that
house
except
in
the
night--just
some
blue
lights
slipping
by
the
windows--no
regular
ghosts."
"Well,
where
you
see
one
of
them
blue
lights
flickering
around,
Tom,
you
can
bet
there's
a
ghost
mighty
close
behind
it.
It
stands
to
reason.
Becuz
you
know
that
they
don't
anybody
but
ghosts
use
'em."
"Yes,
that's
so.
But
anyway
they
don't
come
around
in
the
daytime,
so
what's
the
use
of
our
being
afeard?"
"Well,
all
right.
We'll
tackle
the
ha'nted
house
if
you
say
so--but
I
reckon
it's
taking
chances."
They
had
started
down
the
hill
by
this
time.
There
in
the
middle
of
the
moonlit
valley
below
them
stood
the
"ha'nted"
house,
utterly
isolated,
its
fences
gone
long
ago,
rank
weeds
smothering
the
very
doorsteps,
the
chimney
crumbled
to
ruin,
the
window-sashes
vacant,
a
corner
of
the
roof
caved
in.
The
boys
gazed
awhile,
half
expecting
to
see
a
blue
light
flit
past
a
window;
then
talking
in
a
low
tone,
as
befitted
the
time
and
the
circumstances,
they
struck
far
off
to
the
right,
to
give
the
haunted
house
a
wide
berth,
and
took
their
way
homeward
through
the
woods
that
adorned
the
rearward
side
of
Cardiff
Hill.
CHAPTER
XXVI
ABOUT
noon
the
next
day
the
boys
arrived
at
the
dead
tree;
they
had
come
for
their
tools.
Tom
was
impatient
to
go
to
the
haunted
house;
Huck
was
measurably
so,
also--but
suddenly
said:
"Lookyhere,
Tom,
do
you
know
what
day
it
is?"
Tom
mentally
ran
over
the
days
of
the
week,
and
then
quickly
lifted
his
eyes
with
a
startled
look
in
them--
"My!
I
never
once
thought
of
it,
Huck!"
"Well,
I
didn't
neither,
but
all
at
once
it
popped
onto
me
that
it
was
Friday."
"Blame
it,
a
body
can't
be
too
careful,
Huck.
We
might
'a'
got
into
an
awful
scrape,
tackling
such
a
thing
on
a
Friday."
"MIGHT!
Better
say
we
WOULD!
There's
some
lucky
days,
maybe,
but
Friday
ain't."
"Any
fool
knows
that.
I
don't
reckon
YOU
was
the
first
that
found
it
out,
Huck."
"Well,
I
never
said
I
was,
did
I?
And
Friday
ain't
all,
neither.
I
had
a
rotten
bad
dream
last
night--dreampt
about
rats."
"No!
Sure
sign
of
trouble.
Did
they
fight?"
"No."
"Well,
that's
good,
Huck.
When
they
don't
fight
it's
only
a
sign
that
there's
trouble
around,
you
know.
All
we
got
to
do
is
to
look
mighty
sharp
and
keep
out
of
it.
We'll
drop
this
thing
for
to-day,
and
play.
Do
you
know
Robin
Hood,
Huck?"
"No.
Who's
Robin
Hood?"
"Why,
he
was
one
of
the
greatest
men
that
was
ever
in
England--and
the
best.
He
was
a
robber."
"Cracky,
I
wisht
I
was.
Who
did
he
rob?"
"Only
sheriffs
and
bishops
and
rich
people
and
kings,
and
such
like.
But
he
never
bothered
the
poor.
He
loved
'em.
He
always
divided
up
with
'em
perfectly
square."
"Well,
he
must
'a'
been
a
brick."
"I
bet
you
he
was,
Huck.
Oh,
he
was
the
noblest
man
that
ever
was.
They
ain't
any
such
men
now,
I
can
tell
you.
He
could
lick
any
man
in
England,
with
one
hand
tied
behind
him;
and
he
could
take
his
yew
bow
and
plug
a
ten-cent
piece
every
time,
a
mile
and
a
half."
"What's
a
YEW
bow?"
"I
don't
know.
It's
some
kind
of
a
bow,
of
course.
And
if
he
hit
that
dime
only
on
the
edge
he
would
set
down
and
cry--and
curse.
But
we'll
play
Robin
Hood--it's
nobby
fun.
I'll
learn
you."
"I'm
agreed."
So
they
played
Robin
Hood
all
the
afternoon,
now
and
then
casting
a
yearning
eye
down
upon
the
haunted
house
and
passing
a
remark
about
the
morrow's
prospects
and
possibilities
there.
As
the
sun
began
to
sink
into
the
west
they
took
their
way
homeward
athwart
the
long
shadows
of
the
trees
and
soon
were
buried
from
sight
in
the
forests
of
Cardiff
Hill.
On
Saturday,
shortly
after
noon,
the
boys
were
at
the
dead
tree
again.
They
had
a
smoke
and
a
chat
in
the
shade,
and
then
dug
a
little
in
their
last
hole,
not
with
great
hope,
but
merely
because
Tom
said
there
were
so
many
cases
where
people
had
given
up
a
treasure
after
getting
down
within
six
inches
of
it,
and
then
somebody
else
had
come
along
and
turned
it
up
with
a
single
thrust
of
a
shovel.
The
thing
failed
this
time,
however,
so
the
boys
shouldered
their
tools
and
went
away
feeling
that
they
had
not
trifled
with
fortune,
but
had
fulfilled
all
the
requirements
that
belong
to
the
business
of
treasure-hunting.
When
they
reached
the
haunted
house
there
was
something
so
weird
and
grisly
about
the
dead
silence
that
reigned
there
under
the
baking
sun,
and
something
so
depressing
about
the
loneliness
and
desolation
of
the
place,
that
they
were
afraid,
for
a
moment,
to
venture
in.
Then
they
crept
to
the
door
and
took
a
trembling
peep.
They
saw
a
weed-grown,
floorless
room,
unplastered,
an
ancient
fireplace,
vacant
windows,
a
ruinous
staircase;
and
here,
there,
and
everywhere
hung
ragged
and
abandoned
cobwebs.
They
presently
entered,
softly,
with
quickened
pulses,
talking
in
whispers,
ears
alert
to
catch
the
slightest
sound,
and
muscles
tense
and
ready
for
instant
retreat.
In
a
little
while
familiarity
modified
their
fears
and
they
gave
the
place
a
critical
and
interested
examination,
rather
admiring
their
own
boldness,
and
wondering
at
it,
too.
Next
they
wanted
to
look
up-stairs.
This
was
something
like
cutting
off
retreat,
but
they
got
to
daring
each
other,
and
of
course
there
could
be
but
one
result--they
threw
their
tools
into
a
corner
and
made
the
ascent.
Up
there
were
the
same
signs
of
decay.
In
one
corner
they
found
a
closet
that
promised
mystery,
but
the
promise
was
a
fraud--there
was
nothing
in
it.
Their
courage
was
up
now
and
well
in
hand.
They
were
about
to
go
down
and
begin
work
when--
"Sh!"
said
Tom.
"What
is
it?"
whispered
Huck,
blanching
with
fright.
"Sh!...
There!...
Hear
it?"
"Yes!...
Oh,
my!
Let's
run!"
"Keep
still!
Don't
you
budge!
They're
coming
right
toward
the
door."
The
boys
stretched
themselves
upon
the
floor
with
their
eyes
to
knot-holes
in
the
planking,
and
lay
waiting,
in
a
misery
of
fear.
"They've
stopped....
No--coming....
Here
they
are.
Don't
whisper
another
word,
Huck.
My
goodness,
I
wish
I
was
out
of
this!"
Two
men
entered.
Each
boy
said
to
himself:
"There's
the
old
deaf
and
dumb
Spaniard
that's
been
about
town
once
or
twice
lately--never
saw
t'other
man
before."
"T'other"
was
a
ragged,
unkempt
creature,
with
nothing
very
pleasant
in
his
face.
The
Spaniard
was
wrapped
in
a
serape;
he
had
bushy
white
whiskers;
long
white
hair
flowed
from
under
his
sombrero,
and
he
wore
green
goggles.
When
they
came
in,
"t'other"
was
talking
in
a
low
voice;
they
sat
down
on
the
ground,
facing
the
door,
with
their
backs
to
the
wall,
and
the
speaker
continued
his
remarks.
His
manner
became
less
guarded
and
his
words
more
distinct
as
he
proceeded:
"No,"
said
he,
"I've
thought
it
all
over,
and
I
don't
like
it.
It's
dangerous."
"Dangerous!"
grunted
the
"deaf
and
dumb"
Spaniard--to
the
vast
surprise
of
the
boys.
"Milksop!"
This
voice
made
the
boys
gasp
and
quake.
It
was
Injun
Joe's!
There
was
silence
for
some
time.
Then
Joe
said:
"What's
any
more
dangerous
than
that
job
up
yonder--but
nothing's
come
of
it."
"That's
different.
Away
up
the
river
so,
and
not
another
house
about.
'Twon't
ever
be
known
that
we
tried,
anyway,
long
as
we
didn't
succeed."
"Well,
what's
more
dangerous
than
coming
here
in
the
daytime!--anybody
would
suspicion
us
that
saw
us."
"I
know
that.
But
there
warn't
any
other
place
as
handy
after
that
fool
of
a
job.
I
want
to
quit
this
shanty.
I
wanted
to
yesterday,
only
it
warn't
any
use
trying
to
stir
out
of
here,
with
those
infernal
boys
playing
over
there
on
the
hill
right
in
full
view."
"Those
infernal
boys"
quaked
again
under
the
inspiration
of
this
remark,
and
thought
how
lucky
it
was
that
they
had
remembered
it
was
Friday
and
concluded
to
wait
a
day.
They
wished
in
their
hearts
they
had
waited
a
year.
The
two
men
got
out
some
food
and
made
a
luncheon.
After
a
long
and
thoughtful
silence,
Injun
Joe
said:
"Look
here,
lad--you
go
back
up
the
river
where
you
belong.
Wait
there
till
you
hear
from
me.
I'll
take
the
chances
on
dropping
into
this
town
just
once
more,
for
a
look.
We'll
do
that
'dangerous'
job
after
I've
spied
around
a
little
and
think
things
look
well
for
it.
Then
for
Texas!
We'll
leg
it
together!"
This
was
satisfactory.
Both
men
presently
fell
to
yawning,
and
Injun
Joe
said:
"I'm
dead
for
sleep!
It's
your
turn
to
watch."
He
curled
down
in
the
weeds
and
soon
began
to
snore.
His
comrade
stirred
him
once
or
twice
and
he
became
quiet.
Presently
the
watcher
began
to
nod;
his
head
drooped
lower
and
lower,
both
men
began
to
snore
now.
The
boys
drew
a
long,
grateful
breath.
Tom
whispered:
"Now's
our
chance--come!"
Huck
said:
"I
can't--I'd
die
if
they
was
to
wake."
Tom
urged--Huck
held
back.
At
last
Tom
rose
slowly
and
softly,
and
started
alone.
But
the
first
step
he
made
wrung
such
a
hideous
creak
from
the
crazy
floor
that
he
sank
down
almost
dead
with
fright.
He
never
made
a
second
attempt.
The
boys
lay
there
counting
the
dragging
moments
till
it
seemed
to
them
that
time
must
be
done
and
eternity
growing
gray;
and
then
they
were
grateful
to
note
that
at
last
the
sun
was
setting.
Now
one
snore
ceased.
Injun
Joe
sat
up,
stared
around--smiled
grimly
upon
his
comrade,
whose
head
was
drooping
upon
his
knees--stirred
him
up
with
his
foot
and
said:
"Here!
YOU'RE
a
watchman,
ain't
you!
All
right,
though--nothing's
happened."
"My!
have
I
been
asleep?"
"Oh,
partly,
partly.
Nearly
time
for
us
to
be
moving,
pard.
What'll
we
do
with
what
little
swag
we've
got
left?"
"I
don't
know--leave
it
here
as
we've
always
done,
I
reckon.
No
use
to
take
it
away
till
we
start
south.
Six
hundred
and
fifty
in
silver's
something
to
carry."
"Well--all
right--it
won't
matter
to
come
here
once
more."
"No--but
I'd
say
come
in
the
night
as
we
used
to
do--it's
better."
"Yes:
but
look
here;
it
may
be
a
good
while
before
I
get
the
right
chance
at
that
job;
accidents
might
happen;
'tain't
in
such
a
very
good
place;
we'll
just
regularly
bury
it--and
bury
it
deep."
"Good
idea,"
said
the
comrade,
who
walked
across
the
room,
knelt
down,
raised
one
of
the
rearward
hearth-stones
and
took
out
a
bag
that
jingled
pleasantly.
He
subtracted
from
it
twenty
or
thirty
dollars
for
himself
and
as
much
for
Injun
Joe,
and
passed
the
bag
to
the
latter,
who
was
on
his
knees
in
the
corner,
now,
digging
with
his
bowie-knife.
The
boys
forgot
all
their
fears,
all
their
miseries
in
an
instant.
With
gloating
eyes
they
watched
every
movement.
Luck!--the
splendor
of
it
was
beyond
all
imagination!
Six
hundred
dollars
was
money
enough
to
make
half
a
dozen
boys
rich!
Here
was
treasure-hunting
under
the
happiest
auspices--there
would
not
be
any
bothersome
uncertainty
as
to
where
to
dig.
They
nudged
each
other
every
moment--eloquent
nudges
and
easily
understood,
for
they
simply
meant--"Oh,
but
ain't
you
glad
NOW
we're
here!"
Joe's
knife
struck
upon
something.
"Hello!"
said
he.
"What
is
it?"
said
his
comrade.
"Half-rotten
plank--no,
it's
a
box,
I
believe.
Here--bear
a
hand
and
we'll
see
what
it's
here
for.
Never
mind,
I've
broke
a
hole."
He
reached
his
hand
in
and
drew
it
out--
"Man,
it's
money!"
The
two
men
examined
the
handful
of
coins.
They
were
gold.
The
boys
above
were
as
excited
as
themselves,
and
as
delighted.
Joe's
comrade
said:
"We'll
make
quick
work
of
this.
There's
an
old
rusty
pick
over
amongst
the
weeds
in
the
corner
the
other
side
of
the
fireplace--I
saw
it
a
minute
ago."
He
ran
and
brought
the
boys'
pick
and
shovel.
Injun
Joe
took
the
pick,
looked
it
over
critically,
shook
his
head,
muttered
something
to
himself,
and
then
began
to
use
it.
The
box
was
soon
unearthed.
It
was
not
very
large;
it
was
iron
bound
and
had
been
very
strong
before
the
slow
years
had
injured
it.
The
men
contemplated
the
treasure
awhile
in
blissful
silence.
"Pard,
there's
thousands
of
dollars
here,"
said
Injun
Joe.
"'Twas
always
said
that
Murrel's
gang
used
to
be
around
here
one
summer,"
the
stranger
observed.
"I
know
it,"
said
Injun
Joe;
"and
this
looks
like
it,
I
should
say."
"Now
you
won't
need
to
do
that
job."
The
half-breed
frowned.
Said
he:
"You
don't
know
me.
Least
you
don't
know
all
about
that
thing.
'Tain't
robbery
altogether--it's
REVENGE!"
and
a
wicked
light
flamed
in
his
eyes.
"I'll
need
your
help
in
it.
When
it's
finished--then
Texas.
Go
home
to
your
Nance
and
your
kids,
and
stand
by
till
you
hear
from
me."
"Well--if
you
say
so;
what'll
we
do
with
this--bury
it
again?"
"Yes.
[Ravishing
delight
overhead.]
NO!
by
the
great
Sachem,
no!
[Profound
distress
overhead.]
I'd
nearly
forgot.
That
pick
had
fresh
earth
on
it!
[The
boys
were
sick
with
terror
in
a
moment.]
What
business
has
a
pick
and
a
shovel
here?
What
business
with
fresh
earth
on
them?
Who
brought
them
here--and
where
are
they
gone?
Have
you
heard
anybody?--seen
anybody?
What!
bury
it
again
and
leave
them
to
come
and
see
the
ground
disturbed?
Not
exactly--not
exactly.
We'll
take
it
to
my
den."
"Why,
of
course!
Might
have
thought
of
that
before.
You
mean
Number
One?"
"No--Number
Two--under
the
cross.
The
other
place
is
bad--too
common."
"All
right.
It's
nearly
dark
enough
to
start."
Injun
Joe
got
up
and
went
about
from
window
to
window
cautiously
peeping
out.
Presently
he
said:
"Who
could
have
brought
those
tools
here?
Do
you
reckon
they
can
be
up-stairs?"
The
boys'
breath
forsook
them.
Injun
Joe
put
his
hand
on
his
knife,
halted
a
moment,
undecided,
and
then
turned
toward
the
stairway.
The
boys
thought
of
the
closet,
but
their
strength
was
gone.
The
steps
came
creaking
up
the
stairs--the
intolerable
distress
of
the
situation
woke
the
stricken
resolution
of
the
lads--they
were
about
to
spring
for
the
closet,
when
there
was
a
crash
of
rotten
timbers
and
Injun
Joe
landed
on
the
ground
amid
the
debris
of
the
ruined
stairway.
He
gathered
himself
up
cursing,
and
his
comrade
said:
"Now
what's
the
use
of
all
that?
If
it's
anybody,
and
they're
up
there,
let
them
STAY
there--who
cares?
If
they
want
to
jump
down,
now,
and
get
into
trouble,
who
objects?
It
will
be
dark
in
fifteen
minutes
--and
then
let
them
follow
us
if
they
want
to.
I'm
willing.
In
my
opinion,
whoever
hove
those
things
in
here
caught
a
sight
of
us
and
took
us
for
ghosts
or
devils
or
something.
I'll
bet
they're
running
yet."
Joe
grumbled
awhile;
then
he
agreed
with
his
friend
that
what
daylight
was
left
ought
to
be
economized
in
getting
things
ready
for
leaving.
Shortly
afterward
they
slipped
out
of
the
house
in
the
deepening
twilight,
and
moved
toward
the
river
with
their
precious
box.
Tom
and
Huck
rose
up,
weak
but
vastly
relieved,
and
stared
after
them
through
the
chinks
between
the
logs
of
the
house.
Follow?
Not
they.
They
were
content
to
reach
ground
again
without
broken
necks,
and
take
the
townward
track
over
the
hill.
They
did
not
talk
much.
They
were
too
much
absorbed
in
hating
themselves--hating
the
ill
luck
that
made
them
take
the
spade
and
the
pick
there.
But
for
that,
Injun
Joe
never
would
have
suspected.
He
would
have
hidden
the
silver
with
the
gold
to
wait
there
till
his
"revenge"
was
satisfied,
and
then
he
would
have
had
the
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
XXVII
THE
adventure
of
the
day
mightily
tormented
Tom's
dreams
that
night.
Four
times
he
had
his
hands
on
that
rich
treasure
and
four
times
it
wasted
to
nothingness
in
his
fingers
as
sleep
forsook
him
and
wakefulness
brought
back
the
hard
reality
of
his
misfortune.
As
he
lay
in
the
early
morning
recalling
the
incidents
of
his
great
adventure,
he
noticed
that
they
seemed
curiously
subdued
and
far
away--somewhat
as
if
they
had
happened
in
another
world,
or
in
a
time
long
gone
by.
Then
it
occurred
to
him
that
the
great
adventure
itself
must
be
a
dream!
There
was
one
very
strong
argument
in
favor
of
this
idea--namely,
that
the
quantity
of
coin
he
had
seen
was
too
vast
to
be
real.
He
had
never
seen
as
much
as
fifty
dollars
in
one
mass
before,
and
he
was
like
all
boys
of
his
age
and
station
in
life,
in
that
he
imagined
that
all
references
to
"hundreds"
and
"thousands"
were
mere
fanciful
forms
of
speech,
and
that
no
such
sums
really
existed
in
the
world.
He
never
had
supposed
for
a
moment
that
so
large
a
sum
as
a
hundred
dollars
was
to
be
found
in
actual
money
in
any
one's
possession.
If
his
notions
of
hidden
treasure
had
been
analyzed,
they
would
have
been
found
to
consist
of
a
handful
of
real
dimes
and
a
bushel
of
vague,
splendid,
ungraspable
dollars.
But
the
incidents
of
his
adventure
grew
sensibly
sharper
and
clearer
under
the
attrition
of
thinking
them
over,
and
so
he
presently
found
himself
leaning
to
the
impression
that
the
thing
might
not
have
been
a
dream,
after
all.
This
uncertainty
must
be
swept
away.
He
would
snatch
a
hurried
breakfast
and
go
and
find
Huck.
Huck
was
sitting
on
the
gunwale
of
a
flatboat,
listlessly
dangling
his
feet
in
the
water
and
looking
very
melancholy.
Tom
concluded
to
let
Huck
lead
up
to
the
subject.
If
he
did
not
do
it,
then
the
adventure
would
be
proved
to
have
been
only
a
dream.
"Hello,
Huck!"
"Hello,
yourself."
Silence,
for
a
minute.
"Tom,
if
we'd
'a'
left
the
blame
tools
at
the
dead
tree,
we'd
'a'
got
the
money.
Oh,
ain't
it
awful!"
"'Tain't
a
dream,
then,
'tain't
a
dream!
Somehow
I
most
wish
it
was.
Dog'd
if
I
don't,
Huck."
"What
ain't
a
dream?"
"Oh,
that
thing
yesterday.
I
been
half
thinking
it
was."
"Dream!
If
them
stairs
hadn't
broke
down
you'd
'a'
seen
how
much
dream
it
was!
I've
had
dreams
enough
all
night--with
that
patch-eyed
Spanish
devil
going
for
me
all
through
'em--rot
him!"
"No,
not
rot
him.
FIND
him!
Track
the
money!"
"Tom,
we'll
never
find
him.
A
feller
don't
have
only
one
chance
for
such
a
pile--and
that
one's
lost.
I'd
feel
mighty
shaky
if
I
was
to
see
him,
anyway."
"Well,
so'd
I;
but
I'd
like
to
see
him,
anyway--and
track
him
out--to
his
Number
Two."
"Number
Two--yes,
that's
it.
I
been
thinking
'bout
that.
But
I
can't
make
nothing
out
of
it.
What
do
you
reckon
it
is?"
"I
dono.
It's
too
deep.
Say,
Huck--maybe
it's
the
number
of
a
house!"
"Goody!...
No,
Tom,
that
ain't
it.
If
it
is,
it
ain't
in
this
one-horse
town.
They
ain't
no
numbers
here."
"Well,
that's
so.
Lemme
think
a
minute.
Here--it's
the
number
of
a
room--in
a
tavern,
you
know!"
"Oh,
that's
the
trick!
They
ain't
only
two
taverns.
We
can
find
out
quick."
"You
stay
here,
Huck,
till
I
come."
Tom
was
off
at
once.
He
did
not
care
to
have
Huck's
company
in
public
places.
He
was
gone
half
an
hour.
He
found
that
in
the
best
tavern,
No.
2
had
long
been
occupied
by
a
young
lawyer,
and
was
still
so
occupied.
In
the
less
ostentatious
house,
No.
2
was
a
mystery.
The
tavern-keeper's
young
son
said
it
was
kept
locked
all
the
time,
and
he
never
saw
anybody
go
into
it
or
come
out
of
it
except
at
night;
he
did
not
know
any
particular
reason
for
this
state
of
things;
had
had
some
little
curiosity,
but
it
was
rather
feeble;
had
made
the
most
of
the
mystery
by
entertaining
himself
with
the
idea
that
that
room
was
"ha'nted";
had
noticed
that
there
was
a
light
in
there
the
night
before.
"That's
what
I've
found
out,
Huck.
I
reckon
that's
the
very
No.
2
we're
after."
"I
reckon
it
is,
Tom.
Now
what
you
going
to
do?"
"Lemme
think."
Tom
thought
a
long
time.
Then
he
said:
"I'll
tell
you.
The
back
door
of
that
No.
2
is
the
door
that
comes
out
into
that
little
close
alley
between
the
tavern
and
the
old
rattle
trap
of
a
brick
store.
Now
you
get
hold
of
all
the
door-keys
you
can
find,
and
I'll
nip
all
of
auntie's,
and
the
first
dark
night
we'll
go
there
and
try
'em.
And
mind
you,
keep
a
lookout
for
Injun
Joe,
because
he
said
he
was
going
to
drop
into
town
and
spy
around
once
more
for
a
chance
to
get
his
revenge.
If
you
see
him,
you
just
follow
him;
and
if
he
don't
go
to
that
No.
2,
that
ain't
the
place."
"Lordy,
I
don't
want
to
foller
him
by
myself!"
"Why,
it'll
be
night,
sure.
He
mightn't
ever
see
you--and
if
he
did,
maybe
he'd
never
think
anything."
"Well,
if
it's
pretty
dark
I
reckon
I'll
track
him.
I
dono--I
dono.
I'll
try."
"You
bet
I'll
follow
him,
if
it's
dark,
Huck.
Why,
he
might
'a'
found
out
he
couldn't
get
his
revenge,
and
be
going
right
after
that
money."
"It's
so,
Tom,
it's
so.
I'll
foller
him;
I
will,
by
jingoes!"
"Now
you're
TALKING!
Don't
you
ever
weaken,
Huck,
and
I
won't."
CHAPTER
XXVIII
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
XXIX
THE
first
thing
Tom
heard
on
Friday
morning
was
a
glad
piece
of
news
--Judge
Thatcher's
family
had
come
back
to
town
the
night
before.
Both
Injun
Joe
and
the
treasure
sunk
into
secondary
importance
for
a
moment,
and
Becky
took
the
chief
place
in
the
boy's
interest.
He
saw
her
and
they
had
an
exhausting
good
time
playing
"hi-spy"
and
"gully-keeper"
with
a
crowd
of
their
school-mates.
The
day
was
completed
and
crowned
in
a
peculiarly
satisfactory
way:
Becky
teased
her
mother
to
appoint
the
next
day
for
the
long-promised
and
long-delayed
picnic,
and
she
consented.
The
child's
delight
was
boundless;
and
Tom's
not
more
moderate.
The
invitations
were
sent
out
before
sunset,
and
straightway
the
young
folks
of
the
village
were
thrown
into
a
fever
of
preparation
and
pleasurable
anticipation.
Tom's
excitement
enabled
him
to
keep
awake
until
a
pretty
late
hour,
and
he
had
good
hopes
of
hearing
Huck's
"maow,"
and
of
having
his
treasure
to
astonish
Becky
and
the
picnickers
with,
next
day;
but
he
was
disappointed.
No
signal
came
that
night.
Morning
came,
eventually,
and
by
ten
or
eleven
o'clock
a
giddy
and
rollicking
company
were
gathered
at
Judge
Thatcher's,
and
everything
was
ready
for
a
start.
It
was
not
the
custom
for
elderly
people
to
mar
the
picnics
with
their
presence.
The
children
were
considered
safe
enough
under
the
wings
of
a
few
young
ladies
of
eighteen
and
a
few
young
gentlemen
of
twenty-three
or
thereabouts.
The
old
steam
ferryboat
was
chartered
for
the
occasion;
presently
the
gay
throng
filed
up
the
main
street
laden
with
provision-baskets.
Sid
was
sick
and
had
to
miss
the
fun;
Mary
remained
at
home
to
entertain
him.
The
last
thing
Mrs.
Thatcher
said
to
Becky,
was:
"You'll
not
get
back
till
late.
Perhaps
you'd
better
stay
all
night
with
some
of
the
girls
that
live
near
the
ferry-landing,
child."
"Then
I'll
stay
with
Susy
Harper,
mamma."
"Very
well.
And
mind
and
behave
yourself
and
don't
be
any
trouble."
Presently,
as
they
tripped
along,
Tom
said
to
Becky:
"Say--I'll
tell
you
what
we'll
do.
'Stead
of
going
to
Joe
Harper's
we'll
climb
right
up
the
hill
and
stop
at
the
Widow
Douglas'.
She'll
have
ice-cream!
She
has
it
most
every
day--dead
loads
of
it.
And
she'll
be
awful
glad
to
have
us."
"Oh,
that
will
be
fun!"
Then
Becky
reflected
a
moment
and
said:
"But
what
will
mamma
say?"
"How'll
she
ever
know?"
The
girl
turned
the
idea
over
in
her
mind,
and
said
reluctantly:
"I
reckon
it's
wrong--but--"
"But
shucks!
Your
mother
won't
know,
and
so
what's
the
harm?
All
she
wants
is
that
you'll
be
safe;
and
I
bet
you
she'd
'a'
said
go
there
if
she'd
'a'
thought
of
it.
I
know
she
would!"
The
Widow
Douglas'
splendid
hospitality
was
a
tempting
bait.
It
and
Tom's
persuasions
presently
carried
the
day.
So
it
was
decided
to
say
nothing
anybody
about
the
night's
programme.
Presently
it
occurred
to
Tom
that
maybe
Huck
might
come
this
very
night
and
give
the
signal.
The
thought
took
a
deal
of
the
spirit
out
of
his
anticipations.
Still
he
could
not
bear
to
give
up
the
fun
at
Widow
Douglas'.
And
why
should
he
give
it
up,
he
reasoned--the
signal
did
not
come
the
night
before,
so
why
should
it
be
any
more
likely
to
come
to-night?
The
sure
fun
of
the
evening
outweighed
the
uncertain
treasure;
and,
boy-like,
he
determined
to
yield
to
the
stronger
inclination
and
not
allow
himself
to
think
of
the
box
of
money
another
time
that
day.
Three
miles
below
town
the
ferryboat
stopped
at
the
mouth
of
a
woody
hollow
and
tied
up.
The
crowd
swarmed
ashore
and
soon
the
forest
distances
and
craggy
heights
echoed
far
and
near
with
shoutings
and
laughter.
All
the
different
ways
of
getting
hot
and
tired
were
gone
through
with,
and
by-and-by
the
rovers
straggled
back
to
camp
fortified
with
responsible
appetites,
and
then
the
destruction
of
the
good
things
began.
After
the
feast
there
was
a
refreshing
season
of
rest
and
chat
in
the
shade
of
spreading
oaks.
By-and-by
somebody
shouted:
"Who's
ready
for
the
cave?"
Everybody
was.
Bundles
of
candles
were
procured,
and
straightway
there
was
a
general
scamper
up
the
hill.
The
mouth
of
the
cave
was
up
the
hillside--an
opening
shaped
like
a
letter
A.
Its
massive
oaken
door
stood
unbarred.
Within
was
a
small
chamber,
chilly
as
an
ice-house,
and
walled
by
Nature
with
solid
limestone
that
was
dewy
with
a
cold
sweat.
It
was
romantic
and
mysterious
to
stand
here
in
the
deep
gloom
and
look
out
upon
the
green
valley
shining
in
the
sun.
But
the
impressiveness
of
the
situation
quickly
wore
off,
and
the
romping
began
again.
The
moment
a
candle
was
lighted
there
was
a
general
rush
upon
the
owner
of
it;
a
struggle
and
a
gallant
defence
followed,
but
the
candle
was
soon
knocked
down
or
blown
out,
and
then
there
was
a
glad
clamor
of
laughter
and
a
new
chase.
But
all
things
have
an
end.
By-and-by
the
procession
went
filing
down
the
steep
descent
of
the
main
avenue,
the
flickering
rank
of
lights
dimly
revealing
the
lofty
walls
of
rock
almost
to
their
point
of
junction
sixty
feet
overhead.
This
main
avenue
was
not
more
than
eight
or
ten
feet
wide.
Every
few
steps
other
lofty
and
still
narrower
crevices
branched
from
it
on
either
hand--for
McDougal's
cave
was
but
a
vast
labyrinth
of
crooked
aisles
that
ran
into
each
other
and
out
again
and
led
nowhere.
It
was
said
that
one
might
wander
days
and
nights
together
through
its
intricate
tangle
of
rifts
and
chasms,
and
never
find
the
end
of
the
cave;
and
that
he
might
go
down,
and
down,
and
still
down,
into
the
earth,
and
it
was
just
the
same--labyrinth
under
labyrinth,
and
no
end
to
any
of
them.
No
man
"knew"
the
cave.
That
was
an
impossible
thing.
Most
of
the
young
men
knew
a
portion
of
it,
and
it
was
not
customary
to
venture
much
beyond
this
known
portion.
Tom
Sawyer
knew
as
much
of
the
cave
as
any
one.
The
procession
moved
along
the
main
avenue
some
three-quarters
of
a
mile,
and
then
groups
and
couples
began
to
slip
aside
into
branch
avenues,
fly
along
the
dismal
corridors,
and
take
each
other
by
surprise
at
points
where
the
corridors
joined
again.
Parties
were
able
to
elude
each
other
for
the
space
of
half
an
hour
without
going
beyond
the
"known"
ground.
By-and-by,
one
group
after
another
came
straggling
back
to
the
mouth
of
the
cave,
panting,
hilarious,
smeared
from
head
to
foot
with
tallow
drippings,
daubed
with
clay,
and
entirely
delighted
with
the
success
of
the
day.
Then
they
were
astonished
to
find
that
they
had
been
taking
no
note
of
time
and
that
night
was
about
at
hand.
The
clanging
bell
had
been
calling
for
half
an
hour.
However,
this
sort
of
close
to
the
day's
adventures
was
romantic
and
therefore
satisfactory.
When
the
ferryboat
with
her
wild
freight
pushed
into
the
stream,
nobody
cared
sixpence
for
the
wasted
time
but
the
captain
of
the
craft.
Huck
was
already
upon
his
watch
when
the
ferryboat's
lights
went
glinting
past
the
wharf.
He
heard
no
noise
on
board,
for
the
young
people
were
as
subdued
and
still
as
people
usually
are
who
are
nearly
tired
to
death.
He
wondered
what
boat
it
was,
and
why
she
did
not
stop
at
the
wharf--and
then
he
dropped
her
out
of
his
mind
and
put
his
attention
upon
his
business.
The
night
was
growing
cloudy
and
dark.
Ten
o'clock
came,
and
the
noise
of
vehicles
ceased,
scattered
lights
began
to
wink
out,
all
straggling
foot-passengers
disappeared,
the
village
betook
itself
to
its
slumbers
and
left
the
small
watcher
alone
with
the
silence
and
the
ghosts.
Eleven
o'clock
came,
and
the
tavern
lights
were
put
out;
darkness
everywhere,
now.
Huck
waited
what
seemed
a
weary
long
time,
but
nothing
happened.
His
faith
was
weakening.
Was
there
any
use?
Was
there
really
any
use?
Why
not
give
it
up
and
turn
in?
A
noise
fell
upon
his
ear.
He
was
all
attention
in
an
instant.
The
alley
door
closed
softly.
He
sprang
to
the
corner
of
the
brick
store.
The
next
moment
two
men
brushed
by
him,
and
one
seemed
to
have
something
under
his
arm.
It
must
be
that
box!
So
they
were
going
to
remove
the
treasure.
Why
call
Tom
now?
It
would
be
absurd--the
men
would
get
away
with
the
box
and
never
be
found
again.
No,
he
would
stick
to
their
wake
and
follow
them;
he
would
trust
to
the
darkness
for
security
from
discovery.
So
communing
with
himself,
Huck
stepped
out
and
glided
along
behind
the
men,
cat-like,
with
bare
feet,
allowing
them
to
keep
just
far
enough
ahead
not
to
be
invisible.
They
moved
up
the
river
street
three
blocks,
then
turned
to
the
left
up
a
cross-street.
They
went
straight
ahead,
then,
until
they
came
to
the
path
that
led
up
Cardiff
Hill;
this
they
took.
They
passed
by
the
old
Welshman's
house,
half-way
up
the
hill,
without
hesitating,
and
still
climbed
upward.
Good,
thought
Huck,
they
will
bury
it
in
the
old
quarry.
But
they
never
stopped
at
the
quarry.
They
passed
on,
up
the
summit.
They
plunged
into
the
narrow
path
between
the
tall
sumach
bushes,
and
were
at
once
hidden
in
the
gloom.
Huck
closed
up
and
shortened
his
distance,
now,
for
they
would
never
be
able
to
see
him.
He
trotted
along
awhile;
then
slackened
his
pace,
fearing
he
was
gaining
too
fast;
moved
on
a
piece,
then
stopped
altogether;
listened;
no
sound;
none,
save
that
he
seemed
to
hear
the
beating
of
his
own
heart.
The
hooting
of
an
owl
came
over
the
hill--ominous
sound!
But
no
footsteps.
Heavens,
was
everything
lost!
He
was
about
to
spring
with
winged
feet,
when
a
man
cleared
his
throat
not
four
feet
from
him!
Huck's
heart
shot
into
his
throat,
but
he
swallowed
it
again;
and
then
he
stood
there
shaking
as
if
a
dozen
agues
had
taken
charge
of
him
at
once,
and
so
weak
that
he
thought
he
must
surely
fall
to
the
ground.
He
knew
where
he
was.
He
knew
he
was
within
five
steps
of
the
stile
leading
into
Widow
Douglas'
grounds.
Very
well,
he
thought,
let
them
bury
it
there;
it
won't
be
hard
to
find.
Now
there
was
a
voice--a
very
low
voice--Injun
Joe's:
"Damn
her,
maybe
she's
got
company--there's
lights,
late
as
it
is."
"I
can't
see
any."
This
was
that
stranger's
voice--the
stranger
of
the
haunted
house.
A
deadly
chill
went
to
Huck's
heart--this,
then,
was
the
"revenge"
job!
His
thought
was,
to
fly.
Then
he
remembered
that
the
Widow
Douglas
had
been
kind
to
him
more
than
once,
and
maybe
these
men
were
going
to
murder
her.
He
wished
he
dared
venture
to
warn
her;
but
he
knew
he
didn't
dare--they
might
come
and
catch
him.
He
thought
all
this
and
more
in
the
moment
that
elapsed
between
the
stranger's
remark
and
Injun
Joe's
next--which
was--
"Because
the
bush
is
in
your
way.
Now--this
way--now
you
see,
don't
you?"
"Yes.
Well,
there
IS
company
there,
I
reckon.
Better
give
it
up."
"Give
it
up,
and
I
just
leaving
this
country
forever!
Give
it
up
and
maybe
never
have
another
chance.
I
tell
you
again,
as
I've
told
you
before,
I
don't
care
for
her
swag--you
may
have
it.
But
her
husband
was
rough
on
me--many
times
he
was
rough
on
me--and
mainly
he
was
the
justice
of
the
peace
that
jugged
me
for
a
vagrant.
And
that
ain't
all.
It
ain't
a
millionth
part
of
it!
He
had
me
HORSEWHIPPED!--horsewhipped
in
front
of
the
jail,
like
a
nigger!--with
all
the
town
looking
on!
HORSEWHIPPED!--do
you
understand?
He
took
advantage
of
me
and
died.
But
I'll
take
it
out
of
HER."
"Oh,
don't
kill
her!
Don't
do
that!"
"Kill?
Who
said
anything
about
killing?
I
would
kill
HIM
if
he
was
here;
but
not
her.
When
you
want
to
get
revenge
on
a
woman
you
don't
kill
her--bosh!
you
go
for
her
looks.
You
slit
her
nostrils--you
notch
her
ears
like
a
sow!"
"By
God,
that's--"
"Keep
your
opinion
to
yourself!
It
will
be
safest
for
you.
I'll
tie
her
to
the
bed.
If
she
bleeds
to
death,
is
that
my
fault?
I'll
not
cry,
if
she
does.
My
friend,
you'll
help
me
in
this
thing--for
MY
sake
--that's
why
you're
here--I
mightn't
be
able
alone.
If
you
flinch,
I'll
kill
you.
Do
you
understand
that?
And
if
I
have
to
kill
you,
I'll
kill
her--and
then
I
reckon
nobody'll
ever
know
much
about
who
done
this
business."
"Well,
if
it's
got
to
be
done,
let's
get
at
it.
The
quicker
the
better--I'm
all
in
a
shiver."
"Do
it
NOW?
And
company
there?
Look
here--I'll
get
suspicious
of
you,
first
thing
you
know.
No--we'll
wait
till
the
lights
are
out--there's
no
hurry."
Huck
felt
that
a
silence
was
going
to
ensue--a
thing
still
more
awful
than
any
amount
of
murderous
talk;
so
he
held
his
breath
and
stepped
gingerly
back;
planted
his
foot
carefully
and
firmly,
after
balancing,
one-legged,
in
a
precarious
way
and
almost
toppling
over,
first
on
one
side
and
then
on
the
other.
He
took
another
step
back,
with
the
same
elaboration
and
the
same
risks;
then
another
and
another,
and--a
twig
snapped
under
his
foot!
His
breath
stopped
and
he
listened.
There
was
no
sound--the
stillness
was
perfect.
His
gratitude
was
measureless.
Now
he
turned
in
his
tracks,
between
the
walls
of
sumach
bushes--turned
himself
as
carefully
as
if
he
were
a
ship--and
then
stepped
quickly
but
cautiously
along.
When
he
emerged
at
the
quarry
he
felt
secure,
and
so
he
picked
up
his
nimble
heels
and
flew.
Down,
down
he
sped,
till
he
reached
the
Welshman's.
He
banged
at
the
door,
and
presently
the
heads
of
the
old
man
and
his
two
stalwart
sons
were
thrust
from
windows.
"What's
the
row
there?
Who's
banging?
What
do
you
want?"
"Let
me
in--quick!
I'll
tell
everything."
"Why,
who
are
you?"
"Huckleberry
Finn--quick,
let
me
in!"
"Huckleberry
Finn,
indeed!
It
ain't
a
name
to
open
many
doors,
I
judge!
But
let
him
in,
lads,
and
let's
see
what's
the
trouble."
"Please
don't
ever
tell
I
told
you,"
were
Huck's
first
words
when
he
got
in.
"Please
don't--I'd
be
killed,
sure--but
the
widow's
been
good
friends
to
me
sometimes,
and
I
want
to
tell--I
WILL
tell
if
you'll
promise
you
won't
ever
say
it
was
me."
"By
George,
he
HAS
got
something
to
tell,
or
he
wouldn't
act
so!"
exclaimed
the
old
man;
"out
with
it
and
nobody
here'll
ever
tell,
lad."
Three
minutes
later
the
old
man
and
his
sons,
well
armed,
were
up
the
hill,
and
just
entering
the
sumach
path
on
tiptoe,
their
weapons
in
their
hands.
Huck
accompanied
them
no
further.
He
hid
behind
a
great
bowlder
and
fell
to
listening.
There
was
a
lagging,
anxious
silence,
and
then
all
of
a
sudden
there
was
an
explosion
of
firearms
and
a
cry.
Huck
waited
for
no
particulars.
He
sprang
away
and
sped
down
the
hill
as
fast
as
his
legs
could
carry
him.
CHAPTER
XXX
AS
the
earliest
suspicion
of
dawn
appeared
on
Sunday
morning,
Huck
came
groping
up
the
hill
and
rapped
gently
at
the
old
Welshman's
door.
The
inmates
were
asleep,
but
it
was
a
sleep
that
was
set
on
a
hair-trigger,
on
account
of
the
exciting
episode
of
the
night.
A
call
came
from
a
window:
"Who's
there!"
Huck's
scared
voice
answered
in
a
low
tone:
"Please
let
me
in!
It's
only
Huck
Finn!"
"It's
a
name
that
can
open
this
door
night
or
day,
lad!--and
welcome!"
These
were
strange
words
to
the
vagabond
boy's
ears,
and
the
pleasantest
he
had
ever
heard.
He
could
not
recollect
that
the
closing
word
had
ever
been
applied
in
his
case
before.
The
door
was
quickly
unlocked,
and
he
entered.
Huck
was
given
a
seat
and
the
old
man
and
his
brace
of
tall
sons
speedily
dressed
themselves.
"Now,
my
boy,
I
hope
you're
good
and
hungry,
because
breakfast
will
be
ready
as
soon
as
the
sun's
up,
and
we'll
have
a
piping
hot
one,
too
--make
yourself
easy
about
that!
I
and
the
boys
hoped
you'd
turn
up
and
stop
here
last
night."
"I
was
awful
scared,"
said
Huck,
"and
I
run.
I
took
out
when
the
pistols
went
off,
and
I
didn't
stop
for
three
mile.
I've
come
now
becuz
I
wanted
to
know
about
it,
you
know;
and
I
come
before
daylight
becuz
I
didn't
want
to
run
across
them
devils,
even
if
they
was
dead."
"Well,
poor
chap,
you
do
look
as
if
you'd
had
a
hard
night
of
it--but
there's
a
bed
here
for
you
when
you've
had
your
breakfast.
No,
they
ain't
dead,
lad--we
are
sorry
enough
for
that.
You
see
we
knew
right
where
to
put
our
hands
on
them,
by
your
description;
so
we
crept
along
on
tiptoe
till
we
got
within
fifteen
feet
of
them--dark
as
a
cellar
that
sumach
path
was--and
just
then
I
found
I
was
going
to
sneeze.
It
was
the
meanest
kind
of
luck!
I
tried
to
keep
it
back,
but
no
use
--'twas
bound
to
come,
and
it
did
come!
I
was
in
the
lead
with
my
pistol
raised,
and
when
the
sneeze
started
those
scoundrels
a-rustling
to
get
out
of
the
path,
I
sung
out,
'Fire
boys!'
and
blazed
away
at
the
place
where
the
rustling
was.
So
did
the
boys.
But
they
were
off
in
a
jiffy,
those
villains,
and
we
after
them,
down
through
the
woods.
I
judge
we
never
touched
them.
They
fired
a
shot
apiece
as
they
started,
but
their
bullets
whizzed
by
and
didn't
do
us
any
harm.
As
soon
as
we
lost
the
sound
of
their
feet
we
quit
chasing,
and
went
down
and
stirred
up
the
constables.
They
got
a
posse
together,
and
went
off
to
guard
the
river
bank,
and
as
soon
as
it
is
light
the
sheriff
and
a
gang
are
going
to
beat
up
the
woods.
My
boys
will
be
with
them
presently.
I
wish
we
had
some
sort
of
description
of
those
rascals--'twould
help
a
good
deal.
But
you
couldn't
see
what
they
were
like,
in
the
dark,
lad,
I
suppose?"
"Oh
yes;
I
saw
them
down-town
and
follered
them."
"Splendid!
Describe
them--describe
them,
my
boy!"
"One's
the
old
deaf
and
dumb
Spaniard
that's
ben
around
here
once
or
twice,
and
t'other's
a
mean-looking,
ragged--"
"That's
enough,
lad,
we
know
the
men!
Happened
on
them
in
the
woods
back
of
the
widow's
one
day,
and
they
slunk
away.
Off
with
you,
boys,
and
tell
the
sheriff--get
your
breakfast
to-morrow
morning!"
The
Welshman's
sons
departed
at
once.
As
they
were
leaving
the
room
Huck
sprang
up
and
exclaimed:
"Oh,
please
don't
tell
ANYbody
it
was
me
that
blowed
on
them!
Oh,
please!"
"All
right
if
you
say
it,
Huck,
but
you
ought
to
have
the
credit
of
what
you
did."
"Oh
no,
no!
Please
don't
tell!"
When
the
young
men
were
gone,
the
old
Welshman
said:
"They
won't
tell--and
I
won't.
But
why
don't
you
want
it
known?"
Huck
would
not
explain,
further
than
to
say
that
he
already
knew
too
much
about
one
of
those
men
and
would
not
have
the
man
know
that
he
knew
anything
against
him
for
the
whole
world--he
would
be
killed
for
knowing
it,
sure.
The
old
man
promised
secrecy
once
more,
and
said:
"How
did
you
come
to
follow
these
fellows,
lad?
Were
they
looking
suspicious?"
Huck
was
silent
while
he
framed
a
duly
cautious
reply.
Then
he
said:
"Well,
you
see,
I'm
a
kind
of
a
hard
lot,--least
everybody
says
so,
and
I
don't
see
nothing
agin
it--and
sometimes
I
can't
sleep
much,
on
account
of
thinking
about
it
and
sort
of
trying
to
strike
out
a
new
way
of
doing.
That
was
the
way
of
it
last
night.
I
couldn't
sleep,
and
so
I
come
along
up-street
'bout
midnight,
a-turning
it
all
over,
and
when
I
got
to
that
old
shackly
brick
store
by
the
Temperance
Tavern,
I
backed
up
agin
the
wall
to
have
another
think.
Well,
just
then
along
comes
these
two
chaps
slipping
along
close
by
me,
with
something
under
their
arm,
and
I
reckoned
they'd
stole
it.
One
was
a-smoking,
and
t'other
one
wanted
a
light;
so
they
stopped
right
before
me
and
the
cigars
lit
up
their
faces
and
I
see
that
the
big
one
was
the
deaf
and
dumb
Spaniard,
by
his
white
whiskers
and
the
patch
on
his
eye,
and
t'other
one
was
a
rusty,
ragged-looking
devil."
"Could
you
see
the
rags
by
the
light
of
the
cigars?"
This
staggered
Huck
for
a
moment.
Then
he
said:
"Well,
I
don't
know--but
somehow
it
seems
as
if
I
did."
"Then
they
went
on,
and
you--"
"Follered
'em--yes.
That
was
it.
I
wanted
to
see
what
was
up--they
sneaked
along
so.
I
dogged
'em
to
the
widder's
stile,
and
stood
in
the
dark
and
heard
the
ragged
one
beg
for
the
widder,
and
the
Spaniard
swear
he'd
spile
her
looks
just
as
I
told
you
and
your
two--"
"What!
The
DEAF
AND
DUMB
man
said
all
that!"
Huck
had
made
another
terrible
mistake!
He
was
trying
his
best
to
keep
the
old
man
from
getting
the
faintest
hint
of
who
the
Spaniard
might
be,
and
yet
his
tongue
seemed
determined
to
get
him
into
trouble
in
spite
of
all
he
could
do.
He
made
several
efforts
to
creep
out
of
his
scrape,
but
the
old
man's
eye
was
upon
him
and
he
made
blunder
after
blunder.
Presently
the
Welshman
said:
"My
boy,
don't
be
afraid
of
me.
I
wouldn't
hurt
a
hair
of
your
head
for
all
the
world.
No--I'd
protect
you--I'd
protect
you.
This
Spaniard
is
not
deaf
and
dumb;
you've
let
that
slip
without
intending
it;
you
can't
cover
that
up
now.
You
know
something
about
that
Spaniard
that
you
want
to
keep
dark.
Now
trust
me--tell
me
what
it
is,
and
trust
me
--I
won't
betray
you."
Huck
looked
into
the
old
man's
honest
eyes
a
moment,
then
bent
over
and
whispered
in
his
ear:
"'Tain't
a
Spaniard--it's
Injun
Joe!"
The
Welshman
almost
jumped
out
of
his
chair.
In
a
moment
he
said:
"It's
all
plain
enough,
now.
When
you
talked
about
notching
ears
and
slitting
noses
I
judged
that
that
was
your
own
embellishment,
because
white
men
don't
take
that
sort
of
revenge.
But
an
Injun!
That's
a
different
matter
altogether."
During
breakfast
the
talk
went
on,
and
in
the
course
of
it
the
old
man
said
that
the
last
thing
which
he
and
his
sons
had
done,
before
going
to
bed,
was
to
get
a
lantern
and
examine
the
stile
and
its
vicinity
for
marks
of
blood.
They
found
none,
but
captured
a
bulky
bundle
of--
"Of
WHAT?"
If
the
words
had
been
lightning
they
could
not
have
leaped
with
a
more
stunning
suddenness
from
Huck's
blanched
lips.
His
eyes
were
staring
wide,
now,
and
his
breath
suspended--waiting
for
the
answer.
The
Welshman
started--stared
in
return--three
seconds--five
seconds--ten
--then
replied:
"Of
burglar's
tools.
Why,
what's
the
MATTER
with
you?"
Huck
sank
back,
panting
gently,
but
deeply,
unutterably
grateful.
The
Welshman
eyed
him
gravely,
curiously--and
presently
said:
"Yes,
burglar's
tools.
That
appears
to
relieve
you
a
good
deal.
But
what
did
give
you
that
turn?
What
were
YOU
expecting
we'd
found?"
Huck
was
in
a
close
place--the
inquiring
eye
was
upon
him--he
would
have
given
anything
for
material
for
a
plausible
answer--nothing
suggested
itself--the
inquiring
eye
was
boring
deeper
and
deeper--a
senseless
reply
offered--there
was
no
time
to
weigh
it,
so
at
a
venture
he
uttered
it--feebly:
"Sunday-school
books,
maybe."
Poor
Huck
was
too
distressed
to
smile,
but
the
old
man
laughed
loud
and
joyously,
shook
up
the
details
of
his
anatomy
from
head
to
foot,
and
ended
by
saying
that
such
a
laugh
was
money
in
a-man's
pocket,
because
it
cut
down
the
doctor's
bill
like
everything.
Then
he
added:
"Poor
old
chap,
you're
white
and
jaded--you
ain't
well
a
bit--no
wonder
you're
a
little
flighty
and
off
your
balance.
But
you'll
come
out
of
it.
Rest
and
sleep
will
fetch
you
out
all
right,
I
hope."
Huck
was
irritated
to
think
he
had
been
such
a
goose
and
betrayed
such
a
suspicious
excitement,
for
he
had
dropped
the
idea
that
the
parcel
brought
from
the
tavern
was
the
treasure,
as
soon
as
he
had
heard
the
talk
at
the
widow's
stile.
He
had
only
thought
it
was
not
the
treasure,
however--he
had
not
known
that
it
wasn't--and
so
the
suggestion
of
a
captured
bundle
was
too
much
for
his
self-possession.
But
on
the
whole
he
felt
glad
the
little
episode
had
happened,
for
now
he
knew
beyond
all
question
that
that
bundle
was
not
THE
bundle,
and
so
his
mind
was
at
rest
and
exceedingly
comfortable.
In
fact,
everything
seemed
to
be
drifting
just
in
the
right
direction,
now;
the
treasure
must
be
still
in
No.
2,
the
men
would
be
captured
and
jailed
that
day,
and
he
and
Tom
could
seize
the
gold
that
night
without
any
trouble
or
any
fear
of
interruption.
Just
as
breakfast
was
completed
there
was
a
knock
at
the
door.
Huck
jumped
for
a
hiding-place,
for
he
had
no
mind
to
be
connected
even
remotely
with
the
late
event.
The
Welshman
admitted
several
ladies
and
gentlemen,
among
them
the
Widow
Douglas,
and
noticed
that
groups
of
citizens
were
climbing
up
the
hill--to
stare
at
the
stile.
So
the
news
had
spread.
The
Welshman
had
to
tell
the
story
of
the
night
to
the
visitors.
The
widow's
gratitude
for
her
preservation
was
outspoken.
"Don't
say
a
word
about
it,
madam.
There's
another
that
you're
more
beholden
to
than
you
are
to
me
and
my
boys,
maybe,
but
he
don't
allow
me
to
tell
his
name.
We
wouldn't
have
been
there
but
for
him."
Of
course
this
excited
a
curiosity
so
vast
that
it
almost
belittled
the
main
matter--but
the
Welshman
allowed
it
to
eat
into
the
vitals
of
his
visitors,
and
through
them
be
transmitted
to
the
whole
town,
for
he
refused
to
part
with
his
secret.
When
all
else
had
been
learned,
the
widow
said:
"I
went
to
sleep
reading
in
bed
and
slept
straight
through
all
that
noise.
Why
didn't
you
come
and
wake
me?"
"We
judged
it
warn't
worth
while.
Those
fellows
warn't
likely
to
come
again--they
hadn't
any
tools
left
to
work
with,
and
what
was
the
use
of
waking
you
up
and
scaring
you
to
death?
My
three
negro
men
stood
guard
at
your
house
all
the
rest
of
the
night.
They've
just
come
back."
More
visitors
came,
and
the
story
had
to
be
told
and
retold
for
a
couple
of
hours
more.
There
was
no
Sabbath-school
during
day-school
vacation,
but
everybody
was
early
at
church.
The
stirring
event
was
well
canvassed.
News
came
that
not
a
sign
of
the
two
villains
had
been
yet
discovered.
When
the
sermon
was
finished,
Judge
Thatcher's
wife
dropped
alongside
of
Mrs.
Harper
as
she
moved
down
the
aisle
with
the
crowd
and
said:
"Is
my
Becky
going
to
sleep
all
day?
I
just
expected
she
would
be
tired
to
death."
"Your
Becky?"
"Yes,"
with
a
startled
look--"didn't
she
stay
with
you
last
night?"
"Why,
no."
Mrs.
Thatcher
turned
pale,
and
sank
into
a
pew,
just
as
Aunt
Polly,
talking
briskly
with
a
friend,
passed
by.
Aunt
Polly
said:
"Good-morning,
Mrs.
Thatcher.
Good-morning,
Mrs.
Harper.
I've
got
a
boy
that's
turned
up
missing.
I
reckon
my
Tom
stayed
at
your
house
last
night--one
of
you.
And
now
he's
afraid
to
come
to
church.
I've
got
to
settle
with
him."
Mrs.
Thatcher
shook
her
head
feebly
and
turned
paler
than
ever.
"He
didn't
stay
with
us,"
said
Mrs.
Harper,
beginning
to
look
uneasy.
A
marked
anxiety
came
into
Aunt
Polly's
face.
"Joe
Harper,
have
you
seen
my
Tom
this
morning?"
"No'm."
"When
did
you
see
him
last?"
Joe
tried
to
remember,
but
was
not
sure
he
could
say.
The
people
had
stopped
moving
out
of
church.
Whispers
passed
along,
and
a
boding
uneasiness
took
possession
of
every
countenance.
Children
were
anxiously
questioned,
and
young
teachers.
They
all
said
they
had
not
noticed
whether
Tom
and
Becky
were
on
board
the
ferryboat
on
the
homeward
trip;
it
was
dark;
no
one
thought
of
inquiring
if
any
one
was
missing.
One
young
man
finally
blurted
out
his
fear
that
they
were
still
in
the
cave!
Mrs.
Thatcher
swooned
away.
Aunt
Polly
fell
to
crying
and
wringing
her
hands.
The
alarm
swept
from
lip
to
lip,
from
group
to
group,
from
street
to
street,
and
within
five
minutes
the
bells
were
wildly
clanging
and
the
whole
town
was
up!
The
Cardiff
Hill
episode
sank
into
instant
insignificance,
the
burglars
were
forgotten,
horses
were
saddled,
skiffs
were
manned,
the
ferryboat
ordered
out,
and
before
the
horror
was
half
an
hour
old,
two
hundred
men
were
pouring
down
highroad
and
river
toward
the
cave.
All
the
long
afternoon
the
village
seemed
empty
and
dead.
Many
women
visited
Aunt
Polly
and
Mrs.
Thatcher
and
tried
to
comfort
them.
They
cried
with
them,
too,
and
that
was
still
better
than
words.
All
the
tedious
night
the
town
waited
for
news;
but
when
the
morning
dawned
at
last,
all
the
word
that
came
was,
"Send
more
candles--and
send
food."
Mrs.
Thatcher
was
almost
crazed;
and
Aunt
Polly,
also.
Judge
Thatcher
sent
messages
of
hope
and
encouragement
from
the
cave,
but
they
conveyed
no
real
cheer.
The
old
Welshman
came
home
toward
daylight,
spattered
with
candle-grease,
smeared
with
clay,
and
almost
worn
out.
He
found
Huck
still
in
the
bed
that
had
been
provided
for
him,
and
delirious
with
fever.
The
physicians
were
all
at
the
cave,
so
the
Widow
Douglas
came
and
took
charge
of
the
patient.
She
said
she
would
do
her
best
by
him,
because,
whether
he
was
good,
bad,
or
indifferent,
he
was
the
Lord's,
and
nothing
that
was
the
Lord's
was
a
thing
to
be
neglected.
The
Welshman
said
Huck
had
good
spots
in
him,
and
the
widow
said:
"You
can
depend
on
it.
That's
the
Lord's
mark.
He
don't
leave
it
off.
He
never
does.
Puts
it
somewhere
on
every
creature
that
comes
from
his
hands."
Early
in
the
forenoon
parties
of
jaded
men
began
to
straggle
into
the
village,
but
the
strongest
of
the
citizens
continued
searching.
All
the
news
that
could
be
gained
was
that
remotenesses
of
the
cavern
were
being
ransacked
that
had
never
been
visited
before;
that
every
corner
and
crevice
was
going
to
be
thoroughly
searched;
that
wherever
one
wandered
through
the
maze
of
passages,
lights
were
to
be
seen
flitting
hither
and
thither
in
the
distance,
and
shoutings
and
pistol-shots
sent
their
hollow
reverberations
to
the
ear
down
the
sombre
aisles.
In
one
place,
far
from
the
section
usually
traversed
by
tourists,
the
names
"BECKY
&
TOM"
had
been
found
traced
upon
the
rocky
wall
with
candle-smoke,
and
near
at
hand
a
grease-soiled
bit
of
ribbon.
Mrs.
Thatcher
recognized
the
ribbon
and
cried
over
it.
She
said
it
was
the
last
relic
she
should
ever
have
of
her
child;
and
that
no
other
memorial
of
her
could
ever
be
so
precious,
because
this
one
parted
latest
from
the
living
body
before
the
awful
death
came.
Some
said
that
now
and
then,
in
the
cave,
a
far-away
speck
of
light
would
glimmer,
and
then
a
glorious
shout
would
burst
forth
and
a
score
of
men
go
trooping
down
the
echoing
aisle--and
then
a
sickening
disappointment
always
followed;
the
children
were
not
there;
it
was
only
a
searcher's
light.
Three
dreadful
days
and
nights
dragged
their
tedious
hours
along,
and
the
village
sank
into
a
hopeless
stupor.
No
one
had
heart
for
anything.
The
accidental
discovery,
just
made,
that
the
proprietor
of
the
Temperance
Tavern
kept
liquor
on
his
premises,
scarcely
fluttered
the
public
pulse,
tremendous
as
the
fact
was.
In
a
lucid
interval,
Huck
feebly
led
up
to
the
subject
of
taverns,
and
finally
asked--dimly
dreading
the
worst--if
anything
had
been
discovered
at
the
Temperance
Tavern
since
he
had
been
ill.
"Yes,"
said
the
widow.
Huck
started
up
in
bed,
wild-eyed:
"What?
What
was
it?"
"Liquor!--and
the
place
has
been
shut
up.
Lie
down,
child--what
a
turn
you
did
give
me!"
"Only
tell
me
just
one
thing--only
just
one--please!
Was
it
Tom
Sawyer
that
found
it?"
The
widow
burst
into
tears.
"Hush,
hush,
child,
hush!
I've
told
you
before,
you
must
NOT
talk.
You
are
very,
very
sick!"
Then
nothing
but
liquor
had
been
found;
there
would
have
been
a
great
powwow
if
it
had
been
the
gold.
So
the
treasure
was
gone
forever--gone
forever!
But
what
could
she
be
crying
about?
Curious
that
she
should
cry.
These
thoughts
worked
their
dim
way
through
Huck's
mind,
and
under
the
weariness
they
gave
him
he
fell
asleep.
The
widow
said
to
herself:
"There--he's
asleep,
poor
wreck.
Tom
Sawyer
find
it!
Pity
but
somebody
could
find
Tom
Sawyer!
Ah,
there
ain't
many
left,
now,
that's
got
hope
enough,
or
strength
enough,
either,
to
go
on
searching."
CHAPTER
XXXI
NOW
to
return
to
Tom
and
Becky's
share
in
the
picnic.
They
tripped
along
the
murky
aisles
with
the
rest
of
the
company,
visiting
the
familiar
wonders
of
the
cave--wonders
dubbed
with
rather
over-descriptive
names,
such
as
"The
Drawing-Room,"
"The
Cathedral,"
"Aladdin's
Palace,"
and
so
on.
Presently
the
hide-and-seek
frolicking
began,
and
Tom
and
Becky
engaged
in
it
with
zeal
until
the
exertion
began
to
grow
a
trifle
wearisome;
then
they
wandered
down
a
sinuous
avenue
holding
their
candles
aloft
and
reading
the
tangled
web-work
of
names,
dates,
post-office
addresses,
and
mottoes
with
which
the
rocky
walls
had
been
frescoed
(in
candle-smoke).
Still
drifting
along
and
talking,
they
scarcely
noticed
that
they
were
now
in
a
part
of
the
cave
whose
walls
were
not
frescoed.
They
smoked
their
own
names
under
an
overhanging
shelf
and
moved
on.
Presently
they
came
to
a
place
where
a
little
stream
of
water,
trickling
over
a
ledge
and
carrying
a
limestone
sediment
with
it,
had,
in
the
slow-dragging
ages,
formed
a
laced
and
ruffled
Niagara
in
gleaming
and
imperishable
stone.
Tom
squeezed
his
small
body
behind
it
in
order
to
illuminate
it
for
Becky's
gratification.
He
found
that
it
curtained
a
sort
of
steep
natural
stairway
which
was
enclosed
between
narrow
walls,
and
at
once
the
ambition
to
be
a
discoverer
seized
him.
Becky
responded
to
his
call,
and
they
made
a
smoke-mark
for
future
guidance,
and
started
upon
their
quest.
They
wound
this
way
and
that,
far
down
into
the
secret
depths
of
the
cave,
made
another
mark,
and
branched
off
in
search
of
novelties
to
tell
the
upper
world
about.
In
one
place
they
found
a
spacious
cavern,
from
whose
ceiling
depended
a
multitude
of
shining
stalactites
of
the
length
and
circumference
of
a
man's
leg;
they
walked
all
about
it,
wondering
and
admiring,
and
presently
left
it
by
one
of
the
numerous
passages
that
opened
into
it.
This
shortly
brought
them
to
a
bewitching
spring,
whose
basin
was
incrusted
with
a
frostwork
of
glittering
crystals;
it
was
in
the
midst
of
a
cavern
whose
walls
were
supported
by
many
fantastic
pillars
which
had
been
formed
by
the
joining
of
great
stalactites
and
stalagmites
together,
the
result
of
the
ceaseless
water-drip
of
centuries.
Under
the
roof
vast
knots
of
bats
had
packed
themselves
together,
thousands
in
a
bunch;
the
lights
disturbed
the
creatures
and
they
came
flocking
down
by
hundreds,
squeaking
and
darting
furiously
at
the
candles.
Tom
knew
their
ways
and
the
danger
of
this
sort
of
conduct.
He
seized
Becky's
hand
and
hurried
her
into
the
first
corridor
that
offered;
and
none
too
soon,
for
a
bat
struck
Becky's
light
out
with
its
wing
while
she
was
passing
out
of
the
cavern.
The
bats
chased
the
children
a
good
distance;
but
the
fugitives
plunged
into
every
new
passage
that
offered,
and
at
last
got
rid
of
the
perilous
things.
Tom
found
a
subterranean
lake,
shortly,
which
stretched
its
dim
length
away
until
its
shape
was
lost
in
the
shadows.
He
wanted
to
explore
its
borders,
but
concluded
that
it
would
be
best
to
sit
down
and
rest
awhile,
first.
Now,
for
the
first
time,
the
deep
stillness
of
the
place
laid
a
clammy
hand
upon
the
spirits
of
the
children.
Becky
said:
"Why,
I
didn't
notice,
but
it
seems
ever
so
long
since
I
heard
any
of
the
others."
"Come
to
think,
Becky,
we
are
away
down
below
them--and
I
don't
know
how
far
away
north,
or
south,
or
east,
or
whichever
it
is.
We
couldn't
hear
them
here."
Becky
grew
apprehensive.
"I
wonder
how
long
we've
been
down
here,
Tom?
We
better
start
back."
"Yes,
I
reckon
we
better.
P'raps
we
better."
"Can
you
find
the
way,
Tom?
It's
all
a
mixed-up
crookedness
to
me."
"I
reckon
I
could
find
it--but
then
the
bats.
If
they
put
our
candles
out
it
will
be
an
awful
fix.
Let's
try
some
other
way,
so
as
not
to
go
through
there."
"Well.
But
I
hope
we
won't
get
lost.
It
would
be
so
awful!"
and
the
girl
shuddered
at
the
thought
of
the
dreadful
possibilities.
They
started
through
a
corridor,
and
traversed
it
in
silence
a
long
way,
glancing
at
each
new
opening,
to
see
if
there
was
anything
familiar
about
the
look
of
it;
but
they
were
all
strange.
Every
time
Tom
made
an
examination,
Becky
would
watch
his
face
for
an
encouraging
sign,
and
he
would
say
cheerily:
"Oh,
it's
all
right.
This
ain't
the
one,
but
we'll
come
to
it
right
away!"
But
he
felt
less
and
less
hopeful
with
each
failure,
and
presently
began
to
turn
off
into
diverging
avenues
at
sheer
random,
in
desperate
hope
of
finding
the
one
that
was
wanted.
He
still
said
it
was
"all
right,"
but
there
was
such
a
leaden
dread
at
his
heart
that
the
words
had
lost
their
ring
and
sounded
just
as
if
he
had
said,
"All
is
lost!"
Becky
clung
to
his
side
in
an
anguish
of
fear,
and
tried
hard
to
keep
back
the
tears,
but
they
would
come.
At
last
she
said:
"Oh,
Tom,
never
mind
the
bats,
let's
go
back
that
way!
We
seem
to
get
worse
and
worse
off
all
the
time."
"Listen!"
said
he.
Profound
silence;
silence
so
deep
that
even
their
breathings
were
conspicuous
in
the
hush.
Tom
shouted.
The
call
went
echoing
down
the
empty
aisles
and
died
out
in
the
distance
in
a
faint
sound
that
resembled
a
ripple
of
mocking
laughter.
"Oh,
don't
do
it
again,
Tom,
it
is
too
horrid,"
said
Becky.
"It
is
horrid,
but
I
better,
Becky;
they
might
hear
us,
you
know,"
and
he
shouted
again.
The
"might"
was
even
a
chillier
horror
than
the
ghostly
laughter,
it
so
confessed
a
perishing
hope.
The
children
stood
still
and
listened;
but
there
was
no
result.
Tom
turned
upon
the
back
track
at
once,
and
hurried
his
steps.
It
was
but
a
little
while
before
a
certain
indecision
in
his
manner
revealed
another
fearful
fact
to
Becky--he
could
not
find
his
way
back!
"Oh,
Tom,
you
didn't
make
any
marks!"
"Becky,
I
was
such
a
fool!
Such
a
fool!
I
never
thought
we
might
want
to
come
back!
No--I
can't
find
the
way.
It's
all
mixed
up."
"Tom,
Tom,
we're
lost!
we're
lost!
We
never
can
get
out
of
this
awful
place!
Oh,
why
DID
we
ever
leave
the
others!"
She
sank
to
the
ground
and
burst
into
such
a
frenzy
of
crying
that
Tom
was
appalled
with
the
idea
that
she
might
die,
or
lose
her
reason.
He
sat
down
by
her
and
put
his
arms
around
her;
she
buried
her
face
in
his
bosom,
she
clung
to
him,
she
poured
out
her
terrors,
her
unavailing
regrets,
and
the
far
echoes
turned
them
all
to
jeering
laughter.
Tom
begged
her
to
pluck
up
hope
again,
and
she
said
she
could
not.
He
fell
to
blaming
and
abusing
himself
for
getting
her
into
this
miserable
situation;
this
had
a
better
effect.
She
said
she
would
try
to
hope
again,
she
would
get
up
and
follow
wherever
he
might
lead
if
only
he
would
not
talk
like
that
any
more.
For
he
was
no
more
to
blame
than
she,
she
said.
So
they
moved
on
again--aimlessly--simply
at
random--all
they
could
do
was
to
move,
keep
moving.
For
a
little
while,
hope
made
a
show
of
reviving--not
with
any
reason
to
back
it,
but
only
because
it
is
its
nature
to
revive
when
the
spring
has
not
been
taken
out
of
it
by
age
and
familiarity
with
failure.
By-and-by
Tom
took
Becky's
candle
and
blew
it
out.
This
economy
meant
so
much!
Words
were
not
needed.
Becky
understood,
and
her
hope
died
again.
She
knew
that
Tom
had
a
whole
candle
and
three
or
four
pieces
in
his
pockets--yet
he
must
economize.
By-and-by,
fatigue
began
to
assert
its
claims;
the
children
tried
to
pay
attention,
for
it
was
dreadful
to
think
of
sitting
down
when
time
was
grown
to
be
so
precious,
moving,
in
some
direction,
in
any
direction,
was
at
least
progress
and
might
bear
fruit;
but
to
sit
down
was
to
invite
death
and
shorten
its
pursuit.
At
last
Becky's
frail
limbs
refused
to
carry
her
farther.
She
sat
down.
Tom
rested
with
her,
and
they
talked
of
home,
and
the
friends
there,
and
the
comfortable
beds
and,
above
all,
the
light!
Becky
cried,
and
Tom
tried
to
think
of
some
way
of
comforting
her,
but
all
his
encouragements
were
grown
threadbare
with
use,
and
sounded
like
sarcasms.
Fatigue
bore
so
heavily
upon
Becky
that
she
drowsed
off
to
sleep.
Tom
was
grateful.
He
sat
looking
into
her
drawn
face
and
saw
it
grow
smooth
and
natural
under
the
influence
of
pleasant
dreams;
and
by-and-by
a
smile
dawned
and
rested
there.
The
peaceful
face
reflected
somewhat
of
peace
and
healing
into
his
own
spirit,
and
his
thoughts
wandered
away
to
bygone
times
and
dreamy
memories.
While
he
was
deep
in
his
musings,
Becky
woke
up
with
a
breezy
little
laugh--but
it
was
stricken
dead
upon
her
lips,
and
a
groan
followed
it.
"Oh,
how
COULD
I
sleep!
I
wish
I
never,
never
had
waked!
No!
No,
I
don't,
Tom!
Don't
look
so!
I
won't
say
it
again."
"I'm
glad
you've
slept,
Becky;
you'll
feel
rested,
now,
and
we'll
find
the
way
out."
"We
can
try,
Tom;
but
I've
seen
such
a
beautiful
country
in
my
dream.
I
reckon
we
are
going
there."
"Maybe
not,
maybe
not.
Cheer
up,
Becky,
and
let's
go
on
trying."
They
rose
up
and
wandered
along,
hand
in
hand
and
hopeless.
They
tried
to
estimate
how
long
they
had
been
in
the
cave,
but
all
they
knew
was
that
it
seemed
days
and
weeks,
and
yet
it
was
plain
that
this
could
not
be,
for
their
candles
were
not
gone
yet.
A
long
time
after
this--they
could
not
tell
how
long--Tom
said
they
must
go
softly
and
listen
for
dripping
water--they
must
find
a
spring.
They
found
one
presently,
and
Tom
said
it
was
time
to
rest
again.
Both
were
cruelly
tired,
yet
Becky
said
she
thought
she
could
go
a
little
farther.
She
was
surprised
to
hear
Tom
dissent.
She
could
not
understand
it.
They
sat
down,
and
Tom
fastened
his
candle
to
the
wall
in
front
of
them
with
some
clay.
Thought
was
soon
busy;
nothing
was
said
for
some
time.
Then
Becky
broke
the
silence:
"Tom,
I
am
so
hungry!"
Tom
took
something
out
of
his
pocket.
"Do
you
remember
this?"
said
he.
Becky
almost
smiled.
"It's
our
wedding-cake,
Tom."
"Yes--I
wish
it
was
as
big
as
a
barrel,
for
it's
all
we've
got."
"I
saved
it
from
the
picnic
for
us
to
dream
on,
Tom,
the
way
grown-up
people
do
with
wedding-cake--but
it'll
be
our--"
She
dropped
the
sentence
where
it
was.
Tom
divided
the
cake
and
Becky
ate
with
good
appetite,
while
Tom
nibbled
at
his
moiety.
There
was
abundance
of
cold
water
to
finish
the
feast
with.
By-and-by
Becky
suggested
that
they
move
on
again.
Tom
was
silent
a
moment.
Then
he
said:
"Becky,
can
you
bear
it
if
I
tell
you
something?"
Becky's
face
paled,
but
she
thought
she
could.
"Well,
then,
Becky,
we
must
stay
here,
where
there's
water
to
drink.
That
little
piece
is
our
last
candle!"
Becky
gave
loose
to
tears
and
wailings.
Tom
did
what
he
could
to
comfort
her,
but
with
little
effect.
At
length
Becky
said:
"Tom!"
"Well,
Becky?"
"They'll
miss
us
and
hunt
for
us!"
"Yes,
they
will!
Certainly
they
will!"
"Maybe
they're
hunting
for
us
now,
Tom."
"Why,
I
reckon
maybe
they
are.
I
hope
they
are."
"When
would
they
miss
us,
Tom?"
"When
they
get
back
to
the
boat,
I
reckon."
"Tom,
it
might
be
dark
then--would
they
notice
we
hadn't
come?"
"I
don't
know.
But
anyway,
your
mother
would
miss
you
as
soon
as
they
got
home."
A
frightened
look
in
Becky's
face
brought
Tom
to
his
senses
and
he
saw
that
he
had
made
a
blunder.
Becky
was
not
to
have
gone
home
that
night!
The
children
became
silent
and
thoughtful.
In
a
moment
a
new
burst
of
grief
from
Becky
showed
Tom
that
the
thing
in
his
mind
had
struck
hers
also--that
the
Sabbath
morning
might
be
half
spent
before
Mrs.
Thatcher
discovered
that
Becky
was
not
at
Mrs.
Harper's.
The
children
fastened
their
eyes
upon
their
bit
of
candle
and
watched
it
melt
slowly
and
pitilessly
away;
saw
the
half
inch
of
wick
stand
alone
at
last;
saw
the
feeble
flame
rise
and
fall,
climb
the
thin
column
of
smoke,
linger
at
its
top
a
moment,
and
then--the
horror
of
utter
darkness
reigned!
How
long
afterward
it
was
that
Becky
came
to
a
slow
consciousness
that
she
was
crying
in
Tom's
arms,
neither
could
tell.
All
that
they
knew
was,
that
after
what
seemed
a
mighty
stretch
of
time,
both
awoke
out
of
a
dead
stupor
of
sleep
and
resumed
their
miseries
once
more.
Tom
said
it
might
be
Sunday,
now--maybe
Monday.
He
tried
to
get
Becky
to
talk,
but
her
sorrows
were
too
oppressive,
all
her
hopes
were
gone.
Tom
said
that
they
must
have
been
missed
long
ago,
and
no
doubt
the
search
was
going
on.
He
would
shout
and
maybe
some
one
would
come.
He
tried
it;
but
in
the
darkness
the
distant
echoes
sounded
so
hideously
that
he
tried
it
no
more.
The
hours
wasted
away,
and
hunger
came
to
torment
the
captives
again.
A
portion
of
Tom's
half
of
the
cake
was
left;
they
divided
and
ate
it.
But
they
seemed
hungrier
than
before.
The
poor
morsel
of
food
only
whetted
desire.
By-and-by
Tom
said:
"SH!
Did
you
hear
that?"
Both
held
their
breath
and
listened.
There
was
a
sound
like
the
faintest,
far-off
shout.
Instantly
Tom
answered
it,
and
leading
Becky
by
the
hand,
started
groping
down
the
corridor
in
its
direction.
Presently
he
listened
again;
again
the
sound
was
heard,
and
apparently
a
little
nearer.
"It's
them!"
said
Tom;
"they're
coming!
Come
along,
Becky--we're
all
right
now!"
The
joy
of
the
prisoners
was
almost
overwhelming.
Their
speed
was
slow,
however,
because
pitfalls
were
somewhat
common,
and
had
to
be
guarded
against.
They
shortly
came
to
one
and
had
to
stop.
It
might
be
three
feet
deep,
it
might
be
a
hundred--there
was
no
passing
it
at
any
rate.
Tom
got
down
on
his
breast
and
reached
as
far
down
as
he
could.
No
bottom.
They
must
stay
there
and
wait
until
the
searchers
came.
They
listened;
evidently
the
distant
shoutings
were
growing
more
distant!
a
moment
or
two
more
and
they
had
gone
altogether.
The
heart-sinking
misery
of
it!
Tom
whooped
until
he
was
hoarse,
but
it
was
of
no
use.
He
talked
hopefully
to
Becky;
but
an
age
of
anxious
waiting
passed
and
no
sounds
came
again.
The
children
groped
their
way
back
to
the
spring.
The
weary
time
dragged
on;
they
slept
again,
and
awoke
famished
and
woe-stricken.
Tom
believed
it
must
be
Tuesday
by
this
time.
Now
an
idea
struck
him.
There
were
some
side
passages
near
at
hand.
It
would
be
better
to
explore
some
of
these
than
bear
the
weight
of
the
heavy
time
in
idleness.
He
took
a
kite-line
from
his
pocket,
tied
it
to
a
projection,
and
he
and
Becky
started,
Tom
in
the
lead,
unwinding
the
line
as
he
groped
along.
At
the
end
of
twenty
steps
the
corridor
ended
in
a
"jumping-off
place."
Tom
got
down
on
his
knees
and
felt
below,
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
XXXII
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
down-town
Friday,
and
nearly
as
whole
as
ever
Saturday;
but
Becky
did
not
leave
her
room
until
Sunday,
and
then
she
looked
as
if
she
had
passed
through
a
wasting
illness.
Tom
learned
of
Huck's
sickness
and
went
to
see
him
on
Friday,
but
could
not
be
admitted
to
the
bedroom;
neither
could
he
on
Saturday
or
Sunday.
He
was
admitted
daily
after
that,
but
was
warned
to
keep
still
about
his
adventure
and
introduce
no
exciting
topic.
The
Widow
Douglas
stayed
by
to
see
that
he
obeyed.
At
home
Tom
learned
of
the
Cardiff
Hill
event;
also
that
the
"ragged
man's"
body
had
eventually
been
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
XXXIII
WITHIN
a
few
minutes
the
news
had
spread,
and
a
dozen
skiff-loads
of
men
were
on
their
way
to
McDougal's
cave,
and
the
ferryboat,
well
filled
with
passengers,
soon
followed.
Tom
Sawyer
was
in
the
skiff
that
bore
Judge
Thatcher.
When
the
cave
door
was
unlocked,
a
sorrowful
sight
presented
itself
in
the
dim
twilight
of
the
place.
Injun
Joe
lay
stretched
upon
the
ground,
dead,
with
his
face
close
to
the
crack
of
the
door,
as
if
his
longing
eyes
had
been
fixed,
to
the
latest
moment,
upon
the
light
and
the
cheer
of
the
free
world
outside.
Tom
was
touched,
for
he
knew
by
his
own
experience
how
this
wretch
had
suffered.
His
pity
was
moved,
but
nevertheless
he
felt
an
abounding
sense
of
relief
and
security,
now,
which
revealed
to
him
in
a
degree
which
he
had
not
fully
appreciated
before
how
vast
a
weight
of
dread
had
been
lying
upon
him
since
the
day
he
lifted
his
voice
against
this
bloody-minded
outcast.
Injun
Joe's
bowie-knife
lay
close
by,
its
blade
broken
in
two.
The
great
foundation-beam
of
the
door
had
been
chipped
and
hacked
through,
with
tedious
labor;
useless
labor,
too,
it
was,
for
the
native
rock
formed
a
sill
outside
it,
and
upon
that
stubborn
material
the
knife
had
wrought
no
effect;
the
only
damage
done
was
to
the
knife
itself.
But
if
there
had
been
no
stony
obstruction
there
the
labor
would
have
been
useless
still,
for
if
the
beam
had
been
wholly
cut
away
Injun
Joe
could
not
have
squeezed
his
body
under
the
door,
and
he
knew
it.
So
he
had
only
hacked
that
place
in
order
to
be
doing
something--in
order
to
pass
the
weary
time--in
order
to
employ
his
tortured
faculties.
Ordinarily
one
could
find
half
a
dozen
bits
of
candle
stuck
around
in
the
crevices
of
this
vestibule,
left
there
by
tourists;
but
there
were
none
now.
The
prisoner
had
searched
them
out
and
eaten
them.
He
had
also
contrived
to
catch
a
few
bats,
and
these,
also,
he
had
eaten,
leaving
only
their
claws.
The
poor
unfortunate
had
starved
to
death.
In
one
place,
near
at
hand,
a
stalagmite
had
been
slowly
growing
up
from
the
ground
for
ages,
builded
by
the
water-drip
from
a
stalactite
overhead.
The
captive
had
broken
off
the
stalagmite,
and
upon
the
stump
had
placed
a
stone,
wherein
he
had
scooped
a
shallow
hollow
to
catch
the
precious
drop
that
fell
once
in
every
three
minutes
with
the
dreary
regularity
of
a
clock-tick--a
dessertspoonful
once
in
four
and
twenty
hours.
That
drop
was
falling
when
the
Pyramids
were
new;
when
Troy
fell;
when
the
foundations
of
Rome
were
laid
when
Christ
was
crucified;
when
the
Conqueror
created
the
British
empire;
when
Columbus
sailed;
when
the
massacre
at
Lexington
was
"news."
It
is
falling
now;
it
will
still
be
falling
when
all
these
things
shall
have
sunk
down
the
afternoon
of
history,
and
the
twilight
of
tradition,
and
been
swallowed
up
in
the
thick
night
of
oblivion.
Has
everything
a
purpose
and
a
mission?
Did
this
drop
fall
patiently
during
five
thousand
years
to
be
ready
for
this
flitting
human
insect's
need?
and
has
it
another
important
object
to
accomplish
ten
thousand
years
to
come?
No
matter.
It
is
many
and
many
a
year
since
the
hapless
half-breed
scooped
out
the
stone
to
catch
the
priceless
drops,
but
to
this
day
the
tourist
stares
longest
at
that
pathetic
stone
and
that
slow-dropping
water
when
he
comes
to
see
the
wonders
of
McDougal's
cave.
Injun
Joe's
cup
stands
first
in
the
list
of
the
cavern's
marvels;
even
"Aladdin's
Palace"
cannot
rival
it.
Injun
Joe
was
buried
near
the
mouth
of
the
cave;
and
people
flocked
there
in
boats
and
wagons
from
the
towns
and
from
all
the
farms
and
hamlets
for
seven
miles
around;
they
brought
their
children,
and
all
sorts
of
provisions,
and
confessed
that
they
had
had
almost
as
satisfactory
a
time
at
the
funeral
as
they
could
have
had
at
the
hanging.
This
funeral
stopped
the
further
growth
of
one
thing--the
petition
to
the
governor
for
Injun
Joe's
pardon.
The
petition
had
been
largely
signed;
many
tearful
and
eloquent
meetings
had
been
held,
and
a
committee
of
sappy
women
been
appointed
to
go
in
deep
mourning
and
wail
around
the
governor,
and
implore
him
to
be
a
merciful
ass
and
trample
his
duty
under
foot.
Injun
Joe
was
believed
to
have
killed
five
citizens
of
the
village,
but
what
of
that?
If
he
had
been
Satan
himself
there
would
have
been
plenty
of
weaklings
ready
to
scribble
their
names
to
a
pardon-petition,
and
drip
a
tear
on
it
from
their
permanently
impaired
and
leaky
water-works.
The
morning
after
the
funeral
Tom
took
Huck
to
a
private
place
to
have
an
important
talk.
Huck
had
learned
all
about
Tom's
adventure
from
the
Welshman
and
the
Widow
Douglas,
by
this
time,
but
Tom
said
he
reckoned
there
was
one
thing
they
had
not
told
him;
that
thing
was
what
he
wanted
to
talk
about
now.
Huck's
face
saddened.
He
said:
"I
know
what
it
is.
You
got
into
No.
2
and
never
found
anything
but
whiskey.
Nobody
told
me
it
was
you;
but
I
just
knowed
it
must
'a'
ben
you,
soon
as
I
heard
'bout
that
whiskey
business;
and
I
knowed
you
hadn't
got
the
money
becuz
you'd
'a'
got
at
me
some
way
or
other
and
told
me
even
if
you
was
mum
to
everybody
else.
Tom,
something's
always
told
me
we'd
never
get
holt
of
that
swag."
"Why,
Huck,
I
never
told
on
that
tavern-keeper.
YOU
know
his
tavern
was
all
right
the
Saturday
I
went
to
the
picnic.
Don't
you
remember
you
was
to
watch
there
that
night?"
"Oh
yes!
Why,
it
seems
'bout
a
year
ago.
It
was
that
very
night
that
I
follered
Injun
Joe
to
the
widder's."
"YOU
followed
him?"
"Yes--but
you
keep
mum.
I
reckon
Injun
Joe's
left
friends
behind
him,
and
I
don't
want
'em
souring
on
me
and
doing
me
mean
tricks.
If
it
hadn't
ben
for
me
he'd
be
down
in
Texas
now,
all
right."
Then
Huck
told
his
entire
adventure
in
confidence
to
Tom,
who
had
only
heard
of
the
Welshman's
part
of
it
before.
"Well,"
said
Huck,
presently,
coming
back
to
the
main
question,
"whoever
nipped
the
whiskey
in
No.
2,
nipped
the
money,
too,
I
reckon
--anyways
it's
a
goner
for
us,
Tom."
"Huck,
that
money
wasn't
ever
in
No.
2!"
"What!"
Huck
searched
his
comrade's
face
keenly.
"Tom,
have
you
got
on
the
track
of
that
money
again?"
"Huck,
it's
in
the
cave!"
Huck's
eyes
blazed.
"Say
it
again,
Tom."
"The
money's
in
the
cave!"
"Tom--honest
injun,
now--is
it
fun,
or
earnest?"
"Earnest,
Huck--just
as
earnest
as
ever
I
was
in
my
life.
Will
you
go
in
there
with
me
and
help
get
it
out?"
"I
bet
I
will!
I
will
if
it's
where
we
can
blaze
our
way
to
it
and
not
get
lost."
"Huck,
we
can
do
that
without
the
least
little
bit
of
trouble
in
the
world."
"Good
as
wheat!
What
makes
you
think
the
money's--"
"Huck,
you
just
wait
till
we
get
in
there.
If
we
don't
find
it
I'll
agree
to
give
you
my
drum
and
every
thing
I've
got
in
the
world.
I
will,
by
jings."
"All
right--it's
a
whiz.
When
do
you
say?"
"Right
now,
if
you
say
it.
Are
you
strong
enough?"
"Is
it
far
in
the
cave?
I
ben
on
my
pins
a
little,
three
or
four
days,
now,
but
I
can't
walk
more'n
a
mile,
Tom--least
I
don't
think
I
could."
"It's
about
five
mile
into
there
the
way
anybody
but
me
would
go,
Huck,
but
there's
a
mighty
short
cut
that
they
don't
anybody
but
me
know
about.
Huck,
I'll
take
you
right
to
it
in
a
skiff.
I'll
float
the
skiff
down
there,
and
I'll
pull
it
back
again
all
by
myself.
You
needn't
ever
turn
your
hand
over."
"Less
start
right
off,
Tom."
"All
right.
We
want
some
bread
and
meat,
and
our
pipes,
and
a
little
bag
or
two,
and
two
or
three
kite-strings,
and
some
of
these
new-fangled
things
they
call
lucifer
matches.
I
tell
you,
many's
the
time
I
wished
I
had
some
when
I
was
in
there
before."
A
trifle
after
noon
the
boys
borrowed
a
small
skiff
from
a
citizen
who
was
absent,
and
got
under
way
at
once.
When
they
were
several
miles
below
"Cave
Hollow,"
Tom
said:
"Now
you
see
this
bluff
here
looks
all
alike
all
the
way
down
from
the
cave
hollow--no
houses,
no
wood-yards,
bushes
all
alike.
But
do
you
see
that
white
place
up
yonder
where
there's
been
a
landslide?
Well,
that's
one
of
my
marks.
We'll
get
ashore,
now."
They
landed.
"Now,
Huck,
where
we're
a-standing
you
could
touch
that
hole
I
got
out
of
with
a
fishing-pole.
See
if
you
can
find
it."
Huck
searched
all
the
place
about,
and
found
nothing.
Tom
proudly
marched
into
a
thick
clump
of
sumach
bushes
and
said:
"Here
you
are!
Look
at
it,
Huck;
it's
the
snuggest
hole
in
this
country.
You
just
keep
mum
about
it.
All
along
I've
been
wanting
to
be
a
robber,
but
I
knew
I'd
got
to
have
a
thing
like
this,
and
where
to
run
across
it
was
the
bother.
We've
got
it
now,
and
we'll
keep
it
quiet,
only
we'll
let
Joe
Harper
and
Ben
Rogers
in--because
of
course
there's
got
to
be
a
Gang,
or
else
there
wouldn't
be
any
style
about
it.
Tom
Sawyer's
Gang--it
sounds
splendid,
don't
it,
Huck?"
"Well,
it
just
does,
Tom.
And
who'll
we
rob?"
"Oh,
most
anybody.
Waylay
people--that's
mostly
the
way."
"And
kill
them?"
"No,
not
always.
Hive
them
in
the
cave
till
they
raise
a
ransom."
"What's
a
ransom?"
"Money.
You
make
them
raise
all
they
can,
off'n
their
friends;
and
after
you've
kept
them
a
year,
if
it
ain't
raised
then
you
kill
them.
That's
the
general
way.
Only
you
don't
kill
the
women.
You
shut
up
the
women,
but
you
don't
kill
them.
They're
always
beautiful
and
rich,
and
awfully
scared.
You
take
their
watches
and
things,
but
you
always
take
your
hat
off
and
talk
polite.
They
ain't
anybody
as
polite
as
robbers
--you'll
see
that
in
any
book.
Well,
the
women
get
to
loving
you,
and
after
they've
been
in
the
cave
a
week
or
two
weeks
they
stop
crying
and
after
that
you
couldn't
get
them
to
leave.
If
you
drove
them
out
they'd
turn
right
around
and
come
back.
It's
so
in
all
the
books."
"Why,
it's
real
bully,
Tom.
I
believe
it's
better'n
to
be
a
pirate."
"Yes,
it's
better
in
some
ways,
because
it's
close
to
home
and
circuses
and
all
that."
By
this
time
everything
was
ready
and
the
boys
entered
the
hole,
Tom
in
the
lead.
They
toiled
their
way
to
the
farther
end
of
the
tunnel,
then
made
their
spliced
kite-strings
fast
and
moved
on.
A
few
steps
brought
them
to
the
spring,
and
Tom
felt
a
shudder
quiver
all
through
him.
He
showed
Huck
the
fragment
of
candle-wick
perched
on
a
lump
of
clay
against
the
wall,
and
described
how
he
and
Becky
had
watched
the
flame
struggle
and
expire.
The
boys
began
to
quiet
down
to
whispers,
now,
for
the
stillness
and
gloom
of
the
place
oppressed
their
spirits.
They
went
on,
and
presently
entered
and
followed
Tom's
other
corridor
until
they
reached
the
"jumping-off
place."
The
candles
revealed
the
fact
that
it
was
not
really
a
precipice,
but
only
a
steep
clay
hill
twenty
or
thirty
feet
high.
Tom
whispered:
"Now
I'll
show
you
something,
Huck."
He
held
his
candle
aloft
and
said:
"Look
as
far
around
the
corner
as
you
can.
Do
you
see
that?
There--on
the
big
rock
over
yonder--done
with
candle-smoke."
"Tom,
it's
a
CROSS!"
"NOW
where's
your
Number
Two?
'UNDER
THE
CROSS,'
hey?
Right
yonder's
where
I
saw
Injun
Joe
poke
up
his
candle,
Huck!"
Huck
stared
at
the
mystic
sign
awhile,
and
then
said
with
a
shaky
voice:
"Tom,
less
git
out
of
here!"
"What!
and
leave
the
treasure?"
"Yes--leave
it.
Injun
Joe's
ghost
is
round
about
there,
certain."
"No
it
ain't,
Huck,
no
it
ain't.
It
would
ha'nt
the
place
where
he
died--away
out
at
the
mouth
of
the
cave--five
mile
from
here."
"No,
Tom,
it
wouldn't.
It
would
hang
round
the
money.
I
know
the
ways
of
ghosts,
and
so
do
you."
Tom
began
to
fear
that
Huck
was
right.
Misgivings
gathered
in
his
mind.
But
presently
an
idea
occurred
to
him--
"Lookyhere,
Huck,
what
fools
we're
making
of
ourselves!
Injun
Joe's
ghost
ain't
a
going
to
come
around
where
there's
a
cross!"
The
point
was
well
taken.
It
had
its
effect.
"Tom,
I
didn't
think
of
that.
But
that's
so.
It's
luck
for
us,
that
cross
is.
I
reckon
we'll
climb
down
there
and
have
a
hunt
for
that
box."
Tom
went
first,
cutting
rude
steps
in
the
clay
hill
as
he
descended.
Huck
followed.
Four
avenues
opened
out
of
the
small
cavern
which
the
great
rock
stood
in.
The
boys
examined
three
of
them
with
no
result.
They
found
a
small
recess
in
the
one
nearest
the
base
of
the
rock,
with
a
pallet
of
blankets
spread
down
in
it;
also
an
old
suspender,
some
bacon
rind,
and
the
well-gnawed
bones
of
two
or
three
fowls.
But
there
was
no
money-box.
The
lads
searched
and
researched
this
place,
but
in
vain.
Tom
said:
"He
said
UNDER
the
cross.
Well,
this
comes
nearest
to
being
under
the
cross.
It
can't
be
under
the
rock
itself,
because
that
sets
solid
on
the
ground."
They
searched
everywhere
once
more,
and
then
sat
down
discouraged.
Huck
could
suggest
nothing.
By-and-by
Tom
said:
"Lookyhere,
Huck,
there's
footprints
and
some
candle-grease
on
the
clay
about
one
side
of
this
rock,
but
not
on
the
other
sides.
Now,
what's
that
for?
I
bet
you
the
money
IS
under
the
rock.
I'm
going
to
dig
in
the
clay."
"That
ain't
no
bad
notion,
Tom!"
said
Huck
with
animation.
Tom's
"real
Barlow"
was
out
at
once,
and
he
had
not
dug
four
inches
before
he
struck
wood.
"Hey,
Huck!--you
hear
that?"
Huck
began
to
dig
and
scratch
now.
Some
boards
were
soon
uncovered
and
removed.
They
had
concealed
a
natural
chasm
which
led
under
the
rock.
Tom
got
into
this
and
held
his
candle
as
far
under
the
rock
as
he
could,
but
said
he
could
not
see
to
the
end
of
the
rift.
He
proposed
to
explore.
He
stooped
and
passed
under;
the
narrow
way
descended
gradually.
He
followed
its
winding
course,
first
to
the
right,
then
to
the
left,
Huck
at
his
heels.
Tom
turned
a
short
curve,
by-and-by,
and
exclaimed:
"My
goodness,
Huck,
lookyhere!"
It
was
the
treasure-box,
sure
enough,
occupying
a
snug
little
cavern,
along
with
an
empty
powder-keg,
a
couple
of
guns
in
leather
cases,
two
or
three
pairs
of
old
moccasins,
a
leather
belt,
and
some
other
rubbish
well
soaked
with
the
water-drip.
"Got
it
at
last!"
said
Huck,
ploughing
among
the
tarnished
coins
with
his
hand.
"My,
but
we're
rich,
Tom!"
"Huck,
I
always
reckoned
we'd
get
it.
It's
just
too
good
to
believe,
but
we
HAVE
got
it,
sure!
Say--let's
not
fool
around
here.
Let's
snake
it
out.
Lemme
see
if
I
can
lift
the
box."
It
weighed
about
fifty
pounds.
Tom
could
lift
it,
after
an
awkward
fashion,
but
could
not
carry
it
conveniently.
"I
thought
so,"
he
said;
"THEY
carried
it
like
it
was
heavy,
that
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
XXXIV
HUCK
said:
"Tom,
we
can
slope,
if
we
can
find
a
rope.
The
window
ain't
high
from
the
ground."
"Shucks!
what
do
you
want
to
slope
for?"
"Well,
I
ain't
used
to
that
kind
of
a
crowd.
I
can't
stand
it.
I
ain't
going
down
there,
Tom."
"Oh,
bother!
It
ain't
anything.
I
don't
mind
it
a
bit.
I'll
take
care
of
you."
Sid
appeared.
"Tom,"
said
he,
"auntie
has
been
waiting
for
you
all
the
afternoon.
Mary
got
your
Sunday
clothes
ready,
and
everybody's
been
fretting
about
you.
Say--ain't
this
grease
and
clay,
on
your
clothes?"
"Now,
Mr.
Siddy,
you
jist
'tend
to
your
own
business.
What's
all
this
blow-out
about,
anyway?"
"It's
one
of
the
widow's
parties
that
she's
always
having.
This
time
it's
for
the
Welshman
and
his
sons,
on
account
of
that
scrape
they
helped
her
out
of
the
other
night.
And
say--I
can
tell
you
something,
if
you
want
to
know."
"Well,
what?"
"Why,
old
Mr.
Jones
is
going
to
try
to
spring
something
on
the
people
here
to-night,
but
I
overheard
him
tell
auntie
to-day
about
it,
as
a
secret,
but
I
reckon
it's
not
much
of
a
secret
now.
Everybody
knows
--the
widow,
too,
for
all
she
tries
to
let
on
she
don't.
Mr.
Jones
was
bound
Huck
should
be
here--couldn't
get
along
with
his
grand
secret
without
Huck,
you
know!"
"Secret
about
what,
Sid?"
"About
Huck
tracking
the
robbers
to
the
widow's.
I
reckon
Mr.
Jones
was
going
to
make
a
grand
time
over
his
surprise,
but
I
bet
you
it
will
drop
pretty
flat."
Sid
chuckled
in
a
very
contented
and
satisfied
way.
"Sid,
was
it
you
that
told?"
"Oh,
never
mind
who
it
was.
SOMEBODY
told--that's
enough."
"Sid,
there's
only
one
person
in
this
town
mean
enough
to
do
that,
and
that's
you.
If
you
had
been
in
Huck's
place
you'd
'a'
sneaked
down
the
hill
and
never
told
anybody
on
the
robbers.
You
can't
do
any
but
mean
things,
and
you
can't
bear
to
see
anybody
praised
for
doing
good
ones.
There--no
thanks,
as
the
widow
says"--and
Tom
cuffed
Sid's
ears
and
helped
him
to
the
door
with
several
kicks.
"Now
go
and
tell
auntie
if
you
dare--and
to-morrow
you'll
catch
it!"
Some
minutes
later
the
widow's
guests
were
at
the
supper-table,
and
a
dozen
children
were
propped
up
at
little
side-tables
in
the
same
room,
after
the
fashion
of
that
country
and
that
day.
At
the
proper
time
Mr.
Jones
made
his
little
speech,
in
which
he
thanked
the
widow
for
the
honor
she
was
doing
himself
and
his
sons,
but
said
that
there
was
another
person
whose
modesty--
And
so
forth
and
so
on.
He
sprung
his
secret
about
Huck's
share
in
the
adventure
in
the
finest
dramatic
manner
he
was
master
of,
but
the
surprise
it
occasioned
was
largely
counterfeit
and
not
as
clamorous
and
effusive
as
it
might
have
been
under
happier
circumstances.
However,
the
widow
made
a
pretty
fair
show
of
astonishment,
and
heaped
so
many
compliments
and
so
much
gratitude
upon
Huck
that
he
almost
forgot
the
nearly
intolerable
discomfort
of
his
new
clothes
in
the
entirely
intolerable
discomfort
of
being
set
up
as
a
target
for
everybody's
gaze
and
everybody's
laudations.
The
widow
said
she
meant
to
give
Huck
a
home
under
her
roof
and
have
him
educated;
and
that
when
she
could
spare
the
money
she
would
start
him
in
business
in
a
modest
way.
Tom's
chance
was
come.
He
said:
"Huck
don't
need
it.
Huck's
rich."
Nothing
but
a
heavy
strain
upon
the
good
manners
of
the
company
kept
back
the
due
and
proper
complimentary
laugh
at
this
pleasant
joke.
But
the
silence
was
a
little
awkward.
Tom
broke
it:
"Huck's
got
money.
Maybe
you
don't
believe
it,
but
he's
got
lots
of
it.
Oh,
you
needn't
smile--I
reckon
I
can
show
you.
You
just
wait
a
minute."
Tom
ran
out
of
doors.
The
company
looked
at
each
other
with
a
perplexed
interest--and
inquiringly
at
Huck,
who
was
tongue-tied.
"Sid,
what
ails
Tom?"
said
Aunt
Polly.
"He--well,
there
ain't
ever
any
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
XXXV
THE
reader
may
rest
satisfied
that
Tom's
and
Huck's
windfall
made
a
mighty
stir
in
the
poor
little
village
of
St.
Petersburg.
So
vast
a
sum,
all
in
actual
cash,
seemed
next
to
incredible.
It
was
talked
about,
gloated
over,
glorified,
until
the
reason
of
many
of
the
citizens
tottered
under
the
strain
of
the
unhealthy
excitement.
Every
"haunted"
house
in
St.
Petersburg
and
the
neighboring
villages
was
dissected,
plank
by
plank,
and
its
foundations
dug
up
and
ransacked
for
hidden
treasure--and
not
by
boys,
but
men--pretty
grave,
unromantic
men,
too,
some
of
them.
Wherever
Tom
and
Huck
appeared
they
were
courted,
admired,
stared
at.
The
boys
were
not
able
to
remember
that
their
remarks
had
possessed
weight
before;
but
now
their
sayings
were
treasured
and
repeated;
everything
they
did
seemed
somehow
to
be
regarded
as
remarkable;
they
had
evidently
lost
the
power
of
doing
and
saying
commonplace
things;
moreover,
their
past
history
was
raked
up
and
discovered
to
bear
marks
of
conspicuous
originality.
The
village
paper
published
biographical
sketches
of
the
boys.
The
Widow
Douglas
put
Huck's
money
out
at
six
per
cent.,
and
Judge
Thatcher
did
the
same
with
Tom's
at
Aunt
Polly's
request.
Each
lad
had
an
income,
now,
that
was
simply
prodigious--a
dollar
for
every
week-day
in
the
year
and
half
of
the
Sundays.
It
was
just
what
the
minister
got
--no,
it
was
what
he
was
promised--he
generally
couldn't
collect
it.
A
dollar
and
a
quarter
a
week
would
board,
lodge,
and
school
a
boy
in
those
old
simple
days--and
clothe
him
and
wash
him,
too,
for
that
matter.
Judge
Thatcher
had
conceived
a
great
opinion
of
Tom.
He
said
that
no
commonplace
boy
would
ever
have
got
his
daughter
out
of
the
cave.
When
Becky
told
her
father,
in
strict
confidence,
how
Tom
had
taken
her
whipping
at
school,
the
Judge
was
visibly
moved;
and
when
she
pleaded
grace
for
the
mighty
lie
which
Tom
had
told
in
order
to
shift
that
whipping
from
her
shoulders
to
his
own,
the
Judge
said
with
a
fine
outburst
that
it
was
a
noble,
a
generous,
a
magnanimous
lie--a
lie
that
was
worthy
to
hold
up
its
head
and
march
down
through
history
breast
to
breast
with
George
Washington's
lauded
Truth
about
the
hatchet!
Becky
thought
her
father
had
never
looked
so
tall
and
so
superb
as
when
he
walked
the
floor
and
stamped
his
foot
and
said
that.
She
went
straight
off
and
told
Tom
about
it.
Judge
Thatcher
hoped
to
see
Tom
a
great
lawyer
or
a
great
soldier
some
day.
He
said
he
meant
to
look
to
it
that
Tom
should
be
admitted
to
the
National
Military
Academy
and
afterward
trained
in
the
best
law
school
in
the
country,
in
order
that
he
might
be
ready
for
either
career
or
both.
Huck
Finn's
wealth
and
the
fact
that
he
was
now
under
the
Widow
Douglas'
protection
introduced
him
into
society--no,
dragged
him
into
it,
hurled
him
into
it--and
his
sufferings
were
almost
more
than
he
could
bear.
The
widow's
servants
kept
him
clean
and
neat,
combed
and
brushed,
and
they
bedded
him
nightly
in
unsympathetic
sheets
that
had
not
one
little
spot
or
stain
which
he
could
press
to
his
heart
and
know
for
a
friend.
He
had
to
eat
with
a
knife
and
fork;
he
had
to
use
napkin,
cup,
and
plate;
he
had
to
learn
his
book,
he
had
to
go
to
church;
he
had
to
talk
so
properly
that
speech
was
become
insipid
in
his
mouth;
whithersoever
he
turned,
the
bars
and
shackles
of
civilization
shut
him
in
and
bound
him
hand
and
foot.
He
bravely
bore
his
miseries
three
weeks,
and
then
one
day
turned
up
missing.
For
forty-eight
hours
the
widow
hunted
for
him
everywhere
in
great
distress.
The
public
were
profoundly
concerned;
they
searched
high
and
low,
they
dragged
the
river
for
his
body.
Early
the
third
morning
Tom
Sawyer
wisely
went
poking
among
some
old
empty
hogsheads
down
behind
the
abandoned
slaughter-house,
and
in
one
of
them
he
found
the
refugee.
Huck
had
slept
there;
he
had
just
breakfasted
upon
some
stolen
odds
and
ends
of
food,
and
was
lying
off,
now,
in
comfort,
with
his
pipe.
He
was
unkempt,
uncombed,
and
clad
in
the
same
old
ruin
of
rags
that
had
made
him
picturesque
in
the
days
when
he
was
free
and
happy.
Tom
routed
him
out,
told
him
the
trouble
he
had
been
causing,
and
urged
him
to
go
home.
Huck's
face
lost
its
tranquil
content,
and
took
a
melancholy
cast.
He
said:
"Don't
talk
about
it,
Tom.
I've
tried
it,
and
it
don't
work;
it
don't
work,
Tom.
It
ain't
for
me;
I
ain't
used
to
it.
The
widder's
good
to
me,
and
friendly;
but
I
can't
stand
them
ways.
She
makes
me
get
up
just
at
the
same
time
every
morning;
she
makes
me
wash,
they
comb
me
all
to
thunder;
she
won't
let
me
sleep
in
the
woodshed;
I
got
to
wear
them
blamed
clothes
that
just
smothers
me,
Tom;
they
don't
seem
to
any
air
git
through
'em,
somehow;
and
they're
so
rotten
nice
that
I
can't
set
down,
nor
lay
down,
nor
roll
around
anywher's;
I
hain't
slid
on
a
cellar-door
for--well,
it
'pears
to
be
years;
I
got
to
go
to
church
and
sweat
and
sweat--I
hate
them
ornery
sermons!
I
can't
ketch
a
fly
in
there,
I
can't
chaw.
I
got
to
wear
shoes
all
Sunday.
The
widder
eats
by
a
bell;
she
goes
to
bed
by
a
bell;
she
gits
up
by
a
bell--everything's
so
awful
reg'lar
a
body
can't
stand
it."
"Well,
everybody
does
that
way,
Huck."
"Tom,
it
don't
make
no
difference.
I
ain't
everybody,
and
I
can't
STAND
it.
It's
awful
to
be
tied
up
so.
And
grub
comes
too
easy--I
don't
take
no
interest
in
vittles,
that
way.
I
got
to
ask
to
go
a-fishing;
I
got
to
ask
to
go
in
a-swimming--dern'd
if
I
hain't
got
to
ask
to
do
everything.
Well,
I'd
got
to
talk
so
nice
it
wasn't
no
comfort--I'd
got
to
go
up
in
the
attic
and
rip
out
awhile,
every
day,
to
git
a
taste
in
my
mouth,
or
I'd
a
died,
Tom.
The
widder
wouldn't
let
me
smoke;
she
wouldn't
let
me
yell,
she
wouldn't
let
me
gape,
nor
stretch,
nor
scratch,
before
folks--"
[Then
with
a
spasm
of
special
irritation
and
injury]--"And
dad
fetch
it,
she
prayed
all
the
time!
I
never
see
such
a
woman!
I
HAD
to
shove,
Tom--I
just
had
to.
And
besides,
that
school's
going
to
open,
and
I'd
a
had
to
go
to
it--well,
I
wouldn't
stand
THAT,
Tom.
Looky
here,
Tom,
being
rich
ain't
what
it's
cracked
up
to
be.
It's
just
worry
and
worry,
and
sweat
and
sweat,
and
a-wishing
you
was
dead
all
the
time.
Now
these
clothes
suits
me,
and
this
bar'l
suits
me,
and
I
ain't
ever
going
to
shake
'em
any
more.
Tom,
I
wouldn't
ever
got
into
all
this
trouble
if
it
hadn't
'a'
ben
for
that
money;
now
you
just
take
my
sheer
of
it
along
with
your'n,
and
gimme
a
ten-center
sometimes--not
many
times,
becuz
I
don't
give
a
dern
for
a
thing
'thout
it's
tollable
hard
to
git--and
you
go
and
beg
off
for
me
with
the
widder."
"Oh,
Huck,
you
know
I
can't
do
that.
'Tain't
fair;
and
besides
if
you'll
try
this
thing
just
a
while
longer
you'll
come
to
like
it."
"Like
it!
Yes--the
way
I'd
like
a
hot
stove
if
I
was
to
set
on
it
long
enough.
No,
Tom,
I
won't
be
rich,
and
I
won't
live
in
them
cussed
smothery
houses.
I
like
the
woods,
and
the
river,
and
hogsheads,
and
I'll
stick
to
'em,
too.
Blame
it
all!
just
as
we'd
got
guns,
and
a
cave,
and
all
just
fixed
to
rob,
here
this
dern
foolishness
has
got
to
come
up
and
spile
it
all!"
Tom
saw
his
opportunity--
"Lookyhere,
Huck,
being
rich
ain't
going
to
keep
me
back
from
turning
robber."
"No!
Oh,
good-licks;
are
you
in
real
dead-wood
earnest,
Tom?"
"Just
as
dead
earnest
as
I'm
sitting
here.
But
Huck,
we
can't
let
you
into
the
gang
if
you
ain't
respectable,
you
know."
Huck's
joy
was
quenched.
"Can't
let
me
in,
Tom?
Didn't
you
let
me
go
for
a
pirate?"
"Yes,
but
that's
different.
A
robber
is
more
high-toned
than
what
a
pirate
is--as
a
general
thing.
In
most
countries
they're
awful
high
up
in
the
nobility--dukes
and
such."
"Now,
Tom,
hain't
you
always
ben
friendly
to
me?
You
wouldn't
shet
me
out,
would
you,
Tom?
You
wouldn't
do
that,
now,
WOULD
you,
Tom?"
"Huck,
I
wouldn't
want
to,
and
I
DON'T
want
to--but
what
would
people
say?
Why,
they'd
say,
'Mph!
Tom
Sawyer's
Gang!
pretty
low
characters
in
it!'
They'd
mean
you,
Huck.
You
wouldn't
like
that,
and
I
wouldn't."
Huck
was
silent
for
some
time,
engaged
in
a
mental
struggle.
Finally
he
said:
"Well,
I'll
go
back
to
the
widder
for
a
month
and
tackle
it
and
see
if
I
can
come
to
stand
it,
if
you'll
let
me
b'long
to
the
gang,
Tom."
"All
right,
Huck,
it's
a
whiz!
Come
along,
old
chap,
and
I'll
ask
the
widow
to
let
up
on
you
a
little,
Huck."
"Will
you,
Tom--now
will
you?
That's
good.
If
she'll
let
up
on
some
of
the
roughest
things,
I'll
smoke
private
and
cuss
private,
and
crowd
through
or
bust.
When
you
going
to
start
the
gang
and
turn
robbers?"
"Oh,
right
off.
We'll
get
the
boys
together
and
have
the
initiation
to-night,
maybe."
"Have
the
which?"
"Have
the
initiation."
"What's
that?"
"It's
to
swear
to
stand
by
one
another,
and
never
tell
the
gang's
secrets,
even
if
you're
chopped
all
to
flinders,
and
kill
anybody
and
all
his
family
that
hurts
one
of
the
gang."
"That's
gay--that's
mighty
gay,
Tom,
I
tell
you."
"Well,
I
bet
it
is.
And
all
that
swearing's
got
to
be
done
at
midnight,
in
the
lonesomest,
awfulest
place
you
can
find--a
ha'nted
house
is
the
best,
but
they're
all
ripped
up
now."
"Well,
midnight's
good,
anyway,
Tom."
"Yes,
so
it
is.
And
you've
got
to
swear
on
a
coffin,
and
sign
it
with
blood."
"Now,
that's
something
LIKE!
Why,
it's
a
million
times
bullier
than
pirating.
I'll
stick
to
the
widder
till
I
rot,
Tom;
and
if
I
git
to
be
a
reg'lar
ripper
of
a
robber,
and
everybody
talking
'bout
it,
I
reckon
she'll
be
proud
she
snaked
me
in
out
of
the
wet."
CONCLUSION
SO
endeth
this
chronicle.
It
being
strictly
a
history
of
a
BOY,
it
must
stop
here;
the
story
could
not
go
much
further
without
becoming
the
history
of
a
MAN.
When
one
writes
a
novel
about
grown
people,
he
knows
exactly
where
to
stop--that
is,
with
a
marriage;
but
when
he
writes
of
juveniles,
he
must
stop
where
he
best
can.
Most
of
the
characters
that
perform
in
this
book
still
live,
and
are
prosperous
and
happy.
Some
day
it
may
seem
worth
while
to
take
up
the
story
of
the
younger
ones
again
and
see
what
sort
of
men
and
women
they
turned
out
to
be;
therefore
it
will
be
wisest
not
to
reveal
any
of
that
part
of
their
lives
at
present.
