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\title{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}


\author{Mark Twain}

\maketitle
\vspace*{\stretch{1}}

\noindent This public domain (U.S.) text was originally prepared by
\textit{\emph{dell@wiretap.spies.com for `The Internet Wiretap', and}}
released to the public July 1993. Subsequently, it became a Project
Gutenberg edition ({}``hfinn11''). The Project Gutenberg edition
was converted to \LaTeX{} using \textbf{GutenMark} software, and edited
(to correct formatting problems) by Ron Burkey. Report problems to
info@sandroid.org.

\noindent \begin{center}Revision: A\\
Date: 01/21/03\end{center}

\vspace{\stretch{1}}

\frontmatter

\pagestyle{myheadings} {\small \tableofcontents{}}\newpage


\chapter*{NOTICE}

\noindent Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will
be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished;
persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. 

\noindent \begin{center}\noun{By Order of the Author,}\\
\noun{Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance}.\end{center}


\chapter*{EXPLANATORY}

In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri negro
dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect;
the ordinary {}``Pike County'' dialect; and four modified varieties
of this last. The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion,
or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance
and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.

I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers
would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike
and not succeeding.

\noindent \begin{center}\noun{The Author.}\end{center}

\newpage

\vspace*{\stretch{1}}

\noindent \begin{center}\emph{Scene: The Mississippi Valley.}\\
\emph{Time: Forty to fifty years ago.}\end{center}

\vspace{\stretch{1}}

\mainmatter


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER I.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER I}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER I}

\textit{\emph{You}} don't know about me without you have read a book
by the name of \emph{The Adventures of Tom Sawyer}; but that ain't
no matter. That book was made by Mr.\ Mark Twain, and he told the
truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he
told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one
time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe
Mary. Aunt Polly---Tom's Aunt Polly, she is---and Mary, and the Widow
Douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book,
with some stretchers, as I said before.

Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the money
that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got six
thousand dollars apiece---all gold. It was an awful sight of money
when it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out
at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year
round---more than a body could tell what to do with. The Widow Douglas
she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it
was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal
regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't
stand it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead
again, and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up
and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and I might join
if I would go back to the widow and be respectable. So I went back.

The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she
called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by
it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing
but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old
thing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had
to come to time. When you got to the table you couldn't go right to
eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and
grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything
the matter with them,---that is, nothing only everything was cooked
by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get
mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better.

After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the
Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by
and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long
time; so then I didn't care no more about him, because I don't take
no stock in dead people.

Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But
she wouldn't. She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and
I must try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some people.
They get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it. Here
she was a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use
to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with
me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff,
too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself.

Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on,
had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book.
She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow
made her ease up. I couldn't stood it much longer. Then for an hour
it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety. Miss Watson would say, {}``Don't
put your feet up there, Huckleberry;'' and {}``Don't scrunch up
like that, Huckleberry---set up straight;'' and pretty soon she would
say, {}``Don't gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry---why don't
you try to behave?'' Then she told me all about the bad place, and
I said I wished I was there. She got mad then, but I didn't mean no
harm. All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was a change,
I warn't particular. She said it was wicked to say what I said; said
she wouldn't say it for the whole world; she was going to live so
as to go to the good place. Well, I couldn't see no advantage in going
where she was going, so I made up my mind I wouldn't try for it. But
I never said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn't
do no good.

Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the
good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around
all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn't think
much of it. But I never said so. I asked her if she reckoned Tom Sawyer
would go there, and she said not by a considerable sight. I was glad
about that, because I wanted him and me to be together.

Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome.
By and by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers, and then everybody
was off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of candle, and put
it on the table. Then I set down in a chair by the window and tried
to think of something cheerful, but it warn't no use. I felt so lonesome
I most wished I was dead. The stars were shining, and the leaves rustled
in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing
about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about
somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying to whisper
something to me, and I couldn't make out what it was, and so it made
the cold shivers run over me. Then away out in the woods I heard that
kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something
that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't
rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving.
I got so down-hearted and scared I did wish I had some company. Pretty
soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and
it lit in the candle; and before I could budge it was all shriveled
up. I didn't need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign
and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the
clothes off of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks three times
and crossed my breast every time; and then I tied up a little lock
of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. But I hadn't no confidence.
You do that when you've lost a horseshoe that you've found, instead
of nailing it up over the door, but I hadn't ever heard anybody say
it was any way to keep off bad luck when you'd killed a spider.

I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke;
for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn't
know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock away off in the town
go boom---boom---boom---twelve licks; and all still again---stiller
than ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst
the trees---something was a stirring. I set still and listened. Directly
I could just barely hear a {}``me-yow!\ me-yow!''\ down there.
That was good! Says I, {}``me-yow!\ me-yow!''\ as soft as I could,
and then I put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to
the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the
trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER II.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER II}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER II}

\textit{\emph{We}} went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back
towards the end of the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches
wouldn't scrape our heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I fell
over a root and made a noise. We scrouched down and laid still. Miss
Watson's big nigger, named Jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we
could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him.
He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. Then
he says:

{}``Who dah?''

He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood right
between us; we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes
and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close together.
There was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but I dasn't scratch
it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my back, right between
my shoulders. Seemed like I'd die if I couldn't scratch. Well, I've
noticed that thing plenty times since. If you are with the quality,
or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain't sleepy---if
you are anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will
itch all over in upwards of a thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says:

{}``Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn' hear sumf'n.
Well, I know what I's gwyne to do: I's gwyne to set down here and
listen tell I hears it agin.''

So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back
up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most
touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears
come into my eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch on
the inside. Next I got to itching underneath. I didn't know how I
was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six
or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching
in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n
a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just
then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore---and then
I was pretty soon comfortable again.

Tom he made a sign to me---kind of a little noise with his mouth---and
we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot
off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun.
But I said no; he might wake and make a disturbance, and then they'd
find out I warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't got candles enough,
and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want
him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to resk
it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid five cents
on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get
away; but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was,
on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it
seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome.

As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence,
and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side
of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung
it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he didn't
wake. Afterwards Jim said the witches bewitched him and put him in
a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him under
the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And
next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans; and,
after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till
by and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him
most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. Jim was monstrous
proud about it, and he got so he wouldn't hardly notice the other
niggers. Niggers would come miles to hear Jim tell about it, and he
was more looked up to than any nigger in that country. Strange niggers
would stand with their mouths open and look him all over, same as
if he was a wonder. Niggers is always talking about witches in the
dark by the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and letting
on to know all about such things, Jim would happen in and say, {}``Hm!
What you know 'bout witches?''\ and that nigger was corked up and
had to take a back seat. Jim always kept that five-center piece round
his neck with a string, and said it was a charm the devil give to
him with his own hands, and told him he could cure anybody with it
and fetch witches whenever he wanted to just by saying something to
it; but he never told what it was he said to it. Niggers would come
from all around there and give Jim anything they had, just for a sight
of that five-center piece; but they wouldn't touch it, because the
devil had had his hands on it. Jim was most ruined for a servant,
because he got stuck up on account of having seen the devil and been
rode by witches.

Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hilltop we looked away
down into the village and could see three or four lights twinkling,
where there was sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling
ever so fine; and down by the village was the river, a whole mile
broad, and awful still and grand. We went down the hill and found
Jo Harper and Ben Rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid in
the old tanyard. So we unhitched a skiff and pulled down the river
two mile and a half, to the big scar on the hillside, and went ashore.

We went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made everybody swear to keep
the secret, and then showed them a hole in the hill, right in the
thickest part of the bushes. Then we lit the candles, and crawled
in on our hands and knees. We went about two hundred yards, and then
the cave opened up. Tom poked about amongst the passages, and pretty
soon ducked under a wall where you wouldn't a noticed that there was
a hole. We went along a narrow place and got into a kind of room,
all damp and sweaty and cold, and there we stopped. Tom says:

{}``Now, we'll start this band of robbers and call it Tom Sawyer's
Gang. Everybody that wants to join has got to take an oath, and write
his name in blood.''

Everybody was willing. So Tom got out a sheet of paper that he had
wrote the oath on, and read it. It swore every boy to stick to the
band, and never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody done anything
to any boy in the band, whichever boy was ordered to kill that person
and his family must do it, and he mustn't eat and he mustn't sleep
till he had killed them and hacked a cross in their breasts, which
was the sign of the band. And nobody that didn't belong to the band
could use that mark, and if he did he must be sued; and if he done
it again he must be killed. And if anybody that belonged to the band
told the secrets, he must have his throat cut, and then have his carcass
burnt up and the ashes scattered all around, and his name blotted
off of the list with blood and never mentioned again by the gang,
but have a curse put on it and be forgot forever.

Everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and asked Tom if he got
it out of his own head. He said, some of it, but the rest was out
of pirate-books and robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned
had it.

Some thought it would be good to kill the \textit{families} of boys
that told the secrets. Tom said it was a good idea, so he took a pencil
and wrote it in. Then Ben Rogers says:

{}``Here's Huck Finn, he hain't got no family; what you going to
do 'bout him?''

{}``Well, hain't he got a father?''\ says Tom Sawyer.

{}``Yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find him these days.
He used to lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard, but he hain't been
seen in these parts for a year or more.''

They talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because they
said every boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or else it
wouldn't be fair and square for the others. Well, nobody could think
of anything to do---everybody was stumped, and set still. I was most
ready to cry; but all at once I thought of a way, and so I offered
them Miss Watson---they could kill her. Everybody said:

{}``Oh, she'll do. That's all right. Huck can come in.''

Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign with,
and I made my mark on the paper.

{}``Now,'' says Ben Rogers, {}``what's the line of business of
this Gang?''

{}``Nothing only robbery and murder,'' Tom said.

{}``But who are we going to rob?---houses, or cattle, or---''

{}``Stuff!\ stealing cattle and such things ain't robbery; it's
burglary,'' says Tom Sawyer. {}``We ain't burglars. That ain't no
sort of style. We are highwaymen. We stop stages and carriages on
the road, with masks on, and kill the people and take their watches
and money.''

{}``Must we always kill the people?''

{}``Oh, certainly. It's best. Some authorities think different, but
mostly it's considered best to kill them---except some that you bring
to the cave here, and keep them till they're ransomed.''

{}``Ransomed? What's that?''

{}``I don't know. But that's what they do. I've seen it in books;
and so of course that's what we've got to do.''

{}``But how can we do it if we don't know what it is?''

{}``Why, blame it all, we've \textit{got} to do it. Don't I tell
you it's in the books? Do you want to go to doing different from what's
in the books, and get things all muddled up?''

{}``Oh, that's all very fine to \textit{say}, Tom Sawyer, but how
in the nation are these fellows going to be ransomed if we don't know
how to do it to them?---that's the thing I want to get at. Now, what
do you reckon it is?''

{}``Well, I don't know. But per'aps if we keep them till they're
ransomed, it means that we keep them till they're dead.''

{}``Now, that's something \textit{like}. That'll answer. Why couldn't
you said that before? We'll keep them till they're ransomed to death;
and a bothersome lot they'll be, too---eating up everything, and always
trying to get loose.''

{}``How you talk, Ben Rogers. How can they get loose when there's
a guard over them, ready to shoot them down if they move a peg?''

{}``A guard! Well, that \textit{is} good. So somebody's got to set
up all night and never get any sleep, just so as to watch them. I
think that's foolishness. Why can't a body take a club and ransom
them as soon as they get here?''

{}``Because it ain't in the books so---that's why. Now, Ben Rogers,
do you want to do things regular, or don't you?---that's the idea.
Don't you reckon that the people that made the books knows what's
the correct thing to do? Do you reckon \textit{you} can learn 'em
anything? Not by a good deal. No, sir, we'll just go on and ransom
them in the regular way.''

{}``All right. I don't mind; but I say it's a fool way, anyhow. Say,
do we kill the women, too?''

{}``Well, Ben Rogers, if I was as ignorant as you I wouldn't let
on. Kill the women? No; nobody ever saw anything in the books like
that. You fetch them to the cave, and you're always as polite as pie
to them; and by and by they fall in love with you, and never want
to go home any more.''

{}``Well, if that's the way I'm agreed, but I don't take no stock
in it. Mighty soon we'll have the cave so cluttered up with women,
and fellows waiting to be ransomed, that there won't be no place for
the robbers. But go ahead, I ain't got nothing to say.''

Little Tommy Barnes was asleep now, and when they waked him up he
was scared, and cried, and said he wanted to go home to his ma, and
didn't want to be a robber any more.

So they all made fun of him, and called him cry-baby, and that made
him mad, and he said he would go straight and tell all the secrets.
But Tom give him five cents to keep quiet, and said we would all go
home and meet next week, and rob somebody and kill some people.

Ben Rogers said he couldn't get out much, only Sundays, and so he
wanted to begin next Sunday; but all the boys said it would be wicked
to do it on Sunday, and that settled the thing. They agreed to get
together and fix a day as soon as they could, and then we elected
Tom Sawyer first captain and Jo Harper second captain of the Gang,
and so started home.

I clumb up the shed and crept into my window just before day was breaking.
My new clothes was all greased up and clayey, and I was dog-tired.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER III.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER III}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER III}

\textit{\emph{Well}}, I got a good going-over in the morning from
old Miss Watson on account of my clothes; but the widow she didn't
scold, but only cleaned off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry
that I thought I would behave awhile if I could. Then Miss Watson
she took me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. She
told me to pray every day, and whatever I asked for I would get it.
But it warn't so. I tried it. Once I got a fish-line, but no hooks.
It warn't any good to me without hooks. I tried for the hooks three
or four times, but somehow I couldn't make it work. By and by, one
day, I asked Miss Watson to try for me, but she said I was a fool.
She never told me why, and I couldn't make it out no way.

I set down one time back in the woods, and had a long think about
it. I says to myself, if a body can get anything they pray for, why
don't Deacon Winn get back the money he lost on pork? Why can't the
widow get back her silver snuffbox that was stole? Why can't Miss
Watson fat up? No, says I to my self, there ain't nothing in it. I
went and told the widow about it, and she said the thing a body could
get by praying for it was {}``spiritual gifts.'' This was too many
for me, but she told me what she meant---I must help other people,
and do everything I could for other people, and look out for them
all the time, and never think about myself. This was including Miss
Watson, as I took it. I went out in the woods and turned it over in
my mind a long time, but I couldn't see no advantage about it---except
for the other people; so at last I reckoned I wouldn't worry about
it any more, but just let it go. Sometimes the widow would take me
one side and talk about Providence in a way to make a body's mouth
water; but maybe next day Miss Watson would take hold and knock it
all down again. I judged I could see that there was two Providences,
and a poor chap would stand considerable show with the widow's Providence,
but if Miss Watson's got him there warn't no help for him any more.
I thought it all out, and reckoned I would belong to the widow's if
he wanted me, though I couldn't make out how he was a-going to be
any better off then than what he was before, seeing I was so ignorant,
and so kind of low-down and ornery.

Pap he hadn't been seen for more than a year, and that was comfortable
for me; I didn't want to see him no more. He used to always whale
me when he was sober and could get his hands on me; though I used
to take to the woods most of the time when he was around. Well, about
this time he was found in the river drownded, about twelve mile above
town, so people said. They judged it was him, anyway; said this drownded
man was just his size, and was ragged, and had uncommon long hair,
which was all like pap; but they couldn't make nothing out of the
face, because it had been in the water so long it warn't much like
a face at all. They said he was floating on his back in the water.
They took him and buried him on the bank. But I warn't comfortable
long, because I happened to think of something. I knowed mighty well
that a drownded man don't float on his back, but on his face. So I
knowed, then, that this warn't pap, but a woman dressed up in a man's
clothes. So I was uncomfortable again. I judged the old man would
turn up again by and by, though I wished he wouldn't.

We played robber now and then about a month, and then I resigned.
All the boys did. We hadn't robbed nobody, hadn't killed any people,
but only just pretended. We used to hop out of the woods and go charging
down on hog-drivers and women in carts taking garden stuff to market,
but we never hived any of them. Tom Sawyer called the hogs {}``ingots,''
and he called the turnips and stuff {}``julery,'' and we would go
to the cave and powwow over what we had done, and how many people
we had killed and marked. But I couldn't see no profit in it. One
time Tom sent a boy to run about town with a blazing stick, which
he called a slogan (which was the sign for the Gang to get together),
and then he said he had got secret news by his spies that next day
a whole parcel of Spanish merchants and rich A-rabs was going to camp
in Cave Hollow with two hundred elephants, and six hundred camels,
and over a thousand {}``sumter'' mules, all loaded down with di'monds,
and they didn't have only a guard of four hundred soldiers, and so
we would lay in ambuscade, as he called it, and kill the lot and scoop
the things. He said we must slick up our swords and guns, and get
ready. He never could go after even a turnip-cart but he must have
the swords and guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath
and broomsticks, and you might scour at them till you rotted, and
then they warn't worth a mouthful of ashes more than what they was
before. I didn't believe we could lick such a crowd of Spaniards and
A-rabs, but I wanted to see the camels and elephants, so I was on
hand next day, Saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got the word
we rushed out of the woods and down the hill. But there warn't no
Spaniards and A-rabs, and there warn't no camels nor no elephants.
It warn't anything but a Sunday-school picnic, and only a primer-class
at that. We busted it up, and chased the children up the hollow; but
we never got anything but some doughnuts and jam, though Ben Rogers
got a rag doll, and Jo Harper got a hymn-book and a tract; and then
the teacher charged in, and made us drop everything and cut. I didn't
see no di'monds, and I told Tom Sawyer so. He said there was loads
of them there, anyway; and he said there was A-rabs there, too, and
elephants and things. I said, why couldn't we see them, then? He said
if I warn't so ignorant, but had read a book called \emph{Don Quixote},
I would know without asking. He said it was all done by enchantment.
He said there was hundreds of soldiers there, and elephants and treasure,
and so on, but we had enemies which he called magicians; and they
had turned the whole thing into an infant Sunday-school, just out
of spite. I said, all right; then the thing for us to do was to go
for the magicians. Tom Sawyer said I was a numskull.

{}``Why,'' said he, {}``a magician could call up a lot of genies,
and they would hash you up like nothing before you could say Jack
Robinson. They are as tall as a tree and as big around as a church.''

{}``Well,'' I says, {}``s'pose we got some genies to help \textit{us}---can't
we lick the other crowd then?''

{}``How you going to get them?''

{}``I don't know. How do \textit{they} get them?''

{}``Why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the genies
come tearing in, with the thunder and lightning a-ripping around and
the smoke a-rolling, and everything they're told to do they up and
do it. They don't think nothing of pulling a shot-tower up by the
roots, and belting a Sunday-school superintendent over the head with
it---or any other man.''

{}``Who makes them tear around so?''

{}``Why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. They belong to whoever
rubs the lamp or the ring, and they've got to do whatever he says.
If he tells them to build a palace forty miles long out of di'monds,
and fill it full of chewing-gum, or whatever you want, and fetch an
emperor's daughter from China for you to marry, they've got to do
it---and they've got to do it before sun-up next morning, too. And
more: they've got to waltz that palace around over the country wherever
you want it, you understand.''

{}``Well,'' says I, {}``I think they are a pack of flat-heads for
not keeping the palace themselves 'stead of fooling them away like
that. And what's more---if I was one of them I would see a man in
Jericho before I would drop my business and come to him for the rubbing
of an old tin lamp.''

{}``How you talk, Huck Finn. Why, you'd \textit{have} to come when
he rubbed it, whether you wanted to or not.''

{}``What!\ and I as high as a tree and as big as a church? All right,
then; I \textit{would} come; but I lay I'd make that man climb the
highest tree there was in the country.''

{}``Shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, Huck Finn. You don't
seem to know anything, somehow---perfect saphead.''

I thought all this over for two or three days, and then I reckoned
I would see if there was anything in it. I got an old tin lamp and
an iron ring, and went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till
I sweat like an Injun, calculating to build a palace and sell it;
but it warn't no use, none of the genies come. So then I judged that
all that stuff was only just one of Tom Sawyer's lies. I reckoned
he believed in the A-rabs and the elephants, but as for me I think
different. It had all the marks of a Sunday-school.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER IV.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER IV}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER IV}

\textit{\emph{Well}}, three or four months run along, and it was well
into the winter now. I had been to school most all the time and could
spell and read and write just a little, and could say the multiplication
table up to six times seven is thirty-five, and I don't reckon I could
ever get any further than that if I was to live forever. I don't take
no stock in mathematics, anyway.

At first I hated the school, but by and by I got so I could stand
it. Whenever I got uncommon tired I played hookey, and the hiding
I got next day done me good and cheered me up. So the longer I went
to school the easier it got to be. I was getting sort of used to the
widow's ways, too, and they warn't so raspy on me. Living in a house
and sleeping in a bed pulled on me pretty tight mostly, but before
the cold weather I used to slide out and sleep in the woods sometimes,
and so that was a rest to me. I liked the old ways best, but I was
getting so I liked the new ones, too, a little bit. The widow said
I was coming along slow but sure, and doing very satisfactory. She
said she warn't ashamed of me.

One morning I happened to turn over the salt-cellar at breakfast.
I reached for some of it as quick as I could to throw over my left
shoulder and keep off the bad luck, but Miss Watson was in ahead of
me, and crossed me off. She says, {}``Take your hands away, Huckleberry;
what a mess you are always making!'' The widow put in a good word
for me, but that warn't going to keep off the bad luck, I knowed that
well enough. I started out, after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky,
and wondering where it was going to fall on me, and what it was going
to be. There is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this
wasn't one of them kind; so I never tried to do anything, but just
poked along low-spirited and on the watch-out.

I went down to the front garden and clumb over the stile where you
go through the high board fence. There was an inch of new snow on
the ground, and I seen somebody's tracks. They had come up from the
quarry and stood around the stile a while, and then went on around
the garden fence. It was funny they hadn't come in, after standing
around so. I couldn't make it out. It was very curious, somehow. I
was going to follow around, but I stooped down to look at the tracks
first. I didn't notice anything at first, but next I did. There was
a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the
devil.

I was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I looked over my
shoulder every now and then, but I didn't see nobody. I was at Judge
Thatcher's as quick as I could get there. He said:

{}``Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did you come for your
interest?''

{}``No, sir,'' I says; {}``is there some for me?''

{}``Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night---over a hundred and
fifty dollars. Quite a fortune for you. You had better let me invest
it along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend
it.''

{}``No, sir,'' I says, {}``I don't want to spend it. I don't want
it at all---nor the six thousand, nuther. I want you to take it; I
want to give it to you---the six thousand and all.''

He looked surprised. He couldn't seem to make it out. He says:

{}``Why, what can you mean, my boy?''

I says, {}``Don't you ask me no questions about it, please. You'll
take it---won't you?''

He says:

{}``Well, I'm puzzled. Is something the matter?''

{}``Please take it,'' says I, {}``and don't ask me nothing---then
I won't have to tell no lies.''

He studied a while, and then he says:

{}``Oho-o! I think I see. You want to \textit{sell} all your property
to me---not give it. That's the correct idea.''

Then he wrote something on a paper and read it over, and says:

{}``There; you see it says `for a consideration.' That means I have
bought it of you and paid you for it. Here's a dollar for you. Now
you sign it.''

So I signed it, and left.

Miss Watson's nigger, Jim, had a hair-ball as big as your fist, which
had been took out of the fourth stomach of an ox, and he used to do
magic with it. He said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed
everything. So I went to him that night and told him pap was here
again, for I found his tracks in the snow. What I wanted to know was,
what he was going to do, and was he going to stay? Jim got out his
hair-ball and said something over it, and then he held it up and dropped
it on the floor. It fell pretty solid, and only rolled about an inch.
Jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just the same.
Jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and listened.
But it warn't no use; he said it wouldn't talk. He said sometimes
it wouldn't talk without money. I told him I had an old slick counterfeit
quarter that warn't no good because the brass showed through the silver
a little, and it wouldn't pass nohow, even if the brass didn't show,
because it was so slick it felt greasy, and so that would tell on
it every time.\  (I reckoned I wouldn't say nothing about the dollar
I got from the judge.) I said it was pretty bad money, but maybe the
hair-ball would take it, because maybe it wouldn't know the difference.
Jim smelt it and bit it and rubbed it, and said he would manage so
the hair-ball would think it was good. He said he would split open
a raw Irish potato and stick the quarter in between and keep it there
all night, and next morning you couldn't see no brass, and it wouldn't
feel greasy no more, and so anybody in town would take it in a minute,
let alone a hair-ball. Well, I knowed a potato would do that before,
but I had forgot it.

Jim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got down and listened
again. This time he said the hair-ball was all right. He said it would
tell my whole fortune if I wanted it to. I says, go on. So the hair-ball
talked to Jim, and Jim told it to me. He says:

{}``Yo' ole father doan' know yit what he's a-gwyne to do. Sometimes
he spec he'll go 'way, en den agin he spec he'll stay. De bes' way
is to res' easy en let de ole man take his own way. Dey's two angels
hoverin' roun' 'bout him. One uv 'em is white en shiny, en t'other
one is black. De white one gits him to go right a little while, den
de black one sail in en bust it all up. A body can't tell yit which
one gwyne to fetch him at de las'. But you is all right. You gwyne
to have considable trouble in yo' life, en considable joy. Sometimes
you gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every
time you's gwyne to git well agin. Dey's two gals flyin' 'bout you
in yo' life. One uv 'em's light en t'other one is dark. One is rich
en t'other is po'. You's gwyne to marry de po' one fust en de rich
one by en by. You wants to keep 'way fum de water as much as you kin,
en don't run no resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne
to git hung.''

When I lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat pap---his
own self!


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER V.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER V}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER V}

I \textit{\emph{had}} shut the door to. Then I turned around.\ and
there he was. I used to be scared of him all the time, he tanned me
so much. I reckoned I was scared now, too; but in a minute I see I
was mistaken---that is, after the first jolt, as you may say, when
my breath sort of hitched, he being so unexpected; but right away
after I see I warn't scared of him worth bothring about.

He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was long and tangled
and greasy, and hung down, and you could see his eyes shining through
like he was behind vines. It was all black, no gray; so was his long,
mixed-up whiskers. There warn't no color in his face, where his face
showed; it was white; not like another man's white, but a white to
make a body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl---a tree-toad
white, a fish-belly white. As for his clothes---just rags, that was
all. He had one ankle resting on t'other knee; the boot on that foot
was busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked them
now and then. His hat was laying on the floor---an old black slouch
with the top caved in, like a lid.

I stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with his chair
tilted back a little. I set the candle down. I noticed the window
was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. He kept a-looking me all over.
By and by he says:

{}``Starchy clothes---very. You think you're a good deal of a big-bug,
\textit{don't} you?''

{}``Maybe I am, maybe I ain't,'' I says.

{}``Don't you give me none o' your lip,'' says he. {}``You've put
on considerable many frills since I been away. I'll take you down
a peg before I get done with you. You're educated, too, they say---can
read and write. You think you're better'n your father, now, don't
you, because he can't? \textit{I'll} take it out of you. Who told
you you might meddle with such hifalut'n foolishness, hey?---who told
you you could?''

{}``The widow. She told me.''

{}``The widow, hey?---and who told the widow she could put in her
shovel about a thing that ain't none of her business?''

{}``Nobody never told her.''

{}``Well, I'll learn her how to meddle. And looky here---you drop
that school, you hear? I'll learn people to bring up a boy to put
on airs over his own father and let on to be better'n what \textit{he}
is. You lemme catch you fooling around that school again, you hear?
Your mother couldn't read, and she couldn't write, nuther, before
she died. None of the family couldn't before \textit{they} died. I
can't; and here you're a-swelling yourself up like this. I ain't the
man to stand it---you hear? Say, lemme hear you read.''

I took up a book and begun something about General Washington and
the wars. When I'd read about a half a minute, he fetched the book
a whack with his hand and knocked it across the house. He says:

{}``It's so. You can do it. I had my doubts when you told me. Now
looky here; you stop that putting on frills. I won't have it. I'll
lay for you, my smarty; and if I catch you about that school I'll
tan you good. First you know you'll get religion, too. I never see
such a son.''

He took up a little blue and yaller picture of some cows and a boy,
and says:

{}``What's this?''

{}``It's something they give me for learning my lessons good.''

He tore it up, and says:

{}``I'll give you something better---I'll give you a cowhide.''

He set there a-mumbling and a-growling a minute, and then he says:

{}``\textit{Ain't} you a sweet-scented dandy, though? A bed; and
bedclothes; and a look'n'-glass; and a piece of carpet on the floor---and
your own father got to sleep with the hogs in the tanyard. I never
see such a son. I bet I'll take some o' these frills out o' you before
I'm done with you. Why, there ain't no end to your airs---they say
you're rich. Hey?---how's that?''

{}``They lie---that's how.''

{}``Looky here---mind how you talk to me; I'm a-standing about all
I can stand now---so don't gimme no sass. I've been in town two days,
and I hain't heard nothing but about you bein' rich. I heard about
it away down the river, too. That's why I come. You git me that money
to-morrow---I want it.''

{}``I hain't got no money.''

{}``It's a lie. Judge Thatcher's got it. You git it. I want it.''

{}``I hain't got no money, I tell you. You ask Judge Thatcher; he'll
tell you the same.''

{}``All right. I'll ask him; and I'll make him pungle, too, or I'll
know the reason why. Say, how much you got in your pocket? I want
it.''

{}``I hain't got only a dollar, and I want that to---''

{}``It don't make no difference what you want it for---you just shell
it out.''

He took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then he said he was
going down town to get some whisky; said he hadn't had a drink all
day. When he had got out on the shed he put his head in again, and
cussed me for putting on frills and trying to be better than him;
and when I reckoned he was gone he come back and put his head in again,
and told me to mind about that school, because he was going to lay
for me and lick me if I didn't drop that.

Next day he was drunk, and he went to Judge Thatcher's and bullyragged
him, and tried to make him give up the money; but he couldn't, and
then he swore he'd make the law force him.

The judge and the widow went to law to get the court to take me away
from him and let one of them be my guardian; but it was a new judge
that had just come, and he didn't know the old man; so he said courts
mustn't interfere and separate families if they could help it; said
he'd druther not take a child away from its father. So Judge Thatcher
and the widow had to quit on the business.

That pleased the old man till he couldn't rest. He said he'd cowhide
me till I was black and blue if I didn't raise some money for him.
I borrowed three dollars from Judge Thatcher, and pap took it and
got drunk, and went a-blowing around and cussing and whooping and
carrying on; and he kept it up all over town, with a tin pan, till
most midnight; then they jailed him, and next day they had him before
court, and jailed him again for a week. But he said \textit{he} was
satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make it warm for
\textit{him}.

When he got out the new judge said he was a-going to make a man of
him. So he took him to his own house, and dressed him up clean and
nice, and had him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the family,
and was just old pie to him, so to speak. And after supper he talked
to him about temperance and such things till the old man cried, and
said he'd been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he was a-going
to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn't be ashamed of,
and he hoped the judge would help him and not look down on him. The
judge said he could hug him for them words; so he cried, and his wife
she cried again; pap said he'd been a man that had always been misunderstood
before, and the judge said he believed it. The old man said that what
a man wanted that was down was sympathy, and the judge said it was
so; so they cried again. And when it was bedtime the old man rose
up and held out his hand, and says:

{}``Look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take a-hold of it; shake
it. There's a hand that was the hand of a hog; but it ain't so no
more; it's the hand of a man that's started in on a new life, and'll
die before he'll go back. You mark them words---don't forget I said
them. It's a clean hand now; shake it---don't be afeard.''

So they shook it, one after the other, all around, and cried. The
judge's wife she kissed it. Then the old man he signed a pledge---made
his mark. The judge said it was the holiest time on record, or something
like that. Then they tucked the old man into a beautiful room, which
was the spare room, and in the night some time he got powerful thirsty
and clumb out on to the porch-roof and slid down a stanchion and traded
his new coat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb back again and had
a good old time; and towards daylight he crawled out again, drunk
as a fiddler, and rolled off the porch and broke his left arm in two
places, and was most froze to death when somebody found him after
sun-up. And when they come to look at that spare room they had to
take soundings before they could navigate it.

The judge he felt kind of sore. He said he reckoned a body could reform
the old man with a shotgun, maybe, but he didn't know no other way.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER VI.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER VI}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER VI}

\textit{\emph{Well}}, pretty soon the old man was up and around again,
and then he went for Judge Thatcher in the courts to make him give
up that money, and he went for me, too, for not stopping school. He
catched me a couple of times and thrashed me, but I went to school
just the same, and dodged him or outrun him most of the time. I didn't
want to go to school much before, but I reckoned I'd go now to spite
pap. That law trial was a slow business---appeared like they warn't
ever going to get started on it; so every now and then I'd borrow
two or three dollars off of the judge for him, to keep from getting
a cowhiding. Every time he got money he got drunk; and every time
he got drunk he raised Cain around town; and every time he raised
Cain he got jailed. He was just suited---this kind of thing was right
in his line.

He got to hanging around the widow's too much and so she told him
at last that if he didn't quit using around there she would make trouble
for him. Well, \textit{wasn't} he mad? He said he would show who was
Huck Finn's boss. So he watched out for me one day in the spring,
and catched me, and took me up the river about three mile in a skiff,
and crossed over to the Illinois shore where it was woody and there
warn't no houses but an old log hut in a place where the timber was
so thick you couldn't find it if you didn't know where it was.

He kept me with him all the time, and I never got a chance to run
off. We lived in that old cabin, and he always locked the door and
put the key under his head nights. He had a gun which he had stole,
I reckon, and we fished and hunted, and that was what we lived on.
Every little while he locked me in and went down to the store, three
miles, to the ferry, and traded fish and game for whisky, and fetched
it home and got drunk and had a good time, and licked me. The widow
she found out where I was by and by, and she sent a man over to try
to get hold of me; but pap drove him off with the gun, and it warn't
long after that till I was used to being where I was, and liked it---all
but the cowhide part.

It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day, smoking
and fishing, and no books nor study. Two months or more run along,
and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn't see how I'd
ever got to like it so well at the widow's, where you had to wash,
and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up regular,
and be forever bothering over a book, and have old Miss Watson pecking
at you all the time. I didn't want to go back no more. I had stopped
cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but now I took to it again
because pap hadn't no objections. It was pretty good times up in the
woods there, take it all around.

But by and by pap got too handy with his hick'ry, and I couldn't stand
it. I was all over welts. He got to going away so much, too, and locking
me in. Once he locked me in and was gone three days. It was dreadful
lonesome. I judged he had got drowned, and I wasn't ever going to
get out any more. I was scared. I made up my mind I would fix up some
way to leave there. I had tried to get out of that cabin many a time,
but I couldn't find no way. There warn't a window to it big enough
for a dog to get through. I couldn't get up the chimbly; it was too
narrow. The door was thick, solid oak slabs. Pap was pretty careful
not to leave a knife or anything in the cabin when he was away; I
reckon I had hunted the place over as much as a hundred times; well,
I was most all the time at it, because it was about the only way to
put in the time. But this time I found something at last; I found
an old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid in between a
rafter and the clapboards of the roof. I greased it up and went to
work. There was an old horse-blanket nailed against the logs at the
far end of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind from blowing
through the chinks and putting the candle out. I got under the table
and raised the blanket, and went to work to saw a section of the big
bottom log out---big enough to let me through. Well, it was a good
long job, but I was getting towards the end of it when I heard pap's
gun in the woods. I got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the
blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in.

Pap warn't in a good humor---so he was his natural self. He said he
was down town, and everything was going wrong. His lawyer said he
reckoned he would win his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got
started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it off a long
time, and Judge Thatcher knowed how to do it And he said people allowed
there'd be another trial to get me away from him and give me to the
widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win this time. This
shook me up considerable, because I didn't want to go back to the
widow's any more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as they called
it. Then the old man got to cussing, and cussed everything and everybody
he could think of, and then cussed them all over again to make sure
he hadn't skipped any, and after that he polished off with a kind
of a general cuss all round, including a considerable parcel of people
which he didn't know the names of, and so called them what's-his-name
when he got to them, and went right along with his cussing.

He said he would like to see the widow get me. He said he would watch
out, and if they tried to come any such game on him he knowed of a
place six or seven mile off to stow me in, where they might hunt till
they dropped and they couldn't find me. That made me pretty uneasy
again, but only for a minute; I reckoned I wouldn't stay on hand till
he got that chance.

The old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the things he had got.
There was a fifty-pound sack of corn meal, and a side of bacon, ammunition,
and a four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and two newspapers
for wadding, besides some tow. I toted up a load, and went back and
set down on the bow of the skiff to rest. I thought it all over, and
I reckoned I would walk off with the gun and some lines, and take
to the woods when I run away. I guessed I wouldn't stay in one place,
but just tramp right across the country, mostly night times, and hunt
and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away that the old man nor
the widow couldn't ever find me any more. I judged I would saw out
and leave that night if pap got drunk enough, and I reckoned he would.
I got so full of it I didn't notice how long I was staying till the
old man hollered and asked me whether I was asleep or drownded.

I got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark.
While I was cooking supper the old man took a swig or two and got
sort of warmed up, and went to ripping again. He had been drunk over
in town, and laid in the gutter all night, and he was a sight to look
at. A body would a thought he was Adam---he was just all mud. Whenever
his liquor begun to work he most always went for the govment.\ his
time he says:

{}``Call this a govment!\ why, just look at it and see what it's
like. Here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's son away from
him---a man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the
anxiety and all the expense of raising. Yes, just as that man has
got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to
do suthin' for \textit{him} and give him a rest, the law up and goes
for him. And they call \textit{that} govment! That ain't all, nuther.
The law backs that old Judge Thatcher up and helps him to keep me
out o' my property. Here's what the law does: The law takes a man
worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old trap
of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain't
fitten for a hog. They call that govment! A man can't get his rights
in a govment like this. Sometimes I've a mighty notion to just leave
the country for good and all. Yes, and I \textit{told} 'em so; I told
old Thatcher so to his face. Lots of 'em heard me, and can tell what
I said. Says I, for two cents I'd leave the blamed country and never
come a-near it agin. Them's the very words. I says look at my hat---if
you call it a hat---but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes
down till it's below my chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at all,
but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o' stove-pipe.
Look at it, says I---such a hat for me to wear---one of the wealthiest
men in this town if I could git my rights.

{}``Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. Why, looky here.
There was a free nigger there from Ohio---a mulatter, most as white
as a white man. He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and
the shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's got as
fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and
a silver-headed cane---the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the State.
And what do you think? They said he was a p'fessor in a college, and
could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. And that
ain't the wust. They said he could \textit{vote} when he was at home.
Well, that let me out. Thinks I, what is the country a-coming to?
It was 'lection day, and I was just about to go and vote myself if
I warn't too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a
State in this country where they'd let that nigger vote, I drawed
out. I says I'll never vote agin. Them's the very words I said; they
all heard me; and the country may rot for all me---I'll never vote
agin as long as I live. And to see the cool way of that nigger---why,
he wouldn't a give me the road if I hadn't shoved him out o' the way.
I says to the people, why ain't this nigger put up at auction and
sold?---that's what I want to know. And what do you reckon they said?
Why, they said he couldn't be sold till he'd been in the State six
months, and he hadn't been there that long yet. There, now---that's
a specimen. They call that a govment that can't sell a free nigger
till he's been in the State six months. Here's a govment that calls
itself a govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a
govment, and yet's got to set stock-still for six whole months before
it can take a hold of a prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted
free nigger, and---''

Pap was agoing on so he never noticed where his old limber legs was
taking him to, so he went head over heels over the tub of salt pork
and barked both shins, and the rest of his speech was all the hottest
kind of language---mostly hove at the nigger and the govment, though
he give the tub some, too, all along, here and there. He hopped around
the cabin considerable, first on one leg and then on the other, holding
first one shin and then the other one, and at last he let out with
his left foot all of a sudden and fetched the tub a rattling kick.
But it warn't good judgment, because that was the boot that had a
couple of his toes leaking out of the front end of it; so now he raised
a howl that fairly made a body's hair raise, and down he went in the
dirt, and rolled there, and held his toes; and the cussing he done
then laid over anything he had ever done previous. He said so his
own self afterwards. He had heard old Sowberry Hagan in his best days,
and he said it laid over him, too; but I reckon that was sort of piling
it on, maybe.

After supper pap took the jug, and said he had enough whisky there
for two drunks and one \emph{delirium tremens}. That was always his
word. I judged he would be blind drunk in about an hour, and then
I would steal the key, or saw myself out, one or t'other. He drank
and drank, and tumbled down on his blankets by and by; but luck didn't
run my way. He didn't go sound asleep, but was uneasy. He groaned
and moaned and thrashed around this way and that for a long time.
At last I got so sleepy I couldn't keep my eyes open all I could do,
and so before I knowed what I was about I was sound asleep, and the
candle burning.

I don't know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden there was
an awful scream and I was up. There was pap looking wild, and skipping
around every which way and yelling about snakes. He said they was
crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and
say one had bit him on the cheek---but I couldn't see no snakes. He
started and run round and round the cabin, hollering {}``Take him
off!\ take him off!\ he's biting me on the neck!'' I never see
a man look so wild in the eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out,
and fell down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast,
kicking things every which way, and striking and grabbing at the air
with his hands, and screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of
him. He wore out by and by, and laid still a while, moaning. Then
he laid stiller, and didn't make a sound. I could hear the owls and
the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. He
was laying over by the corner. By and by he raised up part way and
listened, with his head to one side. He says, very low:

{}``Tramp---tramp---tramp; that's the dead; tramp---tramp---tramp;
they're coming after me; but I won't go. Oh, they're here!\ don't
touch me---don't!\ hands off---they're cold; let go. Oh, let a poor
devil alone!''

Then he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to let
him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed in
under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying.
I could hear him through the blanket.

By and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild, and
he see me and went for me. He chased me round and round the place
with a clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying he would
kill me, and then I couldn't come for him no more. I begged, and told
him I was only Huck; but he laughed \textit{such} a screechy laugh,
and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up. Once when I turned
short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket
between my shoulders, and I thought I was gone; but I slid out of
the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself. Pretty soon he was
all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and
said he would rest a minute and then kill me. He put his knife under
him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see
who was who.

So he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the old split-bottom
chair and clumb up as easy as I could, not to make any noise, and
got down the gun. I slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was
loaded, then I laid it across the turnip barrel, pointing towards
pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow
and still the time did drag along.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER VII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER VII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER VII}

{}``Git up! What you 'bout?''

I opened my eyes and looked around, trying to make out where I was.
It was after sun-up, and I had been sound asleep. Pap was standing
over me looking sour and sick, too. He says:

{}``What you doin' with this gun?''

I judged he didn't know nothing about what he had been doing, so I
says:

{}``Somebody tried to get in, so I was laying for him.''

{}``Why didn't you roust me out?''

{}``Well, I tried to, but I couldn't; I couldn't budge you.''

{}``Well, all right. Don't stand there palavering all day, but out
with you and see if there's a fish on the lines for breakfast. I'll
be along in a minute.''

He unlocked the door, and I cleared out up the river-bank. I noticed
some pieces of limbs and such things floating down, and a sprinkling
of bark; so I knowed the river had begun to rise. I reckoned I would
have great times now if I was over at the town. The June rise used
to be always luck for me; because as soon as that rise begins here
comes cordwood floating down, and pieces of log rafts---sometimes
a dozen logs together; so all you have to do is to catch them and
sell them to the wood-yards and the sawmill.

I went along up the bank with one eye out for pap and t'other one
out for what the rise might fetch along. Well, all at once here comes
a canoe; just a beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long,
riding high like a duck. I shot head-first off of the bank like a
frog, clothes and all on, and struck out for the canoe. I just expected
there'd be somebody laying down in it, because people often done that
to fool folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff out most to it they'd
raise up and laugh at him. But it warn't so this time. It was a drift-canoe
sure enough, and I clumb in and paddled her ashore. Thinks I, the
old man will be glad when he sees this---she's worth ten dollars.
But when I got to shore pap wasn't in sight yet, and as I was running
her into a little creek like a gully, all hung over with vines and
willows, I struck another idea: I judged I'd hide her good, and then,
'stead of taking to the woods when I run off, I'd go down the river
about fifty mile and camp in one place for good, and not have such
a rough time tramping on foot.

It was pretty close to the shanty, and I thought I heard the old man
coming all the time; but I got her hid; and then I out and looked
around a bunch of willows, and there was the old man down the path
a piece just drawing a bead on a bird with his gun. So he hadn't seen
anything.

When he got along I was hard at it taking up a {}``trot'' line.
He abused me a little for being so slow; but I told him I fell in
the river, and that was what made me so long. I knowed he would see
I was wet, and then he would be asking questions. We got five catfish
off the lines and went home.

While we laid off after breakfast to sleep up, both of us being about
wore out, I got to thinking that if I could fix up some way to keep
pap and the widow from trying to follow me, it would be a certainer
thing than trusting to luck to get far enough off before they missed
me; you see, all kinds of things might happen. Well, I didn't see
no way for a while, but by and by pap raised up a minute to drink
another barrel of water, and he says:

{}``Another time a man comes a-prowling round here you roust me out,
you hear? That man warn't here for no good. I'd a shot him. Next time
you roust me out, you hear?''

Then he dropped down and went to sleep again; but what he had been
saying give me the very idea I wanted. I says to myself, I can fix
it now so nobody won't think of following me.

About twelve o'clock we turned out and went along up the bank. The
river was coming up pretty fast, and lots of driftwood going by on
the rise. By and by along comes part of a log raft---nine logs fast
together. We went out with the skiff and towed it ashore. Then we
had dinner. Anybody but pap would a waited and seen the day through,
so as to catch more stuff; but that warn't pap's style. Nine logs
was enough for one time; he must shove right over to town and sell.
So he locked me in and took the skiff, and started off towing the
raft about half-past three. I judged he wouldn't come back that night.
I waited till I reckoned he had got a good start; then I out with
my saw, and went to work on that log again. Before he was t'other
side of the river I was out of the hole; him and his raft was just
a speck on the water away off yonder.

I took the sack of corn meal and took it to where the canoe was hid,
and shoved the vines and branches apart and put it in; then I done
the same with the side of bacon; then the whisky-jug. I took all the
coffee and sugar there was, and all the ammunition; I took the wadding;
I took the bucket and gourd; I took a dipper and a tin cup, and my
old saw and two blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot. I took
fish-lines and matches and other things---everything that was worth
a cent. I cleaned out the place. I wanted an axe, but there wasn't
any, only the one out at the woodpile, and I knowed why I was going
to leave that. I fetched out the gun, and now I was done.

I had wore the ground a good deal crawling out of the hole and dragging
out so many things. So I fixed that as good as I could from the outside
by scattering dust on the place, which covered up the smoothness and
the sawdust. Then I fixed the piece of log back into its place, and
put two rocks under it and one against it to hold it there, for it
was bent up at that place and didn't quite touch ground. If you stood
four or five foot away and didn't know it was sawed, you wouldn't
never notice it; and besides, this was the back of the cabin, and
it warn't likely anybody would go fooling around there.

It was all grass clear to the canoe, so I hadn't left a track. I followed
around to see. I stood on the bank and looked out over the river.
All safe. So I took the gun and went up a piece into the woods, and
was hunting around for some birds when I see a wild pig; hogs soon
went wild in them bottoms after they had got away from the prairie
farms. I shot this fellow and took him into camp.

I took the axe and smashed in the door. I beat it and hacked it considerable
a-doing it. I fetched the pig in, and took him back nearly to the
table and hacked into his throat with the axe, and laid him down on
the ground to bleed; I say ground because it was ground---hard packed,
and no boards. Well, next I took an old sack and put a lot of big
rocks in it---all I could drag---and I started it from the pig, and
dragged it to the door and through the woods down to the river and
dumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight. You could easy see that
something had been dragged over the ground. I did wish Tom Sawyer
was there; I knowed he would take an interest in this kind of business,
and throw in the fancy touches. Nobody could spread himself like Tom
Sawyer in such a thing as that.

Well, last I pulled out some of my hair, and blooded the axe good,
and stuck it on the back side, and slung the axe in the corner. Then
I took up the pig and held him to my breast with my jacket (so he
couldn't drip) till I got a good piece below the house and then dumped
him into the river. Now I thought of something else. So I went and
got the bag of meal and my old saw out of the canoe, and fetched them
to the house. I took the bag to where it used to stand, and ripped
a hole in the bottom of it with the saw, for there warn't no knives
and forks on the place---pap done everything with his clasp-knife
about the cooking. Then I carried the sack about a hundred yards across
the grass and through the willows east of the house, to a shallow
lake that was five mile wide and full of rushes---and ducks too, you
might say, in the season. There was a slough or a creek leading out
of it on the other side that went miles away, I don't know where,
but it didn't go to the river. The meal sifted out and made a little
track all the way to the lake. I dropped pap's whetstone there too,
so as to look like it had been done by accident. Then I tied up the
rip in the meal sack with a string, so it wouldn't leak no more, and
took it and my saw to the canoe again.

It was about dark now; so I dropped the canoe down the river under
some willows that hung over the bank, and waited for the moon to rise.
I made fast to a willow; then I took a bite to eat, and by and by
laid down in the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan. I says
to myself, they'll follow the track of that sackful of rocks to the
shore and then drag the river for me. And they'll follow that meal
track to the lake and go browsing down the creek that leads out of
it to find the robbers that killed me and took the things. They won't
ever hunt the river for anything but my dead carcass. They'll soon
get tired of that, and won't bother no more about me. All right; I
can stop anywhere I want to. Jackson's Island is good enough for me;
I know that island pretty well, and nobody ever comes there. And then
I can paddle over to town nights, and slink around and pick up things
I want. Jackson's Island's the place.

I was pretty tired, and the first thing I knowed I was asleep. When
I woke up I didn't know where I was for a minute. I set up and looked
around, a little scared. Then I remembered. The river looked miles
and miles across. The moon was so bright I could a counted the drift
logs that went a-slipping along, black and still, hundreds of yards
out from shore. Everything was dead quiet, and it looked late, and
\textit{smelt} late. You know what I mean---I don't know the words
to put it in.

I took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch and
start when I heard a sound away over the water. I listened. Pretty
soon I made it out. It was that dull kind of a regular sound that
comes from oars working in rowlocks when it's a still night. I peeped
out through the willow branches, and there it was---a skiff, away
across the water. I couldn't tell how many was in it. It kept a-coming,
and when it was abreast of me I see there warn't but one man in it.
Think's I, maybe it's pap, though I warn't expecting him. He dropped
below me with the current, and by and by he came a-swinging up shore
in the easy water, and he went by so close I could a reached out the
gun and touched him. Well, it \textit{was} pap, sure enough---and
sober, too, by the way he laid his oars.

I didn't lose no time. The next minute I was a-spinning down stream
soft but quick in the shade of the bank. I made two mile and a half,
and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more towards the middle
of the river, because pretty soon I would be passing the ferry landing,
and people might see me and hail me. I got out amongst the driftwood,
and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her float. I
laid there, and had a good rest and a smoke out of my pipe, looking
away into the sky; not a cloud in it. The sky looks ever so deep when
you lay down on your back in the moonshine; I never knowed it before.
And how far a body can hear on the water such nights! I heard people
talking at the ferry landing. I heard what they said, too---every
word of it. One man said it was getting towards the long days and
the short nights now. T'other one said \textit{this} warn't one of
the short ones, he reckoned---and then they laughed, and he said it
over again, and they laughed again; then they waked up another fellow
and told him, and laughed, but he didn't laugh; he ripped out something
brisk, and said let him alone. The first fellow said he 'lowed to
tell it to his old woman---she would think it was pretty good; but
he said that warn't nothing to some things he had said in his time.
I heard one man say it was nearly three o'clock, and he hoped daylight
wouldn't wait more than about a week longer. After that the talk got
further and further away, and I couldn't make out the words any more;
but I could hear the mumble, and now and then a laugh, too, but it
seemed a long ways off.

I was away below the ferry now. I rose up, and there was Jackson's
Island, about two mile and a half down stream, heavy timbered and
standing up out of the middle of the river, big and dark and solid,
like a steamboat without any lights. There warn't any signs of the
bar at the head---it was all under water now.

It didn't take me long to get there. I shot past the head at a ripping
rate, the current was so swift, and then I got into the dead water
and landed on the side towards the Illinois shore. I run the canoe
into a deep dent in the bank that I knowed about; I had to part the
willow branches to get in; and when I made fast nobody could a seen
the canoe from the outside.

I went up and set down on a log at the head of the island, and looked
out on the big river and the black driftwood and away over to the
town, three mile away, where there was three or four lights twinkling.
A monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile up stream, coming along
down, with a lantern in the middle of it. I watched it come creeping
down, and when it was most abreast of where I stood I heard a man
say, {}``Stern oars, there!\ heave her head to stabboard!'' I heard
that just as plain as if the man was by my side.

There was a little gray in the sky now; so I stepped into the woods,
and laid down for a nap before breakfast.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER VIII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER VIII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER VIII}

\textit{\emph{The}} sun was up so high when I waked that I judged
it was after eight o'clock. I laid there in the grass and the cool
shade thinking about things, and feeling rested and ruther comfortable
and satisfied. I could see the sun out at one or two holes, but mostly
it was big trees all about, and gloomy in there amongst them. There
was freckled places on the ground where the light sifted down through
the leaves, and the freckled places swapped about a little, showing
there was a little breeze up there. A couple of squirrels set on a
limb and jabbered at me very friendly.

I was powerful lazy and comfortable---didn't want to get up and cook
breakfast. Well, I was dozing off again when I thinks I hears a deep
sound of {}``boom!''\ away up the river. I rouses up, and rests
on my elbow and listens; pretty soon I hears it again. I hopped up,
and went and looked out at a hole in the leaves, and I see a bunch
of smoke laying on the water a long ways up---about abreast the ferry.
And there was the ferryboat full of people floating along down. I
knowed what was the matter now. {}``Boom!'' I see the white smoke
squirt out of the ferryboat's side. You see, they was firing cannon
over the water, trying to make my carcass come to the top.

I was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for me to start a fire,
because they might see the smoke. So I set there and watched the cannon-smoke
and listened to the boom. The river was a mile wide there, and it
always looks pretty on a summer morning---so I was having a good enough
time seeing them hunt for my remainders if I only had a bite to eat.
Well, then I happened to think how they always put quicksilver in
loaves of bread and float them off, because they always go right to
the drownded carcass and stop there. So, says I, I'll keep a lookout,
and if any of them's floating around after me I'll give them a show.
I changed to the Illinois edge of the island to see what luck I could
have, and I warn't disappointed. A big double loaf come along, and
I most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped and she floated
out further. Of course I was where the current set in the closest
to the shore---I knowed enough for that. But by and by along comes
another one, and this time I won. I took out the plug and shook out
the little dab of quicksilver, and set my teeth in. It was {}``baker's
bread''---what the quality eat; none of your low-down corn-pone.

I got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log, munching
the bread and watching the ferry-boat, and very well satisfied. And
then something struck me. I says, now I reckon the widow or the parson
or somebody prayed that this bread would find me, and here it has
gone and done it. So there ain't no doubt but there is something in
that thing---that is, there's something in it when a body like the
widow or the parson prays, but it don't work for me, and I reckon
it don't work for only just the right kind.

I lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went on watching. The
ferryboat was floating with the current, and I allowed I'd have a
chance to see who was aboard when she come along, because she would
come in close, where the bread did. When she'd got pretty well along
down towards me, I put out my pipe and went to where I fished out
the bread, and laid down behind a log on the bank in a little open
place. Where the log forked I could peep through.

By and by she come along, and she drifted in so close that they could
a run out a plank and walked ashore. Most everybody was on the boat.
Pap, and Judge Thatcher, and Bessie Thatcher, and Jo Harper, and Tom
Sawyer, and his old Aunt Polly, and Sid and Mary, and plenty more.
Everybody was talking about the murder, but the captain broke in and
says:

{}``Look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest here, and maybe
he's washed ashore and got tangled amongst the brush at the water's
edge. I hope so, anyway.''

I didn't hope so. They all crowded up and leaned over the rails, nearly
in my face, and kept still, watching with all their might. I could
see them first-rate, but they couldn't see me. Then the captain sung
out:

{}``Stand away!''\ and the cannon let off such a blast right before
me that it made me deef with the noise and pretty near blind with
the smoke, and I judged I was gone. If they'd a had some bullets in,
I reckon they'd a got the corpse they was after. Well, I see I warn't
hurt, thanks to goodness. The boat floated on and went out of sight
around the shoulder of the island. I could hear the booming now and
then, further and further off, and by and by, after an hour, I didn't
hear it no more. The island was three mile long. I judged they had
got to the foot, and was giving it up. But they didn't yet a while.
They turned around the foot of the island and started up the channel
on the Missouri side, under steam, and booming once in a while as
they went. I crossed over to that side and watched them. When they
got abreast the head of the island they quit shooting and dropped
over to the Missouri shore and went home to the town.

I knowed I was all right now. Nobody else would come a-hunting after
me. I got my traps out of the canoe and made me a nice camp in the
thick woods. I made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put my
things under so the rain couldn't get at them. I catched a catfish
and haggled him open with my saw, and towards sundown I started my
camp fire and had supper. Then I set out a line to catch some fish
for breakfast.

When it was dark I set by my camp fire smoking, and feeling pretty
well satisfied; but by and by it got sort of lonesome, and so I went
and set on the bank and listened to the current swashing along, and
counted the stars and drift logs and rafts that come down, and then
went to bed; there ain't no better way to put in time when you are
lonesome; you can't stay so, you soon get over it.

And so for three days and nights. No difference---just the same thing.
But the next day I went exploring around down through the island.
I was boss of it; it all belonged to me, so to say, and I wanted to
know all about it; but mainly I wanted to put in the time. I found
plenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and green summer grapes, and
green razberries; and the green blackberries was just beginning to
show. They would all come handy by and by, I judged.

Well, I went fooling along in the deep woods till I judged I warn't
far from the foot of the island. I had my gun along, but I hadn't
shot nothing; it was for protection; thought I would kill some game
nigh home. About this time I mighty near stepped on a good-sized snake,
and it went sliding off through the grass and flowers, and I after
it, trying to get a shot at it. I clipped along, and all of a sudden
I bounded right on to the ashes of a camp fire that was still smoking.

My heart jumped up amongst my lungs. I never waited for to look further,
but uncocked my gun and went sneaking back on my tiptoes as fast as
ever I could. Every now and then I stopped a second amongst the thick
leaves and listened, but my breath come so hard I couldn't hear nothing
else. I slunk along another piece further, then listened again; and
so on, and so on. If I see a stump, I took it for a man; if I trod
on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a person had cut one
of my breaths in two and I only got half, and the short half, too.

When I got to camp I warn't feeling very brash, there warn't much
sand in my craw; but I says, this ain't no time to be fooling around.
So I got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of
sight, and I put out the fire and scattered the ashes around to look
like an old last year's camp, and then clumb a tree.

I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I didn't see nothing,
I didn't hear nothing---I only \textit{thought} I heard and seen as
much as a thousand things. Well, I couldn't stay up there forever;
so at last I got down, but I kept in the thick woods and on the lookout
all the time. All I could get to eat was berries and what was left
over from breakfast.

By the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So when it was good
and dark I slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled over to
the Illinois bank---about a quarter of a mile. I went out in the woods
and cooked a supper, and I had about made up my mind I would stay
there all night when I hear a \emph{plunkety-plunk, plunkety-plunk},
and says to myself, horses coming; and next I hear people's voices.
I got everything into the canoe as quick as I could, and then went
creeping through the woods to see what I could find out. I hadn't
got far when I hear a man say:

{}``We better camp here if we can find a good place; the horses is
about beat out. Let's look around.''

I didn't wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. I tied up in
the old place, and reckoned I would sleep in the canoe.

I didn't sleep much. I couldn't, somehow, for thinking. And every
time I waked up I thought somebody had me by the neck. So the sleep
didn't do me no good. By and by I says to myself, I can't live this
way; I'm a-going to find out who it is that's here on the island with
me; I'll find it out or bust. Well, I felt better right off.

So I took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two, and
then let the canoe drop along down amongst the shadows. The moon was
shining, and outside of the shadows it made it most as light as day.
I poked along well on to an hour, everything still as rocks and sound
asleep. Well, by this time I was most down to the foot of the island.
A little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as good as
saying the night was about done. I give her a turn with the paddle
and brung her nose to shore; then I got my gun and slipped out and
into the edge of the woods. I sat down there on a log, and looked
out through the leaves. I see the moon go off watch, and the darkness
begin to blanket the river. But in a little while I see a pale streak
over the treetops, and knowed the day was coming. So I took my gun
and slipped off towards where I had run across that camp fire, stopping
every minute or two to listen. But I hadn't no luck somehow; I couldn't
seem to find the place. But by and by, sure enough, I catched a glimpse
of fire away through the trees. I went for it, cautious and slow.
By and by I was close enough to have a look, and there laid a man
on the ground. It most give me the fantods. He had a blanket around
his head, and his head was nearly in the fire. I set there behind
a clump of bushes in about six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him
steady. It was getting gray daylight now. Pretty soon he gapped and
stretched himself and hove off the blanket, and it was Miss Watson's
Jim! I bet I was glad to see him. I says:

{}``Hello, Jim!''\ and skipped out.

He bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he drops down on his knees,
and puts his hands together and says:

{}``Doan' hurt me---don't! I hain't ever done no harm to a ghos'.
I alwuz liked dead people, en done all I could for 'em. You go en
git in de river agin, whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to Ole Jim,
'at 'uz awluz yo' fren'.''

Well, I warn't long making him understand I warn't dead. I was ever
so glad to see Jim. I warn't lonesome now. I told him I warn't afraid
of \textit{him} telling the people where I was. I talked along, but
he only set there and looked at me; never said nothing. Then I says:

{}``It's good daylight. Le's get breakfast. Make up your camp fire
good.''

{}``What's de use er makin' up de camp fire to cook strawbries en
sich truck? But you got a gun, hain't you? Den we kin git sumfn better
den strawbries.''

{}``Strawberries and such truck,'' I says. {}``Is that what you
live on?''

{}``I couldn' git nuffn else,'' he says.

{}``Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?''

{}``I come heah de night arter you's killed.''

{}``What, all that time?''

{}``Yes---indeedy.''

{}``And ain't you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?''

{}``No, sah---nuffn else.''

{}``Well, you must be most starved, ain't you?''

{}``I reck'n I could eat a hoss. I think I could. How long you ben
on de islan'?''

{}``Since the night I got killed.''

{}``No! W'y, what has you lived on? But you got a gun. Oh, yes, you
got a gun. Dat's good. Now you kill sumfn en I'll make up de fire.''

So we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire
in a grassy open place amongst the trees, I fetched meal and bacon
and coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups,
and the nigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was
all done with witchcraft. I catched a good big catfish, too, and Jim
cleaned him with his knife, and fried him.

When breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking
hot. Jim laid it in with all his might, for he was most about starved.
Then when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied.
By and by Jim says:

{}``But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat 'uz killed in dat shanty
ef it warn't you?''

Then I told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. He said
Tom Sawyer couldn't get up no better plan than what I had. Then I
says:

{}``How do you come to be here, Jim, and how'd you get here?''

He looked pretty uneasy, and didn't say nothing for a minute. Then
he says:

{}``Maybe I better not tell.''

{}``Why, Jim?''

{}``Well, dey's reasons. But you wouldn' tell on me ef I uz to tell
you, would you, Huck?''

{}``Blamed if I would, Jim.''

{}``Well, I b'lieve you, Huck. I---I \textit{run} \textit{off}.''

{}``Jim!''

{}``But mind, you said you wouldn' tell---you know you said you wouldn'
tell, Huck.''

{}``Well, I did. I said I wouldn't, and I'll stick to it. Honest
\textit{injun}, I will. People would call me a low-down Abolitionist
and despise me for keeping mum---but that don't make no difference.
I ain't a-going to tell, and I ain't a-going back there, anyways.
So, now, le's know all about it.''

{}``Well, you see, it 'uz dis way. Ole missus---dat's Miss Watson---she
pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said
she wouldn' sell me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger
trader roun' de place considable lately, en I begin to git oneasy.
Well, one night I creeps to de do' pooty late, en de do' warn't quite
shet, en I hear old missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down
to Orleans, but she didn' want to, but she could git eight hund'd
dollars for me, en it 'uz sich a big stack o' money she couldn' resis'.
De widder she try to git her to say she wouldn' do it, but I never
waited to hear de res'. I lit out mighty quick, I tell you.

{}``I tuck out en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a skift 'long
de sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit,
so I hid in de ole tumble-down cooper-shop on de bank to wait for
everybody to go 'way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody
roun' all de time. 'Long 'bout six in de mawnin' skifts begin to go
by, en 'bout eight er nine every skift dat went 'long wuz talkin'
'bout how yo' pap come over to de town en say you's killed. Dese las'
skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen a-goin' over for to see de place.
Sometimes dey'd pull up at de sho' en take a res' b'fo' dey started
acrost, so by de talk I got to know all 'bout de killin'. I 'uz powerful
sorry you's killed, Huck, but I ain't no mo' now.

{}``I laid dah under de shavin's all day. I 'uz hungry, but I warn't
afeard; bekase I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin' to start
to de camp-meet'n' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey
knows I goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec
to see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me tell arter dark
in de evenin'. De yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin
out en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way.

{}``Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went
'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no houses. I'd made up my
mine 'bout what I's agwyne to do. You see, ef I kep' on tryin' to
git away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross
over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah I'd
lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a
raff is what I's arter; it doan' \textit{make} no track.

{}``I see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so I wade' in en
shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n half way acrost de river,
en got in 'mongst de drift-wood, en kep' my head down low, en kinder
swum agin de current tell de raff come along. Den I swum to de stern
uv it en tuck a-holt. It clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for a little
while. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De men 'uz all 'way
yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz a-risin', en
dey wuz a good current; so I reck'n'd 'at by fo' in de mawnin' I'd
be twenty-five mile down de river, en den I'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight
en swim asho', en take to de woods on de Illinois side.

{}``But I didn' have no luck. When we 'uz mos' down to de head er
de islan' a man begin to come aft wid de lantern, I see it warn't
no use fer to wait, so I slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'.
Well, I had a notion I could lan' mos' anywhers, but I couldn't---bank
too bluff. I 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' I found' a good
place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no
mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug
er dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so I 'uz
all right.''

{}``And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time?
Why didn't you get mud-turkles?''

{}``How you gwyne to git 'm? You can't slip up on um en grab um;
en how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it
in de night? En I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime.''

{}``Well, that's so. You've had to keep in the woods all the time,
of course. Did you hear 'em shooting the cannon?''

{}``Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah---watched
um thoo de bushes.''

Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting.
Jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it was a sign
when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same
way when young birds done it. I was going to catch some of them, but
Jim wouldn't let me. He said it was death. He said his father laid
mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny
said his father would die, and he did.

And Jim said you mustn't count the things you are going to cook for
dinner, because that would bring bad luck. The same if you shook the
table-cloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive and
that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning,
or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and die. Jim
said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, because
I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me.

I had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them.
Jim knowed all kinds of signs. He said he knowed most everything.
I said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and
so I asked him if there warn't any good-luck signs. He says:

{}``Mighty few---an' \textit{dey} ain't no use to a body. What you
want to know when good luck's a-comin' for? Want to keep it off?''
And he said: {}``Ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's
a sign dat you's agwyne to be rich. Well, dey's some use in a sign
like dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. You see, maybe you's got to be
po' a long time fust, en so you might git discourage' en kill yo'sef
'f you didn' know by de sign dat you gwyne to be rich bymeby.''

{}``Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?''

{}``What's de use to ax dat question? Don't you see I has?''

{}``Well, are you rich?''

{}``No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich agin. Wunst I
had foteen dollars, but I tuck to specalat'n', en got busted out.''

{}``What did you speculate in, Jim?''

{}``Well, fust I tackled stock.''

{}``What kind of stock?''

{}``Why, live stock---cattle, you know. I put ten dollars in a cow.
But I ain' gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. De cow up 'n' died
on my han's.''

{}``So you lost the ten dollars.''

{}``No, I didn't lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of it. I sole
de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents.''

{}``You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you speculate any
more?''

{}``Yes. You know that one-laigged nigger dat b'longs to old Misto
Bradish? Well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar
would git fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de year. Well, all de niggers
went in, but dey didn't have much. I wuz de on'y one dat had much.
So I stuck out for mo' dan fo' dollars, en I said 'f I didn' git it
I'd start a bank mysef. Well, o' course dat nigger want' to keep me
out er de business, bekase he says dey warn't business 'nough for
two banks, so he say I could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five
at de en' er de year.

{}``So I done it. Den I reck'n'd I'd inves' de thirty-five dollars
right off en keep things a-movin'. Dey wuz a nigger name' Bob, dat
had ketched a wood-flat, en his marster didn' know it; en I bought
it off'n him en told him to take de thirty-five dollars when de en'
er de year come; but somebody stole de wood-flat dat night, en nex
day de one-laigged nigger say de bank's busted. So dey didn' none
uv us git no money.''

{}``What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?''

{}``Well, I 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but I had a dream, en de dream
tole me to give it to a nigger name' Balum---Balum's Ass dey call
him for short; he's one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he's lucky,
dey say, en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let Balum inves' de
ten cents en he'd make a raise for me. Well, Balum he tuck de money,
en when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give
to de po' len' to de Lord, en boun' to git his money back a hund'd
times. So Balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po', en laid low
to see what wuz gwyne to come of it.''

{}``Well, what did come of it, Jim?''

{}``Nuffn never come of it. I couldn' manage to k'leck dat money
no way; en Balum he couldn'. I ain' gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout
I see de security. Boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd times, de
preacher says! Ef I could git de ten \textit{cents} back, I'd call
it squah, en be glad er de chanst.''

{}``Well, it's all right anyway, Jim, long as you're going to be
rich again some time or other.''

{}``Yes; en I's rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I's
wuth eight hund'd dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn' want
no mo'.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER IX.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER IX}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER IX}

I \textit{\emph{wanted}} to go and look at a place right about the
middle of the island that I'd found when I was exploring; so we started
and soon got to it, because the island was only three miles long and
a quarter of a mile wide.

This place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot
high. We had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep
and the bushes so thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it,
and by and by found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to the
top on the side towards Illinois. The cavern was as big as two or
three rooms bunched together, and Jim could stand up straight in it.
It was cool in there. Jim was for putting our traps in there right
away, but I said we didn't want to be climbing up and down there all
the time.

Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the
traps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to
the island, and they would never find us without dogs. And, besides,
he said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did I
want the things to get wet?

So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern,
and lugged all the traps up there. Then we hunted up a place close
by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took some fish
off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for dinner.

The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on
one side of the door the floor stuck out a little bit, and was flat
and a good place to build a fire on. So we built it there and cooked
dinner.

We spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in
there. We put all the other things handy at the back of the cavern.
Pretty soon it darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the
birds was right about it. Directly it begun to rain, and it rained
like all fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of
these regular summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all
blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by
so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby;
and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down
and turn up the pale underside of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper
of a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their
arms as if they was just wild; and next, when it was just about the
bluest and blackest---FST!\ it was as bright as glory, and you'd
have a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about away off yonder
in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before;
dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let
go with an awful crash, and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling,
down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty
barrels down stairs---where it's long stairs and they bounce a good
deal, you know.

{}``Jim, this is nice,'' I says. {}``I wouldn't want to be nowhere
else but here. Pass me along another hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread.''

{}``Well, you wouldn't a ben here 'f it hadn't a ben for Jim. You'd
a ben down dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittn' mos' drownded,
too; dat you would, honey. Chickens knows when it's gwyne to rain,
en so do de birds, chile.''

The river went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till
at last it was over the banks. The water was three or four foot deep
on the island in the low places and on the Illinois bottom. On that
side it was a good many miles wide, but on the Missouri side it was
the same old distance across---a half a mile---because the Missouri
shore was just a wall of high bluffs.

Daytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe, It was mighty
cool and shady in the deep woods, even if the sun was blazing outside.
We went winding in and out amongst the trees, and sometimes the vines
hung so thick we had to back away and go some other way. Well, on
every old broken-down tree you could see rabbits and snakes and such
things; and when the island had been overflowed a day or two they
got so tame, on account of being hungry, that you could paddle right
up and put your hand on them if you wanted to; but not the snakes
and turtles---they would slide off in the water. The ridge our cavern
was in was full of them. We could a had pets enough if we'd wanted
them.

One night we catched a little section of a lumber raft---nice pine
planks. It was twelve foot wide and about fifteen or sixteen foot
long, and the top stood above water six or seven inches---a solid,
level floor. We could see saw-logs go by in the daylight sometimes,
but we let them go; we didn't show ourselves in daylight.

Another night when we was up at the head of the island, just before
daylight, here comes a frame-house down, on the west side. She was
a two-story, and tilted over considerable. We paddled out and got
aboard---clumb in at an upstairs window. But it was too dark to see
yet, so we made the canoe fast and set in her to wait for daylight.

The light begun to come before we got to the foot of the island. Then
we looked in at the window. We could make out a bed, and a table,
and two old chairs, and lots of things around about on the floor,
and there was clothes hanging against the wall. There was something
laying on the floor in the far corner that looked like a man. So Jim
says:

{}``Hello, you!''

But it didn't budge. So I hollered again, and then Jim says:

{}``De man ain't asleep---he's dead. You hold still---I'll go en
see.''

He went, and bent down and looked, and says:

{}``It's a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too. He's ben shot in de
back. I reck'n he's ben dead two er three days. Come in, Huck, but
doan' look at his face---it's too gashly.''

I didn't look at him at all. Jim throwed some old rags over him, but
he needn't done it; I didn't want to see him. There was heaps of old
greasy cards scattered around over the floor, and old whisky bottles,
and a couple of masks made out of black cloth; and all over the walls
was the ignorantest kind of words and pictures made with charcoal.
There was two old dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet, and some
women's underclothes hanging against the wall, and some men's clothing,
too. We put the lot into the canoe---it might come good. There was
a boy's old speckled straw hat on the floor; I took that, too. And
there was a bottle that had had milk in it, and it had a rag stopper
for a baby to suck. We would a took the bottle, but it was broke.
There was a seedy old chest, and an old hair trunk with the hinges
broke. They stood open, but there warn't nothing left in them that
was any account. The way things was scattered about we reckoned the
people left in a hurry, and warn't fixed so as to carry off most of
their stuff.

We got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife without any handle,
and a bran-new Barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot
of tallow candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup,
and a ratty old bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles
and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread and all such truck in
it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a fishline as thick as my little
finger with some monstrous hooks on it, and a roll of buckskin, and
a leather dog-collar, and a horseshoe, and some vials of medicine
that didn't have no label on them; and just as we was leaving I found
a tolerable good curry-comb, and Jim he found a ratty old fiddle-bow,
and a wooden leg. The straps was broke off of it, but, barring that,
it was a good enough leg, though it was too long for me and not long
enough for Jim, and we couldn't find the other one, though we hunted
all around.

And so, take it all around, we made a good haul. When we was ready
to shove off we was a quarter of a mile below the island, and it was
pretty broad day; so I made Jim lay down in the canoe and cover up
with the quilt, because if he set up people could tell he was a nigger
a good ways off. I paddled over to the Illinois shore, and drifted
down most a half a mile doing it. I crept up the dead water under
the bank, and hadn't no accidents and didn't see nobody. We got home
all safe.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER X.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER X}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER X}

\textit{\emph{After}} breakfast I wanted to talk about the dead man
and guess out how he come to be killed, but Jim didn't want to. He
said it would fetch bad luck; and besides, he said, he might come
and ha'nt us; he said a man that warn't buried was more likely to
go a-ha'nting around than one that was planted and comfortable. That
sounded pretty reasonable, so I didn't say no more; but I couldn't
keep from studying over it and wishing I knowed who shot the man,
and what they done it for.

We rummaged the clothes we'd got, and found eight dollars in silver
sewed up in the lining of an old blanket overcoat. Jim said he reckoned
the people in that house stole the coat, because if they'd a knowed
the money was there they wouldn't a left it. I said I reckoned they
killed him, too; but Jim didn't want to talk about that. I says:

{}``Now you think it's bad luck; but what did you say when I fetched
in the snake-skin that I found on the top of the ridge day before
yesterday? You said it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch
a snake-skin with my hands. Well, here's your bad luck! We've raked
in all this truck and eight dollars besides. I wish we could have
some bad luck like this every day, Jim.''

{}``Never you mind, honey, never you mind. Don't you git too peart.
It's a-comin'. Mind I tell you, it's a-comin'.''

It did come, too. It was a Tuesday that we had that talk. Well, after
dinner Friday we was laying around in the grass at the upper end of
the ridge, and got out of tobacco. I went to the cavern to get some,
and found a rattlesnake in there. I killed him, and curled him up
on the foot of Jim's blanket, ever so natural, thinking there'd be
some fun when Jim found him there. Well, by night I forgot all about
the snake, and when Jim flung himself down on the blanket while I
struck a light the snake's mate was there, and bit him.

He jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light showed was the
varmint curled up and ready for another spring. I laid him out in
a second with a stick, and Jim grabbed pap's whisky-jug and begun
to pour it down.

He was barefooted, and the snake bit him right on the heel. That all
comes of my being such a fool as to not remember that wherever you
leave a dead snake its mate always comes there and curls around it.
Jim told me to chop off the snake's head and throw it away, and then
skin the body and roast a piece of it. I done it, and he eat it and
said it would help cure him. He made me take off the rattles and tie
them around his wrist, too. He said that that would help. Then I slid
out quiet and throwed the snakes clear away amongst the bushes; for
I warn't going to let Jim find out it was all my fault, not if I could
help it.

Jim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and then he got out of his
head and pitched around and yelled; but every time he come to himself
he went to sucking at the jug again. His foot swelled up pretty big,
and so did his leg; but by and by the drunk begun to come, and so
I judged he was all right; but I'd druther been bit with a snake than
pap's whisky.

Jim was laid up for four days and nights. Then the swelling was all
gone and he was around again. I made up my mind I wouldn't ever take
a-holt of a snake-skin again with my hands, now that I see what had
come of it. Jim said he reckoned I would believe him next time. And
he said that handling a snake-skin was such awful bad luck that maybe
we hadn't got to the end of it yet. He said he druther see the new
moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand times than take
up a snake-skin in his hand. Well, I was getting to feel that way
myself, though I've always reckoned that looking at the new moon over
your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things
a body can do. Old Hank Bunker done it once, and bragged about it;
and in less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot-tower,
and spread himself out so that he was just a kind of a layer, as you
may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn doors for a coffin,
and buried him so, so they say, but I didn't see it. Pap told me.
But anyway it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a fool.

Well, the days went along, and the river went down between its banks
again; and about the first thing we done was to bait one of the big
hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was
as big as a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed over
two hundred pounds. We couldn't handle him, of course; he would a
flung us into Illinois. We just set there and watched him rip and
tear around till he drownded. We found a brass button in his stomach
and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. We split the ball open with
the hatchet, and there was a spool in it. Jim said he'd had it there
a long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of it. It was as big
a fish as was ever catched in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said
he hadn't ever seen a bigger one. He would a been worth a good deal
over at the village. They peddle out such a fish as that by the pound
in the market-house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat's
as white as snow and makes a good fry.

Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to
get a stirring up some way. I said I reckoned I would slip over the
river and find out what was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he
said I must go in the dark and look sharp. Then he studied it over
and said, couldn't I put on some of them old things and dress up like
a girl? That was a good notion, too. So we shortened up one of the
calico gowns, and I turned up my trouser-legs to my knees and got
into it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit.
I put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a
body to look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of stove-pipe.
Jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. I practiced
around all day to get the hang of the things, and by and by I could
do pretty well in them, only Jim said I didn't walk like a girl; and
he said I must quit pulling up my gown to get at my britches-pocket.
I took notice, and done better.

I started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just after dark.

I started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing,
and the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town.
I tied up and started along the bank. There was a light burning in
a little shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long time, and I wondered
who had took up quarters there. I slipped up and peeped in at the
window. There was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by
a candle that was on a pine table. I didn't know her face; she was
a stranger, for you couldn't start a face in that town that I didn't
know. Now this was lucky, because I was weakening; I was getting afraid
I had come; people might know my voice and find me out. But if this
woman had been in such a little town two days she could tell me all
I wanted to know; so I knocked at the door, and made up my mind I
wouldn't forget I was a girl.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XI.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XI}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XI}

{}``\textit{\emph{Come}} in,'' says the woman, and I did. She says:
{}``Take a cheer.''

I done it. She looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and
says:

{}``What might your name be?''

{}``Sarah Williams.''

{}``Where 'bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?'

{}``No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've walked all the way
and I'm all tired out.''

{}``Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something.''

{}``No'm, I ain't hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles
below here at a farm; so I ain't hungry no more. It's what makes me
so late. My mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and
I come to tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end of
the town, she says. I hain't ever been here before. Do you know him?''

{}``No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't lived here quite
two weeks. It's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town.
You better stay here all night. Take off your bonnet.''

{}``No,'' I says; {}``I'll rest a while, I reckon, and go on. I
ain't afeared of the dark.''

She said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would be
in by and by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send him along
with me. Then she got to talking about her husband, and about her
relations up the river, and her relations down the river, and about
how much better off they used to was, and how they didn't know but
they'd made a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well
alone---and so on and so on, till I was afeard I had made a mistake
coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by and
by she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then I was pretty willing
to let her clatter right along. She told about me and Tom Sawyer finding
the six thousand dollars (only she got it ten) and all about pap and
what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot I was, and at last she
got down to where I was murdered. I says:

{}``Who done it? We've heard considerable about these goings on down
in Hookerville, but we don't know who 'twas that killed Huck Finn.''

{}``Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of people \textit{here}
that'd like to know who killed him. Some think old Finn done it himself.''

{}``No---is that so?''

{}``Most everybody thought it at first. He'll never know how nigh
he come to getting lynched. But before night they changed around and
judged it was done by a runaway nigger named Jim.''

{}``Why \textit{he}---''

I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run on, and never noticed
I had put in at all:

{}``The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was killed. So there's
a reward out for him---three hundred dollars. And there's a reward
out for old Finn, too---two hundred dollars. You see, he come to town
the morning after the murder, and told about it, and was out with
'em on the ferryboat hunt, and right away after he up and left. Before
night they wanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. Well, next
day they found out the nigger was gone; they found out he hadn't ben
seen sence ten o'clock the night the murder was done. So then they
put it on him, you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back
comes old Finn, and went boo-hooing to Judge Thatcher to get money
to hunt for the nigger all over Illinois with. The judge gave him
some, and that evening he got drunk, and was around till after midnight
with a couple of mighty hard-looking strangers, and then went off
with them. Well, he hain't come back sence, and they ain't looking
for him back till this thing blows over a little, for people thinks
now that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would think robbers
done it, and then he'd get Huck's money without having to bother a
long time with a lawsuit. People do say he warn't any too good to
do it. Oh, he's sly, I reckon. If he don't come back for a year he'll
be all right. You can't prove anything on him, you know; everything
will be quieted down then, and he'll walk in Huck's money as easy
as nothing.''

{}``Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the way of it. Has
everybody guit thinking the nigger done it?''

{}``Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done it. But they'll
get the nigger pretty soon now, and maybe they can scare it out of
him.''

{}``Why, are they after him yet?''

{}``Well, you're innocent, ain't you! Does three hundred dollars
lay around every day for people to pick up? Some folks think the nigger
ain't far from here. I'm one of them---but I hain't talked it around.
A few days ago I was talking with an old couple that lives next door
in the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes
to that island over yonder that they call Jackson's Island. Don't
anybody live there? says I.\ No, nobody, says they. I didn't say
any more, but I done some thinking. I was pretty near certain I'd
seen smoke over there, about the head of the island, a day or two
before that, so I says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding
over there; anyway, says I, it's worth the trouble to give the place
a hunt. I hain't seen any smoke sence, so I reckon maybe he's gone,
if it was him; but husband's going over to see---him and another man.
He was gone up the river; but he got back to-day, and I told him as
soon as he got here two hours ago.''

I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still. I had to do something with
my hands; so I took up a needle off of the table and went to threading
it. My hands shook, and I was making a bad job of it. When the woman
stopped talking I looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curious
and smiling a little. I put down the needle and thread, and let on
to be interested---and I was, too---and says:

{}``Three hundred dollars is a power of money. I wish my mother could
get it. Is your husband going over there to-night?''

{}``Oh, yes. He went up-town with the man I was telling you of, to
get a boat and see if they could borrow another gun. They'll go over
after midnight.''

{}``Couldn't they see better if they was to wait till daytime?''

{}``Yes. And couldn't the nigger see better, too? After midnight
he'll likely be asleep, and they can slip around through the woods
and hunt up his camp fire all the better for the dark, if he's got
one.''

{}``I didn't think of that.''

The woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and I didn't feel a bit
comfortable. Pretty soon she says''

{}``What did you say your name was, honey?''

{}``M---Mary Williams.''

Somehow it didn't seem to me that I said it was Mary before, so I
didn't look up---seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt sort
of cornered, and was afeared maybe I was looking it, too. I wished
the woman would say something more; the longer she set still the uneasier
I was. But now she says:

{}``Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?''

{}``Oh, yes'm, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah's my first name.
Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary.''

{}``Oh, that's the way of it?''

{}``Yes'm.''

I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of there, anyway.
I couldn't look up yet.

Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how
poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned
the place, and so forth and so on, and then I got easy again. She
was right about the rats. You'd see one stick his nose out of a hole
in the corner every little while. She said she had to have things
handy to throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her
no peace. She showed me a bar of lead twisted up into a knot, and
said she was a good shot with it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm
a day or two ago, and didn't know whether she could throw true now.
But she watched for a chance, and directly banged away at a rat; but
she missed him wide, and said {}``Ouch!''\ it hurt her arm so.
Then she told me to try for the next one. I wanted to be getting away
before the old man got back, but of course I didn't let on. I got
the thing, and the first rat that showed his nose I let drive, and
if he'd a stayed where he was he'd a been a tolerable sick rat. She
said that was first-rate, and she reckoned I would hive the next one.
She went and got the lump of lead and fetched it back, and brought
along a hank of yarn which she wanted me to help her with. I held
up my two hands and she put the hank over them, and went on talking
about her and her husband's matters. But she broke off to say:

{}``Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the lead in your lap,
handy.''

So she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and I clapped
my legs together on it and she went on talking. But only about a minute.
Then she took off the hank and looked me straight in the face, and
very pleasant, and says:

{}``Come, now, what's your real name?''

{}``Wh---what, mum?''

{}``What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?---or what
is it?''

I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know hardly what to do.
But I says:

{}``Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. If I'm
in the way here, I'll---''

{}``No, you won't. Set down and stay where you are. I ain't going
to hurt you, and I ain't going to tell on you, nuther. You just tell
me your secret, and trust me. I'll keep it; and, what's more, I'll
help you. So'll my old man if you want him to. You see, you're a runaway
'prentice, that's all. It ain't anything. There ain't no harm in it.
You've been treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut. Bless you,
child, I wouldn't tell on you. Tell me all about it now, that's a
good boy.''

So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and
I would just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she
musn't go back on her promise. Then I told her my father and mother
was dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the
country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me so bad
I couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of
days, and so I took my chance and stole some of his daughter's old
clothes and cleared out, and I had been three nights coming the thirty
miles. I traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag
of bread and meat I carried from home lasted me all the way, and I
had a-plenty. I said I believed my uncle Abner Moore would take care
of me, and so that was why I struck out for this town of Goshen.

{}``Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St.\ Petersburg. Goshen's
ten mile further up the river. Who told you this was Goshen?''

{}``Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning, just as I was going
to turn into the woods for my regular sleep. He told me when the roads
forked I must take the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to
Goshen.''

{}``He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just exactly wrong.''

{}``Well, he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no matter now.
I got to be moving along. I'll fetch Goshen before daylight.''

{}``Hold on a minute. I'll put you up a snack to eat. You might want
it.''

So she put me up a snack, and says:

{}``Say, when a cow's laying down, which end of her gets up first?
Answer up prompt now---don't stop to study over it. Which end gets
up first?''

{}``The hind end, mum.''

{}``Well, then, a horse?''

{}``The for'rard end, mum.''

{}``Which side of a tree does the moss grow on?''

{}``North side.''

{}``If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats
with their heads pointed the same direction?''

{}``The whole fifteen, mum.''

{}``Well, I reckon you \textit{have} lived in the country. I thought
maybe you was trying to hocus me again. What's your real name, now?''

{}``George Peters, mum.''

{}``Well, try to remember it, George. Don't forget and tell me it's
Elexander before you go, and then get out by saying it's George Elexander
when I catch you. And don't go about women in that old calico. You
do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men, maybe. Bless you,
child, when you set out to thread a needle don't hold the thread still
and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the
thread at it; that's the way a woman most always does, but a man always
does t'other way. And when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch yourself
up a tiptoe and fetch your hand up over your head as awkward as you
can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throw stiff-armed
from the shoulder, like there was a pivot there for it to turn on,
like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with your arm out to one
side, like a boy. And, mind you, when a girl tries to catch anything
in her lap she throws her knees apart; she don't clap them together,
the way you did when you catched the lump of lead. Why, I spotted
you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and I contrived the
other things just to make certain. Now trot along to your uncle, Sarah
Mary Williams George Elexander Peters, and if you get into trouble
you send word to Mrs.\ Judith Loftus, which is me, and I'll do what
I can to get you out of it. Keep the river road all the way, and next
time you tramp take shoes and socks with you. The river road's a rocky
one, and your feet'll be in a condition when you get to Goshen, I
reckon.''

I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I doubled on my tracks
and slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below the house.
I jumped in, and was off in a hurry. I went up-stream far enough to
make the head of the island, and then started across. I took off the
sun-bonnet, for I didn't want no blinders on then. When I was about
the middle I heard the clock begin to strike, so I stops and listens;
the sound come faint over the water but clear---eleven. When I struck
the head of the island I never waited to blow, though I was most winded,
but I shoved right into the timber where my old camp used to be, and
started a good fire there on a high and dry spot.

Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place, a mile and a
half below, as hard as I could go. I landed, and slopped through the
timber and up the ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, sound
asleep on the ground. I roused him out and says:

{}``Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a minute to lose.
They're after us!''

Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he
worked for the next half an hour showed about how he was scared. By
that time everything we had in the world was on our raft, and she
was ready to be shoved out from the willow cove where she was hid.
We put out the camp fire at the cavern the first thing, and didn't
show a candle outside after that.

I took the canoe out from the shore a little piece, and took a look;
but if there was a boat around I couldn't see it, for stars and shadows
ain't good to see by. Then we got out the raft and slipped along down
in the shade, past the foot of the island dead still---never saying
a word.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XII}

\textit{\emph{It}} must a been close on to one o'clock when we got
below the island at last, and the raft did seem to go mighty slow.
If a boat was to come along we was going to take to the canoe and
break for the Illinois shore; and it was well a boat didn't come,
for we hadn't ever thought to put the gun in the canoe, or a fishing-line,
or anything to eat. We was in ruther too much of a sweat to think
of so many things. It warn't good judgment to put \textit{everything}
on the raft.

If the men went to the island I just expect they found the camp fire
I built, and watched it all night for Jim to come. Anyways, they stayed
away from us, and if my building the fire never fooled them it warn't
no fault of mine. I played it as low down on them as I could.

When the first streak of day began to show we tied up to a towhead
in a big bend on the Illinois side, and hacked off cottonwood branches
with the hatchet, and covered up the raft with them so she looked
like there had been a cave-in in the bank there. A tow-head is a sandbar
that has cottonwoods on it as thick as harrow-teeth.

We had mountains on the Missouri shore and heavy timber on the Illinois
side, and the channel was down the Missouri shore at that place, so
we warn't afraid of anybody running across us. We laid there all day,
and watched the rafts and steamboats spin down the Missouri shore,
and up-bound steamboats fight the big river in the middle. I told
Jim all about the time I had jabbering with that woman; and Jim said
she was a smart one, and if she was to start after us herself she
wouldn't set down and watch a camp fire---no, sir, she'd fetch a dog.
Well, then, I said, why couldn't she tell her husband to fetch a dog?
Jim said he bet she did think of it by the time the men was ready
to start, and he believed they must a gone up-town to get a dog and
so they lost all that time, or else we wouldn't be here on a towhead
sixteen or seventeen mile below the village---no, indeedy, we would
be in that same old town again. So I said I didn't care what was the
reason they didn't get us as long as they didn't.

When it was beginning to come on dark we poked our heads out of the
cottonwood thicket, and looked up and down and across; nothing in
sight; so Jim took up some of the top planks of the raft and built
a snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and rainy, and to keep
the things dry. Jim made a floor for the wigwam, and raised it a foot
or more above the level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the
traps was out of reach of steamboat waves. Right in the middle of
the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep with
a frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was to build a
fire on in sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep it from
being seen. We made an extra steering-oar, too, because one of the
others might get broke on a snag or something. We fixed up a short
forked stick to hang the old lantern on, because we must always light
the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down-stream, to keep
from getting run over; but we wouldn't have to light it for up-stream
boats unless we see we was in what they call a {}``crossing''; for
the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a little
under water; so up-bound boats didn't always run the channel, but
hunted easy water.

This second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a current
that was making over four mile an hour. We catched fish and talked,
and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was kind
of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying on our backs
looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel like talking loud,
and it warn't often that we laughed---only a little kind of a low
chuckle. We had mighty good weather as a general thing, and nothing
ever happened to us at all---that night, nor the next, nor the next.

Every night we passed towns, some of them away up on black hillsides,
nothing but just a shiny bed of lights; not a house could you see.
The fifth night we passed St.\ Louis, and it was like the whole world
lit up. In St.\ Petersburg they used to say there was twenty or thirty
thousand people in St.\ Louis, but I never believed it till I see
that wonderful spread of lights at two o'clock that still night. There
warn't a sound there; everybody was asleep.

Every night now I used to slip ashore towards ten o'clock at some
little village, and buy ten or fifteen cents' worth of meal or bacon
or other stuff to eat; and sometimes I lifted a chicken that warn't
roosting comfortable, and took him along. Pap always said, take a
chicken when you get a chance, because if you don't want him yourself
you can easy find somebody that does, and a good deed ain't ever forgot.
I never see pap when he didn't want the chicken himself, but that
is what he used to say, anyway.

Mornings before daylight I slipped into cornfields and borrowed a
watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new corn, or things
of that kind. Pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things if
you was meaning to pay them back some time; but the widow said it
warn't anything but a soft name for stealing, and no decent body would
do it. Jim said he reckoned the widow was partly right and pap was
partly right; so the best way would be for us to pick out two or three
things from the list and say we wouldn't borrow them any more---then
he reckoned it wouldn't be no harm to borrow the others. So we talked
it over all one night, drifting along down the river, trying to make
up our minds whether to drop the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or
the mushmelons, or what. But towards daylight we got it all settled
satisfactory, and concluded to drop crabapples and p'simmons. We warn't
feeling just right before that, but it was all comfortable now. I
was glad the way it come out, too, because crabapples ain't ever good,
and the p'simmons wouldn't be ripe for two or three months yet.

We shot a water-fowl now and then that got up too early in the morning
or didn't go to bed early enough in the evening. Take it all round,
we lived pretty high.

The fifth night below St.\ Louis we had a big storm after midnight,
with a power of thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in
a solid sheet. We stayed in the wigwam and let the raft take care
of itself. When the lightning glared out we could see a big straight
river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. By and by says
I, {}``Hel-\textit{lo}, Jim, looky yonder!'' It was a steamboat
that had killed herself on a rock. We was drifting straight down for
her. The lightning showed her very distinct. She was leaning over,
with part of her upper deck above water, and you could see every little
chimbly-guy clean and clear, and a chair by the big bell, with an
old slouch hat hanging on the back of it, when the flashes come.

Well, it being away in the night and stormy, and all so mysterious-like,
I felt just the way any other boy would a felt when I see that wreck
laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle of the river.
I wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a little, and see what
there was there. So I says:

{}``Le's land on her, Jim.''

But Jim was dead against it at first. He says:

{}``I doan' want to go fool'n 'long er no wrack. We's doin' blame'
well, en we better let blame' well alone, as de good book says. Like
as not dey's a watchman on dat wrack.''

{}``Watchman your grandmother,'' I says; {}``there ain't nothing
to watch but the texas and the pilot-house; and do you reckon anybody's
going to resk his life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night
as this, when it's likely to break up and wash off down the river
any minute?'' Jim couldn't say nothing to that, so he didn't try.
{}``And besides,'' I says, {}``we might borrow something worth
having out of the captain's stateroom. Seegars, I bet you---and cost
five cents apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is always rich,
and get sixty dollars a month, and \textit{they} don't care a cent
what a thing costs, you know, long as they want it. Stick a candle
in your pocket; I can't rest, Jim, till we give her a rummaging. Do
you reckon Tom Sawyer would ever go by this thing? Not for pie, he
wouldn't. He'd call it an adventure---that's what he'd call it; and
he'd land on that wreck if it was his last act. And wouldn't he throw
style into it?---wouldn't he spread himself, nor nothing? Why, you'd
think it was Christopher C'lumbus discovering Kingdom-Come. I wish
Tom Sawyer \textit{was} here.''

Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we mustn't talk any
more than we could help, and then talk mighty low. The lightning showed
us the wreck again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard derrick,
and made fast there.

The deck was high out here. We went sneaking down the slope of it
to labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow
with our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for
it was so dark we couldn't see no sign of them. Pretty soon we struck
the forward end of the skylight, and clumb on to it; and the next
step fetched us in front of the captain's door, which was open, and
by Jimminy, away down through the texas-hall we see a light!\ and
all in the same second we seem to hear low voices in yonder!

Jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me to
come along. I says, all right, and was going to start for the raft;
but just then I heard a voice wail out and say:

{}``Oh, please don't, boys; I swear I won't ever tell!''

Another voice said, pretty loud:

{}``It's a lie, Jim Turner. You've acted this way before. You always
want more'n your share of the truck, and you've always got it, too,
because you've swore 't if you didn't you'd tell. But this time you've
said it jest one time too many. You're the meanest, treacherousest
hound in this country.''

By this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was just a-biling with curiosity;
and I says to myself, Tom Sawyer wouldn't back out now, and so I won't
either; I'm a-going to see what's going on here. So I dropped on my
hands and knees in the little passage, and crept aft in the dark till
there warn't but one stateroom betwixt me and the cross-hall of the
texas. Then in there I see a man stretched on the floor and tied hand
and foot, and two men standing over him, and one of them had a dim
lantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol. This one kept
pointing the pistol at the man's head on the floor, and saying:

{}``I'd \textit{like} to! And I orter, too --- a mean skunk!''

The man on the floor would shrivel up and say, {}``Oh, please don't,
Bill; I hain't ever goin' to tell.''

And every time he said that the man with the lantern would laugh and
say:

{}``'Deed you \textit{ain't}! You never said no truer thing 'n that,
you bet you.'' And once he said: {}``Hear him beg!\ and yit if
we hadn't got the best of him and tied him he'd a killed us both.
And what \textit{for}? Jist for noth'n. Jist because we stood on our
\textit{rights}---that's what for. But I lay you ain't a-goin' to
threaten nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put \textit{up} that pistol,
Bill.''

Bill says:

{}``I don't want to, Jake Packard. I'm for killin' him---and didn't
he kill old Hatfield jist the same way---and don't he deserve it?''

{}``But I don't \textit{want} him killed, and I've got my reasons
for it.''

{}``Bless yo' heart for them words, Jake Packard! I'll never forgit
you long's I live!''\ says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering.

Packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on
a nail and started towards where I was there in the dark, and motioned
Bill to come. I crawfished as fast as I could about two yards, but
the boat slanted so that I couldn't make very good time; so to keep
from getting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom on the
upper side. The man came a-pawing along in the dark, and when Packard
got to my stateroom, he says:

{}``Here---come in here.''

And in he come, and Bill after him. But before they got in I was up
in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come. Then they stood there,
with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. I couldn't
see them, but I could tell where they was by the whisky they'd been
having. I was glad I didn't drink whisky; but it wouldn't made much
difference anyway, because most of the time they couldn't a treed
me because I didn't breathe. I was too scared. And, besides, a body
\textit{couldn't} breathe and hear such talk. They talked low and
earnest. Bill wanted to kill Turner. He says:

{}``He's said he'll tell, and he will. If we was to give both our
shares to him \textit{now} it wouldn't make no difference after the
row and the way we've served him. Shore's you're born, he'll turn
State's evidence; now you hear \textit{me}. I'm for putting him out
of his troubles.''

{}``So'm I,'' says Packard, very quiet.

{}``Blame it, I'd sorter begun to think you wasn't. Well, then, that's
all right. Le's go and do it.''

{}``Hold on a minute; I hain't had my say yit. You listen to me.
Shooting's good, but there's quieter ways if the thing's \textit{got}
to be done. But what I say is this: it ain't good sense to go court'n
around after a halter if you can git at what you're up to in some
way that's jist as good and at the same time don't bring you into
no resks. Ain't that so?''

{}``You bet it is. But how you goin' to manage it this time?''

{}``Well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and gather up whatever
pickins we've overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and
hide the truck. Then we'll wait. Now I say it ain't a-goin' to be
more'n two hours befo' this wrack breaks up and washes off down the
river. See? He'll be drownded, and won't have nobody to blame for
it but his own self. I reckon that's a considerble sight better 'n
killin' of him. I'm unfavorable to killin' a man as long as you can
git aroun' it; it ain't good sense, it ain't good morals. Ain't I
right?''

{}``Yes, I reck'n you are. But s'pose she \textit{don't} break up
and wash off?''

{}``Well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see, can't we?''

{}``All right, then; come along.''

So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled
forward. It was dark as pitch there; but I said, in a kind of a coarse
whisper, {}``Jim !''\ and he answered up, right at my elbow, with
a sort of a moan, and I says:

{}``Quick, Jim, it ain't no time for fooling around and moaning;
there's a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don't hunt up their
boat and set her drifting down the river so these fellows can't get
away from the wreck there's one of 'em going to be in a bad fix. But
if we find their boat we can put \textit{all} of 'em in a bad fix---for
the sheriff 'll get 'em. Quick---hurry! I'll hunt the labboard side,
you hunt the stabboard. You start at the raft, and---''

{}``Oh, my lordy, lordy! \textit{Raf}'? Dey ain' no raf' no mo';
she done broke loose en gone!---en here we is!''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XIII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XIII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XIII}

\textit{\emph{Well}}, I catched my breath and most fainted. Shut up
on a wreck with such a gang as that! But it warn't no time to be sentimentering.
We'd \textit{got} to find that boat now---had to have it for ourselves.
So we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard side, and slow
work it was, too---seemed a week before we got to the stern. No sign
of a boat. Jim said he didn't believe he could go any further---so
scared he hadn't hardly any strength left, he said. But I said, come
on, if we get left on this wreck we are in a fix, sure. So on we prowled
again. We struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then
scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter
to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. When we
got pretty close to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure
enough! I could just barely see her. I felt ever so thankful. In another
second I would a been aboard of her, but just then the door opened.
One of the men stuck his head out only about a couple of foot from
me, and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says:

{}``Heave that blame lantern out o' sight, Bill!''

He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself
and set down. It was Packard. Then Bill \textit{he} come out and got
in. Packard says, in a low voice:

{}``All ready---shove off!''

I couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill
says:

{}``Hold on---'d you go through him?''

{}``No. Didn't you?''

{}``No. So he's got his share o' the cash yet.''

{}``Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money.''

{}``Say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?''

{}``Maybe he won't. But we got to have it anyway. Come along.''

So they got out and went in.

The door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a
half second I was in the boat, and Jim come tumbling after me. I out
with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went!

We didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor hardly
even breathe. We went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip
of the paddle-box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more
we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her
up, every last sign of her, and we was safe, and knowed it.

When we was three or four hundred yards down-stream we see the lantern
show like a little spark at the texas door for a second, and we knowed
by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning
to understand that they was in just as much trouble now as Jim Turner
was.

Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. Now was
the first time that I begun to worry about the men---I reckon I hadn't
had time to before. I begun to think how dreadful it was, even for
murderers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself, there ain't no telling
but I might come to be a murderer myself yet, and then how would I
like it? So says I to Jim:

{}``The first light we see we'll land a hundred yards below it or
above it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place for you and the
skiff, and then I'll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody
to go for that gang and get them out of their scrape, so they can
be hung when their time comes.''

But that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun to storm again,
and this time worse than ever. The rain poured down, and never a light
showed; everybody in bed, I reckon. We boomed along down the river,
watching for lights and watching for our raft. After a long time the
rain let up, but the clouds stayed, and the lightning kept whimpering,
and by and by a flash showed us a black thing ahead, floating, and
we made for it.

It was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again.
We seen a light now away down to the right, on shore. So I said I
would go for it. The skiff was half full of plunder which that gang
had stole there on the wreck. We hustled it on to the raft in a pile,
and I told Jim to float along down, and show a light when he judged
he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning till I come; then
I manned my oars and shoved for the light. As I got down towards it
three or four more showed---up on a hillside. It was a village. I
closed in above the shore light, and laid on my oars and floated.
As I went by I see it was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of a
double-hull ferryboat. I skimmed around for the watchman, a-wondering
whereabouts he slept; and by and by I found him roosting on the bitts
forward, with his head down between his knees. I gave his shoulder
two or three little shoves, and begun to cry.

He stirred up in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it was
only me he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says:

{}``Hello, what's up? Don't cry, bub. What's the trouble?''

I says:

{}``Pap, and mam, and sis, and---''

Then I broke down. He says:

{}``Oh, dang it now, \textit{don't} take on so; we all has to have
our troubles, and this 'n 'll come out all right. What's the matter
with 'em?''

{}``They're---they're---are you the watchman of the boat?''

{}``Yes,'' he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. {}``I'm
the captain and the owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman
and head deck-hand; and sometimes I'm the freight and passengers.
I ain't as rich as old Jim Hornback, and I can't be so blame' generous
and good to Tom, Dick, and Harry as what he is, and slam around money
the way he does; but I've told him a many a time 't I wouldn't trade
places with him; for, says I, a sailor's life's the life for me, and
I'm derned if \textit{I'd} live two mile out o' town, where there
ain't nothing ever goin' on, not for all his spondulicks and as much
more on top of it. Says I---''

I broke in and says:

{}``They're in an awful peck of trouble, and\mbox{---''}

{}``\textit{Who} is?''

{}``Why, pap and mam and sis and Miss Hooker; and if you'd take your
ferryboat and go up there---''

{}``Up where? Where are they?''

{}``On the wreck.''

{}``What wreck?''

{}``Why, there ain't but one.''

{}``What, you don't mean the \emph{Walter Scott}?''

{}``Yes.''

{}``Good land!\ what are they doin' \textit{there}, for gracious
sakes?''

{}``Well, they didn't go there a-purpose.''

{}``I bet they didn't! Why, great goodness, there ain't no chance
for 'em if they don't git off mighty quick! Why, how in the nation
did they ever git into such a scrape?''

{}``Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting up there to the town---''

{}``Yes, Booth's Landing---go on.''

{}``She was a-visiting there at Booth's Landing, and just in the
edge of the evening she started over with her nigger woman in the
horse-ferry to stay all night at her friend's house, Miss What-you-may-call-her
I disremember her name---and they lost their steering-oar, and swung
around and went a-floating down, stern first, about two mile, and
saddle-baggsed on the wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger woman
and the horses was all lost, but Miss Hooker she made a grab and got
aboard the wreck. Well, about an hour after dark we come along down
in our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn't notice the wreck
till we was right on it; and so \textit{we} saddle-baggsed; but all
of us was saved but Bill Whipple---and oh, he \textit{was} the best
cretur!---I most wish 't it had been me, I do.''

{}``My George! It's the beatenest thing I ever struck. And \textit{then}
what did you all do?''

{}``Well, we hollered and took on, but it's so wide there we couldn't
make nobody hear. So pap said somebody got to get ashore and get help
somehow. I was the only one that could swim, so I made a dash for
it, and Miss Hooker she said if I didn't strike help sooner, come
here and hunt up her uncle, and he'd fix the thing. I made the land
about a mile below, and been fooling along ever since, trying to get
people to do something, but they said, `What, in such a night and
such a current? There ain't no sense in it; go for the steam ferry.'
Now if you'll go and---''

{}``By Jackson, I'd \textit{like} to, and, blame it, I don't know
but I will; but who in the dingnation's a-going' to \textit{pay} for
it? Do you reckon your pap---''

{}``Why \textit{that's} all right. Miss Hooker she tole me, \textit{particular},
that her uncle Hornback---''

{}``Great guns!\ is \textit{he} her uncle? Looky here, you break
for that light over yonder-way, and turn out west when you git there,
and about a quarter of a mile out you'll come to the tavern; tell
'em to dart you out to Jim Hornback's, and he'll foot the bill. And
don't you fool around any, because he'll want to know the news. Tell
him I'll have his niece all safe before he can get to town. Hump yourself,
now; I'm a-going up around the corner here to roust out my engineer.''

I struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the corner I went
back and got into my skiff and bailed her out, and then pulled up
shore in the easy water about six hundred yards, and tucked myself
in among some woodboats; for I couldn't rest easy till I could see
the ferryboat start. But take it all around, I was feeling ruther
comfortable on accounts of taking all this trouble for that gang,
for not many would a done it. I wished the widow knowed about it.
I judged she would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions,
because rapscallions and dead beats is the kind the widow and good
people takes the most interest in.

Well, before long here comes the wreck, dim and dusky, sliding along
down! A kind of cold shiver went through me, and then I struck out
for her. She was very deep, and I see in a minute there warn't much
chance for anybody being alive in her. I pulled all around her and
hollered a little, but there wasn't any answer; all dead still. I
felt a little bit heavy-hearted about the gang, but not much, for
I reckoned if they could stand it I could.

Then here comes the ferryboat; so I shoved for the middle of the river
on a long down-stream slant; and when I judged I was out of eye-reach
I laid on my oars, and looked back and see her go and smell around
the wreck for Miss Hooker's remainders, because the captain would
know her uncle Hornback would want them; and then pretty soon the
ferryboat give it up and went for the shore, and I laid into my work
and went a-booming down the river.

It did seem a powerful long time before Jim's light showed up; and
when it did show it looked like it was a thousand mile off. By the
time I got there the sky was beginning to get a little gray in the
east; so we struck for an island, and hid the raft, and sunk the skiff,
and turned in and slept like dead people.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XIV.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XIV}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XIV}

\textit{\emph{By}} and by, when we got up, we turned over the truck
the gang had stole off of the wreck, and found boots, and blankets,
and clothes, and all sorts of other things, and a lot of books, and
a spyglass, and three boxes of seegars. We hadn't ever been this rich
before in neither of our lives. The seegars was prime. We laid off
all the afternoon in the woods talking, and me reading the books,
and having a general good time. I told Jim all about what happened
inside the wreck and at the ferryboat, and I said these kinds of things
was adventures; but he said he didn't want no more adventures. He
said that when I went in the texas and he crawled back to get on the
raft and found her gone he nearly died, because he judged it was all
up with \textit{him} anyway it could be fixed; for if he didn't get
saved he would get drownded; and if he did get saved, whoever saved
him would send him back home so as to get the reward, and then Miss
Watson would sell him South, sure. Well, he was right; he was most
always right; he had an uncommon level head for a nigger.

I read considerable to Jim about kings and dukes and earls and such,
and how gaudy they dressed, and how much style they put on, and called
each other your majesty, and your grace, and your lordship, and so
on, 'stead of mister; and Jim's eyes bugged out, and he was interested.
He says:

{}``I didn' know dey was so many un um. I hain't hearn 'bout none
un um, skasely, but ole King Sollermun, onless you counts dem kings
dat's in a pack er k'yards. How much do a king git?''

{}``Get?''\ I says; {}``why, they get a thousand dollars a month
if they want it; they can have just as much as they want; everything
belongs to them.''

{}``\textit{Ain}' dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?''

{}``\textit{They} don't do nothing! Why, how you talk! They just
set around.''

{}``No; is dat so?''

{}``Of course it is. They just set around---except, maybe, when there's
a war; then they go to the war. But other times they just lazy around;
or go hawking---just hawking and sp---Sh!---d' you hear a noise?''

We skipped out and looked; but it warn't nothing but the flutter of
a steamboat's wheel away down, coming around the point; so we come
back.

{}``Yes,'' says I, {}``and other times, when things is dull, they
fuss with the parlyment; and if everybody don't go just so he whacks
their heads off. But mostly they hang round the harem.''

{}``Roun' de which?''

{}``Harem.''

{}``What's de harem?''

{}``The place where he keeps his wives. Don't you know about the
harem? Solomon had one; he had about a million wives.''

{}``Why, yes, dat's so; I---I'd done forgot it. A harem's a bo'd'n-house,
I reck'n. Mos' likely dey has rackety times in de nussery. En I reck'n
de wives quarrels considable; en dat 'crease de racket. Yit dey say
Sollermun de wises' man dat ever live'. I doan' take no stock in dat.
Bekase why: would a wise man want to live in de mids' er sich a blim-blammin'
all de time? No---'deed he wouldn't. A wise man 'ud take en buil'
a biler-factry; en den he could shet \textit{down} de biler-factry
when he want to res'.''

{}``Well, but he \textit{was} the wisest man, anyway; because the
widow she told me so, her own self.''

{}``I doan k'yer what de widder say, he \textit{warn't} no wise man
nuther. He had some er de dad-fetchedes' ways I ever see. Does you
know 'bout dat chile dat he 'uz gwyne to chop in two?''

{}``Yes, the widow told me all about it.''

{}``\textit{Well}, den! Warn' dat de beatenes' notion in de worl'?
You jes' take en look at it a minute. Dah's de stump, dah---dat's
one er de women; heah's you---dat's de yuther one; I's Sollermun;
en dish yer dollar bill's de chile. Bofe un you claims it. What does
I do? Does I shin aroun' mongs' de neighbors en fine out which un
you de bill \textit{do} b'long to, en han' it over to de right one,
all safe en soun', de way dat anybody dat had any gumption would?
No; I take en whack de bill in \textit{two}, en give half un it to
you, en de yuther half to de yuther woman. Dat's de way Sollermun
was gwyne to do wid de chile. Now I want to ast you: what's de use
er dat half a bill?---can't buy noth'n wid it. En what use is a half
a chile? I wouldn' give a dern for a million un um.''

{}``But hang it, Jim, you've clean missed the point---blame it, you've
missed it a thousand mile.''

{}``Who? Me? Go 'long. Doan' talk to me 'bout yo' pints. I reck'n
I knows sense when I sees it; en dey ain' no sense in sich doin's
as dat. De 'spute warn't 'bout a half a chile, de 'spute was 'bout
a whole chile; en de man dat think he kin settle a 'spute 'bout a
whole chile wid a half a chile doan' know enough to come in out'n
de rain. Doan' talk to me 'bout Sollermun, Huck, I knows him by de
back.''

{}``But I tell you you don't get the point.''

{}``Blame de point! I reck'n I knows what I knows. En mine you, de
\textit{real} pint is down furder---it's down deeper. It lays in de
way Sollermun was raised. You take a man dat's got on'y one or two
chillen; is dat man gwyne to be waseful o' chillen? No, he ain't;
he can't 'ford it. \textit{He} know how to value 'em. But you take
a man dat's got 'bout five million chillen runnin' roun' de house,
en it's diffunt. \textit{He} as soon chop a chile in two as a cat.
Dey's plenty mo'. A chile er two, mo' er less, warn't no consekens
to Sollermun, dad fatch him!''

I never see such a nigger. If he got a notion in his head once, there
warn't no getting it out again. He was the most down on Solomon of
any nigger I ever see. So I went to talking about other kings, and
let Solomon slide. I told about Louis Sixteenth that got his head
cut off in France long time ago; and about his little boy the dolphin,
that would a been a king, but they took and shut him up in jail, and
some say he died there.

{}``Po' little chap.''

{}``But some says he got out and got away, and come to America.''

{}``Dat's good! But he'll be pooty lonesome---dey ain' no kings here,
is dey, Huck?''

{}``No.''

{}``Den he cain't git no situation. What he gwyne to do?''

{}``Well, I don't know. Some of them gets on the police, and some
of them learns people how to talk French.''

{}``Why, Huck, doan' de French people talk de same way we does?''

{}``\textit{No}, Jim; you couldn't understand a word they said---not
a single word.''

{}``Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat come?''

{}``I don't know; but it's so. I got some of their jabber out of
a book. S'pose a man was to come to you and say Polly-voo-franzy---what
would you think?''

{}``I wouldn' think nuff'n; I'd take en bust him over de head---dat
is, if he warn't white. I wouldn't 'low no nigger to call me dat.''

{}``Shucks, it ain't calling you anything. It's only saying, do you
know how to talk French?''

{}``Well, den, why couldn't he \textit{say} it?''

{}``Why, he \textit{is} a-saying it. That's a Frenchman's \textit{way}
of saying it.''

{}``Well, it's a blame ridicklous way, en I doan' want to hear no
mo' 'bout it. Dey ain' no sense in it.''

{}``Looky here, Jim; does a cat talk like we do?''

{}``No, a cat don't.''

{}``Well, does a cow?''

{}``No, a cow don't, nuther.''

{}``Does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a cat?''

{}``No, dey don't.''

{}``It's natural and right for 'em to talk different from each other,
ain't it?''

{}``Course.''

{}``And ain't it natural and right for a cat and a cow to talk different
from \textit{us}?''

{}``Why, mos' sholy it is.''

{}``Well, then, why ain't it natural and right for a \textit{Frenchman}
to talk different from us? You answer me that.''

{}``Is a cat a man, Huck?''

{}``No.''

{}``Well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a man. Is
a cow a man?---er is a cow a cat?''

{}``No, she ain't either of them.''

{}``Well, den, she ain't got no business to talk like either one
er the yuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman a man?''

{}``Yes.''

{}``\textit{Well}, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he \textit{talk}
like a man? You answer me \textit{dat}!''

I see it warn't no use wasting words---you can't learn a nigger to
argue.

So I quit.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XV.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XV}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XV}

\textit{\emph{We}} judged that three nights more would fetch us to
Cairo, at the bottom of Illinois, where the Ohio River comes in, and
that was what we was after. We would sell the raft and get on a steamboat
and go way up the Ohio amongst the free States, and then be out of
trouble.

Well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for a towhead
to tie to, for it wouldn't do to try to run in a fog; but when I paddled
ahead in the canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn't anything
but little saplings to tie to. I passed the line around one of them
right on the edge of the cut bank, but there was a stiff current,
and the raft come booming down so lively she tore it out by the roots
and away she went. I see the fog closing down, and it made me so sick
and scared I couldn't budge for most a half a minute it seemed to
me---and then there warn't no raft in sight; you couldn't see twenty
yards. I jumped into the canoe and run back to the stern, and grabbed
the paddle and set her back a stroke. But she didn't come. I was in
such a hurry I hadn't untied her. I got up and tried to untie her,
but I was so excited my hands shook so I couldn't hardly do anything
with them.

As soon as I got started I took out after the raft, hot and heavy,
right down the towhead. That was all right as far as it went, but
the towhead warn't sixty yards long, and the minute I flew by the
foot of it I shot out into the solid white fog, and hadn't no more
idea which way I was going than a dead man.

Thinks I, it won't do to paddle; first I know I'll run into the bank
or a towhead or something; I got to set still and float, and yet it's
mighty fidgety business to have to hold your hands still at such a
time. I whooped and listened. Away down there somewheres I hears a
small whoop, and up comes my spirits. I went tearing after it, listening
sharp to hear it again. The next time it come I see I warn't heading
for it, but heading away to the right of it. And the next time I was
heading away to the left of it---and not gaining on it much either,
for I was flying around, this way and that and t'other, but it was
going straight ahead all the time.

I did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it all
the time, but he never did, and it was the still places between the
whoops that was making the trouble for me. Well, I fought along, and
directly I hears the whoop \textit{behind} me. I was tangled good
now. That was somebody else's whoop, or else I was turned around.

I throwed the paddle down. I heard the whoop again; it was behind
me yet, but in a different place; it kept coming, and kept changing
its place, and I kept answering, till by and by it was in front of
me again, and I knowed the current had swung the canoe's head down-stream,
and I was all right if that was Jim and not some other raftsman hollering.
I couldn't tell nothing about voices in a fog, for nothing don't look
natural nor sound natural in a fog.

The whooping went on, and in about a minute I come a-booming down
on a cut bank with smoky ghosts of big trees on it, and the current
throwed me off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags that
fairly roared, the currrent was tearing by them so swift.

In another second or two it was solid white and still again. I set
perfectly still then, listening to my heart thump, and I reckon I
didn't draw a breath while it thumped a hundred.

I just give up then. I knowed what the matter was. That cut bank was
an island, and Jim had gone down t'other side of it. It warn't no
towhead that you could float by in ten minutes. It had the big timber
of a regular island; it might be five or six miles long and more than
half a mile wide.

I kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, I reckon.
I was floating along, of course, four or five miles an hour; but you
don't ever think of that. No, you \textit{feel} like you are laying
dead still on the water; and if a little glimpse of a snag slips by
you don't think to yourself how fast \textit{you're} going, but you
catch your breath and think, my!\ how that snag's tearing along.
If you think it ain't dismal and lonesome out in a fog that way by
yourself in the night, you try it once---you'll see.

Next, for about a half an hour, I whoops now and then; at last I hears
the answer a long ways off, and tries to follow it, but I couldn't
do it, and directly I judged I'd got into a nest of towheads, for
I had little dim glimpses of them on both sides of me---sometimes
just a narrow channel between, and some that I couldn't see I knowed
was there because I'd hear the wash of the current against the old
dead brush and trash that hung over the banks. Well, I warn't long
loosing the whoops down amongst the towheads; and I only tried to
chase them a little while, anyway, because it was worse than chasing
a Jack-o'-lantern. You never knowed a sound dodge around so, and swap
places so quick and so much.

I had to claw away from the bank pretty lively four or five times,
to keep from knocking the islands out of the river; and so I judged
the raft must be butting into the bank every now and then, or else
it would get further ahead and clear out of hearing---it was floating
a little faster than what I was.

Well, I seemed to be in the open river again by and by, but I couldn't
hear no sign of a whoop nowheres. I reckoned Jim had fetched up on
a snag, maybe, and it was all up with him. I was good and tired, so
I laid down in the canoe and said I wouldn't bother no more. I didn't
want to go to sleep, of course; but I was so sleepy I couldn't help
it; so I thought I would take jest one little cat-nap.

But I reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when I waked up the stars
was shining bright, the fog was all gone, and I was spinning down
a big bend stern first. First I didn't know where I was; I thought
I was dreaming; and when things began to come back to me they seemed
to come up dim out of last week.

It was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest and the thickest
kind of timber on both banks; just a solid wall, as well as I could
see by the stars. I looked away down-stream, and seen a black speck
on the water. I took after it; but when I got to it it warn't nothing
but a couple of sawlogs made fast together. Then I see another speck,
and chased that; then another, and this time I was right. It was the
raft.

When I got to it Jim was setting there with his head down between
his knees, asleep, with his right arm hanging over the steering-oar.
The other oar was smashed off, and the raft was littered up with leaves
and branches and dirt. So she'd had a rough time.

I made fast and laid down under Jim's nose on the raft, and began
to gap, and stretch my fists out against Jim, and says:

{}``Hello, Jim, have I been asleep? Why didn't you stir me up?''

{}``Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you ain' dead---you ain'
drownded---you's back agin? It's too good for true, honey, it's too
good for true. Lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o' you. No, you
ain' dead!\ you's back agin, 'live en soun', jis de same ole Huck---de
same ole Huck, thanks to goodness!''

{}``What's the matter with you, Jim? You been a-drinking?''

{}``Drinkin'? Has I ben a-drinkin'? Has I had a chance to be a-drinkin'?''

{}``Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?''

{}``How does I talk wild?''

{}``\textit{How}? Why, hain't you been talking about my coming back,
and all that stuff, as if I'd been gone away?''

{}``Huck---Huck Finn, you look me in de eye; look me in de eye. \textit{Hain't}
you ben gone away?''

{}``Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you mean? I hain't been
gone anywheres. Where would I go to?''

{}``Well, looky here, boss, dey's sumf'n wrong, dey is. Is I \textit{me},
or who \textit{is} I? Is I heah, or whah \textit{is} I? Now dat's
what I wants to know.''

{}``Well, I think you're here, plain enough, but I think you're a
tangle-headed old fool, Jim.''

{}``I is, is I? Well, you answer me dis: Didn't you tote out de line
in de canoe fer to make fas' to de tow-head?''

{}``No, I didn't. What tow-head? I hain't see no tow-head.''

{}``You hain't seen no towhead? Looky here, didn't de line pull loose
en de raf' go a-hummin' down de river, en leave you en de canoe behine
in de fog?''

{}``What fog?''

{}``Why, de fog!---de fog dat's been aroun' all night. En didn't
you whoop, en didn't I whoop, tell we got mix' up in de islands en
one un us got los' en t'other one was jis' as good as los', 'kase
he didn' know whah he wuz? En didn't I bust up agin a lot er dem islands
en have a turrible time en mos' git drownded? Now ain' dat so, boss---ain't
it so? You answer me dat.''

{}``Well, this is too many for me, Jim. I hain't seen no fog, nor
no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing. I been setting here talking
with you all night till you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and
I reckon I done the same. You couldn't a got drunk in that time, so
of course you've been dreaming.''

{}``Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?''

{}``Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn't any
of it happen.''

{}``But, Huck, it's all jis' as plain to me as---''

{}``It don't make no difference how plain it is; there ain't nothing
in it. I know, because I've been here all the time.''

Jim didn't say nothing for about five minutes, but set there studying
over it. Then he says:

{}``Well, den, I reck'n I did dream it, Huck; but dog my cats ef
it ain't de powerfullest dream I ever see. En I hain't ever had no
dream b'fo' dat's tired me like dis one.''

{}``Oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does tire a body
like everything sometimes. But this one was a staving dream; tell
me all about it, Jim.''

So Jim went to work and told me the whole thing right through, just
as it happened, only he painted it up considerable. Then he said he
must start in and {}``'terpret'' it, because it was sent for a warning.
He said the first towhead stood for a man that would try to do us
some good, but the current was another man that would get us away
from him. The whoops was warnings that would come to us every now
and then, and if we didn't try hard to make out to understand them
they'd just take us into bad luck, 'stead of keeping us out of it.
The lot of towheads was troubles we was going to get into with quarrelsome
people and all kinds of mean folks, but if we minded our business
and didn't talk back and aggravate them, we would pull through and
get out of the fog and into the big clear river, which was the free
States, and wouldn't have no more trouble.

It had clouded up pretty dark just after I got on to the raft, but
it was clearing up again now.

{}``Oh, well, that's all interpreted well enough as far as it goes,
Jim,'' I says; {}``but what does \textit{these} things stand for?''

It was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the smashed oar. You
could see them first-rate now.

Jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the trash
again. He had got the dream fixed so strong in his head that he couldn't
seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its place again
right away. But when he did get the thing straightened around he looked
at me steady without ever smiling, and says:

{}``What do dey stan' for? I'se gwyne to tell you. When I got all
wore out wid work, en wid de callin' for you, en went to sleep, my
heart wuz mos' broke bekase you wuz los', en I didn' k'yer no' mo'
what become er me en de raf'. En when I wake up en fine you back agin,
all safe en soun', de tears come, en I could a got down on my knees
en kiss yo' foot, I's so thankful. En all you wuz thinkin' 'bout wuz
how you could make a fool uv ole Jim wid a lie. Dat truck dah is \textit{trash};
en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren's
en makes 'em ashamed.''

Then he got up slow and walked to the wigwam, and went in there without
saying anything but that. But that was enough. It made me feel so
mean I could almost kissed \textit{his} foot to get him to take it
back.

It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go and humble
myself to a nigger; but I done it, and I warn't ever sorry for it
afterwards, neither. I didn't do him no more mean tricks, and I wouldn't
done that one if I'd a knowed it would make him feel that way.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XVI.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XVI}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XVI}

\textit{\emph{We}} slept most all day, and started out at night, a
little ways behind a monstrous long raft that was as long going by
as a procession. She had four long sweeps at each end, so we judged
she carried as many as thirty men, likely. She had five big wigwams
aboard, wide apart, and an open camp fire in the middle, and a tall
flag-pole at each end. There was a power of style about her. It \textit{amounted}
to something being a raftsman on such a craft as that.

We went drifting down into a big bend, and the night clouded up and
got hot. The river was very wide, and was walled with solid timber
on both sides; you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever, or a light.
We talked about Cairo, and wondered whether we would know it when
we got to it. I said likely we wouldn't, because I had heard say there
warn't but about a dozen houses there, and if they didn't happen to
have them lit up, how was we going to know we was passing a town?
Jim said if the two big rivers joined together there, that would show.
But I said maybe we might think we was passing the foot of an island
and coming into the same old river again. That disturbed Jim---and
me too. So the question was, what to do? I said, paddle ashore the
first time a light showed, and tell them pap was behind, coming along
with a trading-scow, and was a green hand at the business, and wanted
to know how far it was to Cairo. Jim thought it was a good idea, so
we took a smoke on it and waited.

There warn't nothing to do now but to look out sharp for the town,
and not pass it without seeing it. He said he'd be mighty sure to
see it, because he'd be a free man the minute he seen it, but if he
missed it he'd be in a slave country again and no more show for freedom.
Every little while he jumps up and says:

{}``Dah she is?''

But it warn't. It was Jack-o'-lanterns, or lightning bugs; so he set
down again, and went to watching, same as before. Jim said it made
him all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom. Well,
I can tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear
him, because I begun to get it through my head that he \textit{was}
most free---and who was to blame for it? Why, \textit{me}. I couldn't
get that out of my conscience, no how nor no way. It got to troubling
me so I couldn't rest; I couldn't stay still in one place. It hadn't
ever come home to me before, what this thing was that I was doing.
But now it did; and it stayed with me, and scorched me more and more.
I tried to make out to myself that I warn't to blame, because I didn't
run Jim off from his rightful owner; but it warn't no use, conscience
up and says, every time, {}``But you knowed he was running for his
freedom, and you could a paddled ashore and told somebody.'' That
was so---I couldn't get around that noway. That was where it pinched.
Conscience says to me, {}``What had poor Miss Watson done to you
that you could see her nigger go off right under your eyes and never
say one single word? What did that poor old woman do to you that you
could treat her so mean? Why, she tried to learn you your book, she
tried to learn you your manners, she tried to be good to you every
way she knowed how. \textit{That's} what she done.''

I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished I was dead.
I fidgeted up and down the raft, abusing myself to myself, and Jim
was fidgeting up and down past me. We neither of us could keep still.
Every time he danced around and says, {}``Dah's Cairo!''\ it went
through me like a shot, and I thought if it \textit{was} Cairo I reckoned
I would die of miserableness.

Jim talked out loud all the time while I was talking to myself. He
was saying how the first thing he would do when he got to a free State
he would go to saving up money and never spend a single cent, and
when he got enough he would buy his wife, which was owned on a farm
close to where Miss Watson lived; and then they would both work to
buy the two children, and if their master wouldn't sell them, they'd
get an Ab'litionist to go and steal them.

It most froze me to hear such talk. He wouldn't ever dared to talk
such talk in his life before. Just see what a difference it made in
him the minute he judged he was about free. It was according to the
old saying, {}``Give a nigger an inch and he'll take an ell.'' Thinks
I, this is what comes of my not thinking. Here was this nigger, which
I had as good as helped to run away, coming right out flat-footed
and saying he would steal his children---children that belonged to
a man I didn't even know; a man that hadn't ever done me no harm.

I was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a lowering of him. My
conscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last I
says to it, {}``Let up on me---it ain't too late yet---I'll paddle
ashore at the first light and tell.'' I felt easy and happy and light
as a feather right off. All my troubles was gone. I went to looking
out sharp for a light, and sort of singing to myself. By and by one
showed. Jim sings out:

{}``We's safe, Huck, we's safe! Jump up and crack yo' heels! Dat's
de good ole Cairo at las', I jis knows it!''

I says:

{}``I'll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It mightn't be, you
know.''

He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the bottom
for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as I shoved off, he
says:

{}``Pooty soon I'll be a-shout'n' for joy, en I'll say, it's all
on accounts o' Huck; I's a free man, en I couldn't ever ben free ef
it hadn' ben for Huck; Huck done it. Jim won't ever forgit you, Huck;
you's de bes' fren' Jim's ever had; en you's de \textit{only} fren'
ole Jim's got now.''

I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says
this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. I went along
slow then, and I warn't right down certain whether I was glad I started
or whether I warn't. When I was fifty yards off, Jim says:

{}``Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on'y white genlman dat ever
kep' his promise to ole Jim.''

Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I \textit{got} to do it---I can't
get \textit{out} of it. Right then along comes a skiff with two men
in it with guns, and they stopped and I stopped. One of them says:

{}``What's that yonder?''

{}``A piece of a raft,'' I says.

{}``Do you belong on it?''

{}``Yes, sir.''

{}``Any men on it?''

{}``Only one, sir.''

{}``Well, there's five niggers run off to-night up yonder, above
the head of the bend. Is your man white or black?''

I didn't answer up prompt. I tried to, but the words wouldn't come.
I tried for a second or two to brace up and out with it, but I warn't
man enough---hadn't the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was weakening;
so I just give up trying, and up and says:

{}``He's white.''

{}``I reckon we'll go and see for ourselves.''

{}``I wish you would,'' says I, {}``because it's pap that's there,
and maybe you'd help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. He's
sick---and so is mam and Mary Ann.''

{}``Oh, the devil!\ we're in a hurry, boy. But I s'pose we've got
to. Come, buckle to your paddle, and let's get along.''

I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. When we had made
a stroke or two, I says:

{}``Pap'll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can tell you. Everybody
goes away when I want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and I can't
do it by myself.''

{}``Well, that's infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy, what's the matter
with your father?''

{}``It's the---a---the---well, it ain't anything much.''

They stopped pulling. It warn't but a mighty little ways to the raft
now. One says:

{}``Boy, that's a lie. What \textit{is} the matter with your pap?
Answer up square now, and it'll be the better for you.''

{}``I will, sir, I will, honest---but don't leave us, please. It's
the---the---Gentlemen, if you'll only pull ahead, and let me heave
you the headline, you won't have to come a-near the raft---please
do.''

{}``Set her back, John, set her back!''\ says one. They backed
water. {}``Keep away, boy---keep to looard. Confound it, I just expect
the wind has blowed it to us. Your pap's got the small-pox, and you
know it precious well. Why didn't you come out and say so? Do you
want to spread it all over?''

{}``Well,'' says I, a-blubbering, {}``I've told everybody before,
and they just went away and left us.''

{}``Poor devil, there's something in that. We are right down sorry
for you, but we---well, hang it, we don't want the small-pox, you
see. Look here, I'll tell you what to do. Don't you try to land by
yourself, or you'll smash everything to pieces. You float along down
about twenty miles, and you'll come to a town on the left-hand side
of the river. It will be long after sun-up then, and when you ask
for help you tell them your folks are all down with chills and fever.
Don't be a fool again, and let people guess what is the matter. Now
we're trying to do you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between
us, that's a good boy. It wouldn't do any good to land yonder where
the light is---it's only a wood-yard. Say, I reckon your father's
poor, and I'm bound to say he's in pretty hard luck. Here, I'll put
a twenty-dollar gold piece on this board, and you get it when it floats
by. I feel mighty mean to leave you; but my kingdom!\ it won't do
to fool with small-pox, don't you see?''

{}``Hold on, Parker,'' says the other man, {}``here's a twenty
to put on the board for me. Good-bye, boy; you do as Mr.\ Parker
told you, and you'll be all right.''

{}``That's so, my boy---good-bye, good-bye. If you see any runaway
niggers you get help and nab them, and you can make some money by
it.''

{}``Good-bye, sir,'' says I; {}``I won't let no runaway niggers
get by me if I can help it.''

They went off and I got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low, because
I knowed very well I had done wrong, and I see it warn't no use for
me to try to learn to do right; a body that don't get \textit{started}
right when he's little ain't got no show---when the pinch comes there
ain't nothing to back him up and keep him to his work, and so he gets
beat. Then I thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on; s'pose
you'd a done right and give Jim up, would you felt better than what
you do now? No, says I, I'd feel bad---I'd feel just the same way
I do now. Well, then, says I, what's the use you learning to do right
when it's troublesome to do right and ain't no trouble to do wrong,
and the wages is just the same? I was stuck. I couldn't answer that.
So I reckoned I wouldn't bother no more about it, but after this always
do whichever come handiest at the time.

I went into the wigwam; Jim warn't there. I looked all around; he
warn't anywhere. I says:

{}``Jim!''

{}``Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o' sight yit? Don't talk loud.''

He was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out. I
told him they were out of sight, so he come aboard. He says:

{}``I was a-listenin' to all de talk, en I slips into de river en
was gwyne to shove for sho' if dey come aboard. Den I was gwyne to
swim to de raf' agin when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool
'em, Huck! Dat \textit{wuz} de smartes' dodge! I tell you, chile,
I'spec it save' ole Jim---ole Jim ain't going to forgit you for dat,
honey.''

Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty good raise---twenty
dollars apiece. Jim said we could take deck passage on a steamboat
now, and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the
free States. He said twenty mile more warn't far for the raft to go,
but he wished we was already there.

Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty particular about hiding
the raft good. Then he worked all day fixing things in bundles, and
getting all ready to quit rafting.

That night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away
down in a left-hand bend.

I went off in the canoe to ask about it. Pretty soon I found a man
out in the river with a skiff, setting a trot-line. I ranged up and
says:

{}``Mister, is that town Cairo?''

{}``Cairo? no. You must be a blame' fool.''

{}``What town is it, mister?''

{}``If you want to know, go and find out. If you stay here botherin'
around me for about a half a minute longer you'll get something you
won't want.''

I paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed, but I said never
mind,

Cairo would be the next place, I reckoned.

We passed another town before daylight, and I was going out again;
but it was high ground, so I didn't go. No high ground about Cairo,
Jim said. I had forgot it. We laid up for the day on a towhead tolerable
close to the left-hand bank. I begun to suspicion something. So did
Jim. I says:

{}``Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night.''

He says:

{}``Doan' le's talk about it, Huck. Po' niggers can't have no luck.
I awluz 'spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn't done wid its work.''

{}``I wish I'd never seen that snake-skin, Jim---I do wish I'd never
laid eyes on it.''

{}``It ain't yo' fault, Huck; you didn' know. Don't you blame yo'self
'bout it.''

When it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio water inshore, sure
enough, and outside was the old regular Muddy! So it was all up with
Cairo.

We talked it all over. It wouldn't do to take to the shore; we couldn't
take the raft up the stream, of course. There warn't no way but to
wait for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the chances. So
we slept all day amongst the cottonwood thicket, so as to be fresh
for the work, and when we went back to the raft about dark the canoe
was gone!

We didn't say a word for a good while. There warn't anything to say.
We both knowed well enough it was some more work of the rattlesnake-skin;
so what was the use to talk about it? It would only look like we was
finding fault, and that would be bound to fetch more bad luck---and
keep on fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep still.

By and by we talked about what we better do, and found there warn't
no way but just to go along down with the raft till we got a chance
to buy a canoe to go back in. We warn't going to borrow it when there
warn't anybody around, the way pap would do, for that might set people
after us.

So we shoved out after dark on the raft.

Anybody that don't believe yet that it's foolishness to handle a snake-skin,
after all that that snake-skin done for us, will believe it now if
they read on and see what more it done for us.

The place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore. But we
didn't see no rafts laying up; so we went along during three hours
and more. Well, the night got gray and ruther thick, which is the
next meanest thing to fog. You can't tell the shape of the river,
and you can't see no distance. It got to be very late and still, and
then along comes a steamboat up the river. We lit the lantern, and
judged she would see it. Up-stream boats didn't generly come close
to us; they go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under
the reefs; but nights like this they bull right up the channel against
the whole river.

We could hear her pounding along, but we didn't see her good till
she was close. She aimed right for us. Often they do that and try
to see how close they can come without touching; sometimes the wheel
bites off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and laughs,
and thinks he's mighty smart. Well, here she comes, and we said she
was going to try and shave us; but she didn't seem to be sheering
off a bit. She was a big one, and she was coming in a hurry, too,
looking like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it; but
all of a sudden she bulged out, big and scary, with a long row of
wide-open furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth, and her monstrous
bows and guards hanging right over us. There was a yell at us, and
a jingling of bells to stop the engines, a powwow of cussing, and
whistling of steam---and as Jim went overboard on one side and I on
the other, she come smashing straight through the raft.

I dived---and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot wheel
had got to go over me, and I wanted it to have plenty of room. I could
always stay under water a minute; this time I reckon I stayed under
a minute and a half. Then I bounced for the top in a hurry, for I
was nearly busting. I popped out to my armpits and blowed the water
out of my nose, and puffed a bit. Of course there was a booming current;
and of course that boat started her engines again ten seconds after
she stopped them, for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now she
was churning along up the river, out of sight in the thick weather,
though I could hear her.

I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn't get any answer;
so I grabbed a plank that touched me while I was {}``treading water,''
and struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. But I made out to
see that the drift of the current was towards the left-hand shore,
which meant that I was in a crossing; so I changed off and went that
way.

It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so I was a
good long time in getting over. I made a safe landing, and clumb up
the bank. I couldn't see but a little ways, but I went poking along
over rough ground for a quarter of a mile or more, and then I run
across a big old-fashioned double log-house before I noticed it. I
was going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and
went to howling and barking at me, and I knowed better than to move
another peg.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XVII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XVII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XVII}

\textit{\emph{In}} about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without
putting his head out, and says:

{}``Be done, boys! Who's there?''

I says:

{}``It's me.''

{}``Who's me?''

{}``George Jackson, sir.''

{}``What do you want?''

{}``I don't want nothing, sir. I only want to go along by, but the
dogs won't let me.''

{}``What are you prowling around here this time of night for---hey?''

{}``I warn't prowling around, sir, I fell overboard off of the steamboat.''

{}``Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, somebody. What did
you say your name was?''

{}``George Jackson, sir. I'm only a boy.''

{}``Look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't be afraid---nobody'll
hurt you. But don't try to budge; stand right where you are. Rouse
out Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George Jackson,
is there anybody with you?''

{}``No, sir, nobody.''

I heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light.
The man sung out:

{}``Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool---ain't you got any
sense? Put it on the floor behind the front door. Bob, if you and
Tom are ready, take your places.''

{}``All ready.''

{}``Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?''

{}``No, sir; I never heard of them.''

{}``Well, that may be so, and it mayn't. Now, all ready. Step forward,
George Jackson. And mind, don't you hurry---come mighty slow. If there's
anybody with you, let him keep back---if he shows himself he'll be
shot. Come along now. Come slow; push the door open yourself---just
enough to squeeze in, d' you hear?''

I didn't hurry; I couldn't if I'd a wanted to. I took one slow step
at a time and there warn't a sound, only I thought I could hear my
heart. The dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little
behind me. When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard them unlocking
and unbarring and unbolting. I put my hand on the door and pushed
it a little and a little more till somebody said, {}``There, that's
enough---put your head in.'' I done it, but I judged they would take
it off.

The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me,
and me at them, for about a quarter of a minute: Three big men with
guns pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest, gray
and about sixty, the other two thirty or more---all of them fine and
handsome---and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her
two young women which I couldn't see right well. The old gentleman
says:

{}``There; I reckon it's all right. Come in.''

As soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked the door and barred
it and bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their guns,
and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the
floor, and got together in a corner that was out of the range of the
front windows---there warn't none on the side. They held the candle,
and took a good look at me, and all said, {}``Why, \textit{he} ain't
a Shepherdson---no, there ain't any Shepherdson about him.'' Then
the old man said he hoped I wouldn't mind being searched for arms,
because he didn't mean no harm by it---it was only to make sure. So
he didn't pry into my pockets, but only felt outside with his hands,
and said it was all right. He told me to make myself easy and at home,
and tell all about myself; but the old lady says:

{}``Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; and
don't you reckon it may be he's hungry?''

{}``True for you, Rachel---I forgot.''

So the old lady says:

{}``Betsy'' (this was a nigger woman), {}``you fly around and get
him something to eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you
girls go and wake up Buck and tell him---oh, here he is himself. Buck,
take this little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and
dress him up in some of yours that's dry.''

Buck looked about as old as me---thirteen or fourteen or along there,
though he was a little bigger than me. He hadn't on anything but a
shirt, and he was very frowzy-headed. He came in gaping and digging
one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the other
one. He says:

{}``Ain't they no Shepherdsons around?''

They said, no, 'twas a false alarm.

{}``Well,'' he says, {}``if they'd a ben some, I reckon I'd a got
one.''

They all laughed, and Bob says:

{}``Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you've been so slow
in coming.''

{}``Well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right I'm always kept
down; I don't get no show.''

{}``Never mind, Buck, my boy,'' says the old man, {}``you'll have
show enough, all in good time, don't you fret about that. Go 'long
with you now, and do as your mother told you.''

When we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a roundabout
and pants of his, and I put them on. While I was at it he asked me
what my name was, but before I could tell him he started to tell me
about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in the woods day
before yesterday, and he asked me where Moses was when the candle
went out. I said I didn't know; I hadn't heard about it before, no
way.

{}``Well, guess,'' he says.

{}``How'm I going to guess,'' says I, {}``when I never heard tell
of it before?''

{}``But you can guess, can't you? It's just as easy.''

{}``\textit{Which} candle?''\ I says.

{}``Why, any candle,'' he says.

{}``I don't know where he was,'' says I; {}``where was he?''

{}``Why, he was in the \textit{dark}! That's where he was!''

{}``Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?''

{}``Why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? Say, how long are
you going to stay here? You got to stay always. We can just have booming
times---they don't have no school now. Do you own a dog? I've got
a dog---and he'll go in the river and bring out chips that you throw
in. Do you like to comb up Sundays, and all that kind of foolishness?
You bet I don't, but ma she makes me. Confound these ole britches!
I reckon I'd better put 'em on, but I'd ruther not, it's so warm.
Are you all ready? All right. Come along, old hoss.''

Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk---that is what
they had for me down there, and there ain't nothing better that ever
I've come across yet. Buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob pipes,
except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two young women.
They all smoked and talked, and I eat and talked. The young women
had quilts around them, and their hair down their backs. They all
asked me questions, and I told them how pap and me and all the family
was living on a little farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw, and my
sister Mary Ann run off and got married and never was heard of no
more, and Bill went to hunt them and he warn't heard of no more, and
Tom and Mort died, and then there warn't nobody but just me and pap
left, and he was just trimmed down to nothing, on account of his troubles;
so when he died I took what there was left, because the farm didn't
belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, and fell overboard;
and that was how I come to be here. So they said I could have a home
there as long as I wanted it. Then it was most daylight and everybody
went to bed, and I went to bed with Buck, and when I waked up in the
morning, drat it all, I had forgot what my name was. So I laid there
about an hour trying to think, and when Buck waked up I says:

{}``Can you spell, Buck?''

{}``Yes,'' he says.

{}``I bet you can't spell my name,'' says I.

{}``I bet you what you dare I can,'' says he.

{}``All right,'' says I, {}``go ahead.''

{}``G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n---there now,'' he says.

{}``Well,'' says I, {}``you done it, but I didn't think you could.
It ain't no slouch of a name to spell---right off without studying.''

I set it down, private, because somebody might want \textit{me} to
spell it next, and so I wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off
like I was used to it.

It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. I hadn't
seen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so
much style. It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a
wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same
as houses in town. There warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of
a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them. There was a
big fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept
clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another
brick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that they
call Spanish-brown, same as they do in town. They had big brass dog-irons
that could hold up a saw-log. There was a clock on the middle of the
mantelpiece, with a picture of a town painted on the bottom half of
the glass front, and a round place in the middle of it for the sun,
and you could see the pendulum swinging behind it. It was beautiful
to hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of these peddlers
had been along and scoured her up and got her in good shape, she would
start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she got tuckered out.
They wouldn't took any money for her.

Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock,
made out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. By one of
the parrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the
other; and when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but didn't
open their mouths nor look different nor interested. They squeaked
through underneath. There was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans
spread out behind those things. On the table in the middle of the
room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges
and peaches and grapes piled up in it, which was much redder and yellower
and prettier than real ones is, but they warn't real because you could
see where pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, or
whatever it was, underneath.

This table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red
and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around.
It come all the way from Philadelphia, they said. There was some books,
too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table. One was
a big family Bible full of pictures. One was \emph{Pilgrim's Progress},
about a man that left his family, it didn't say why. I read considerable
in it now and then. The statements was interesting, but tough. Another
was \emph{Friendship's Offering}, full of beautiful stuff and poetry;
but I didn't read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay's \emph{Speeches},
and another was Dr.\ Gunn's \emph{Family Medicine}, which told you
all about what to do if a body was sick or dead. There was a hymn
book, and a lot of other books. And there was nice split-bottom chairs,
and perfectly sound, too---not bagged down in the middle and busted,
like an old basket.

They had pictures hung on the walls---mainly Washingtons and Lafayettes,
and battles, and Highland Marys, and one called {}``Signing the Declaration.''
There was some that they called crayons, which one of the daughters
which was dead made her own self when she was only fifteen years old.
They was different from any pictures I ever see before---blacker,
mostly, than is common. One was a woman in a slim black dress, belted
small under the armpits, with bulges like a cabbage in the middle
of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black
veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and very
wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on
a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping willow, and her other
hand hanging down her side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule,
and underneath the picture it said {}``Shall I Never See Thee More
Alas.'' Another one was a young lady with her hair all combed up
straight to the top of her head, and knotted there in front of a comb
like a chair-back, and she was crying into a handkerchief and had
a dead bird laying on its back in her other hand with its heels up,
and underneath the picture it said {}``I Shall Never Hear Thy Sweet
Chirrup More Alas.'' There was one where a young lady was at a window
looking up at the moon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she
had an open letter in one hand with black sealing wax showing on one
edge of it, and she was mashing a locket with a chain to it against
her mouth, and underneath the picture it said {}``And Art Thou Gone
Yes Thou Art Gone Alas.'' These was all nice pictures, I reckon,
but I didn't somehow seem to take to them, because if ever I was down
a little they always give me the fan-tods. Everybody was sorry she
died, because she had laid out a lot more of these pictures to do,
and a body could see by what she had done what they had lost. But
I reckoned that with her disposition she was having a better time
in the graveyard. She was at work on what they said was her greatest
picture when she took sick, and every day and every night it was her
prayer to be allowed to live till she got it done, but she never got
the chance. It was a picture of a young woman in a long white gown,
standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off, with her hair
all down her back, and looking up to the moon, with the tears running
down her face, and she had two arms folded across her breast, and
two arms stretched out in front, and two more reaching up towards
the moon---and the idea was to see which pair would look best, and
then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was saying, she died
before she got her mind made up, and now they kept this picture over
the head of the bed in her room, and every time her birthday come
they hung flowers on it. Other times it was hid with a little curtain.
The young woman in the picture had a kind of a nice sweet face, but
there was so many arms it made her look too spidery, seemed to me.

This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to
paste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it
out of the \emph{Presbyterian Observer}, and write poetry after them
out of her own head. It was very good poetry. This is what she wrote
about a boy by the name of Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a well
and was drownded:

\noindent \begin{center}\noun{\small Ode to Stephen Dowling Bots,
dec'd}\end{center}{\small \par}

\begin{verse}\footnotesize

And did young Stephen sicken,\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ And did young Stephen die?\\*

And did the sad hearts thicken,\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ And did the mourners cry?



No; such was not the fate of\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ Young Stephen Dowling Bots;\\*

Though sad hearts round him thickened,\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ 'Twas not from sickness' shots.



No whooping-cough did rack his frame,\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ Nor measles drear with spots;\\*

Not these impaired the sacred name\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ Of Stephen Dowling Bots.



Despised love struck not with woe\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ That head of curly knots,\\*

Nor stomach troubles laid him low,\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ Young Stephen Dowling Bots.



O no. Then list with tearful eye,\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ Whilst I his fate do tell.\\*

His soul did from this cold world fly\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ By falling down a well.



They got him out and emptied him;\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ Alas it was too late;\\*

His spirit was gone for to sport aloft\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ In the realms of the good and great.

\end{verse}

If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she was
fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could a done by and by.
Buck said she could rattle off poetry like nothing. She didn't ever
have to stop to think. He said she would slap down a line, and if
she couldn't find anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it
out and slap down another one, and go ahead. She warn't particular;
she could write about anything you choose to give her to write about
just so it was sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or
a child died, she would be on hand with her {}``tribute'' before
he was cold. She called them tributes. The neighbors said it was the
doctor first, then Emmeline, then the undertaker---the undertaker
never got in ahead of Emmeline but once, and then she hung fire on
a rhyme for the dead person's name, which was Whistler. She warn't
ever the same after that; she never complained, but she kinder pined
away and did not live long. Poor thing, many's the time I made myself
go up to the little room that used to be hers and get out her poor
old scrap-book and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating
me and I had soured on her a little. I liked all that family, dead
ones and all, and warn't going to let anything come between us. Poor
Emmeline made poetry about all the dead people when she was alive,
and it didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make some about
her now she was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself,
but I couldn't seem to make it go somehow. They kept Emmeline's room
trim and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked
to have them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. The
old lady took care of the room herself, though there was plenty of
niggers, and she sewed there a good deal and read her Bible there
mostly.

Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains
on the windows: white, with pictures painted on them of castles with
vines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. There was
a little old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, I reckon, and nothing
was ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies sing {}``The Last
Link is Broken'' and play {}``The Battle of Prague'' on it. The
walls of all the rooms was plastered, and most had carpets on the
floors, and the whole house was whitewashed on the outside.

It was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them was roofed
and floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the middle of
the day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. Nothing couldn't be
better. And warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it too!


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XVIII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XVIII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XVIII}

\textit{\emph{Col}}\emph{.}\textit{\emph{\ Grangerford}} was a gentleman,
you see. He was a gentleman all over; and so was his family. He was
well born, as the saying is, and that's worth as much in a man as
it is in a horse, so the Widow Douglas said, and nobody ever denied
that she was of the first aristocracy in our town; and pap he always
said it, too, though he warn't no more quality than a mudcat himself.
Col.\textit{\emph{\ }}Grangerford was very tall and very slim, and
had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of red in it anywheres;
he was clean shaved every morning all over his thin face, and he had
the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of nostrils, and
a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes, sunk
so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of caverns
at you, as you may say. His forehead was high, and his hair was black
and straight and hung to his shoulders. His hands was long and thin,
and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit
from head to foot made out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to
look at it; and on Sundays he wore a blue tail-coat with brass buttons
on it. He carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it. There
warn't no frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud.
He was as kind as he could be---you could feel that, you know, and
so you had confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see;
but when he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning
begun to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb
a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards. He didn't
ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners---everybody was always
good-mannered where he was. Everybody loved to have him around, too;
he was sunshine most always---I mean he made it seem like good weather.
When he turned into a cloudbank it was awful dark for half a minute,
and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a week.

When him and the old lady come down in the morning all the family
got up out of their chairs and give them good-day, and didn't set
down again till they had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard
where the decanter was, and mixed a glass of bitters and handed it
to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till Tom's and Bob's
was mixed, and then they bowed and said, {}``Our duty to you, sir,
and madam;'' and \textit{they} bowed the least bit in the world and
said thank you, and so they drank, all three, and Bob and Tom poured
a spoonful of water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple brandy
in the bottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and Buck, and we
drank to the old people too.

Bob was the oldest and Tom next---tall, beautiful men with very broad
shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black eyes. They
dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman,
and wore broad Panama hats.

Then there was Miss Charlotte; she was twenty-five, and tall and proud
and grand, but as good as she could be when she warn't stirred up;
but when she was she had a look that would make you wilt in your tracks,
like her father. She was beautiful.

So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different kind. She was
gentle and sweet like a dove, and she was only twenty.

Each person had their own nigger to wait on them---Buck too. My nigger
had a monstrous easy time, because I warn't used to having anybody
do anything for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of the time.

This was all there was of the family now, but there used to be more---three
sons; they got killed; and Emmeline that died.

The old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over a hundred niggers.
Sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, from ten
or fifteen mile around, and stay five or six days, and have such junketings
round about and on the river, and dances and picnics in the woods
daytimes, and balls at the house nights. These people was mostly kinfolks
of the family. The men brought their guns with them. It was a handsome
lot of quality, I tell you.

There was another clan of aristocracy around there---five or six families---mostly
of the name of Shepherdson. They was as high-toned and well born and
rich and grand as the tribe of Grangerfords. The Shepherdsons and
Grangerfords used the same steamboat landing, which was about two
mile above our house; so sometimes when I went up there with a lot
of our folks I used to see a lot of the Shepherdsons there on their
fine horses.

One day Buck and me was away out in the woods hunting, and heard a
horse coming. We was crossing the road. Buck says:

{}``Quick! Jump for the woods!''

We done it, and then peeped down the woods through the leaves. Pretty
soon a splendid young man come galloping down the road, setting his
horse easy and looking like a soldier. He had his gun across his pommel.
I had seen him before. It was young Harney Shepherdson. I heard Buck's
gun go off at my ear, and Harney's hat tumbled off from his head.
He grabbed his gun and rode straight to the place where we was hid.
But we didn't wait. We started through the woods on a run. The woods
warn't thick, so I looked over my shoulder to dodge the bullet, and
twice I seen Harney cover Buck with his gun; and then he rode away
the way he come---to get his hat, I reckon, but I couldn't see. We
never stopped running till we got home. The old gentleman's eyes blazed
a minute---'twas pleasure, mainly, I judged---then his face sort of
smoothed down, and he says, kind of gentle:

{}``I don't like that shooting from behind a bush. Why didn't you
step into the road, my boy?''

{}``The Shepherdsons don't, father. They always take advantage.''

Miss Charlotte she held her head up like a queen while Buck was telling
his tale, and her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped. The two young
men looked dark, but never said nothing. Miss Sophia she turned pale,
but the color come back when she found the man warn't hurt.

Soon as I could get Buck down by the corn-cribs under the trees by
ourselves, I says:

{}``Did you want to kill him, Buck?''

{}``Well, I bet I did.''

{}``What did he do to you?''

{}``Him? He never done nothing to me.''

{}``Well, then, what did you want to kill him for?''

{}``Why, nothing---only it's on account of the feud.''

{}``What's a feud?''

{}``Why, where was you raised? Don't you know what a feud is?''

{}``Never heard of it before---tell me about it.''

{}``Well,'' says Buck, {}``a feud is this way: A man has a quarrel
with another man, and kills him; then that other man's brother kills
\textit{him}; then the other brothers, on both sides, goes for one
another; then the \textit{cousins} chip in---and by and by everybody's
killed off, and there ain't no more feud. But it's kind of slow, and
takes a long time.''

{}``Has this one been going on long, Buck?''

{}``Well, I should \textit{reckon}! It started thirty year ago, or
som'ers along there. There was trouble 'bout something, and then a
lawsuit to settle it; and the suit went agin one of the men, and so
he up and shot the man that won the suit---which he would naturally
do, of course. Anybody would.''

{}``What was the trouble about, Buck?---land?''

{}``I reckon maybe---I don't know.''

{}``Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Grangerford or a Shepherdson?''

{}``Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago.''

{}``Don't anybody know?''

{}``Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old people;
but they don't know now what the row was about in the first place.''

{}``Has there been many killed, Buck?''

{}``Yes; right smart chance of funerals. But they don't always kill.
Pa's got a few buckshot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't
weigh much, anyway. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and Tom's
been hurt once or twice.''

{}``Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?''

{}``Yes; we got one and they got one. 'Bout three months ago my cousin
Bud, fourteen year old, was riding through the woods on t'other side
of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which was blame'
foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse a-coming behind
him, and sees old Baldy Shepherdson a-linkin' after him with his gun
in his hand and his white hair a-flying in the wind; and 'stead of
jumping off and taking to the brush, Bud 'lowed he could out-run him;
so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or more, the old man a-gaining
all the time; so at last Bud seen it warn't any use, so he stopped
and faced around so as to have the bullet holes in front, you know,
and the old man he rode up and shot him down. But he didn't git much
chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid \textit{him}
out.''

{}``I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck.''

{}``I reckon he \textit{warn't} a coward. Not by a blame' sight.
There ain't a coward amongst them Shepherdsons---not a one. And there
ain't no cowards amongst the Grangerfords either. Why, that old man
kep' up his end in a fight one day for half an hour against three
Grangerfords, and come out winner. They was all a-horseback; he lit
off of his horse and got behind a little woodpile, and kep' his horse
before him to stop the bullets; but the Grangerfords stayed on their
horses and capered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and
he peppered away at them. Him and his horse both went home pretty
leaky and crippled, but the Grangerfords had to be \textit{fetched}
home---and one of 'em was dead, and another died the next day. No,
sir; if a body's out hunting for cowards he don't want to fool away
any time amongst them Shepherdsons, becuz they don't breed any of
that \textit{kind}.''

Next Sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-horseback.
The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept them between
their knees or stood them handy against the wall. The Shepherdsons
done the same. It was pretty ornery preaching---all about brotherly
love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good
sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and had such a powerful
lot to say about faith and good works and free grace and preforeordestination,
and I don't know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the
roughest Sundays I had run across yet.

About an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in their
chairs and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull. Buck
and a dog was stretched out on the grass in the sun sound asleep.
I went up to our room, and judged I would take a nap myself. I found
that sweet Miss Sophia standing in her door, which was next to ours,
and she took me in her room and shut the door very soft, and asked
me if I liked her, and I said I did; and she asked me if I would do
something for her and not tell anybody, and I said I would. Then she
said she'd forgot her Testament, and left it in the seat at church
between two other books, and would I slip out quiet and go there and
fetch it to her, and not say nothing to nobody. I said I would. So
I slid out and slipped off up the road, and there warn't anybody at
the church, except maybe a hog or two, for there warn't any lock on
the door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor in summer-time because it's
cool. If you notice, most folks don't go to church only when they've
got to; but a hog is different.

Says I to myself, something's up; it ain't natural for a girl to be
in such a sweat about a Testament. So I give it a shake, and out drops
a little piece of paper with {}``\textit{Half}-\textit{past} \textit{two}''
wrote on it with a pencil. I ransacked it, but couldn't find anything
else. I couldn't make anything out of that, so I put the paper in
the book again, and when I got home and upstairs there was Miss Sophia
in her door waiting for me. She pulled me in and shut the door; then
she looked in the Testament till she found the paper, and as soon
as she read it she looked glad; and before a body could think she
grabbed me and give me a squeeze, and said I was the best boy in the
world, and not to tell anybody. She was mighty red in the face for
a minute, and her eyes lighted up, and it made her powerful pretty.
I was a good deal astonished, but when I got my breath I asked her
what the paper was about, and she asked me if I had read it, and I
said no, and she asked me if I could read writing, and I told her
{}``no, only coarse-hand,'' and then she said the paper warn't anything
but a book-mark to keep her place, and I might go and play now.

I went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty
soon I noticed that my nigger was following along behind. When we
was out of sight of the house he looked back and around a second,
and then comes a-running, and says:

{}``Mars Jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp I'll show you a
whole stack o' water-moccasins.''

Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he said that yesterday. He oughter
know a body don't love water-moccasins enough to go around hunting
for them. What is he up to, anyway? So I says:

{}``All right; trot ahead.''

I followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the swamp, and waded
ankle deep as much as another half-mile. We come to a little flat
piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes and
vines, and he says:

{}``You shove right in dah jist a few steps, Mars Jawge; dah's whah
dey is. I's seed 'm befo'; I don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'.''

Then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees
hid him. I poked into the place a-ways and come to a little open patch
as big as a bedroom all hung around with vines, and found a man laying
there asleep---and, by jings, it was my old Jim!

I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise
to him to see me again, but it warn't. He nearly cried he was so glad,
but he warn't surprised. Said he swum along behind me that night,
and heard me yell every time, but dasn't answer, because he didn't
want nobody to pick \textit{him} up and take him into slavery again.
Says he:

{}``I got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so I wuz a considable
ways behine you towards de las'; when you landed I reck'ned I could
ketch up wid you on de lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when
I see dat house I begin to go slow. I 'uz off too fur to hear what
dey say to you---I wuz 'fraid o' de dogs; but when it 'uz all quiet
agin I knowed you's in de house, so I struck out for de woods to wait
for day. Early in de mawnin' some er de niggers come along, gwyne
to de fields, en dey tuk me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can't
track me on accounts o' de water, en dey brings me truck to eat every
night, en tells me how you's a-gitt'n along.''

{}``Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim?''

{}``Well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck, tell we could do sumfn---but
we's all right now. I ben a-buyin' pots en pans en vittles, as I got
a chanst, en a-patchin' up de raf' nights when\mbox{---''}

{}``\textit{What} raft, Jim?''

{}``Our ole raf'.''

{}``You mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all to flinders?''

{}``No, she warn't. She was tore up a good deal---one en' of her
was; but dey warn't no great harm done, on'y our traps was mos' all
los'. Ef we hadn' dive' so deep en swum so fur under water, en de
night hadn' ben so dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads,
as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'. But it's jis' as well we didn't,
'kase now she's all fixed up agin mos' as good as new, en we's got
a new lot o' stuff, in de place o' what 'uz los'.''

{}``Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim---did you catch
her?''

{}``How I gwyne to ketch her en I out in de woods? No; some er de
niggers foun' her ketched on a snag along heah in de ben', en dey
hid her in a crick 'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout
which un 'um she b'long to de mos' dat I come to heah 'bout it pooty
soon, so I ups en settles de trouble by tellin' 'um she don't b'long
to none uv um, but to you en me; en I ast 'm if dey gwyne to grab
a young white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? Den I gin
'm ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some
mo' raf's 'ud come along en make 'm rich agin. Dey's mighty good to
me, dese niggers is, en whatever I wants 'm to do fur me I doan' have
to ast 'm twice, honey. Dat Jack's a good nigger, en pooty smart.''

{}``Yes, he is. He ain't ever told me you was here; told me to come,
and he'd show me a lot of water-moccasins. If anything happens \textit{he}
ain't mixed up in it. He can say he never seen us together, and it
'll be the truth.''

I don't want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I'll cut it
pretty short. I waked up about dawn, and was a-going to turn over
and go to sleep again when I noticed how still it was---didn't seem
to be anybody stirring. That warn't usual. Next I noticed that Buck
was up and gone. Well, I gets up, a-wondering, and goes down stairs---nobody
around; everything as still as a mouse. Just the same outside. Thinks
I, what does it mean? Down by the wood-pile I comes across my Jack,
and says:

{}``What's it all about?''

Says he:

{}``Don't you know, Mars Jawge?''

{}``No,'' says I, {}``I don't.''

{}``Well, den, Miss Sophia's run off!\ 'deed she has. She run off
in de night some time---nobody don't know jis' when; run off to get
married to dat young Harney Shepherdson, you know---leastways, so
dey 'spec. De fambly foun' it out 'bout half an hour ago---maybe a
little mo'---en' I \textit{tell} you dey warn't no time los'. Sich
another hurryin' up guns en hosses \textit{you} never see! De women
folks has gone for to stir up de relations, en ole Mars Saul en de
boys tuck dey guns en rode up de river road for to try to ketch dat
young man en kill him 'fo' he kin git acrost de river wid Miss Sophia.
I reck'n dey's gwyne to be mighty rough times.''

{}``Buck went off 'thout waking me up.''

{}``Well, I reck'n he \textit{did}! Dey warn't gwyne to mix you up
in it. Mars Buck he loaded up his gun en 'lowed he's gwyne to fetch
home a Shepherdson or bust. Well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, I reck'n,
en you bet you he'll fetch one ef he gits a chanst.''

I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By and by I begin
to hear guns a good ways off. When I came in sight of the log store
and the woodpile where the steamboats lands I worked along under the
trees and brush till I got to a good place, and then I clumb up into
the forks of a cottonwood that was out of reach, and watched. There
was a wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front of the tree,
and first I was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was luckier
I didn't.

There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the
open place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to
get at a couple of young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside
of the steamboat landing; but they couldn't come it. Every time one
of them showed himself on the river side of the woodpile he got shot
at. The two boys was squatting back to back behind the pile, so they
could watch both ways.

By and by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They started
riding towards the store; then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady
bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle.
All the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed the hurt one and
started to carry him to the store; and that minute the two boys started
on the run. They got half way to the tree I was in before the men
noticed. Then the men see them, and jumped on their horses and took
out after them. They gained on the boys, but it didn't do no good,
the boys had too good a start; they got to the woodpile that was in
front of my tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they had the bulge
on the men again. One of the boys was Buck, and the other was a slim
young chap about nineteen years old.

The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. As soon as they
was out of sight I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn't know what
to make of my voice coming out of the tree at first. He was awful
surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him know when the
men come in sight again; said they was up to some devilment or other---wouldn't
be gone long. I wished I was out of that tree, but I dasn't come down.
Buck begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed that him and his cousin Joe
(that was the other young chap) would make up for this day yet. He
said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or three
of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons laid for them in ambush. Buck
said his father and brothers ought to waited for their relations---the
Shepherdsons was too strong for them. I asked him what was become
of young Harney and Miss Sophia. He said they'd got across the river
and was safe. I was glad of that; but the way Buck did take on because
he didn't manage to kill Harney that day he shot at him---I hain't
ever heard anything like it.

All of a sudden, bang!\ bang!\ bang!\ goes three or four guns---the
men had slipped around through the woods and come in from behind without
their horses! The boys jumped for the river---both of them hurt---and
as they swum down the current the men run along the bank shooting
at them and singing out, {}``Kill them, kill them!''\ It made me
so sick I most fell out of the tree. I ain't a-going to tell \textit{all}
that happened---it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I
wished I hadn't ever come ashore that night to see such things. I
ain't ever going to get shut of them---lots of times I dream about
them.

I stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down.
Sometimes I heard guns away off in the woods; and twice I seen little
gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so I reckoned the
trouble was still a-going on. I was mighty downhearted; so I made
up my mind I wouldn't ever go anear that house again, because I reckoned
I was to blame, somehow. I judged that that piece of paper meant that
Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at half-past two and run
off; and I judged I ought to told her father about that paper and
the curious way she acted, and then maybe he would a locked her up,
and this awful mess wouldn't ever happened.

When I got down out of the tree I crept along down the river bank
a piece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water,
and tugged at them till I got them ashore; then I covered up their
faces, and got away as quick as I could. I cried a little when I was
covering up Buck's face, for he was mighty good to me.

It was just dark now. I never went near the house, but struck through
the woods and made for the swamp. Jim warn't on his island, so I tramped
off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the willows, red-hot
to jump aboard and get out of that awful country. The raft was gone!
My souls, but I was scared! I couldn't get my breath for most a minute.
Then I raised a yell. A voice not twenty-five foot from me says:

{}``Good lan'!\ is dat you, honey? Doan' make no noise.''

It was Jim's voice---nothing ever sounded so good before. I run along
the bank a piece and got aboard, and Jim he grabbed me and hugged
me, he was so glad to see me. He says:

{}``Laws bless you, chile, I 'uz right down sho' you's dead agin.
Jack's been heah; he say he reck'n you's ben shot, kase you didn'
come home no mo'; so I's jes' dis minute a startin' de raf' down towards
de mouf er de crick, so's to be all ready for to shove out en leave
soon as Jack comes agin en tells me for certain you \textit{is} dead.
Lawsy, I's mighty glad to git you back again, honey.''

I says:

{}``All right---that's mighty good; they won't find me, and they'll
think I've been killed, and floated down the river---there's something
up there that 'll help them think so---so don't you lose no time,
Jim, but just shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can.''

I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out in
the middle of the Mississippi. Then we hung up our signal lantern,
and judged that we was free and safe once more. I hadn't had a bite
to eat since yesterday, so Jim he got out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk,
and pork and cabbage and greens---there ain't nothing in the world
so good when it's cooked right---and whilst I eat my supper we talked
and had a good time. I was powerful glad to get away from the feuds,
and so was Jim to get away from the swamp. We said there warn't no
home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and
smothery, but a raft don't. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable
on a raft.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XIX.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XIX}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XIX}

\textit{\emph{Two}} or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might
say they swum by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely.
Here is the way we put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down
there---sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid
up and hid daytimes; soon as night was most gone we stopped navigating
and tied up---nearly always in the dead water under a towhead; and
then cut young cottonwoods and willows, and hid the raft with them.
Then we set out the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim,
so as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom
where the water was about knee deep, and watched the daylight come.
Not a sound anywheres---perfectly still---just like the whole world
was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe. The
first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull
line---that was the woods on t'other side; you couldn't make nothing
else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness spreading
around; then the river softened up away off, and warn't black any
more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along ever
so far away---trading scows, and such things; and long black streaks---rafts;
sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up voices,
it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by you could see
a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that
there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes
that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the
water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a
log-cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t'other side
of the river, being a woodyard, likely, and piled by them cheats so
you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs
up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh and sweet
to smell on account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not
that way, because they've left dead fish laying around, gars and such,
and they do get pretty rank; and next you've got the full day, and
everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it!

A little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would take some fish
off of the lines and cook up a hot breakfast. And afterwards we would
watch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by
and by lazy off to sleep. Wake up by and by, and look to see what
done it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing along up-stream, so far
off towards the other side you couldn't tell nothing about her only
whether she was a stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour
there wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see---just solid
lonesomeness. Next you'd see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, and
maybe a galoot on it chopping, because they're most always doing it
on a raft; you'd see the axe flash and come down---you don't hear
nothing; you see that axe go up again, and by the time it's above
the man's head then you hear the \emph{k'chunk}!---it had took all
that time to come over the water. So we would put in the day, lazying
around, listening to the stillness. Once there was a thick fog, and
the rafts and things that went by was beating tin pans so the steamboats
wouldn't run over them. A scow or a raft went by so close we could
hear them talking and cussing and laughing---heard them plain; but
we couldn't see no sign of them; it made you feel crawly; it was like
spirits carrying on that way in the air. Jim said he believed it was
spirits; but I says:

{}``No; spirits wouldn't say, `Dern the dern fog'.''

Soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about the
middle we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wanted
her to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water,
and talked about all kinds of things---we was always naked, day and
night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us---the new clothes Buck's
folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I didn't
go much on clothes, nohow.

Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest
time. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and
maybe a spark---which was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes
on the water you could see a spark or two---on a raft or a scow, you
know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a song coming over from
one of them crafts. It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky
up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs
and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only
just happened. Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened;
I judged it would have took too long to \textit{make} so many. Jim
said the moon could a \textit{laid} them; well, that looked kind of
reasonable, so I didn't say nothing against it, because I've seen
a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used to
watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed
they'd got spoiled and was hove out of the nest.

Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in
the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks
up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and
look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would
wink out and her powwow shut off and leave the river still again;
and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she was
gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hear
nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except maybe frogs or something.

After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two or
three hours the shores was black---no more sparks in the cabin windows.
These sparks was our clock---the first one that showed again meant
morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and tie up right
away.

One morning about daybreak I found a canoe and crossed over a chute
to the main shore---it was only two hundred yards---and paddled about
a mile up a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if I couldn't
get some berries. Just as I was passing a place where a kind of a
cowpath crossed the crick, here comes a couple of men tearing up the
path as tight as they could foot it. I thought I was a goner, for
whenever anybody was after anybody I judged it was \textit{me}---or
maybe Jim. I was about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they
was pretty close to me then, and sung out and begged me to save their
lives---said they hadn't been doing nothing, and was being chased
for it---said there was men and dogs a-coming. They wanted to jump
right in, but I says:

{}``Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs and horses yet; you've
got time to crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little
ways; then you take to the water and wade down to me and get in---that'll
throw the dogs off the scent.''

They done it, and soon as they was aboard I lit out for our towhead,
and in about five or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the men away
off, shouting. We heard them come along towards the crick, but couldn't
see them; they seemed to stop and fool around a while; then, as we
got further and further away all the time, we couldn't hardly hear
them at all; by the time we had left a mile of woods behind us and
struck the river, everything was quiet, and we paddled over to the
towhead and hid in the cottonwoods and was safe.

One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald
head and very gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch hat
on, and a greasy blue woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches
stuffed into his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses---no, he only had
one. He had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons
flung over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags.

The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. After
breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come
out was that these chaps didn't know one another.

{}``What got you into trouble?''\ says the baldhead to t'other
chap.

{}``Well, I'd been selling an article to take the tartar off the
teeth---and it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along
with it---but I stayed about one night longer than I ought to, and
was just in the act of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail
this side of town, and you told me they were coming, and begged me
to help you to get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble myself,
and would scatter out \textit{with} you. That's the whole yarn---what's
yourn?

{}``Well, I'd ben a-running' a little temperance revival thar 'bout
a week, and was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for I
was makin' it mighty warm for the rummies, I \textit{tell} you, and
takin' as much as five or six dollars a night---ten cents a head,
children and niggers free---and business a-growin' all the time, when
somehow or another a little report got around last night that I had
a way of puttin' in my time with a private jug on the sly. A nigger
rousted me out this mornin', and told me the people was getherin'
on the quiet with their dogs and horses, and they'd be along pretty
soon and give me 'bout half an hour's start, and then run me down
if they could; and if they got me they'd tar and feather me and ride
me on a rail, sure. I didn't wait for no breakfast---I warn't hungry.''

{}``Old man,'' said the young one, {}``I reckon we might double-team
it together; what do you think?''

{}``I ain't undisposed. What's your line---mainly?''

{}``Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-actor---tragedy,
you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when there's a chance;
teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a lecture sometimes---oh,
I do lots of things---most anything that comes handy, so it ain't
work. What's your lay?''

{}``I've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin'
on o' hands is my best holt---for cancer and paralysis, and sich things;
and I k'n tell a fortune pretty good when I've got somebody along
to find out the facts for me. Preachin's my line, too, and workin'
camp-meetin's, and missionaryin' around.''

Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a
sigh and says:

{}``Alas!''

{}``What 're you alassin' about?''\ says the bald-head.

{}``To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be
degraded down into such company.'' And he begun to wipe the corner
of his eye with a rag.

{}``Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?''\ says
the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.

{}``Yes, it \textit{is} good enough for me; it's as good as I deserve;
for who fetched me so low when I was so high? I did myself. I don't
blame \textit{you}, gentlemen---far from it; I don't blame anybody.
I deserve it all. Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know---there's
a grave somewhere for me. The world may go on just as it's always
done, and take everything from me---loved ones, property, everything;
but it can't take that. Some day I'll lie down in it and forget it
all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest.'' He went on a-wiping.

{}``Drot your pore broken heart,'' says the baldhead; {}``what
are you heaving your pore broken heart at \textit{us} f'r? \textit{We}
hain't done nothing.''

{}``No, I know you haven't. I ain't blaming you, gentlemen. I brought
myself down---yes, I did it myself. It's right I should suffer---perfectly
right---I don't make any moan.''

{}``Brought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down from?''

{}``Ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes---let
it pass---'tis no matter. The secret of my birth---''

{}``The secret of your birth! Do you mean to say---''

{}``Gentlemen,'' says the young man, very solemn, {}``I will reveal
it to you, for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights I am
a duke!''

Jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did, too.
Then the baldhead says: {}``No!\ you can't mean it?''

{}``Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater,
fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe
the pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his
own father dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke
seized the titles and estates---the infant real duke was ignored.
I am the lineal descendant of that infant---I am the rightful Duke
of Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate,
hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken,
and degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!''

Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I.\ We tried to comfort him,
but he said it warn't much use, he couldn't be much comforted; said
if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than
most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how.
He said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say {}``Your Grace,''
or {}``My Lord,'' or {}``Your Lordship''---and he wouldn't mind
it if we called him plain {}``Bridgewater,'' which, he said, was
a title anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him
at dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done.

Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood
around and waited on him, and says, {}``Will yo' Grace have some
o' dis or some o' dat?''\ and so on, and a body could see it was
mighty pleasing to him.

But the old man got pretty silent by and by---didn't have much to
say, and didn't look pretty comfortable over all that petting that
was going on around that duke. He seemed to have something on his
mind. So, along in the afternoon, he says:

{}``Looky here, Bilgewater,'' he says, {}``I'm nation sorry for
you, but you ain't the only person that's had troubles like that.''

{}``No?''

{}``No you ain't. You ain't the only person that's ben snaked down
wrongfully out'n a high place.''

{}``Alas!''

{}``No, you ain't the only person that's had a secret of his birth.''
And, by jings, \textit{he} begins to cry.

{}``Hold! What do you mean?''

{}``Bilgewater, kin I trust you?''\ says the old man, still sort
of sobbing.

{}``To the bitter death!'' He took the old man by the hand and squeezed
it, and says, {}``That secret of your being: speak!''

{}``Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!''

You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then the duke says:

{}``You are what?''

{}``Yes, my friend, it is too true---your eyes is lookin' at this
very moment on the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son
of Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette.''

{}``You! At your age! No! You mean you're the late Charlemagne; you
must be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least.''

{}``Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble
has brung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen,
you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled,
trampled-on, and sufferin' rightful King of France.''

Well, he cried and took on so that me and Jim didn't know hardly what
to do, we was so sorry---and so glad and proud we'd got him with us,
too. So we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to
comfort \textit{him}. But he said it warn't no use, nothing but to
be dead and done with it all could do him any good; though he said
it often made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated
him according to his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to
him, and always called him {}``Your Majesty,'' and waited on him
first at meals, and didn't set down in his presence till he asked
them. So Jim and me set to majestying him, and doing this and that
and t'other for him, and standing up till he told us we might set
down. This done him heaps of good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable.
But the duke kind of soured on him, and didn't look a bit satisfied
with the way things was going; still, the king acted real friendly
towards him, and said the duke's great-grandfather and all the other
Dukes of Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by \textit{his} father,
and was allowed to come to the palace considerable; but the duke stayed
huffy a good while, till by and by the king says:

{}``Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this
h-yer raft, Bilgewater, and so what's the use o' your bein' sour?
It 'll only make things oncomfortable. It ain't my fault I warn't
born a duke, it ain't your fault you warn't born a king---so what's
the use to worry? Make the best o' things the way you find 'em, says
I---that's my motto. This ain't no bad thing that we've struck here---plenty
grub and an easy life---come, give us your hand, duke, and le's all
be friends.''

The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It took
away all the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it, because
it would a been a miserable business to have any unfriendliness on
the raft; for what you want, above all things, on a raft, is for everybody
to be satisfied, and feel right and kind towards the others.

It didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn't
no kings nor dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. But
I never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best
way; then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get into no trouble.
If they wanted us to call them kings and dukes, I hadn't no objections,
'long as it would keep peace in the family; and it warn't no use to
tell Jim, so I didn't tell him. If I never learnt nothing else out
of pap, I learnt that the best way to get along with his kind of people
is to let them have their own way.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XX.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XX}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XX}

\textit{\emph{They}} asked us considerable many questions; wanted
to know what we covered up the raft that way for, and laid by in the
daytime instead of running---was Jim a runaway nigger? Says I:

{}``Goodness sakes!\ would a runaway nigger run \textit{south}?''

No, they allowed he wouldn't. I had to account for things some way,
so I says:

{}``My folks was living in Pike County, in Missouri, where I was
born, and they all died off but me and pa and my brother Ike. Pa,
he 'lowed he'd break up and go down and live with Uncle Ben, who's
got a little one-horse place on the river, forty-four mile below Orleans.
Pa was pretty poor, and had some debts; so when he'd squared up there
warn't nothing left but sixteen dollars and our nigger, Jim. That
warn't enough to take us fourteen hundred mile, deck passage nor no
other way. Well, when the river rose pa had a streak of luck one day;
he ketched this piece of a raft; so we reckoned we'd go down to Orleans
on it. Pa's luck didn't hold out; a steamboat run over the forrard
corner of the raft one night, and we all went overboard and dove under
the wheel; Jim and me come up all right, but pa was drunk, and Ike
was only four years old, so they never come up no more. Well, for
the next day or two we had considerable trouble, because people was
always coming out in skiffs and trying to take Jim away from me, saying
they believed he was a runaway nigger. We don't run daytimes no more
now; nights they don't bother us.''

The duke says:

{}``Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the daytime
if we want to. I'll think the thing over---I'll invent a plan that'll
fix it. We'll let it alone for to-day, because of course we don't
want to go by that town yonder in daylight---it mightn't be healthy.''

Towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the heat lightning
was squirting around low down in the sky, and the leaves was beginning
to shiver---it was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy to see that.
So the duke and the king went to overhauling our wigwam, to see what
the beds was like. My bed was a straw tick better than Jim's, which
was a corn-shuck tick; there's always cobs around about in a shuck
tick, and they poke into you and hurt; and when you roll over the
dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of dead leaves;
it makes such a rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke allowed
he would take my bed; but the king allowed he wouldn't. He says:

{}``I should a reckoned the difference in rank would a sejested to
you that a corn-shuck bed warn't just fitten for me to sleep on. Your
Grace 'll take the shuck bed yourself.''

Jim and me was in a sweat again for a minute, being afraid there was
going to be some more trouble amongst them; so we was pretty glad
when the duke says:

{}``'Tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the iron
heel of oppression. Misfortune has broken my once haughty spirit;
I yield, I submit; 'tis my fate. I am alone in the world---let me
suffer; I can bear it.''

We got away as soon as it was good and dark. The king told us to stand
well out towards the middle of the river, and not show a light till
we got a long ways below the town. We come in sight of the little
bunch of lights by and by---that was the town, you know---and slid
by, about a half a mile out, all right. When we was three-quarters
of a mile below we hoisted up our signal lantern; and about ten o'clock
it come on to rain and blow and thunder and lighten like everything;
so the king told us to both stay on watch till the weather got better;
then him and the duke crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the
night. It was my watch below till twelve, but I wouldn't a turned
in anyway if I'd had a bed, because a body don't see such a storm
as that every day in the week, not by a long sight. My souls, how
the wind did scream along! And every second or two there'd come a
glare that lit up the white-caps for a half a mile around, and you'd
see the islands looking dusty through the rain, and the trees thrashing
around in the wind; then comes a H-\textit{whack}!---bum!\ bum!\ bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum---and
the thunder would go rumbling and grumbling away, and quit---and then
\textit{rip} comes another flash and another sockdolager. The waves
most washed me off the raft sometimes, but I hadn't any clothes on,
and didn't mind. We didn't have no trouble about snags; the lightning
was glaring and flittering around so constant that we could see them
plenty soon enough to throw her head this way or that and miss them.

I had the middle watch, you know, but I was pretty sleepy by that
time, so Jim he said he would stand the first half of it for me; he
was always mighty good that way, Jim was. I crawled into the wigwam,
but the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around so there
warn't no show for me; so I laid outside---I didn't mind the rain,
because it was warm, and the waves warn't running so high now. About
two they come up again, though, and Jim was going to call me; but
he changed his mind, because he reckoned they warn't high enough yet
to do any harm; but he was mistaken about that, for pretty soon all
of a sudden along comes a regular ripper and washed me overboard.
It most killed Jim a-laughing. He was the easiest nigger to laugh
that ever was, anyway.

I took the watch, and Jim he laid down and snored away; and by and
by the storm let up for good and all; and the first cabin-light that
showed I rousted him out, and we slid the raft into hiding quarters
for the day.

The king got out an old ratty deck of cards after breakfast, and him
and the duke played seven-up a while, five cents a game. Then they
got tired of it, and allowed they would {}``lay out a campaign,''
as they called it. The duke went down into his carpet-bag, and fetched
up a lot of little printed bills and read them out loud. One bill
said, {}``The celebrated Dr.\ Armand de Montalban, of Paris,''
would {}``lecture on the Science of Phrenology'' at such and such
a place, on the blank day of blank, at ten cents admission, and {}``furnish
charts of character at twenty-five cents apiece.'' The duke said
that was \textit{him}. In another bill he was the {}``world-renowned
Shakespearian tragedian, Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane, London.''
In other bills he had a lot of other names and done other wonderful
things, like finding water and gold with a {}``divining-rod,'' {}``dissipating
witch spells,'' and so on. By and by he says:

{}``But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you ever trod the
boards, Royalty?''

{}``No,'' says the king.

{}``You shall, then, before you're three days older, Fallen Grandeur,''
says the duke. {}``The first good town we come to we'll hire a hall
and do the sword fight in \emph{Richard III}.\ and the balcony scene
in \emph{Romeo and Juliet}. How does that strike you?''

{}``I'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, Bilgewater;
but, you see, I don't know nothing about play-actin', and hain't ever
seen much of it. I was too small when pap used to have 'em at the
palace. Do you reckon you can learn me?''

{}``Easy!''

{}``All right. I'm jist a-freezn' for something fresh, anyway. Le's
commence right away.''

So the duke he told him all about who Romeo was and who Juliet was,
and said he was used to being Romeo, so the king could be Juliet.

{}``But if Juliet's such a young gal, duke, my peeled head and my
white whiskers is goin' to look oncommon odd on her, maybe.''

{}``No, don't you worry; these country jakes won't ever think of
that. Besides, you know, you'll be in costume, and that makes all
the difference in the world; Juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight
before she goes to bed, and she's got on her night-gown and her ruffled
nightcap. Here are the costumes for the parts.''

He got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which he said was meedyevil
armor for Richard III.\ and t'other chap, and a long white cotton
nightshirt and a ruffled nightcap to match. The king was satisfied;
so the duke got out his book and read the parts over in the most splendid
spread-eagle way, prancing around and acting at the same time, to
show how it had got to be done; then he give the book to the king
and told him to get his part by heart.

There was a little one-horse town about three mile down the bend,
and after dinner the duke said he had ciphered out his idea about
how to run in daylight without it being dangersome for Jim; so he
allowed he would go down to the town and fix that thing. The king
allowed he would go, too, and see if he couldn't strike something.
We was out of coffee, so Jim said I better go along with them in the
canoe and get some.

When we got there there warn't nobody stirring; streets empty, and
perfectly dead and still, like Sunday. We found a sick nigger sunning
himself in a back yard, and he said everybody that warn't too young
or too sick or too old was gone to camp-meeting, about two mile back
in the woods. The king got the directions, and allowed he'd go and
work that camp-meeting for all it was worth, and I might go, too.

The duke said what he was after was a printing-office. We found it;
a little bit of a concern, up over a carpenter shop---carpenters and
printers all gone to the meeting, and no doors locked. It was a dirty,
littered-up place, and had ink marks, and handbills with pictures
of horses and runaway niggers on them, all over the walls. The duke
shed his coat and said he was all right now. So me and the king lit
out for the camp-meeting.

We got there in about a half an hour fairly dripping, for it was a
most awful hot day. There was as much as a thousand people there from
twenty mile around. The woods was full of teams and wagons, hitched
everywheres, feeding out of the wagon-troughs and stomping to keep
off the flies. There was sheds made out of poles and roofed over with
branches, where they had lemonade and gingerbread to sell, and piles
of watermelons and green corn and such-like truck.

The preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only they
was bigger and held crowds of people. The benches was made out of
outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive
sticks into for legs. They didn't have no backs. The preachers had
high platforms to stand on at one end of the sheds. The women had
on sun-bonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham ones,
and a few of the young ones had on calico. Some of the young men was
barefooted, and some of the children didn't have on any clothes but
just a tow-linen shirt. Some of the old women was knitting, and some
of the young folks was courting on the sly.

The first shed we come to the preacher was lining out a hymn. He lined
out two lines, everybody sung it, and it was kind of grand to hear
it, there was so many of them and they done it in such a rousing way;
then he lined out two more for them to sing---and so on. The people
woke up more and more, and sung louder and louder; and towards the
end some begun to groan, and some begun to shout. Then the preacher
begun to preach, and begun in earnest, too; and went weaving first
to one side of the platform and then the other, and then a-leaning
down over the front of it, with his arms and his body going all the
time, and shouting his words out with all his might; and every now
and then he would hold up his Bible and spread it open, and kind of
pass it around this way and that, shouting, {}``It's the brazen serpent
in the wilderness! Look upon it and live!'' And people would shout
out, {}``Glory!---A-a-\textit{men}!'' And so he went on, and the
people groaning and crying and saying amen:

{}``Oh, come to the mourners' bench!\ come, black with sin!''\ (\textit{Amen}!)\textit{\emph{\ }}{}``come,
sick and sore!''\ (\textit{Amen}!)\textit{\emph{\ }}{}``come,
lame and halt and blind!''\ (\textit{Amen}!)\textit{\emph{\ }}{}``come,
pore and needy, sunk in shame!''\ (A-A-\textit{men}!)\textit{\emph{\ }}{}``come,
all that's worn and soiled and suffering!---come with a broken spirit!\ come
with a contrite heart!\ come in your rags and sin and dirt!\ the
waters that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open---oh,
enter in and be at rest!'' (\emph{A-A}-\textit{men}! \textit{Glory},
\textit{glory} \textit{hallelujah}!)

And so on. You couldn't make out what the preacher said any more,
on account of the shouting and crying. Folks got up everywheres in
the crowd, and worked their way just by main strength to the mourners'
bench, with the tears running down their faces; and when all the mourners
had got up there to the front benches in a crowd, they sung and shouted
and flung themselves down on the straw, just crazy and wild.

Well, the first I knowed the king got a-going, and you could hear
him over everybody; and next he went a-charging up on to the platform,
and the preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and he done
it. He told them he was a pirate---been a pirate for thirty years
out in the Indian Ocean---and his crew was thinned out considerable
last spring in a fight, and he was home now to take out some fresh
men, and thanks to goodness he'd been robbed last night and put ashore
off of a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad of it; it was the
blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he was a changed
man now, and happy for the first time in his life; and, poor as he
was, he was going to start right off and work his way back to the
Indian Ocean, and put in the rest of his life trying to turn the pirates
into the true path; for he could do it better than anybody else, being
acquainted with all pirate crews in that ocean; and though it would
take him a long time to get there without money, he would get there
anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he would say to him,
{}``Don't you thank me, don't you give me no credit; it all belongs
to them dear people in Pokeville camp-meeting, natural brothers and
benefactors of the race, and that dear preacher there, the truest
friend a pirate ever had!''

And then he busted into tears, and so did everybody. Then somebody
sings out, {}``Take up a collection for him, take up a collection!''
Well, a half a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out,
{}``Let \textit{him} pass the hat around!'' Then everybody said
it, the preacher too.

So the king went all through the crowd with his hat swabbing his eyes,
and blessing the people and praising them and thanking them for being
so good to the poor pirates away off there; and every little while
the prettiest kind of girls, with the tears running down their cheeks,
would up and ask him would he let them kiss him for to remember him
by; and he always done it; and some of them he hugged and kissed as
many as five or six times---and he was invited to stay a week; and
everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and said they'd think
it was an honor; but he said as this was the last day of the camp-meeting
he couldn't do no good, and besides he was in a sweat to get to the
Indian Ocean right off and go to work on the pirates.

When we got back to the raft and he come to count up he found he had
collected eighty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents. And then he
had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he found
under a wagon when he was starting home through the woods. The king
said, take it all around, it laid over any day he'd ever put in in
the missionarying line. He said it warn't no use talking, heathens
don't amount to shucks alongside of pirates to work a camp-meeting
with.

The duke was thinking \textit{he'd} been doing pretty well till the
king come to show up, but after that he didn't think so so much. He
had set up and printed off two little jobs for farmers in that printing-office---horse
bills---and took the money, four dollars. And he had got in ten dollars'
worth of advertisements for the paper, which he said he would put
in for four dollars if they would pay in advance---so they done it.
The price of the paper was two dollars a year, but he took in three
subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on condition of them paying
him in advance; they were going to pay in cordwood and onions as usual,
but he said he had just bought the concern and knocked down the price
as low as he could afford it, and was going to run it for cash. He
set up a little piece of poetry, which he made, himself, out of his
own head---three verses---kind of sweet and saddish---the name of
it was, {}``Yes, crush, cold world, this breaking heart''---and
he left that all set up and ready to print in the paper, and didn't
charge nothing for it. Well, he took in nine dollars and a half, and
said he'd done a pretty square day's work for it.

Then he showed us another little job he'd printed and hadn't charged
for, because it was for us. It had a picture of a runaway nigger with
a bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and {}``\$200 reward'' under
it. The reading was all about Jim, and just described him to a dot.
It said he run away from St.\ Jacques' plantation, forty mile below
New Orleans, last winter, and likely went north, and whoever would
catch him and send him back he could have the reward and expenses.

{}``Now,'' says the duke, {}``after to-night we can run in the
daytime if we want to. Whenever we see anybody coming we can tie Jim
hand and foot with a rope, and lay him in the wigwam and show this
handbill and say we captured him up the river, and were too poor to
travel on a steamboat, so we got this little raft on credit from our
friends and are going down to get the reward. Handcuffs and chains
would look still better on Jim, but it wouldn't go well with the story
of us being so poor. Too much like jewelry. Ropes are the correct
thing---we must preserve the unities, as we say on the boards.''

We all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn't be no trouble
about running daytimes. We judged we could make miles enough that
night to get out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned the duke's
work in the printing office was going to make in that little town;
then we could boom right along if we wanted to.

We laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten o'clock;
then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn't hoist
our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it.

When Jim called me to take the watch at four in the morning, he says:

{}``Huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost any mo' kings on
dis trip?''

{}``No,'' I says, {}``I reckon not.''

{}``Well,'' says he, {}``dat's all right, den. I doan' mine one
er two kings, but dat's enough. Dis one's powerful drunk, en de duke
ain' much better.''

I found Jim had been trying to get him to talk French, so he could
hear what it was like; but he said he had been in this country so
long, and had so much trouble, he'd forgot it.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXI.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXI}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXI}

\textit{\emph{It}} was after sun-up now, but we went right on and
didn't tie up. The king and the duke turned out by and by looking
pretty rusty; but after they'd jumped overboard and took a swim it
chippered them up a good deal. After breakfast the king he took a
seat on the corner of the raft, and pulled off his boots and rolled
up his britches, and let his legs dangle in the water, so as to be
comfortable, and lit his pipe, and went to getting his \emph{Romeo
and Juliet} by heart. When he had got it pretty good him and the duke
begun to practice it together. The duke had to learn him over and
over again how to say every speech; and he made him sigh, and put
his hand on his heart, and after a while he said he done it pretty
well; {}``only,'' he says, {}``you mustn't bellow out \textit{Romeo}!\ that
way, like a bull---you must say it soft and sick and languishy, so---R-o-o-meo!\ that
is the idea; for Juliet's a dear sweet mere child of a girl, you know,
and she doesn't bray like a jackass.''

Well, next they got out a couple of long swords that the duke made
out of oak laths, and begun to practice the sword fight---the duke
called himself Richard III.; and the way they laid on and pranced
around the raft was grand to see. But by and by the king tripped and
fell overboard, and after that they took a rest, and had a talk about
all kinds of adventures they'd had in other times along the river.

After dinner the duke says:

{}``Well, Capet, we'll want to make this a first-class show, you
know, so I guess we'll add a little more to it. We want a little something
to answer encores with, anyway.''

{}``What's onkores, Bilgewater?''

The duke told him, and then says:

{}``I'll answer by doing the Highland fling or the sailor's hornpipe;
and you---well, let me see---oh, I've got it---you can do Hamlet's
soliloquy.''

{}``Hamlet's which?''

{}``Hamlet's soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated thing in Shakespeare.
Ah, it's sublime, sublime! Always fetches the house. I haven't got
it in the book---I've only got one volume---but I reckon I can piece
it out from memory. I'll just walk up and down a minute, and see if
I can call it back from recollection's vaults.''

So he went to marching up and down, thinking, and frowning horrible
every now and then; then he would hoist up his eyebrows; next he would
squeeze his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind of moan;
next he would sigh, and next he'd let on to drop a tear. It was beautiful
to see him. By and by he got it. He told us to give attention. Then
he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved forwards, and
his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted back, looking up at
the sky; and then he begins to rip and rave and grit his teeth; and
after that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread around,
and swelled up his chest, and just knocked the spots out of any acting
ever I see before. This is the speech---I learned it, easy enough,
while he was learning it to the king:

\begin{flushleft}\footnotesize

To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin\\*

That makes calamity of so long life;\\*

For who would fardels bear,\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane,\\

But that the fear of something after death\\

Murders the innocent sleep,\\

Great nature's second course,\\

And makes us rather sling\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ the arrows of outrageous fortune\\

Than fly to others that we know not of.\\

There's the respect must give us pause:\\

Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst;\\

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,\\

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,\\

The law's delay, and the quietus\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ which his pangs might take,\\

In the dead waste and middle of the night,\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ when churchyards yawn\\

In customary suits of solemn black,\\

But that the undiscovered country\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ from whose bourne no traveler returns,\\

Breathes forth contagion on the world,\\

And thus the native hue of resolution,\\*

\ \ \ \ \ \ like the poor cat i' the adage,\\

Is sicklied o'er with care,\\

And all the clouds that lowered o'er our housetops,\\

With this regard their currents turn awry,\\

And lose the name of action.\\

'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. \\

But soft you, the fair Ophelia:\\

Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws,\\

But get thee to a nunnery---go!

\end{flushleft}

Well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it
so he could do it first-rate. It seemed like he was just born for
it; and when he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly
lovely the way he would rip and tear and rair up behind when he was
getting it off.

The first chance we got the duke he had some showbills printed; and
after that, for two or three days as we floated along, the raft was
a most uncommon lively place, for there warn't nothing but sword fighting
and rehearsing---as the duke called it---going on all the time. One
morning, when we was pretty well down the State of Arkansaw, we come
in sight of a little one-horse town in a big bend; so we tied up about
three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth of a crick which was
shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of us but Jim
took the canoe and went down there to see if there was any chance
in that place for our show.

We struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a circus there that
afternoon, and the country people was already beginning to come in,
in all kinds of old shackly wagons, and on horses. The circus would
leave before night, so our show would have a pretty good chance. The
duke he hired the courthouse, and we went around and stuck up our
bills. They read like this:

\begin{quotation}
\noindent \centering {}\noun{Shaksperean Revival ! ! !}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\noun{\small Wonderful Attraction!}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\noun{\small For One Night
Only!}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\noun{\small The world
renowned tragedians,}}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize David
Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane Theatre London,}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\noun{\small and}}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize Edmund
Kean the elder, of the Royal Haymarket Theatre, Whitechapel, Pudding
Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the Royal Continental Theatres,}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\noun{\small in their
sublime}}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\noun{\small Shaksperean
Spectacle entitled}}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize The Balcony
Scene}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize in}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize Romeo
and Juliet ! ! !}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize Romeo...................Mr.\ Garrick}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize Juliet..................Mr.\ Kean}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\scriptsize Assisted
by the whole strength of the company!}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\scriptsize New costumes,
new scenes, new appointments!}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\noun{\small Also:}}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize The thrilling,
masterly, and blood-curdling}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize Broad-sword
conflict}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize In Richard
III.\ ! ! !}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize Richard
III.............Mr.\ Garrick}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize Richmond................Mr.\ Kean}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\noun{\small Also:}}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize (by special
request)}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize Hamlet's
Immortal Soliloquy ! !}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize By The
Illustrious Kean!}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\scriptsize Done by
him 300 consecutive nights in Paris!}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\footnotesize For One
Night Only,}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\scriptsize On account
of imperative European engagements!}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \centering {}}\emph{\scriptsize Admission
25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents.}{\scriptsize \par{}}{\scriptsize \par}
\end{quotation}
Then we went loafing around town. The stores and houses was most all
old, shackly, dried up frame concerns that hadn't ever been painted;
they was set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to
be out of reach of the water when the river was over-flowed. The houses
had little gardens around them, but they didn't seem to raise hardly
anything in them but jimpson-weeds, and sunflowers, and ash piles,
and old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces of bottles, and rags,
and played-out tinware. The fences was made of different kinds of
boards, nailed on at different times; and they leaned every which
way, and had gates that didn't generly have but one hinge---a leather
one. Some of the fences had been white-washed some time or another,
but the duke said it was in Clumbus' time, like enough. There was
generly hogs in the garden, and people driving them out.

All the stores was along one street. They had white domestic awnings
in front, and the country people hitched their horses to the awning-posts.
There was empty drygoods boxes under the awnings, and loafers roosting
on them all day long, whittling them with their Barlow knives; and
chawing tobacco, and gaping and yawning and stretching---a mighty
ornery lot. They generly had on yellow straw hats most as wide as
an umbrella, but didn't wear no coats nor waistcoats, they called
one another Bill, and Buck, and Hank, and Joe, and Andy, and talked
lazy and drawly, and used considerable many cuss words. There was
as many as one loafer leaning up against every awning-post, and he
most always had his hands in his britches-pockets, except when he
fetched them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch. What a body
was hearing amongst them all the time was:

{}``Gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, Hank.''

{}``Cain't; I hain't got but one chaw left. Ask Bill.''

Maybe Bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain't got
none. Some of them kinds of loafers never has a cent in the world,
nor a chaw of tobacco of their own. They get all their chawing by
borrowing; they say to a fellow, {}``I wisht you'd len' me a chaw,
Jack, I jist this minute give Ben Thompson the last chaw I had''---which
is a lie pretty much everytime; it don't fool nobody but a stranger;
but Jack ain't no stranger, so he says:

{}``\textit{You} give him a chaw, did you? So did your sister's cat's
grandmother. You pay me back the chaws you've awready borry'd off'n
me, Lafe Buckner, then I'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't
charge you no back intrust, nuther.''

{}``Well, I \textit{did} pay you back some of it wunst.''

{}``Yes, you did---'bout six chaws. You borry'd store tobacker and
paid back nigger-head.''

Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the
natural leaf twisted. When they borrow a chaw they don't generly cut
it off with a knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and
gnaw with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they
get it in two; then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks
mournful at it when it's handed back, and says, sarcastic:

{}``Here, gimme the \textit{chaw}, and you take the \textit{plug}.''

All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't nothing else \textit{but}
mud---mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some places,
and two or three inches deep in \textit{all} the places. The hogs
loafed and grunted around everywheres. You'd see a muddy sow and a
litter of pigs come lazying along the street and whollop herself right
down in the way, where folks had to walk around her, and she'd stretch
out and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs was milking
her, and look as happy as if she was on salary. And pretty soon you'd
hear a loafer sing out, {}``Hi! \textit{So} boy! sick him, Tige!''\ and
away the sow would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog or two
swinging to each ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and then
you would see all the loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight,
and laugh at the fun and look grateful for the noise. Then they'd
settle back again till there was a dog fight. There couldn't anything
wake them up all over, and make them happy all over, like a dog fight---unless
it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to
him, or tying a tin pan to his tail and see him run himself to death.

On the river front some of the houses was sticking out over the bank,
and they was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in, The people
had moved out of them. The bank was caved away under one corner of
some others, and that corner was hanging over. People lived in them
yet, but it was dangersome, because sometimes a strip of land as wide
as a house caves in at a time. Sometimes a belt of land a quarter
of a mile deep will start in and cave along and cave along till it
all caves into the river in one summer. Such a town as that has to
be always moving back, and back, and back, because the river's always
gnawing at it.

The nearer it got to noon that day the thicker and thicker was the
wagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time. Families
fetched their dinners with them from the country, and eat them in
the wagons. There was considerable whisky drinking going on, and I
seen three fights. By and by somebody sings out:

{}``Here comes old Boggs!---in from the country for his little old
monthly drunk; here he comes, boys!''

All the loafers looked glad; I reckoned they was used to having fun
out of Boggs. One of them says:

{}``Wonder who he's a-gwyne to chaw up this time. If he'd a-chawed
up all the men he's ben a-gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty year
he'd have considerable ruputation now.''

Another one says, {}``I wisht old Boggs 'd threaten me, 'cuz then
I'd know I warn't gwyne to die for a thousan' year.''

Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling like
an Injun, and singing out:

{}``Cler the track, thar. I'm on the waw-path, and the price uv coffins
is a-gwyne to raise.''

He was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over fifty year
old, and had a very red face. Everybody yelled at him and laughed
at him and sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he'd attend to
them and lay them out in their regular turns, but he couldn't wait
now because he'd come to town to kill old Colonel Sherburn, and his
motto was, {}``Meat first, and spoon vittles to top off on.''

He see me, and rode up and says:

{}``Whar'd you come f'm, boy? You prepared to die?''

Then he rode on. I was scared, but a man says:

{}``He don't mean nothing; he's always a-carryin' on like that when
he's drunk. He's the best naturedest old fool in Arkansaw---never
hurt nobody, drunk nor sober.''

Boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and bent his head
down so he could see under the curtain of the awning and yells:

{}``Come out here, Sherburn! Come out and meet the man you've swindled.
You're the houn' I'm after, and I'm a-gwyne to have you, too!''

And so he went on, calling Sherburn everything he could lay his tongue
to, and the whole street packed with people listening and laughing
and going on. By and by a proud-looking man about fifty-five---and
he was a heap the best dressed man in that town, too---steps out of
the store, and the crowd drops back on each side to let him come.
He says to Boggs, mighty ca'm and slow---he says:

{}``I'm tired of this, but I'll endure it till one o'clock. Till
one o'clock, mind---no longer. If you open your mouth against me only
once after that time you can't travel so far but I will find you.''

Then he turns and goes in. The crowd looked mighty sober; nobody stirred,
and there warn't no more laughing. Boggs rode off blackguarding Sherburn
as loud as he could yell, all down the street; and pretty soon back
he comes and stops before the store, still keeping it up. Some men
crowded around him and tried to get him to shut up, but he wouldn't;
they told him it would be one o'clock in about fifteen minutes, and
so he \textit{must} go home---he must go right away. But it didn't
do no good. He cussed away with all his might, and throwed his hat
down in the mud and rode over it, and pretty soon away he went a-raging
down the street again, with his gray hair a-flying. Everybody that
could get a chance at him tried their best to coax him off of his
horse so they could lock him up and get him sober; but it warn't no
use---up the street he would tear again, and give Sherburn another
cussing. By and by somebody says:

{}``Go for his daughter!---quick, go for his daughter; sometimes
he'll listen to her. If anybody can persuade him, she can.''

So somebody started on a run. I walked down street a ways and stopped.
In about five or ten minutes here comes Boggs again, but not on his
horse. He was a-reeling across the street towards me, bare-headed,
with a friend on both sides of him a-holt of his arms and hurrying
him along. He was quiet, and looked uneasy; and he warn't hanging
back any, but was doing some of the hurrying himself. Somebody sings
out:

{}``Boggs!''

I looked over there to see who said it, and it was that Colonel Sherburn.
He was standing perfectly still in the street, and had a pistol raised
in his right hand---not aiming it, but holding it out with the barrel
tilted up towards the sky. The same second I see a young girl coming
on the run, and two men with her. Boggs and the men turned round to
see who called him, and when they see the pistol the men jumped to
one side, and the pistol-barrel come down slow and steady to a level---both
barrels cocked. Boggs throws up both of his hands and says, {}``O
Lord, don't shoot!'' Bang!\ goes the first shot, and he staggers
back, clawing at the air---bang!\ goes the second one, and he tumbles
backwards on to the ground, heavy and solid, with his arms spread
out. That young girl screamed out and comes rushing, and down she
throws herself on her father, crying, and saying, {}``Oh, he's killed
him, he's killed him!'' The crowd closed up around them, and shouldered
and jammed one another, with their necks stretched, trying to see,
and people on the inside trying to shove them back and shouting, {}``Back,
back!\ give him air, give him air!''

Colonel Sherburn he tossed his pistol on to the ground, and turned
around on his heels and walked off.

They took Boggs to a little drug store, the crowd pressing around
just the same, and the whole town following, and I rushed and got
a good place at the window, where I was close to him and could see
in. They laid him on the floor and put one large Bible under his head,
and opened another one and spread it on his breast; but they tore
open his shirt first, and I seen where one of the bullets went in.
He made about a dozen long gasps, his breast lifting the Bible up
when he drawed in his breath, and letting it down again when he breathed
it out---and after that he laid still; he was dead. Then they pulled
his daughter away from him, screaming and crying, and took her off.
She was about sixteen, and very sweet and gentle looking, but awful
pale and scared.

Well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming and scrouging
and pushing and shoving to get at the window and have a look, but
people that had the places wouldn't give them up, and folks behind
them was saying all the time, {}``Say, now, you've looked enough,
you fellows; 'tain't right and 'tain't fair for you to stay thar all
the time, and never give nobody a chance; other folks has their rights
as well as you.''

There was considerable jawing back, so I slid out, thinking maybe
there was going to be trouble. The streets was full, and everybody
was excited. Everybody that seen the shooting was telling how it happened,
and there was a big crowd packed around each one of these fellows,
stretching their necks and listening. One long, lanky man, with long
hair and a big white fur stovepipe hat on the back of his head, and
a crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the ground where
Boggs stood and where Sherburn stood, and the people following him
around from one place to t'other and watching everything he done,
and bobbing their heads to show they understood, and stooping a little
and resting their hands on their thighs to watch him mark the places
on the ground with his cane; and then he stood up straight and stiff
where Sherburn had stood, frowning and having his hat-brim down over
his eyes, and sung out, {}``Boggs!''\ and then fetched his cane
down slow to a level, and says {}``Bang!''\ staggered backwards,
says {}``Bang!''\ again, and fell down flat on his back. The people
that had seen the thing said he done it perfect; said it was just
exactly the way it all happened. Then as much as a dozen people got
out their bottles and treated him.

Well, by and by somebody said Sherburn ought to be lynched. In about
a minute everybody was saying it; so away they went, mad and yelling,
and snatching down every clothes-line they come to to do the hanging
with.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXII}

\textit{\emph{They}} swarmed up towards Sherburn's house, a-whooping
and raging like Injuns, and everything had to clear the way or get
run over and tromped to mush, and it was awful to see. Children was
heeling it ahead of the mob, screaming and trying to get out of the
way; and every window along the road was full of women's heads, and
there was nigger boys in every tree, and bucks and wenches looking
over every fence; and as soon as the mob would get nearly to them
they would break and skaddle back out of reach. Lots of the women
and girls was crying and taking on, scared most to death.

They swarmed up in front of Sherburn's palings as thick as they could
jam together, and you couldn't hear yourself think for the noise.
It was a little twenty-foot yard. Some sung out {}``Tear down the
fence!\ tear down the fence!'' Then there was a racket of ripping
and tearing and smashing, and down she goes, and the front wall of
the crowd begins to roll in like a wave.

Just then Sherburn steps out on to the roof of his little front porch,
with a double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand, perfectly
ca'm and deliberate, not saying a word. The racket stopped, and the
wave sucked back.

Sherburn never said a word---just stood there, looking down. The stillness
was awful creepy and uncomfortable. Sherburn run his eye slow along
the crowd; and wherever it struck the people tried a little to out-gaze
him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes and looked sneaky.
Then pretty soon Sherburn sort of laughed; not the pleasant kind,
but the kind that makes you feel like when you are eating bread that's
got sand in it.

Then he says, slow and scornful:

{}``The idea of \textit{you} lynching anybody! It's amusing. The
idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a \textit{man}!
Because you're brave enough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out
women that come along here, did that make you think you had grit enough
to lay your hands on a \textit{man}? Why, a \textit{man's} safe in
the hands of ten thousand of your kind---as long as it's daytime and
you're not behind him.

{}``Do I know you? I know you clear through was born and raised in
the South, and I've lived in the North; so I know the average all
around. The average man's a coward. In the North he lets anybody walk
over him that wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble spirit
to bear it. In the South one man all by himself, has stopped a stage
full of men in the daytime, and robbed the lot. Your newspapers call
you a brave people so much that you think you are braver than any
other people---whereas you're just \textit{as} brave, and no braver.
Why don't your juries hang murderers? Because they're afraid the man's
friends will shoot them in the back, in the dark---and it's just what
they \textit{would} do.

{}``So they always acquit; and then a \textit{man} goes in the night,
with a hundred masked cowards at his back and lynches the rascal.
Your mistake is, that you didn't bring a man with you; that's one
mistake, and the other is that you didn't come in the dark and fetch
your masks. You brought \textit{part} of a man---Buck Harkness, there---and
if you hadn't had him to start you, you'd a taken it out in blowing.

{}``You didn't want to come. The average man don't like trouble and
danger. \textit{You} don't like trouble and danger. But if only \textit{half}
a man---like Buck Harkness, there---shouts `Lynch him!\ lynch him!'\ you're
afraid to back down---afraid you'll be found out to be what you are---\textit{cowards}---and
so you raise a yell, and hang yourselves on to that half-a-man's coat-tail,
and come raging up here, swearing what big things you're going to
do. The pitifulest thing out is a mob; that's what an army is---a
mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in them, but with courage
that's borrowed from their mass, and from their officers. But a mob
without any \textit{man} at the head of it is \textit{beneath} pitifulness.
Now the thing for \textit{you} to do is to droop your tails and go
home and crawl in a hole. If any real lynching's going to be done
it will be done in the dark, Southern fashion; and when they come
they'll bring their masks, and fetch a \textit{man} along. Now \textit{leave}---and
take your half-a-man with you''---tossing his gun up across his left
arm and cocking it when he says this.

The crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart, and went tearing
off every which way, and Buck Harkness he heeled it after them, looking
tolerable cheap. I could a stayed if I wanted to, but I didn't want
to.

I went to the circus and loafed around the back side till the watchman
went by, and then dived in under the tent. I had my twenty-dollar
gold piece and some other money, but I reckoned I better save it,
because there ain't no telling how soon you are going to need it,
away from home and amongst strangers that way. You can't be too careful.
I ain't opposed to spending money on circuses when there ain't no
other way, but there ain't no use in \textit{wasting} it on them.

It was a real bully circus. It was the splendidest sight that ever
was when they all come riding in, two and two, a gentleman and lady,
side by side, the men just in their drawers and undershirts, and no
shoes nor stirrups, and resting their hands on their thighs easy and
comfortable---there must a been twenty of them---and every lady with
a lovely complexion, and perfectly beautiful, and looking just like
a gang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed in clothes that cost
millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. It was a powerful
fine sight; I never see anything so lovely. And then one by one they
got up and stood, and went a-weaving around the ring so gentle and
wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy and straight,
with their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up there under the
tent-roof, and every lady's rose-leafy dress flapping soft and silky
around her hips, and she looking like the most loveliest parasol.

And then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing, first one
foot out in the air and then the other, the horses leaning more and
more, and the ringmaster going round and round the center-pole, cracking
his whip and shouting {}``Hi!---hi!''\ and the clown cracking jokes
behind him; and by and by all hands dropped the reins, and every lady
put her knuckles on her hips and every gentleman folded his arms,
and then how the horses did lean over and hump themselves! And so
one after the other they all skipped off into the ring, and made the
sweetest bow I ever see, and then scampered out, and everybody clapped
their hands and went just about wild.

Well, all through the circus they done the most astonishing things;
and all the time that clown carried on so it most killed the people.
The ringmaster couldn't ever say a word to him but he was back at
him quick as a wink with the funniest things a body ever said; and
how he ever \textit{could} think of so many of them, and so sudden
and so pat, was what I couldn't noway understand. Why, I couldn't
a thought of them in a year. And by and by a drunk man tried to get
into the ring---said he wanted to ride; said he could ride as well
as anybody that ever was. They argued and tried to keep him out, but
he wouldn't listen, and the whole show come to a standstill. Then
the people begun to holler at him and make fun of him, and that made
him mad, and he begun to rip and tear; so that stirred up the people,
and a lot of men begun to pile down off of the benches and swarm towards
the ring, saying, {}``Knock him down!\ throw him out!''\ and one
or two women begun to scream. So, then, the ringmaster he made a little
speech, and said he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and if
the man would promise he wouldn't make no more trouble he would let
him ride if he thought he could stay on the horse. So everybody laughed
and said all right, and the man got on. The minute he was on, the
horse begun to rip and tear and jump and cavort around, with two circus
men hanging on to his bridle trying to hold him, and the drunk man
hanging on to his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump,
and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting and laughing till
tears rolled down. And at last, sure enough, all the circus men could
do, the horse broke loose, and away he went like the very nation,
round and round the ring, with that sot laying down on him and hanging
to his neck, with first one leg hanging most to the ground on one
side, and then t'other one on t'other side, and the people just crazy.
It warn't funny to me, though; I was all of a tremble to see his danger.
But pretty soon he struggled up astraddle and grabbed the bridle,
a-reeling this way and that; and the next minute he sprung up and
dropped the bridle and stood!\ and the horse a-going like a house
afire too. He just stood up there, a-sailing around as easy and comfortable
as if he warn't ever drunk in his life---and then he begun to pull
off his clothes and sling them. He shed them so thick they kind of
clogged up the air, and altogether he shed seventeen suits. And, then,
there he was, slim and handsome, and dressed the gaudiest and prettiest
you ever saw, and he lit into that horse with his whip and made him
fairly hum---and finally skipped off, and made his bow and danced
off to the dressing-room, and everybody just a-howling with pleasure
and astonishment.

Then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled, and he \textit{was}
the sickest ringmaster you ever see, I reckon. Why, it was one of
his own men! He had got up that joke all out of his own head, and
never let on to nobody. Well, I felt sheepish enough to be took in
so, but I wouldn't a been in that ringmaster's place, not for a thousand
dollars. I don't know; there may be bullier circuses than what that
one was, but I never struck them yet. Anyways, it was plenty good
enough for \textit{me}; and wherever I run across it, it can have
all of \textit{my} custom every time.

Well, that night we had \textit{our} show; but there warn't only about
twelve people there---just enough to pay expenses. And they laughed
all the time, and that made the duke mad; and everybody left, anyway,
before the show was over, but one boy which was asleep. So the duke
said these Arkansaw lunkheads couldn't come up to Shakespeare; what
they wanted was low comedy---and maybe something ruther worse than
low comedy, he reckoned. He said he could size their style. So next
morning he got some big sheets of wrapping paper and some black paint,
and drawed off some handbills, and stuck them up all over the village.
The bills said:

\begin{quotation}
\noindent \centering \textit{\footnotesize At} \textit{\footnotesize the}
\textit{\footnotesize court} \textit{\footnotesize house}{\footnotesize !\par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\nopagebreak

\noindent \centering \textit{\footnotesize For} {\footnotesize 3}
\textit{\footnotesize nights} \textit{\footnotesize only}{\footnotesize !\par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\nopagebreak

\noindent \centering {}{\footnotesize The World-Renowned Tragedians\par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent \centering \textit{\footnotesize David} \textit{\footnotesize Garrick}
\textit{\footnotesize the} \textit{\footnotesize Younger}{\footnotesize !\par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent \centering \textit{\footnotesize And}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent \centering \textit{\footnotesize Edmund} \textit{\footnotesize Kean}
\textit{\footnotesize the} \textit{\footnotesize Elder}{\footnotesize !\par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent \centering {}{\footnotesize Of the London and Continental\par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent \centering {}{\footnotesize Theatres,\par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent \centering {}{\footnotesize In their Thrilling Tragedy
of\par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent \centering \textit{\footnotesize The} \textit{\footnotesize King's}
\emph{\footnotesize Cameleopard}{\footnotesize ,\par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent \centering \textit{\footnotesize or}{\footnotesize \par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent \centering \textit{\footnotesize The} \textit{\footnotesize Royal}
\textit{\footnotesize Nonesuch} {\footnotesize ! ! !\par{}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent \centering {}{\footnotesize Admission 50 cents.\par{}}{\footnotesize \par}
\end{quotation}
Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which said:

\begin{quotation}
\noindent \centering \textit{\small Ladies} \textit{\small and} \textit{\small children}
\textit{\small not} \textit{\small admitted}{\small .\par{}}{\small \par}
\end{quotation}
{}

{}``There,'' says he, {}``if that line don't fetch them, I don't
know Arkansaw!''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXIII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXIII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXIII}

\textit{\emph{Well}}, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging
up a stage and a curtain and a row of candles for footlights; and
that night the house was jam full of men in no time. When the place
couldn't hold no more, the duke he quit tending door and went around
the back way and come on to the stage and stood up before the curtain
and made a little speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it
was the most thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging
about the tragedy, and about Edmund Kean the Elder, which was to play
the main principal part in it; and at last when he'd got everybody's
expectations up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next
minute the king come a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was
painted all over, ring-streaked-and-striped, all sorts of colors,
as splendid as a rainbow. And---but never mind the rest of his outfit;
it was just wild, but it was awful funny. The people most killed themselves
laughing; and when the king got done capering and capered off behind
the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and haw-hawed till
he come back and done it over again, and after that they made him
do it another time. Well, it would make a cow laugh to see the shines
that old idiot cut.

Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people, and
says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more, on
accounts of pressing London engagements, where the seats is all sold
already for it in Drury Lane; and then he makes them another bow,
and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and instructing them,
he will be deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their friends
and get them to come and see it.

Twenty people sings out:

{}``What, is it over? Is that \textit{all}?''

The duke says yes. Then there was a fine time. Everybody sings out,
{}``Sold!''\ and rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and
them tragedians. But a big, fine looking man jumps up on a bench and
shouts:

{}``Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen.'' They stopped to listen. {}``We
are sold---mighty badly sold. But we don't want to be the laughing
stock of this whole town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this
thing as long as we live. \textit{No}. What we want is to go out of
here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell the \textit{rest} of the
town! Then we'll all be in the same boat. Ain't that sensible?''
({}``You bet it is!---the jedge is right!''\ everybody sings out.)
{}``All right, then---not a word about any sell. Go along home, and
advise everybody to come and see the tragedy.''

Next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how splendid
that show was. House was jammed again that night, and we sold this
crowd the same way. When me and the king and the duke got home to
the raft we all had a supper; and by and by, about midnight, they
made Jim and me back her out and float her down the middle of the
river, and fetch her in and hide her about two mile below town.

The third night the house was crammed again---and they warn't new-comers
this time, but people that was at the show the other two nights. I
stood by the duke at the door, and I see that every man that went
in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under his coat---and
I see it warn't no perfumery, neither, not by a long sight. I smelt
sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such things; and
if I know the signs of a dead cat being around, and I bet I do, there
was sixty-four of them went in. I shoved in there for a minute, but
it was too various for me; I couldn't stand it. Well, when the place
couldn't hold no more people the duke he give a fellow a quarter and
told him to tend door for him a minute, and then he started around
for the stage door, I after him; but the minute we turned the corner
and was in the dark he says:

{}``Walk fast now till you get away from the houses, and then shin
for the raft like the dickens was after you!''

I done it, and he done the same. We struck the raft at the same time,
and in less than two seconds we was gliding down stream, all dark
and still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody saying
a word. I reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it with
the audience, but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he crawls out from
under the wigwam, and says:

{}``Well, how'd the old thing pan out this time, duke?'' He hadn't
been up-town at all.

We never showed a light till we was about ten mile below the village.
Then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke fairly
laughed their bones loose over the way they'd served them people.
The duke says:

{}``Greenhorns, flatheads! I knew the first house would keep mum
and let the rest of the town get roped in; and I knew they'd lay for
us the third night, and consider it was \textit{their} turn now. Well,
it \textit{is} their turn, and I'd give something to know how much
they'd take for it. I \textit{would} just like to know how they're
putting in their opportunity. They can turn it into a picnic if they
want to---they brought plenty provisions.''

Them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in that
three nights. I never see money hauled in by the wagon-load like that
before. By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says:

{}``Don't it s'prise you de way dem kings carries on, Huck?''

{}``No,'' I says, {}``it don't.''

{}``Why don't it, Huck?''

{}``Well, it don't, because it's in the breed. I reckon they're all
alike,''

{}``But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar rapscallions; dat's jist
what dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions.''

{}``Well, that's what I'm a-saying; all kings is mostly rapscallions,
as fur as I can make out.''

{}``Is dat so?''

{}``You read about them once---you'll see. Look at Henry the Eight;
this 'n 's a Sunday-school Superintendent to \textit{him}. And look
at Charles Second, and Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James
Second, and Edward Second, and Richard Third, and forty more; besides
all them Saxon heptarchies that used to rip around so in old times
and raise Cain. My, you ought to seen old Henry the Eight when he
was in bloom. He \textit{was} a blossom. He used to marry a new wife
every day, and chop off her head next morning. And he would do it
just as indifferent as if he was ordering up eggs.\  `Fetch up Nell
Gwynn,' he says. They fetch her up. Next morning, `Chop off her head!'
And they chop it off. `Fetch up Jane Shore,' he says; and up she comes,
Next morning, `Chop off her head'---and they chop it off. `Ring up
Fair Rosamun.' Fair Rosamun answers the bell. Next morning, `Chop
off her head.' And he made every one of them tell him a tale every
night; and he kept that up till he had hogged a thousand and one tales
that way, and then he put them all in a book, and called it \emph{Domesday
Book}---which was a good name and stated the case. You don't know
kings, Jim, but I know them; and this old rip of ourn is one of the
cleanest I've struck in history. Well, Henry he takes a notion he
wants to get up some trouble with this country. How does he go at
it---give notice?---give the country a show? No. All of a sudden he
heaves all the tea in Boston Harbor overboard, and whacks out a declaration
of independence, and dares them to come on. That was \textit{his}
style---he never give anybody a chance. He had suspicions of his father,
the Duke of Wellington. Well, what did he do? Ask him to show up?
No---drownded him in a butt of mamsey, like a cat. S'pose people left
money laying around where he was---what did he do? He collared it.
S'pose he contracted to do a thing, and you paid him, and didn't set
down there and see that he done it---what did he do? He always done
the other thing. S'pose he opened his mouth---what then? If he didn't
shut it up powerful quick he'd lose a lie every time. That's the kind
of a bug Henry was; and if we'd a had him along 'stead of our kings
he'd a fooled that town a heap worse than ourn done. I don't say that
ourn is lambs, because they ain't, when you come right down to the
cold facts; but they ain't nothing to \textit{that} old ram, anyway.
All I say is, kings is kings, and you got to make allowances. Take
them all around, they're a mighty ornery lot. It's the way they're
raised.''

{}``But dis one do \textit{smell} so like de nation, Huck.''

{}``Well, they all do, Jim. We can't help the way a king smells;
history don't tell no way.''

{}``Now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some ways.''

{}``Yes, a duke's different. But not very different. This one's a
middling hard lot for a duke. When he's drunk there ain't no near-sighted
man could tell him from a king.''

{}``Well, anyways, I doan' hanker for no mo' un um, Huck. Dese is
all I kin stan'.''

{}``It's the way I feel, too, Jim. But we've got them on our hands,
and we got to remember what they are, and make allowances. Sometimes
I wish we could hear of a country that's out of kings.''

What was the use to tell Jim these warn't real kings and dukes? It
wouldn't a done no good; and, besides, it was just as I said: you
couldn't tell them from the real kind.

I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it was my turn. He often
done that. When I waked up just at daybreak he was sitting there with
his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself.
I didn't take notice nor let on. I knowed what it was about. He was
thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was
low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home before
in his life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his people
as white folks does for their'n. It don't seem natural, but I reckon
it's so. He was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he
judged I was asleep, and saying, {}``Po' little 'Lizabeth!\ po'
little Johnny!\ it's mighty hard; I spec' I ain't ever gwyne to see
you no mo', no mo'!'' He was a mighty good nigger, Jim was.

But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young
ones; and by and by he says:

{}``What makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase I hear sumpn over
yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me
er de time I treat my little 'Lizabeth so ornery. She warn't on'y
'bout fo' year ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a powful
rough spell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin' aroun',
en I says to her, I says:

{}```Shet de do'.'

{}``She never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin' up at me. It
make me mad; en I says agin, mighty loud, I says:

{}```Doan' you hear me? Shet de do'!'

{}``She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. I was a-bilin'!
I says:

{}```I lay I \textit{make} you mine!'

{}``En wid dat I fetch' her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawlin'.
Den I went into de yuther room, en 'uz gone 'bout ten minutes; en
when I come back dah was dat do' a-stannin' open \textit{yit}, en
dat chile stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin' down and mournin',
en de tears runnin' down. My, but I \textit{wuz} mad! I was a-gwyne
for de chile, but jis' den---it was a do' dat open innerds---jis'
den, 'long come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-\emph{blam}!---en
my lan', de chile never move'! My breff mos' hop outer me; en I feel
so---so---I doan' know \textit{how} I feel. I crope out, all a-tremblin',
en crope aroun' en open de do' easy en slow, en poke my head in behine
de chile, sof' en still, en all uv a sudden I says \textit{pow}!\ jis'
as loud as I could yell. \textit{She} \textit{never} \textit{budge}!
Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in my arms, en say, `Oh,
de po' little thing! De Lord God Amighty fogive po' ole Jim, kaze
he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long's he live!' Oh, she was plumb
deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb---en I'd ben a-treat'n her
so!''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXIV.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXIV}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXIV}

\textit{\emph{Next}} day, towards night, we laid up under a little
willow towhead out in the middle, where there was a village on each
side of the river, and the duke and the king begun to lay out a plan
for working them towns. Jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped
it wouldn't take but a few hours, because it got mighty heavy and
tiresome to him when he had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with
the rope. You see, when we left him all alone we had to tie him, because
if anybody happened on to him all by himself and not tied it wouldn't
look much like he was a runaway nigger, you know. So the duke said
it \textit{was} kind of hard to have to lay roped all day, and he'd
cipher out some way to get around it.

He was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it. He dressed
Jim up in King Lear's outfit---it was a long curtain-calico gown,
and a white horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his theater
paint and painted Jim's face and hands and ears and neck all over
a dead, dull, solid blue, like a man that's been drownded nine days.
Blamed if he warn't the horriblest looking outrage I ever see. Then
the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so:

\begin{quote}
Sick Arab---but harmless when not out of his head.
\end{quote}
And he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four or
five foot in front of the wigwam. Jim was satisfied. He said it was
a sight better than lying tied a couple of years every day, and trembling
all over every time there was a sound. The duke told him to make himself
free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling around, he must hop
out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl or two
like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light out and leave
him alone. Which was sound enough judgment; but you take the average
man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. Why, he didn't only look
like he was dead, he looked considerable more than that.

These rapscallions wanted to try the Nonesuch again, because there
was so much money in it, but they judged it wouldn't be safe, because
maybe the news might a worked along down by this time. They couldn't
hit no project that suited exactly; so at last the duke said he reckoned
he'd lay off and work his brains an hour or two and see if he couldn't
put up something on the Arkansaw village; and the king he allowed
he would drop over to t'other village without any plan, but just trust
in Providence to lead him the profitable way---meaning the devil,
I reckon. We had all bought store clothes where we stopped last; and
now the king put his'n on, and he told me to put mine on. I done it,
of course. The king's duds was all black, and he did look real swell
and starchy. I never knowed how clothes could change a body before.
Why, before, he looked like the orneriest old rip that ever was; but
now, when he'd take off his new white beaver and make a bow and do
a smile, he looked that grand and good and pious that you'd say he
had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old Leviticus himself.
Jim cleaned up the canoe, and I got my paddle ready. There was a big
steamboat laying at the shore away up under the point, about three
mile above the town---been there a couple of hours, taking on freight.
Says the king:

{}``Seein' how I'm dressed, I reckon maybe I better arrive down from
St.\ Louis or Cincinnati, or some other big place. Go for the steamboat,
Huckleberry; we'll come down to the village on her.''

I didn't have to be ordered twice to go and take a steamboat ride.
I fetched the shore a half a mile above the village, and then went
scooting along the bluff bank in the easy water. Pretty soon we come
to a nice innocent-looking young country jake setting on a log swabbing
the sweat off of his face, for it was powerful warm weather; and he
had a couple of big carpet-bags by him.

{}``Run her nose in shore,'' says the king. I done it. {}``Wher'
you bound for, young man?''

{}``For the steamboat; going to Orleans.''

{}``Git aboard,'' says the king. {}``Hold on a minute, my servant
'll he'p you with them bags. Jump out and he'p the gentleman, Adolphus''---meaning
me, I see.

I done so, and then we all three started on again. The young chap
was mighty thankful; said it was tough work toting his baggage such
weather. He asked the king where he was going, and the king told him
he'd come down the river and landed at the other village this morning,
and now he was going up a few mile to see an old friend on a farm
up there. The young fellow says:

{}``When I first see you I says to myself, `It's Mr.\ Wilks, sure,
and he come mighty near getting here in time.' But then I says again,
`No, I reckon it ain't him, or else he wouldn't be paddling up the
river.' You \textit{ain't} him, are you?''

{}``No, my name's Blodgett---Elexander Blodgett---\textit{Reverend}
Elexander Blodgett, I s'pose I must say, as I'm one o' the Lord's
poor servants. But still I'm jist as able to be sorry for Mr.\ Wilks
for not arriving in time, all the same, if he's missed anything by
it---which I hope he hasn't.''

{}``Well, he don't miss any property by it, because he'll get that
all right; but he's missed seeing his brother Peter die---which he
mayn't mind, nobody can tell as to that---but his brother would a
give anything in this world to see \textit{him} before he died; never
talked about nothing else all these three weeks; hadn't seen him since
they was boys together---and hadn't ever seen his brother William
at all---that's the deef and dumb one---William ain't more than thirty
or thirty-five. Peter and George were the only ones that come out
here; George was the married brother; him and his wife both died last
year. Harvey and William's the only ones that's left now; and, as
I was saying, they haven't got here in time.''

{}``Did anybody send 'em word?''

{}``Oh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was first took; because
Peter said then that he sorter felt like he warn't going to get well
this time. You see, he was pretty old, and George's g'yirls was too
young to be much company for him, except Mary Jane, the red-headed
one; and so he was kinder lonesome after George and his wife died,
and didn't seem to care much to live. He most desperately wanted to
see Harvey---and William, too, for that matter---because he was one
of them kind that can't bear to make a will. He left a letter behind
for Harvey, and said he'd told in it where his money was hid, and
how he wanted the rest of the property divided up so George's g'yirls
would be all right---for George didn't leave nothing. And that letter
was all they could get him to put a pen to.''

{}``Why do you reckon Harvey don't come? Wher' does he live?''

{}``Oh, he lives in England---Sheffield---preaches there---hasn't
ever been in this country. He hasn't had any too much time---and besides
he mightn't a got the letter at all, you know.''

{}``Too bad, too bad he couldn't a lived to see his brothers, poor
soul. You going to Orleans, you say?''

{}``Yes, but that ain't only a part of it. I'm going in a ship, next
Wednesday, for Ryo Janeero, where my uncle lives.''

{}``It's a pretty long journey. But it'll be lovely; wisht I was
a-going. Is Mary Jane the oldest? How old is the others?''

{}``Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and Joanna's about fourteen---that's
the one that gives herself to good works and has a hare-lip.''

{}``Poor things!\ to be left alone in the cold world so.''

{}``Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had friends, and they
ain't going to let them come to no harm. There's Hobson, the Babtis'
preacher; and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford,
and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr.\ Robinson, and their wives, and
the widow Bartley, and---well, there's a lot of them; but these are
the ones that Peter was thickest with, and used to write about sometimes,
when he wrote home; so Harvey 'll know where to look for friends when
he gets here.''

Well, the old man went on asking questions till he just fairly emptied
that young fellow. Blamed if he didn't inquire about everybody and
everything in that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and about
Peter's business---which was a tanner; and about George's---which
was a carpenter; and about Harvey's---which was a dissentering minister;
and so on, and so on. Then he says:

{}``What did you want to walk all the way up to the steamboat for?''

{}``Because she's a big Orleans boat, and I was afeard she mightn't
stop there. When they're deep they won't stop for a hail. A Cincinnati
boat will, but this is a St.\ Louis one.''

{}``Was Peter Wilks well off?''

{}``Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses and land, and it's reckoned
he left three or four thousand in cash hid up som'ers.''

{}``When did you say he died?''

{}``I didn't say, but it was last night.''

{}``Funeral to-morrow, likely?''

{}``Yes, 'bout the middle of the day.''

{}``Well, it's all terrible sad; but we've all got to go, one time
or another. So what we want to do is to be prepared; then we're all
right.''

{}``Yes, sir, it's the best way. Ma used to always say that.''

When we struck the boat she was about done loading, and pretty soon
she got off. The king never said nothing about going aboard, so I
lost my ride, after all. When the boat was gone the king made me paddle
up another mile to a lonesome place, and then he got ashore and says:

{}``Now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up here, and the
new carpet-bags. And if he's gone over to t'other side, go over there
and git him. And tell him to git himself up regardless. Shove along,
now.''

I see what \textit{he} was up to; but I never said nothing, of course.
When I got back with the duke we hid the canoe, and then they set
down on a log, and the king told him everything, just like the young
fellow had said it---every last word of it. And all the time he was
a-doing it he tried to talk like an Englishman; and he done it pretty
well, too, for a slouch. I can't imitate him, and so I ain't a-going
to try to; but he really done it pretty good. Then he says:

{}``How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?''

The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a deef
and dumb person on the histronic boards. So then they waited for a
steamboat.

About the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats come along,
but they didn't come from high enough up the river; but at last there
was a big one, and they hailed her. She sent out her yawl, and we
went aboard, and she was from Cincinnati; and when they found we only
wanted to go four or five mile they was booming mad, and gave us a
cussing, and said they wouldn't land us. But the king was ca'm. He
says:

{}``If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece to be took
on and put off in a yawl, a steamboat kin afford to carry 'em, can't
it?''

So they softened down and said it was all right; and when we got to
the village they yawled us ashore. About two dozen men flocked down
when they see the yawl a-coming, and when the king says:

{}``Kin any of you gentlemen tell me wher' Mr.\ Peter Wilks lives?''
they give a glance at one another, and nodded their heads, as much
as to say, {}``What d' I tell you?'' Then one of them says, kind
of soft and gentle:

{}``I'm sorry.\ sir, but the best we can do is to tell you where
he \textit{did} live yesterday evening.''

Sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went an to smash, and fell
up against the man, and put his chin on his shoulder, and cried down
his back, and says:

{}``Alas, alas, our poor brother---gone, and we never got to see
him; oh, it's too, too hard!''

Then he turns around, blubbering, and makes a lot of idiotic signs
to the duke on his hands, and blamed if he didn't drop a carpet-bag
and bust out a-crying. If they warn't the beatenest lot, them two
frauds, that ever I struck.

Well, the men gathered around and sympathized with them, and said
all sorts of kind things to them, and carried their carpet-bags up
the hill for them, and let them lean on them and cry, and told the
king all about his brother's last moments, and the king he told it
all over again on his hands to the duke, and both of them took on
about that dead tanner like they'd lost the twelve disciples. Well,
if ever I struck anything like it, I'm a nigger. It was enough to
make a body ashamed of the human race.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXV.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXV}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXV}

\textit{\emph{The}} news was all over town in two minutes, and you
could see the people tearing down on the run from every which way,
some of them putting on their coats as they come. Pretty soon we was
in the middle of a crowd, and the noise of the tramping was like a
soldier march. The windows and dooryards was full; and every minute
somebody would say, over a fence:

{}``Is it \textit{them}?''

And somebody trotting along with the gang would answer back and say:

{}``You bet it is.''

When we got to the house the street in front of it was packed, and
the three girls was standing in the door. Mary Jane \textit{was} red-headed,
but that don't make no difference, she was most awful beautiful, and
her face and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she was so glad her
uncles was come. The king he spread his arms, and Mary Jane she jumped
for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the duke, and there they \textit{had}
it! Everybody most, leastways women, cried for joy to see them meet
again at last and have such good times.

Then the king he hunched the duke private---I see him do it---and
then he looked around and see the coffin, over in the corner on two
chairs; so then him and the duke, with a hand across each other's
shoulder, and t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and solemn over
there, everybody dropping back to give them room, and all the talk
and noise stopping, people saying {}``Sh!''\ and all the men taking
their hats off and drooping their heads, so you could a heard a pin
fall. And when they got there they bent over and looked in the coffin,
and took one sight, and then they bust out a-crying so you could a
heard them to Orleans, most; and then they put their arms around each
other's necks, and hung their chins over each other's shoulders; and
then for three minutes, or maybe four, I never see two men leak the
way they done. And, mind you, everybody was doing the same; and the
place was that damp I never see anything like it. Then one of them
got on one side of the coffin, and t'other on t'other side, and they
kneeled down and rested their foreheads on the coffin, and let on
to pray all to themselves. Well, when it come to that it worked the
crowd like you never see anything like it, and everybody broke down
and went to sobbing right out loud---the poor girls, too; and every
woman, nearly, went up to the girls, without saying a word, and kissed
them, solemn, on the forehead, and then put their hand on their head,
and looked up towards the sky, with the tears running down, and then
busted out and went off sobbing and swabbing, and give the next woman
a show. I never see anything so disgusting.

Well, by and by the king he gets up and comes forward a little, and
works himself up and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears and
flapdoodle about its being a sore trial for him and his poor brother
to lose the diseased, and to miss seeing diseased alive after the
long journey of four thousand mile, but it's a trial that's sweetened
and sanctified to us by this dear sympathy and these holy tears, and
so he thanks them out of his heart and out of his brother's heart,
because out of their mouths they can't, words being too weak and cold,
and all that kind of rot and slush, till it was just sickening; and
then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody Amen, and turns himself loose
and goes to crying fit to bust.

And the minute the words were out of his mouth somebody over in the
crowd struck up the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with all their
might, and it just warmed you up and made you feel as good as church
letting out. Music is a good thing; and after all that soul-butter
and hogwash I never see it freshen up things so, and sound so honest
and bully.

Then the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him and his
nieces would be glad if a few of the main principal friends of the
family would take supper here with them this evening, and help set
up with the ashes of the diseased; and says if his poor brother laying
yonder could speak he knows who he would name, for they was names
that was very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters; and
so he will name the same, to wit, as follows, vizz.:---Rev.\ Mr.\ Hobson,
and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Mr.\ Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford,
and Levi Bell, and Dr.\ Robinson, and their wives, and the widow
Bartley.

Rev.\ Hobson and Dr.\ Robinson was down to the end of the town a-hunting
together---that is, I mean the doctor was shipping a sick man to t'other
world, and the preacher was pinting him right. Lawyer Bell was away
up to Louisville on business. But the rest was on hand, and so they
all come and shook hands with the king and thanked him and talked
to him; and then they shook hands with the duke and didn't say nothing,
but just kept a-smiling and bobbing their heads like a passel of sapheads
whilst he made all sorts of signs with his hands and said {}``Goo-goo---goo-goo-goo''
all the time, like a baby that can't talk.

So the king he blattered along, and managed to inquire about pretty
much everybody and dog in town, by his name, and mentioned all sorts
of little things that happened one time or another in the town, or
to George's family, or to Peter. And he always let on that Peter wrote
him the things; but that was a lie: he got every blessed one of them
out of that young flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat.

Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father left behind, and
the king he read it out loud and cried over it. It give the dwelling-house
and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the tanyard
(which was doing a good business), along with some other houses and
land (worth about seven thousand), and three thousand dollars in gold
to Harvey and William, and told where the six thousand cash was hid
down cellar. So these two frauds said they'd go and fetch it up, and
have everything square and above-board; and told me to come with a
candle. We shut the cellar door behind us, and when they found the
bag they spilt it out on the floor, and it was a lovely sight, all
them yaller-boys. My, the way the king's eyes did shine! He slaps
the duke on the shoulder and says:

{}``Oh, \textit{this} ain't bully nor noth'n! Oh, no, I reckon not!
Why, Biljy, it beats the Nonesuch, \textit{don't} it?''

The duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted them
through their fingers and let them jingle down on the floor; and the
king says:

{}``It ain't no use talkin'; bein' brothers to a rich dead man and
representatives of furrin heirs that's got left is the line for you
and me, Bilge. Thish yer comes of trust'n to Providence. It's the
best way, in the long run. I've tried 'em all, and ther' ain't no
better way.''

Most everybody would a been satisfied with the pile, and took it on
trust; but no, they must count it. So they counts it, and it comes
out four hundred and fifteen dollars short. Says the king:

{}``Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four hundred and fifteen
dollars?''

They worried over that awhile, and ransacked all around for it. Then
the duke says:

{}``Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake---I
reckon that's the way of it. The best way's to let it go, and keep
still about it. We can spare it.''

{}``Oh, shucks, yes, we can \textit{spare} it. I don't k'yer noth'n
'bout that---it's the \textit{count} I'm thinkin' about. We want to
be awful square and open and above-board here, you know. We want to
lug this h-yer money up stairs and count it before everybody---then
ther' ain't noth'n suspicious. But when the dead man says ther's six
thous'n dollars, you know, we don't want to---''

{}``Hold on,'' says the duke. {}``Le's make up the deffisit,''
and he begun to haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket.

{}``It's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke---you \textit{have} got a
rattlin' clever head on you,'' says the king. {}``Blest if the old
Nonesuch ain't a heppin' us out agin,'' and \textit{he} begun to
haul out yaller-jackets and stack them up.

It most busted them, but they made up the six thousand clean and clear.

{}``Say,'' says the duke, {}``I got another idea. Le's go up stairs
and count this money, and then take and \textit{give} \textit{it}
\textit{to} \textit{the} \textit{girls}.''

{}``Good land, duke, lemme hug you! It's the most dazzling idea 'at
ever a man struck. You have cert'nly got the most astonishin' head
I ever see. Oh, this is the boss dodge, ther' ain't no mistake 'bout
it. Let 'em fetch along their suspicions now if they want to---this
'll lay 'em out.''

When we got up-stairs everybody gethered around the table, and the
king he counted it and stacked it up, three hundred dollars in a pile---twenty
elegant little piles. Everybody looked hungry at it, and licked their
chops. Then they raked it into the bag again, and I see the king begin
to swell himself up for another speech. He says:

{}``Friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has done generous
by them that's left behind in the vale of sorrers. He has done generous
by these yer poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and that's
left fatherless and motherless. Yes, and we that knowed him knows
that he would a done \textit{more} generous by 'em if he hadn't ben
afeard o' woundin' his dear William and me. Now, \textit{wouldn't}
he? Ther' ain't no question 'bout it in \textit{my} mind. Well, then,
what kind o' brothers would it be that 'd stand in his way at sech
a time? And what kind o' uncles would it be that 'd rob---yes, \textit{rob}---sech
poor sweet lambs as these 'at he loved so at sech a time? If I know
William---and I \textit{think} I do---he---well, I'll jest ask him.''
He turns around and begins to make a lot of signs to the duke with
his hands, and the duke he looks at him stupid and leather-headed
a while; then all of a sudden he seems to catch his meaning, and jumps
for the king, goo-gooing with all his might for joy, and hugs him
about fifteen times before he lets up. Then the king says, {}``I
knowed it; I reckon \textit{that} 'll convince anybody the way \textit{he}
feels about it. Here, Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner, take the money---take
it \textit{all}. It's the gift of him that lays yonder, cold but joyful.''

Mary Jane she went for him, Susan and the hare-lip went for the duke,
and then such another hugging and kissing I never see yet. And everybody
crowded up with the tears in their eyes, and most shook the hands
off of them frauds, saying all the time:

{}``You \textit{dear} good souls!---how \textit{lovely}!---how \textit{could}
you!''

Well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking about the diseased
again, and how good he was, and what a loss he was, and all that;
and before long a big iron-jawed man worked himself in there from
outside, and stood a-listening and looking, and not saying anything;
and nobody saying anything to him either, because the king was talking
and they was all busy listening. The king was saying---in the middle
of something he'd started in on---

{}``---they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased. That's why
they're invited here this evenin'; but tomorrow we want \textit{all}
to come---everybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody,
and so it's fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public.''

And so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk, and
every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies again, till the
duke he couldn't stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap
of paper, {}``\textit{Obsequies}, you old fool,'' and folds it up,
and goes to goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to him.
The king he reads it and puts it in his pocket, and says:

{}``Poor William, afflicted as he is, his \textit{heart's} aluz right.
Asks me to invite everybody to come to the funeral---wants me to make
'em all welcome. But he needn't a worried---it was jest what I was
at.''

Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and goes to dropping in
his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like he done before.
And when he done it the third time he says:

{}``I say orgies, not because it's the common term, because it ain't---obsequies
bein' the common term---but because orgies is the right term. Obsequies
ain't used in England no more now---it's gone out. We say orgies now
in England. Orgies is better, because it means the thing you're after
more exact. It's a word that's made up out'n the Greek \emph{orgo},
outside, open, abroad; and the Hebrew \emph{jeesum}, to plant, cover
up; hence in\emph{ter}. So, you see, funeral orgies is an open er
public funeral.''

He was the \textit{worst} I ever struck. Well, the iron-jawed man
he laughed right in his face. Everybody was shocked. Everybody says,
{}``Why, \textit{doctor}!''\ and Abner Shackleford says:

{}``Why, Robinson, hain't you heard the news? This is Harvey Wilks.''

The king he smiled eager, and shoved out his flapper, and says:

{}``Is it my poor brother's dear good friend and physician? I---''

{}``Keep your hands off of me!''\ says the doctor. {}``\textit{You}
talk like an Englishman, \textit{don't} you? It's the worst imitation
I ever heard. \textit{You} Peter Wilks's brother! You're a fraud,
that's what you are!''

Well, how they all took on! They crowded around the doctor and tried
to quiet him down, and tried to explain to him and tell him how Harvey
'd showed in forty ways that he \textit{was} Harvey, and knowed everybody
by name, and the names of the very dogs, and begged and \textit{begged}
him not to hurt Harvey's feelings and the poor girl's feelings, and
all that. But it warn't no use; he stormed right along, and said any
man that pretended to be an Englishman and couldn't imitate the lingo
no better than what he did was a fraud and a liar. The poor girls
was hanging to the king and crying; and all of a sudden the doctor
ups and turns on \textit{them}. He says:

{}``I was your father's friend, and I'm your friend; and I warn you
as a friend, and an honest one that wants to protect you and keep
you out of harm and trouble, to turn your backs on that scoundrel
and have nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp, with his idiotic
Greek and Hebrew, as he calls it. He is the thinnest kind of an impostor---has
come here with a lot of empty names and facts which he picked up somewheres,
and you take them for \textit{proofs}, and are helped to fool yourselves
by these foolish friends here, who ought to know better. Mary Jane
Wilks, you know me for your friend, and for your unselfish friend,
too. Now listen to me; turn this pitiful rascal out---I \textit{beg}
you to do it. Will you?''

Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was handsome! She
says:

{}``\textit{Here} is my answer.'' She hove up the bag of money and
put it in the king's hands, and says, {}``Take this six thousand
dollars, and invest for me and my sisters any way you want to, and
don't give us no receipt for it.''

Then she put her arm around the king on one side, and Susan and the
hare-lip done the same on the other. Everybody clapped their hands
and stomped on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the king held
up his head and smiled proud. The doctor says:

{}``All right; I wash \textit{my} hands of the matter. But I warn
you all that a time 's coming when you're going to feel sick whenever
you think of this day.'' And away he went.

{}``All right, doctor,'' says the king, kinder mocking him; {}``we'll
try and get 'em to send for you;'' which made them all laugh, and
they said it was a prime good hit.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXVI.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXVI}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXVI}

\textit{\emph{Well}}, when they was all gone the king he asks Mary
Jane how they was off for spare rooms, and she said she had one spare
room, which would do for Uncle William, and she'd give her own room
to Uncle Harvey, which was a little bigger, and she would turn into
the room with her sisters and sleep on a cot; and up garret was a
little cubby, with a pallet in it. The king said the cubby would do
for his valley---meaning me.

So Mary Jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which was
plain but nice. She said she'd have her frocks and a lot of other
traps took out of her room if they was in Uncle Harvey's way, but
he said they warn't. The frocks was hung along the wall, and before
them was a curtain made out of calico that hung down to the floor.
There was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box in another,
and all sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks around, like girls
brisken up a room with. The king said it was all the more homely and
more pleasanter for these fixings, and so don't disturb them. The
duke's room was pretty small, but plenty good enough, and so was my
cubby.

That night they had a big supper, and all them men and women was there,
and I stood behind the king and the duke's chairs and waited on them,
and the niggers waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set at the head
of the table, with Susan alongside of her, and said how bad the biscuits
was, and how mean the preserves was, and how ornery and tough the
fried chickens was---and all that kind of rot, the way women always
do for to force out compliments; and the people all knowed everything
was tiptop, and said so---said {}``How \textit{do} you get biscuits
to brown so nice?''\ and {}``Where, for the land's sake, \textit{did}
you get these amaz'n pickles?''\ and all that kind of humbug talky-talk,
just the way people always does at a supper, you know.

And when it was all done me and the hare-lip had supper in the kitchen
off of the leavings, whilst the others was helping the niggers clean
up the things. The hare-lip she got to pumping me about England, and
blest if I didn't think the ice was getting mighty thin sometimes.
She says:

{}``Did you ever see the king?''

{}``Who? William Fourth? Well, I bet I have --- he goes to our church.''
I knowed he was dead years ago, but I never let on. So when I says
he goes to our church, she says:

{}``What---regular?''

{}``Yes---regular. His pew's right over opposite ourn---on t'other
side the pulpit.''

{}``I thought he lived in London?''

{}``Well, he does. Where \textit{would} he live?''

{}``But I thought \textit{you} lived in Sheffield?''

I see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get choked with a chicken
bone, so as to get time to think how to get down again. Then I says:

{}``I mean he goes to our church regular when he's in Sheffield.
That's only in the summer time, when he comes there to take the sea
baths.''

{}``Why, how you talk---Sheffield ain't on the sea.''

{}``Well, who said it was?''

{}``Why, you did.''

{}``I \textit{didn't} nuther.''

{}``You did!''

{}``I didn't.''

{}``You did.''

{}``I never said nothing of the kind.''

{}``Well, what \textit{did} you say, then?''

{}``Said he come to take the sea \textit{baths}---that's what I said.''

{}``Well, then, how's he going to take the sea baths if it ain't
on the sea?''

{}``Looky here,'' I says; {}``did you ever see any Congress-water?''

{}``Yes.''

{}``Well, did you have to go to Congress to get it?''

{}``Why, no.''

{}``Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to the sea to get
a sea bath.''

{}``How does he get it, then?''

{}``Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-water---in barrels.
There in the palace at Sheffield they've got furnaces, and he wants
his water hot. They can't bile that amount of water away off there
at the sea. They haven't got no conveniences for it.''

{}``Oh, I see, now. You might a said that in the first place and
saved time.''

When she said that I see I was out of the woods again, and so I was
comfortable and glad. Next, she says:

{}``Do you go to church, too?''

{}``Yes---regular.''

{}``Where do you set?''

{}``Why, in our pew.''

{}``\textit{Whose} pew?''

{}``Why, \textit{ourn}---your Uncle Harvey's.''

{}``His'n? What does \textit{he} want with a pew?''

{}``Wants it to set in. What did you \textit{reckon} he wanted with
it?''

{}``Why, I thought he'd be in the pulpit.''

Rot him, I forgot he was a preacher. I see I was up a stump again,
so I played another chicken bone and got another think. Then I says:

{}``Blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one preacher to a church?''

{}``Why, what do they want with more?''

{}``What!---to preach before a king? I never did see such a girl
as you. They don't have no less than seventeen.''

{}``Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn't set out such a string as
that, not if I \textit{never} got to glory. It must take 'em a week.''

{}``Shucks, they don't \textit{all} of 'em preach the same day---only
\textit{one} of 'em.''

{}``Well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?''

{}``Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate---and one thing
or another. But mainly they don't do nothing.''

{}``Well, then, what are they \textit{for}?''

{}``Why, they're for \textit{style}. Don't you know nothing?''

{}``Well, I don't \textit{want} to know no such foolishness as that.
How is servants treated in England? Do they treat 'em better 'n we
treat our niggers?''

{}``\textit{No}! A servant ain't nobody there. They treat them worse
than dogs.''

{}``Don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do, Christmas and New
Year's week, and Fourth of July?''

{}``Oh, just listen! A body could tell \textit{you} hain't ever been
to England by that. Why, Hare-l---why, Joanna, they never see a holiday
from year's end to year's end; never go to the circus, nor theater,
nor nigger shows, nor nowheres.''

{}``Nor church?''

{}``Nor church.''

{}``But \textit{you} always went to church.''

Well, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old man's servant. But
next minute I whirled in on a kind of an explanation how a valley
was different from a common servant and \textit{had} to go to church
whether he wanted to or not, and set with the family, on account of
its being the law. But I didn't do it pretty good, and when I got
done I see she warn't satisfied. She says:

{}``Honest injun, now, hain't you been telling me a lot of lies?''

{}``Honest injun,'' says I.

{}``None of it at all?''

{}``None of it at all. Not a lie in it,'' says I.

{}``Lay your hand on this book and say it.''

I see it warn't nothing but a dictionary, so I laid my hand on it
and said it. So then she looked a little better satisfied, and says:

{}``Well, then, I'll believe some of it; but I hope to gracious if
I'll believe the rest.''

{}``What is it you won't believe, Joe?''\ says Mary Jane, stepping
in with Susan behind her. {}``It ain't right nor kind for you to
talk so to him, and him a stranger and so far from his people. How
would you like to be treated so?''

{}``That's always your way, Maim---always sailing in to help somebody
before they're hurt. I hain't done nothing to him. He's told some
stretchers, I reckon, and I said I wouldn't swallow it all; and that's
every bit and grain I \textit{did} say. I reckon he can stand a little
thing like that, can't he?''

{}``I don't care whether 'twas little or whether 'twas big; he's
here in our house and a stranger, and it wasn't good of you to say
it. If you was in his place it would make you feel ashamed; and so
you oughtn't to say a thing to another person that will make \textit{them}
feel ashamed.''

{}``Why, Maim, he said---''

{}``It don't make no difference what he \textit{said}---that ain't
the thing. The thing is for you to treat him \textit{kind}, and not
be saying things to make him remember he ain't in his own country
and amongst his own folks.''

I says to myself, \textit{this} is a girl that I'm letting that old
reptle rob her of her money!

Then Susan \textit{she} waltzed in; and if you'll believe me, she
did give Hare-lip hark from the tomb!

Says I to myself, and this is \textit{another} one that I'm letting
him rob her of her money!

Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and lovely
again---which was her way; but when she got done there warn't hardly
anything left o' poor Hare-lip. So she hollered.

{}``All right, then,'' says the other girls; {}``you just ask his
pardon.''

She done it, too; and she done it beautiful. She done it so beautiful
it was good to hear; and I wished I could tell her a thousand lies,
so she could do it again.

I says to myself, this is \textit{another} one that I'm letting him
rob her of her money. And when she got through they all jest laid
theirselves out to make me feel at home and know I was amongst friends.
I felt so ornery and low down and mean that I says to myself, my mind's
made up; I'll hive that money for them or bust.

So then I lit out---for bed, I said, meaning some time or another.
When I got by myself I went to thinking the thing over. I says to
myself, shall I go to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds?
No---that won't do. He might tell who told him; then the king and
the duke would make it warm for me. Shall I go, private, and tell
Mary Jane? No---I dasn't do it. Her face would give them a hint, sure;
they've got the money, and they'd slide right out and get away with
it. If she was to fetch in help I'd get mixed up in the business before
it was done with, I judge. No; there ain't no good way but one. I
got to steal that money, somehow; and I got to steal it some way that
they won't suspicion that I done it. They've got a good thing here,
and they ain't a-going to leave till they've played this family and
this town for all they're worth, so I'll find a chance time enough.
I'll steal it and hide it; and by and by, when I'm away down the river,
I'll write a letter and tell Mary Jane where it's hid. But I better
hive it tonight if I can, because the doctor maybe hasn't let up as
much as he lets on he has; he might scare them out of here yet.

So, thinks I, I'll go and search them rooms. Upstairs the hall was
dark, but I found the duke's room, and started to paw around it with
my hands; but I recollected it wouldn't be much like the king to let
anybody else take care of that money but his own self; so then I went
to his room and begun to paw around there. But I see I couldn't do
nothing without a candle, and I dasn't light one, of course. So I
judged I'd got to do the other thing---lay for them and eavesdrop.
About that time I hears their footsteps coming, and was going to skip
under the bed; I reached for it, but it wasn't where I thought it
would be; but I touched the curtain that hid Mary Jane's frocks, so
I jumped in behind that and snuggled in amongst the gowns, and stood
there perfectly still.

They come in and shut the door; and the first thing the duke done
was to get down and look under the bed. Then I was glad I hadn't found
the bed when I wanted it. And yet, you know, it's kind of natural
to hide under the bed when you are up to anything private. They sets
down then, and the king says:

{}``Well, what is it? And cut it middlin' short, because it's better
for us to be down there a-whoopin' up the mournin' than up here givin'
'em a chance to talk us over.''

{}``Well, this is it, Capet. I ain't easy; I ain't comfortable. That
doctor lays on my mind. I wanted to know your plans. I've got a notion,
and I think it's a sound one.''

{}``What is it, duke?''

{}``That we better glide out of this before three in the morning,
and clip it down the river with what we've got. Specially, seeing
we got it so easy---\textit{given} back to us, flung at our heads,
as you may say, when of course we allowed to have to steal it back.
I'm for knocking off and lighting out.''

That made me feel pretty bad. About an hour or two ago it would a
been a little different, but now it made me feel bad and disappointed,
The king rips out and says:

{}``What! And not sell out the rest o' the property? March off like
a passel of fools and leave eight or nine thous'n' dollars' worth
o' property layin' around jest sufferin' to be scooped in?---and all
good, salable stuff, too.''

The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and he didn't
want to go no deeper---didn't want to rob a lot of orphans of \textit{everything}
they had.

{}``Why, how you talk!''\ says the king. {}``We sha'n't rob 'em
of nothing at all but jest this money. The people that \textit{buys}
the property is the suff'rers; because as soon 's it's found out 'at
we didn't own it---which won't be long after we've slid---the sale
won't be valid, and it 'll all go back to the estate. These yer orphans
'll git their house back agin, and that's enough for \textit{them};
they're young and spry, and k'n easy earn a livin'. \textit{They}
ain't a-goin to suffer. Why, jest think---there's thous'n's and thous'n's
that ain't nigh so well off. Bless you, \textit{they} ain't got noth'n'
to complain of.''

Well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and said
all right, but said he believed it was blamed foolishness to stay,
and that doctor hanging over them. But the king says:

{}``Cuss the doctor! What do we k'yer for \textit{him}? Hain't we
got all the fools in town on our side? And ain't that a big enough
majority in any town?''

So they got ready to go down stairs again. The duke says:

{}``I don't think we put that money in a good place.''

That cheered me up. I'd begun to think I warn't going to get a hint
of no kind to help me. The king says:

{}``Why?''

{}``Because Mary Jane 'll be in mourning from this out; and first
you know the nigger that does up the rooms will get an order to box
these duds up and put 'em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run
across money and not borrow some of it?''

{}``Your head's level agin, duke,'' says the king; and he comes
a-fumbling under the curtain two or three foot from where I was. I
stuck tight to the wall and kept mighty still, though quivery; and
I wondered what them fellows would say to me if they catched me; and
I tried to think what I'd better do if they did catch me. But the
king he got the bag before I could think more than about a half a
thought, and he never suspicioned I was around. They took and shoved
the bag through a rip in the straw tick that was under the feather-bed,
and crammed it in a foot or two amongst the straw and said it was
all right now, because a nigger only makes up the feather-bed, and
don't turn over the straw tick only about twice a year, and so it
warn't in no danger of getting stole now.

But I knowed better. I had it out of there before they was half-way
down stairs. I groped along up to my cubby, and hid it there till
I could get a chance to do better. I judged I better hide it outside
of the house somewheres, because if they missed it they would give
the house a good ransacking: I knowed that very well. Then I turned
in, with my clothes all on; but I couldn't a gone to sleep if I'd
a wanted to, I was in such a sweat to get through with the business.
By and by I heard the king and the duke come up; so I rolled off my
pallet and laid with my chin at the top of my ladder, and waited to
see if anything was going to happen. But nothing did.

So I held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones
hadn't begun yet; and then I slipped down the ladder.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXVII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXVII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXVII}

I \textit{\emph{crept}} to their doors and listened; they was snoring.
So I tiptoed along, and got down stairs all right. There warn't a
sound anywheres. I peeped through a crack of the dining-room door,
and see the men that was watching the corpse all sound asleep on their
chairs. The door was open into the parlor, where the corpse was laying,
and there was a candle in both rooms. I passed along, and the parlor
door was open; but I see there warn't nobody in there but the remainders
of Peter; so I shoved on by; but the front door was locked, and the
key wasn't there. Just then I heard somebody coming down the stairs,
back behind me. I run in the parlor and took a swift look around,
and the only place I see to hide the bag was in the coffin. The lid
was shoved along about a foot, showing the dead man's face down in
there, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on. I tucked the money-bag
in under the lid, just down beyond where his hands was crossed, which
made me creep, they was so cold, and then I run back across the room
and in behind the door.

The person coming was Mary Jane. She went to the coffin, very soft,
and kneeled down and looked in; then she put up her handkerchief,
and I see she begun to cry, though I couldn't hear her, and her back
was to me. I slid out, and as I passed the dining-room I thought I'd
make sure them watchers hadn't seen me; so I looked through the crack,
and everything was all right. They hadn't stirred.

I slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts of the thing
playing out that way after I had took so much trouble and run so much
resk about it. Says I, if it could stay where it is, all right; because
when we get down the river a hundred mile or two I could write back
to Mary Jane, and she could dig him up again and get it; but that
ain't the thing that's going to happen; the thing that's going to
happen is, the money 'll be found when they come to screw on the lid.
Then the king 'll get it again, and it 'll be a long day before he
gives anybody another chance to smouch it from him. Of course I \textit{wanted}
to slide down and get it out of there, but I dasn't try it. Every
minute it was getting earlier now, and pretty soon some of them watchers
would begin to stir, and I might get catched---catched with six thousand
dollars in my hands that nobody hadn't hired me to take care of. I
don't wish to be mixed up in no such business as that, I says to myself.

When I got down stairs in the morning the parlor was shut up, and
the watchers was gone. There warn't nobody around but the family and
the widow Bartley and our tribe. I watched their faces to see if anything
had been happening, but I couldn't tell.

Towards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man, and
they set the coffin in the middle of the room on a couple of chairs,
and then set all our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from the neighbors
till the hall and the parlor and the dining-room was full. I see the
coffin lid was the way it was before, but I dasn't go to look in under
it, with folks around.

Then the people begun to flock in, and the beats and the girls took
seats in the front row at the head of the coffin, and for a half an
hour the people filed around slow, in single rank, and looked down
at the dead man's face a minute, and some dropped in a tear, and it
was all very still and solemn, only the girls and the beats holding
handkerchiefs to their eyes and keeping their heads bent, and sobbing
a little. There warn't no other sound but the scraping of the feet
on the floor and blowing noses---because people always blows them
more at a funeral than they do at other places except church.

When the place was packed full the undertaker he slid around in his
black gloves with his softy soothering ways, putting on the last touches,
and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfortable, and
making no more sound than a cat. He never spoke; he moved people around,
he squeezed in late ones, he opened up passageways, and done it with
nods, and signs with his hands. Then he took his place over against
the wall. He was the softest, glidingest, stealthiest man I ever see;
and there warn't no more smile to him than there is to a ham.

They had borrowed a melodeum---a sick one; and when everything was
ready a young woman set down and worked it, and it was pretty skreeky
and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and Peter was the only
one that had a good thing, according to my notion. Then the Reverend
Hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and begun to talk; and straight
off the most outrageous row busted out in the cellar a body ever heard;
it was only one dog, but he made a most powerful racket, and he kept
it up right along; the parson he had to stand there, over the coffin,
and wait---you couldn't hear yourself think. It was right down awkward,
and nobody didn't seem to know what to do. But pretty soon they see
that long-legged undertaker make a sign to the preacher as much as
to say, {}``Don't you worry---just depend on me.'' Then he stooped
down and begun to glide along the wall, just his shoulders showing
over the people's heads. So he glided along, and the powwow and racket
getting more and more outrageous all the time; and at last, when he
had gone around two sides of the room, he disappears down cellar.
Then in about two seconds we heard a whack, and the dog he finished
up with a most amazing howl or two, and then everything was dead still,
and the parson begun his solemn talk where he left off. In a minute
or two here comes this undertaker's back and shoulders gliding along
the wall again; and so he glided and glided around three sides of
the room, and then rose up, and shaded his mouth with his hands, and
stretched his neck out towards the preacher, over the people's heads,
and says, in a kind of a coarse whisper, {}``\textit{He} \textit{had}
\emph{a} \textit{rat}!'' Then he drooped down and glided along the
wall again to his place. You could see it was a great satisfaction
to the people, because naturally they wanted to know. A little thing
like that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little things that
makes a man to be looked up to and liked. There warn't no more popular
man in town than what that undertaker was.

Well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and tiresome;
and then the king he shoved in and got off some of his usual rubbage,
and at last the job was through, and the undertaker begun to sneak
up on the coffin with his screw-driver. I was in a sweat then, and
watched him pretty keen. But he never meddled at all; just slid the
lid along as soft as mush, and screwed it down tight and fast. So
there I was! I didn't know whether the money was in there or not.
So, says I, s'pose somebody has hogged that bag on the sly?---now
how do I know whether to write to Mary Jane or not? S'pose she dug
him up and didn't find nothing, what would she think of me? Blame
it, I says, I might get hunted up and jailed; I'd better lay low and
keep dark, and not write at all; the thing's awful mixed now; trying
to better it, I've worsened it a hundred times, and I wish to goodness
I'd just let it alone, dad fetch the whole business!

They buried him, and we come back home, and I went to watching faces
again---I couldn't help it, and I couldn't rest easy. But nothing
come of it; the faces didn't tell me nothing.

The king he visited around in the evening, and sweetened everybody
up, and made himself ever so friendly; and he give out the idea that
his congregation over in England would be in a sweat about him, so
he must hurry and settle up the estate right away and leave for home.
He was very sorry he was so pushed, and so was everybody; they wished
he could stay longer, but they said they could see it couldn't be
done. And he said of course him and William would take the girls home
with them; and that pleased everybody too, because then the girls
would be well fixed and amongst their own relations; and it pleased
the girls, too---tickled them so they clean forgot they ever had a
trouble in the world; and told him to sell out as quick as he wanted
to, they would be ready. Them poor things was that glad and happy
it made my heart ache to see them getting fooled and lied to so, but
I didn't see no safe way for me to chip in and change the general
tune.

Well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and the niggers and
all the property for auction straight off---sale two days after the
funeral; but anybody could buy private beforehand if they wanted to.

So the next day after the funeral, along about noon-time, the girls'
joy got the first jolt. A couple of nigger traders come along, and
the king sold them the niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as
they called it, and away they went, the two sons up the river to Memphis,
and their mother down the river to Orleans. I thought them poor girls
and them niggers would break their hearts for grief; they cried around
each other, and took on so it most made me down sick to see it. The
girls said they hadn't ever dreamed of seeing the family separated
or sold away from the town. I can't ever get it out of my memory,
the sight of them poor miserable girls and niggers hanging around
each other's necks and crying; and I reckon I couldn't a stood it
all, but would a had to bust out and tell on our gang if I hadn't
knowed the sale warn't no account and the niggers would be back home
in a week or two.

The thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a good many come out
flatfooted and said it was scandalous to separate the mother and the
children that way. It injured the frauds some; but the old fool he
bulled right along, spite of all the duke could say or do, and I tell
you the duke was powerful uneasy.

Next day was auction day. About broad day in the morning the king
and the duke come up in the garret and woke me up, and I see by their
look that there was trouble. The king says:

{}``Was you in my room night before last?''

{}``No, your majesty''---which was the way I always called him when
nobody but our gang warn't around.

{}``Was you in there yisterday er last night?''

{}``No, your majesty.''

{}``Honor bright, now---no lies.''

{}``Honor bright, your majesty, I'm telling you the truth. I hain't
been a-near your room since Miss Mary Jane took you and the duke and
showed it to you.''

The duke says:

{}``Have you seen anybody else go in there?''

{}``No, your grace, not as I remember, I believe.''

{}``Stop and think.''

I studied awhile and see my chance; then I says:

{}``Well, I see the niggers go in there several times.''

Both of them gave a little jump, and looked like they hadn't ever
expected it, and then like they \textit{had}. Then the duke says:

{}``What, all of them?''

{}``No---leastways, not all at once---that is, I don't think I ever
see them all come \textit{out} at once but just one time.''

{}``Hello! When was that?''

{}``It was the day we had the funeral. In the morning. It warn't
early, because I overslept. I was just starting down the ladder, and
I see them.''

{}``Well, go on, \textit{go} on! What did they do? How'd they act?''

{}``They didn't do nothing. And they didn't act anyway much, as fur
as I see. They tiptoed away; so I seen, easy enough, that they'd shoved
in there to do up your majesty's room, or something, s'posing you
was up; and found you \textit{warn't} up, and so they was hoping to
slide out of the way of trouble without waking you up, if they hadn't
already waked you up.''

{}``Great guns, \textit{this} is a go!''\ says the king; and both
of them looked pretty sick and tolerable silly. They stood there a-thinking
and scratching their heads a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind
of a little raspy chuckle, and says:

{}``It does beat all how neat the niggers played their hand. They
let on to be \textit{sorry} they was going out of this region! And
I believed they \textit{was} sorry, and so did you, and so did everybody.
Don't ever tell \textit{me} any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic
talent. Why, the way they played that thing it would fool \textit{anybody}.
In my opinion, there's a fortune in 'em. If I had capital and a theater,
I wouldn't want a better lay-out than that---and here we've gone and
sold 'em for a song. Yes, and ain't privileged to sing the song yet.
Say, where \textit{is} that song---that draft?''

{}``In the bank for to be collected. Where \textit{would} it be?''

{}``Well, \textit{that's} all right then, thank goodness.''

Says I, kind of timid-like:

{}``Is something gone wrong?''

The king whirls on me and rips out:

{}``None o' your business! You keep your head shet, and mind y'r
own affairs---if you got any. Long as you're in this town don't you
forgit \textit{that}---you hear?'' Then he says to the duke, {}``We
got to jest swaller it and say noth'n': mum's the word for \textit{us}.''

As they was starting down the ladder the duke he chuckles again, and
says:

{}``Quick sales \textit{and} small profits! It's a good business---yes.''

The king snarls around on him and says:

{}``I was trying to do for the best in sellin' 'em out so quick.
If the profits has turned out to be none, lackin' considable, and
none to carry, is it my fault any more'n it's yourn?''

{}``Well, \textit{they'd} be in this house yet and we \textit{wouldn't}
if I could a got my advice listened to.''

The king sassed back as much as was safe for him, and then swapped
around and lit into \textit{me} again. He give me down the banks for
not coming and \textit{telling} him I see the niggers come out of
his room acting that way---said any fool would a \textit{knowed} something
was up. And then waltzed in and cussed \textit{himself} awhile, and
said it all come of him not laying late and taking his natural rest
that morning, and he'd be blamed if he'd ever do it again. So they
went off a-jawing; and I felt dreadful glad I'd worked it all off
on to the niggers, and yet hadn't done the niggers no harm by it.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXVIII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXVIII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXVIII}

\textit{\emph{By}} and by it was getting-up time. So I come down the
ladder and started for down-stairs; but as I come to the girls' room
the door was open, and I see Mary Jane setting by her old hair trunk,
which was open and she'd been packing things in it---getting ready
to go to England. But she had stopped now with a folded gown in her
lap, and had her face in her hands, crying. I felt awful bad to see
it; of course anybody would. I went in there and says:

{}``Miss Mary Jane, you can't a-bear to see people in trouble, and
I can't---most always. Tell me about it.''

So she done it. And it was the niggers---I just expected it. She said
the beautiful trip to England was most about spoiled for her; she
didn't know \textit{how} she was ever going to be happy there, knowing
the mother and the children warn't ever going to see each other no
more---and then busted out bitterer than ever, and flung up her hands,
and says:

{}``Oh, dear, dear, to think they ain't \textit{ever} going to see
each other any more!''

{}``But they \textit{will}---and inside of two weeks---and I \textit{know}
it!''\ says I.

Laws, it was out before I could think! And before I could budge she
throws her arms around my neck and told me to say it \textit{again},
say it \textit{again}, say it \textit{again}!

I see I had spoke too sudden and said too much, and was in a close
place. I asked her to let me think a minute; and she set there, very
impatient and excited and handsome, but looking kind of happy and
eased-up, like a person that's had a tooth pulled out. So I went to
studying it out. I says to myself, I reckon a body that ups and tells
the truth when he is in a tight place is taking considerable many
resks, though I ain't had no experience, and can't say for certain;
but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet here's a case where I'm blest
if it don't look to me like the truth is better and actuly \textit{safer}
than a lie. I must lay it by in my mind, and think it over some time
or other, it's so kind of strange and unregular. I never see nothing
like it. Well, I says to myself at last, I'm a-going to chance it;
I'll up and tell the truth this time, though it does seem most like
setting down on a kag of powder and touching it off just to see where
you'll go to. Then I says:

{}``Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a little ways
where you could go and stay three or four days?''

{}``Yes; Mr.\ Lothrop's. Why?''

{}``Never mind why yet. If I'll tell you how I know the niggers will
see each other again inside of two weeks---here in this house---and
\textit{prove} how I know it---will you go to Mr.\ Lothrop's and
stay four days?''

{}``Four days!''\ she says; {}``I'll stay a year!''

{}``All right,'' I says, {}``I don't want nothing more out of \textit{you}
than just your word---I druther have it than another man's kiss-the-Bible.''
She smiled and reddened up very sweet, and I says, {}``If you don't
mind it, I'll shut the door---and bolt it.''

Then I come back and set down again, and says:

{}``Don't you holler. Just set still and take it like a man. I got
to tell the truth, and you want to brace up, Miss Mary, because it's
a bad kind, and going to be hard to take, but there ain't no help
for it. These uncles of yourn ain't no uncles at all; they're a couple
of frauds---regular dead-beats. There, now we're over the worst of
it, you can stand the rest middling easy.''

It jolted her up like everything, of course; but I was over the shoal
water now, so I went right along, her eyes a-blazing higher and higher
all the time, and told her every blame thing, from where we first
struck that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear through to
where she flung herself on to the king's breast at the front door
and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times---and then up she jumps,
with her face afire like sunset, and says:

{}``The brute! Come, don't waste a minute---not a \textit{second}---we'll
have them tarred and feathered, and flung in the river!''

Says I:

{}``Cert'nly. But do you mean \textit{before} you go to Mr.\ Lothrop's,
or---''

{}``Oh,'' she says, {}``what am I \textit{thinking} about!''\ she
says, and set right down again. {}``Don't mind what I said---please
don't---you \textit{won't}, now, \textit{will} you?'' Laying her
silky hand on mine in that kind of a way that I said I would die first.
{}``I never thought, I was so stirred up,'' she says; {}``now go
on, and I won't do so any more. You tell me what to do, and whatever
you say I'll do it.''

{}``Well,'' I says, {}``it's a rough gang, them two frauds, and
I'm fixed so I got to travel with them a while longer, whether I want
to or not---I druther not tell you why; and if you was to blow on
them this town would get me out of their claws, and I'd be all right;
but there'd be another person that you don't know about who'd be in
big trouble. Well, we got to save \textit{him}, hain't we? Of course.
Well, then, we won't blow on them.''

Saying them words put a good idea in my head. I see how maybe I could
get me and Jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed here, and then leave.
But I didn't want to run the raft in the daytime without anybody aboard
to answer questions but me; so I didn't want the plan to begin working
till pretty late to-night. I says:

{}``Miss Mary Jane, I'll tell you what we'll do, and you won't have
to stay at Mr.\ Lothrop's so long, nuther. How fur is it?''

{}``A little short of four miles---right out in the country, back
here.''

{}``Well, that 'll answer. Now you go along out there, and lay low
till nine or half-past to-night, and then get them to fetch you home
again---tell them you've thought of something. If you get here before
eleven put a candle in this window, and if I don't turn up wait \textit{till}
eleven, and \textit{then} if I don't turn up it means I'm gone, and
out of the way, and safe. Then you come out and spread the news around,
and get these beats jailed.''

{}``Good,'' she says, {}``I'll do it.''

{}``And if it just happens so that I don't get away, but get took
up along with them, you must up and say I told you the whole thing
beforehand, and you must stand by me all you can.''

{}``Stand by you!\ indeed I will. They sha'n't touch a hair of your
head!''\ she says, and I see her nostrils spread and her eyes snap
when she said it, too.

{}``If I get away I sha'n't be here,'' I says, {}``to prove these
rapscallions ain't your uncles, and I couldn't do it if I \textit{was}
here. I could swear they was beats and bummers, that's all, though
that's worth something. Well, there's others can do that better than
what I can, and they're people that ain't going to be doubted as quick
as I'd be. I'll tell you how to find them. Gimme a pencil and a piece
of paper. There---`Royal Nonesuch, Bricksville.' Put it away, and
don't lose it. When the court wants to find out something about these
two, let them send up to Bricksville and say they've got the men that
played the Royal Nonesuch, and ask for some witnesses---why, you'll
have that entire town down here before you can hardly wink, Miss Mary.
And they'll come a-biling, too.''

I judged we had got everything fixed about right now. So I says:

{}``Just let the auction go right along, and don't worry. Nobody
don't have to pay for the things they buy till a whole day after the
auction on accounts of the short notice, and they ain't going out
of this till they get that money; and the way we've fixed it the sale
ain't going to count, and they ain't going to get no money. It's just
like the way it was with the niggers---it warn't no sale, and the
niggers will be back before long. Why, they can't collect the money
for the \textit{niggers} yet---they're in the worst kind of a fix,
Miss Mary.''

{}``Well,'' she says, {}``I'll run down to breakfast now, and then
I'll start straight for Mr.\ Lothrop's.''

{}``'Deed, \textit{that} ain't the ticket, Miss Mary Jane,'' I says,
{}``by no manner of means; go \textit{before} breakfast.''

{}``Why?''

{}``What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all for, Miss Mary?''

{}``Well, I never thought---and come to think, I don't know. What
was it?''

{}``Why, it's because you ain't one of these leather-face people.
I don't want no better book than what your face is. A body can set
down and read it off like coarse print. Do you reckon you can go and
face your uncles when they come to kiss you good-morning, and never---''

{}``There, there, don't! Yes, I'll go before breakfast---I'll be
glad to. And leave my sisters with them?''

{}``Yes; never mind about them. They've got to stand it yet a while.
They might suspicion something if all of you was to go. I don't want
you to see them, nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town; if a neighbor
was to ask how is your uncles this morning your face would tell something.
No, you go right along, Miss Mary Jane, and I'll fix it with all of
them. I'll tell Miss Susan to give your love to your uncles and say
you've went away for a few hours for to get a little rest and change,
or to see a friend, and you'll be back to-night or early in the morning.''

{}``Gone to see a friend is all right, but I won't have my love given
to them.''

{}``Well, then, it sha'n't be.'' It was well enough to tell \textit{her}
so --- no harm in it. It was only a little thing to do, and no trouble;
and it's the little things that smooths people's roads the most, down
here below; it would make Mary Jane comfortable, and it wouldn't cost
nothing. Then I says: {}``There's one more thing --- that bag of
money.''

{}``Well, they've got that; and it makes me feel pretty silly to
think \textit{how} they got it.''

{}``No, you're out, there. They hain't got it.''

{}``Why, who's got it?''

{}``I wish I knowed, but I don't. I \textit{had} it, because I stole
it from them; and I stole it to give to you; and I know where I hid
it, but I'm afraid it ain't there no more. I'm awful sorry, Miss Mary
Jane, I'm just as sorry as I can be; but I done the best I could;
I did honest. I come nigh getting caught, and I had to shove it into
the first place I come to, and run---and it warn't a good place.''

{}``Oh, stop blaming yourself---it's too bad to do it, and I won't
allow it---you couldn't help it; it wasn't your fault. Where did you
hide it?''

I didn't want to set her to thinking about her troubles again; and
I couldn't seem to get my mouth to tell her what would make her see
that corpse laying in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach.
So for a minute I didn't say nothing; then I says:

{}``I'd ruther not \textit{tell} you where I put it, Miss Mary Jane,
if you don't mind letting me off; but I'll write it for you on a piece
of paper, and you can read it along the road to Mr.\ Lothrop's, if
you want to. Do you reckon that 'll do?''

{}``Oh, yes.''

So I wrote: {}``I put it in the coffin. It was in there when you
was crying there, away in the night. I was behind the door, and I
was mighty sorry for you, Miss Mary Jane.''

It made my eyes water a little to remember her crying there all by
herself in the night, and them devils laying there right under her
own roof, shaming her and robbing her; and when I folded it up and
give it to her I see the water come into her eyes, too; and she shook
me by the hand, hard, and says:

{}``\textit{Good}-bye. I'm going to do everything just as you've
told me; and if I don't ever see you again, I sha'n't ever forget
you.\ and I'll think of you a many and a many a time, and I'll \textit{pray}
for you, too!''---and she was gone.

Pray for me! I reckoned if she knowed me she'd take a job that was
more nearer her size. But I bet she done it, just the same---she was
just that kind. She had the grit to pray for Judus if she took the
notion---there warn't no back-down to her, I judge. You may say what
you want to, but in my opinion she had more sand in her than any girl
I ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand. It sounds like
flattery, but it ain't no flattery. And when it comes to beauty---and
goodness, too---she lays over them all. I hain't ever seen her since
that time that I see her go out of that door; no, I hain't ever seen
her since, but I reckon I've thought of her a many and a many a million
times, and of her saying she would pray for me; and if ever I'd a
thought it would do any good for me to pray for \textit{her}, blamed
if I wouldn't a done it or bust.

Well, Mary Jane she lit out the back way, I reckon; because nobody
see her go. When I struck Susan and the hare-lip, I says:

{}``What's the name of them people over on t'other side of the river
that you all goes to see sometimes?''

They says:

{}``There's several; but it's the Proctors, mainly.''

{}``That's the name,'' I says; {}``I most forgot it. Well, Miss
Mary Jane she told me to tell you she's gone over there in a dreadful
hurry---one of them's sick.''

{}``Which one?''

{}``I don't know; leastways, I kinder forget; but I thinks it's---''

{}``Sakes alive, I hope it ain't \textit{Hanner}?''

{}``I'm sorry to say it,'' I says, {}``but Hanner's the very one.''

{}``My goodness, and she so well only last week! Is she took bad?''

{}``It ain't no name for it. They set up with her all night, Miss
Mary Jane said, and they don't think she'll last many hours.''

{}``Only think of that, now! What's the matter with her?''

I couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so I
says:

{}``Mumps.''

{}``Mumps your granny! They don't set up with people that's got the
mumps.''

{}``They don't, don't they? You better bet they do with \textit{these}
mumps. These mumps is different. It's a new kind, Miss Mary Jane said.''

{}``How's it a new kind?''

{}``Because it's mixed up with other things.''

{}``What other things?''

{}``Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and consumption,
and yaller janders, and brain-fever, and I don't know what all.''

{}``My land! And they call it the \textit{mumps}?''

{}``That's what Miss Mary Jane said.''

{}``Well, what in the nation do they call it the \textit{mumps} for?''

{}``Why, because it \textit{is} the mumps. That's what it starts
with.''

{}``Well, ther' ain't no sense in it. A body might stump his toe,
and take pison, and fall down the well, and break his neck, and bust
his brains out, and somebody come along and ask what killed him, and
some numskull up and say, `Why, he stumped his \textit{toe}.' Would
ther' be any sense in that? \textit{No}. And ther' ain't no sense
in \textit{this}, nuther. Is it ketching?''

{}``Is it \textit{ketching}? Why, how you talk. Is a \textit{harrow}
catching---in the dark? If you don't hitch on to one tooth, you're
bound to on another, ain't you? And you can't get away with that tooth
without fetching the whole harrow along, can you? Well, these kind
of mumps is a kind of a harrow, as you may say---and it ain't no slouch
of a harrow, nuther, you come to get it hitched on good.''

{}``Well, it's awful, I think,'' says the hare-lip. {}``I'll go
to Uncle Harvey and---''

{}``Oh, yes,'' I says, {}``I \textit{would}. Of \textit{course}
I would. I wouldn't lose no time.''

{}``Well, why wouldn't you?''

{}``Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. Hain't your
uncles obleegd to get along home to England as fast as they can? And
do you reckon they'd be mean enough to go off and leave you to go
all that journey by yourselves? \textit{You} know they'll wait for
you. So fur, so good. Your uncle Harvey's a preacher, ain't he? Very
well, then; is a \textit{preacher} going to deceive a steamboat clerk?
is he going to deceive a \textit{ship} \textit{clerk}?---so as to
get them to let Miss Mary Jane go aboard? Now \textit{you} know he
ain't. What \textit{will} he do, then? Why, he'll say, `It's a great
pity, but my church matters has got to get along the best way they
can; for my niece has been exposed to the dreadful pluribus-unum mumps,
and so it's my bounden duty to set down here and wait the three months
it takes to show on her if she's got it.' But never mind, if you think
it's best to tell your uncle Harvey---''

{}``Shucks, and stay fooling around here when we could all be having
good times in England whilst we was waiting to find out whether Mary
Jane's got it or not? Why, you talk like a muggins.''

{}``Well, anyway, maybe you'd better tell some of the neighbors.''

{}``Listen at that, now. You do beat all for natural stupidness.
Can't you \textit{see} that \textit{they'd} go and tell? Ther' ain't
no way but just to not tell anybody at \textit{all}.''

{}``Well, maybe you're right---yes, I judge you \textit{are} right.''

{}``But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she's gone out a while,
anyway, so he won't be uneasy about her?''

{}``Yes, Miss Mary Jane she wanted you to do that. She says, `Tell
them to give Uncle Harvey and William my love and a kiss, and say
I've run over the river to see Mr.'---Mr.\---what \textit{is} the
name of that rich family your uncle Peter used to think so much of?---I
mean the one that---''

{}``Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain't it?''

{}``Of course; bother them kind of names, a body can't ever seem
to remember them, half the time, somehow. Yes, she said, say she has
run over for to ask the Apthorps to be sure and come to the auction
and buy this house, because she allowed her uncle Peter would ruther
they had it than anybody else; and she's going to stick to them till
they say they'll come, and then, if she ain't too tired, she's coming
home; and if she is, she'll be home in the morning anyway. She said,
don't say nothing about the Proctors, but only about the Apthorps---which
'll be perfectly true, because she is going there to speak about their
buying the house; I know it, because she told me so herself.''

{}``All right,'' they said, and cleared out to lay for their uncles,
and give them the love and the kisses, and tell them the message.

Everything was all right now. The girls wouldn't say nothing because
they wanted to go to England; and the king and the duke would ruther
Mary Jane was off working for the auction than around in reach of
Doctor Robinson. I felt very good; I judged I had done it pretty neat---I
reckoned Tom Sawyer couldn't a done it no neater himself. Of course
he would a throwed more style into it, but I can't do that very handy,
not being brung up to it.

Well, they held the auction in the public square, along towards the
end of the afternoon, and it strung along, and strung along, and the
old man he was on hand and looking his level pisonest, up there longside
of the auctioneer, and chipping in a little Scripture now and then,
or a little goody-goody saying of some kind, and the duke he was around
goo-gooing for sympathy all he knowed how, and just spreading himself
generly.

But by and by the thing dragged through, and everything was sold---everything
but a little old trifling lot in the graveyard. So they'd got to work
that off---I never see such a girafft as the king was for wanting
to swallow \textit{everything}. Well, whilst they was at it a steamboat
landed, and in about two minutes up comes a crowd a-whooping and yelling
and laughing and carrying on, and singing out:

{}``\textit{Here's} your opposition line!\ here's your two sets
o' heirs to old Peter Wilks---and you pays your money and you takes
your choice!''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXIX.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXIX}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXIX}

\textit{\emph{They}} was fetching a very nice-looking old gentleman
along, and a nice-looking younger one, with his right arm in a sling.
And, my souls, how the people yelled and laughed, and kept it up.
But I didn't see no joke about it, and I judged it would strain the
duke and the king some to see any. I reckoned they'd turn pale. But
no, nary a pale did \textit{they} turn. The duke he never let on he
suspicioned what was up, but just went a goo-gooing around, happy
and satisfied, like a jug that's googling out buttermilk; and as for
the king, he just gazed and gazed down sorrowful on them new-comers
like it give him the stomach-ache in his very heart to think there
could be such frauds and rascals in the world. Oh, he done it admirable.
Lots of the principal people gethered around the king, to let him
see they was on his side. That old gentleman that had just come looked
all puzzled to death. Pretty soon he begun to speak, and I see straight
off he pronounced \textit{like} an Englishman---not the king's way,
though the king's \textit{was} pretty good for an imitation. I can't
give the old gent's words, nor I can't imitate him; but he turned
around to the crowd, and says, about like this:

{}``This is a surprise to me which I wasn't looking for; and I'll
acknowledge, candid and frank, I ain't very well fixed to meet it
and answer it; for my brother and me has had misfortunes; he's broke
his arm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here last night
in the night by a mistake. I am Peter Wilks' brother Harvey, and this
is his brother William, which can't hear nor speak---and can't even
make signs to amount to much, now't he's only got one hand to work
them with. We are who we say we are; and in a day or two, when I get
the baggage, I can prove it. But up till then I won't say nothing
more, but go to the hotel and wait.''

So him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs, and
blethers out:

{}``Broke his arm---\textit{very} likely, \textit{ain't} it?---and
very convenient, too, for a fraud that's got to make signs, and ain't
learnt how. Lost their baggage! That's \textit{mighty} good!---and
mighty ingenious---under the \textit{circumstances}!

So he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three or four,
or maybe half a dozen. One of these was that doctor; another one was
a sharp-looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-fashioned
kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just come off of the steamboat
and was talking to him in a low voice, and glancing towards the king
now and then and nodding their heads---it was Levi Bell, the lawyer
that was gone up to Louisville; and another one was a big rough husky
that come along and listened to all the old gentleman said, and was
listening to the king now. And when the king got done this husky up
and says:

{}``Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when'd you come to
this town?''

{}``The day before the funeral, friend,'' says the king.

{}``But what time o' day?''

{}``In the evenin'---'bout an hour er two before sundown.''

{}``\textit{How'd} you come?''

{}``I come down on the \emph{Susan Powell} from Cincinnati.''

{}``Well, then, how'd you come to be up at the Pint in the \textit{mornin}'---in
a canoe?''

{}``I warn't up at the Pint in the mornin'.''

{}``It's a lie.''

Several of them jumped for him and begged him not to talk that way
to an old man and a preacher.

{}``Preacher be hanged, he's a fraud and a liar. He was up at the
Pint that mornin'. I live up there, don't I? Well, I was up there,
and he was up there. I see him there. He come in a canoe, along with
Tim Collins and a boy.''

The doctor he up and says:

{}``Would you know the boy again if you was to see him, Hines?''

{}``I reckon I would, but I don't know. Why, yonder he is, now. I
know him perfectly easy.''

It was me he pointed at. The doctor says:

{}``Neighbors, I don't know whether the new couple is frauds or not;
but if \textit{these} two ain't frauds, I am an idiot, that's all.
I think it's our duty to see that they don't get away from here till
we've looked into this thing. Come along, Hines; come along, the rest
of you. We'll take these fellows to the tavern and affront them with
t'other couple, and I reckon we'll find out \textit{something} before
we get through.''

It was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for the king's friends;
so we all started. It was about sundown. The doctor he led me along
by the hand, and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go my hand.

We all got in a big room in the hotel, and lit up some candles, and
fetched in the new couple. First, the doctor says:

{}``I don't wish to be too hard on these two men, but I think they're
frauds, and they may have complices that we don't know nothing about.
If they have, won't the complices get away with that bag of gold Peter
Wilks left? It ain't unlikely. If these men ain't frauds, they won't
object to sending for that money and letting us keep it till they
prove they're all right---ain't that so?''

Everybody agreed to that. So I judged they had our gang in a pretty
tight place right at the outstart. But the king he only looked sorrowful,
and says:

{}``Gentlemen, I wish the money was there, for I ain't got no disposition
to throw anything in the way of a fair, open, out-and-out investigation
o' this misable business; but, alas, the money ain't there; you k'n
send and see, if you want to.''

{}``Where is it, then?''

{}``Well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her I took and
hid it inside o' the straw tick o' my bed, not wishin' to bank it
for the few days we'd be here, and considerin' the bed a safe place,
we not bein' used to niggers, and suppos'n' 'em honest, like servants
in England. The niggers stole it the very next mornin' after I had
went down stairs; and when I sold 'em I hadn't missed the money yit,
so they got clean away with it. My servant here k'n tell you 'bout
it, gentlemen.''

The doctor and several said {}``Shucks!''\ and I see nobody didn't
altogether believe him. One man asked me if I see the niggers steal
it. I said no, but I see them sneaking out of the room and hustling
away, and I never thought nothing, only I reckoned they was afraid
they had waked up my master and was trying to get away before he made
trouble with them. That was all they asked me. Then the doctor whirls
on me and says:

{}``Are \textit{you} English, too?''

I says yes; and him and some others laughed, and said, {}``Stuff!''

Well, then they sailed in on the general investigation, and there
we had it, up and down, hour in, hour out, and nobody never said a
word about supper, nor ever seemed to think about it---and so they
kept it up, and kept it up; and it \textit{was} the worst mixed-up
thing you ever see. They made the king tell his yarn, and they made
the old gentleman tell his'n; and anybody but a lot of prejudiced
chuckleheads would a \textit{seen} that the old gentleman was spinning
truth and t'other one lies. And by and by they had me up to tell what
I knowed. The king he give me a left-handed look out of the corner
of his eye, and so I knowed enough to talk on the right side. I begun
to tell about Sheffield, and how we lived there, and all about the
English Wilkses, and so on; but I didn't get pretty fur till the doctor
begun to laugh; and Levi Bell, the lawyer, says:

{}``Set down, my boy; I wouldn't strain myself if I was you. I reckon
you ain't used to lying, it don't seem to come handy; what you want
is practice. You do it pretty awkward.''

I didn't care nothing for the compliment, but I was glad to be let
off, anyway.

The doctor he started to say something, and turns and says:

{}``If you'd been in town at first, Levi Bell---'' The king broke
in and reached out his hand, and says:

{}``Why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend that he's wrote
so often about?''

The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and looked pleased,
and they talked right along awhile, and then got to one side and talked
low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says:

{}``That 'll fix it. I'll take the order and send it, along with
your brother's, and then they'll know it's all right.''

So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and twisted
his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled off something;
and then they give the pen to the duke---and then for the first time
the duke looked sick. But he took the pen and wrote. So then the lawyer
turns to the new old gentleman and says:

{}``You and your brother please write a line or two and sign your
names.''

The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't read it. The lawyer looked
powerful astonished, and says:

{}``Well, it beats \textit{me}''---and snaked a lot of old letters
out of his pocket, and examined them, and then examined the old man's
writing, and then \textit{them} again; and then says: {}``These old
letters is from Harvey Wilks; and here's \textit{these} two handwritings,
and anybody can see they didn't write them'' (the king and the duke
looked sold and foolish, I tell you, to see how the lawyer had took
them in), {}``and here's \textit{this} old gentleman's hand writing,
and anybody can tell, easy enough, \textit{he} didn't write them---fact
is, the scratches he makes ain't properly \textit{writing} at all.
Now, here's some letters from\mbox{---''}

The new old gentleman says:

{}``If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but my
brother there---so he copies for me. It's \textit{his} hand you've
got there, not mine.''

{}``\textit{Well}!''\ says the lawyer, {}``this \textit{is} a
state of things. I've got some of William's letters, too; so if you'll
get him to write a line or so we can com---''

{}``He \textit{can't} write with his left hand,'' says the old gentleman.
{}``If he could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his
own letters and mine too. Look at both, please---they're by the same
hand.''

The lawyer done it, and says:

{}``I believe it's so---and if it ain't so, there's a heap stronger
resemblance than I'd noticed before, anyway. Well, well, well! I thought
we was right on the track of a slution, but it's gone to grass, partly.
But anyway, one thing is proved---\textit{these} two ain't either
of 'em Wilkses''---and he wagged his head towards the king and the
duke.

Well, what do you think? That muleheaded old fool wouldn't give in
\textit{then}! Indeed he wouldn't. Said it warn't no fair test. Said
his brother William was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't
tried to write---\textit{he} see William was going to play one of
his jokes the minute he put the pen to paper. And so he warmed up
and went warbling right along till he was actuly beginning to believe
what he was saying \textit{himself}; but pretty soon the new gentleman
broke in, and says:

{}``I've thought of something. Is there anybody here that helped
to lay out my br---helped to lay out the late Peter Wilks for burying?''

{}``Yes,'' says somebody, {}``me and Ab Turner done it. We're both
here.''

Then the old man turns towards the king, and says:

{}``Peraps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his breast?''

Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd a
squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took
him so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to
make most \textit{anybody} sqush to get fetched such a solid one as
that without any notice, because how was \textit{he} going to know
what was tattooed on the man? He whitened a little; he couldn't help
it; and it was mighty still in there, and everybody bending a little
forwards and gazing at him. Says I to myself, \textit{now} he'll throw
up the sponge---there ain't no more use. Well, did he? A body can't
hardly believe it, but he didn't. I reckon he thought he'd keep the
thing up till he tired them people out, so they'd thin out, and him
and the duke could break loose and get away. Anyway, he set there,
and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says:

{}``Mf! It's a \textit{very} tough question, \textit{ain't} it! \textit{Yes},
sir, I k'n tell you what's tattooed on his breast. It's jest a small,
thin, blue arrow---that's what it is; and if you don't look clost,
you can't see it. \textit{Now} what do you say---hey?''

Well, I never see anything like that old blister for clean out-and-out
cheek.

The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and his pard,
and his eye lights up like he judged he'd got the king \textit{this}
time, and says:

{}``There---you've heard what he said! Was there any such mark on
Peter Wilks' breast?''

Both of them spoke up and says:

{}``We didn't see no such mark.''

{}``Good!''\ says the old gentleman. {}``Now, what you \textit{did}
see on his breast was a small dim P, and a B (which is an initial
he dropped when he was young), and a W, with dashes between them,
so: P---B---W''---and he marked them that way on a piece of paper.
{}``Come, ain't that what you saw?''

Both of them spoke up again, and says:

{}``No, we \textit{didn't}. We never seen any marks at all.''

Well, everybody \textit{was} in a state of mind now, and they sings
out:

{}``The whole \textit{bilin}' of 'm 's frauds! Le's duck 'em!\ le's
drown 'em!\ le's ride 'em on a rail!''\ and everybody was whooping
at once, and there was a rattling powwow. But the lawyer he jumps
on the table and yells, and says:

{}``Gentlemen---gentle\emph{men}! Hear me just a word---just a \textit{single}
word---if you \textit{please}! There's one way yet---let's go and
dig up the corpse and look.''

That took them.

{}``Hooray!''\ they all shouted, and was starting right off; but
the lawyer and the doctor sung out:

{}``Hold on, hold on! Collar all these four men and the boy, and
fetch \textit{them} along, too!''

{}``We'll do it!''\ they all shouted; {}``and if we don't find
them marks we'll lynch the whole gang!''

I \textit{was} scared, now, I tell you. But there warn't no getting
away, you know. They gripped us all, and marched us right along, straight
for the graveyard, which was a mile and a half down the river, and
the whole town at our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was
only nine in the evening.

As we went by our house I wished I hadn't sent Mary Jane out of town;
because now if I could tip her the wink she'd light out and save me,
and blow on our dead-beats.

Well, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying on like
wildcats; and to make it more scary the sky was darking up, and the
lightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver amongst
the leaves. This was the most awful trouble and most dangersome I
ever was in; and I was kinder stunned; everything was going so different
from what I had allowed for; stead of being fixed so I could take
my own time if I wanted to, and see all the fun, and have Mary Jane
at my back to save me and set me free when the close-fit come, here
was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden death but just them
tattoo-marks. If they didn't find them---

I couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, I couldn't think
about nothing else. It got darker and darker, and it was a beautiful
time to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the
wrist---Hines---and a body might as well try to give Goliar the slip.
He dragged me right along, he was so excited, and I had to run to
keep up.

When they got there they swarmed into the graveyard and washed over
it like an overflow. And when they got to the grave they found they
had about a hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but nobody
hadn't thought to fetch a lantern. But they sailed into digging anyway
by the flicker of the lightning, and sent a man to the nearest house,
a half a mile off, to borrow one.

So they dug and dug like everything; and it got awful dark, and the
rain started, and the wind swished and swushed along, and the lightning
come brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but them people
never took no notice of it, they was so full of this business; and
one minute you could see everything and every face in that big crowd,
and the shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the next
second the dark wiped it all out, and you couldn't see nothing at
all.

At last they got out the coffin and begun to unscrew the lid, and
then such another crowding and shouldering and shoving as there was,
to scrouge in and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that
way, it was awful. Hines he hurt my wrist dreadful pulling and tugging
so, and I reckon he clean forgot I was in the world, he was so excited
and panting.

All of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice of white glare,
and somebody sings out:

{}``By the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his breast!''

Hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and dropped my wrist and
give a big surge to bust his way in and get a look, and the way I
lit out and shinned for the road in the dark there ain't nobody can
tell.

I had the road all to myself, and I fairly flew---leastways, I had
it all to myself except the solid dark, and the now-and-then glares,
and the buzzing of the rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the
splitting of the thunder; and sure as you are born I did clip it along!

When I struck the town I see there warn't nobody out in the storm,
so I never hunted for no back streets, but humped it straight through
the main one; and when I begun to get towards our house I aimed my
eye and set it. No light there; the house all dark---which made me
feel sorry and disappointed, I didn't know why. But at last, just
as I was sailing by, \textit{flash} comes the light in Mary Jane's
window!\ and my heart swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same
second the house and all was behind me in the dark, and wasn't ever
going to be before me no more in this world. She \textit{was} the
best girl I ever see, and had the most sand.

The minute I was far enough above the town to see I could make the
towhead, I begun to look sharp for a boat to borrow, and the first
time the lightning showed me one that wasn't chained I snatched it
and shoved. It was a canoe, and warn't fastened with nothing but a
rope. The towhead was a rattling big distance off, away out there
in the middle of the river, but I didn't lose no time; and when I
struck the raft at last I was so fagged I would a just laid down to
blow and gasp if I could afforded it. But I didn't. As I sprung aboard
I sung out:

{}``Out with you, Jim, and set her loose! Glory be to goodness, we're
shut of them!''

Jim lit out, and was a-coming for me with both arms spread, he was
so full of joy; but when I glimpsed him in the lightning my heart
shot up in my mouth and I went overboard backwards; for I forgot he
was old King Lear and a drownded A-rab all in one, and it most scared
the livers and lights out of me. But Jim fished me out, and was going
to hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so glad I was back and we
was shut of the king and the duke, but I says:

{}``Not now; have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast! Cut loose
and let her slide!''

So in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the river, and it \textit{did}
seem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the big river,
and nobody to bother us. I had to skip around a bit, and jump up and
crack my heels a few times---I couldn't help it; but about the third
crack I noticed a sound that I knowed mighty well, and held my breath
and listened and waited; and sure enough, when the next flash busted
out over the water, here they come!---and just a-laying to their oars
and making their skiff hum! It was the king and the duke.

So I wilted right down on to the planks then, and give up; and it
was all I could do to keep from crying.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXX.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXX}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXX}

\textit{\emph{When}} they got aboard the king went for me, and shook
me by the collar, and says:

{}``Tryin' to give us the slip, was ye, you pup! Tired of our company,
hey?''

I says:

{}``No, your majesty, we warn't---\textit{please} don't, your majesty!''

{}``Quick, then, and tell us what \textit{was} your idea, or I'll
shake the insides out o' you!''

{}``Honest, I'll tell you everything just as it happened, your majesty.
The man that had a-holt of me was very good to me, and kept saying
he had a boy about as big as me that died last year, and he was sorry
to see a boy in such a dangerous fix; and when they was all took by
surprise by finding the gold, and made a rush for the coffin, he lets
go of me and whispers, `Heel it now, or they'll hang ye, sure!'\ and
I lit out. It didn't seem no good for \textit{me} to stay---I couldn't
do nothing, and I didn't want to be hung if I could get away. So I
never stopped running till I found the canoe; and when I got here
I told Jim to hurry, or they'd catch me and hang me yet, and said
I was afeard you and the duke wasn't alive now, and I was awful sorry,
and so was Jim, and was awful glad when we see you coming; you may
ask Jim if I didn't.''

Jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up, and said, {}``Oh,
yes, it's \textit{mighty} likely!''\ and shook me up again, and
said he reckoned he'd drownd me. But the duke says:

{}``Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would \textit{you} a done any different?
Did you inquire around for \textit{him} when you got loose? I don't
remember it.''

So the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and everybody
in it. But the duke says:

{}``You better a blame' sight give \textit{yourself} a good cussing,
for you're the one that's entitled to it most. You hain't done a thing
from the start that had any sense in it, except coming out so cool
and cheeky with that imaginary blue-arrow mark. That \textit{was}
bright---it was right down bully; and it was the thing that saved
us. For if it hadn't been for that they'd a jailed us till them Englishmen's
baggage come---and then---the penitentiary, you bet! But that trick
took 'em to the graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger kindness;
for if the excited fools hadn't let go all holts and made that rush
to get a look we'd a slept in our cravats to-night---cravats warranted
to \textit{wear}, too---longer than \textit{we'd} need 'em.''

They was still a minute---thinking; then the king says, kind of absent-minded
like:

{}``Mf! And we reckoned the \textit{niggers} stole it!''

That made me squirm!

{}``Yes,'' says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate and sarcastic,
{}``\textit{We} did.''

After about a half a minute the king drawls out:

{}``Leastways, I did.''

The duke says, the same way:

{}``On the contrary, I did.''

The king kind of ruffles up, and says:

{}``Looky here, Bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?''

The duke says, pretty brisk:

{}``When it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask, what was \textit{you}
referring to?''

{}``Shucks!''\ says the king, very sarcastic; {}``but I don't
know---maybe you was asleep, and didn't know what you was about.''

The duke bristles up now, and says:

{}``Oh, let \textit{up} on this cussed nonsense; do you take me for
a blame' fool? Don't you reckon I know who hid that money in that
coffin?''

{}``\textit{Yes}, sir! I know you \textit{do} know, because you done
it yourself!''

{}``It's a lie!''---and the duke went for him. The king sings out:

{}``Take y'r hands off!---leggo my throat!---I take it all back!''

The duke says:

{}``Well, you just own up, first, that you \textit{did} hide that
money there, intending to give me the slip one of these days, and
come back and dig it up, and have it all to yourself.''

{}``Wait jest a minute, duke---answer me this one question, honest
and fair; if you didn't put the money there, say it, and I'll b'lieve
you, and take back everything I said.''

{}``You old scoundrel, I didn't, and you know I didn't. There, now!''

{}``Well, then, I b'lieve you. But answer me only jest this one more---now
\textit{don't} git mad; didn't you have it in your mind to hook the
money and hide it?''

The duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says:

{}``Well, I don't care if I \textit{did}, I didn't \textit{do} it,
anyway. But you not only had it in mind to do it, but you \textit{done}
it.''

{}``I wisht I never die if I done it, duke, and that's honest. I
won't say I warn't goin' to do it, because I \textit{was}; but you---I
mean somebody---got in ahead o' me.''

{}``It's a lie! You done it, and you got to \textit{say} you done
it, or---''

The king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out:

{}``'Nough!---I \textit{own} \textit{up}!''

I was very glad to hear him say that; it made me feel much more easier
than what I was feeling before. So the duke took his hands off and
says:

{}``If you ever deny it again I'll drown you. It's \textit{well}
for you to set there and blubber like a baby---it's fitten for you,
after the way you've acted. I never see such an old ostrich for wanting
to gobble everything---and I a-trusting you all the time, like you
was my own father. You ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand
by and hear it saddled on to a lot of poor niggers, and you never
say a word for 'em. It makes me feel ridiculous to think I was soft
enough to \textit{believe} that rubbage. Cuss you, I can see now why
you was so anxious to make up the deffisit---you wanted to get what
money I'd got out of the Nonesuch and one thing or another, and scoop
it \textit{all}!''

The king says, timid, and still a-snuffling:

{}``Why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffisit; it warn't
me.''

{}``Dry up! I don't want to hear no more out of you!''\ says the
duke. {}``And \textit{now} you see what you \textit{got} by it. They've
got all their own money back, and all of \textit{ourn} but a shekel
or two \textit{besides}. G'long to bed, and don't you deffersit \textit{me}
no more deffersits, long 's \textit{you} live!''

So the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to his bottle for comfort,
and before long the duke tackled \textit{his} bottle; and so in about
a half an hour they was as thick as thieves again, and the tighter
they got the lovinger they got, and went off a-snoring in each other's
arms. They both got powerful mellow, but I noticed the king didn't
get mellow enough to forget to remember to not deny about hiding the
money-bag again. That made me feel easy and satisfied. Of course when
they got to snoring we had a long gabble, and I told Jim everything.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXI.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXI}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXXI}

\textit{\emph{We}} dasn't stop again at any town for days and days;
kept right along down the river. We was down south in the warm weather
now, and a mighty long ways from home. We begun to come to trees with
Spanish moss on them, hanging down from the limbs like long, gray
beards. It was the first I ever see it growing, and it made the woods
look solemn and dismal. So now the frauds reckoned they was out of
danger, and they begun to work the villages again.

First they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn't make enough
for them both to get drunk on. Then in another village they started
a dancing-school; but they didn't know no more how to dance than a
kangaroo does; so the first prance they made the general public jumped
in and pranced them out of town. Another time they tried to go at
yellocution; but they didn't yellocute long till the audience got
up and give them a solid good cussing, and made them skip out. They
tackled missionarying, and mesmerizing, and doctoring, and telling
fortunes, and a little of everything; but they couldn't seem to have
no luck. So at last they got just about dead broke, and laid around
the raft as she floated along, thinking and thinking, and never saying
nothing, by the half a day at a time, and dreadful blue and desperate.

And at last they took a change and begun to lay their heads together
in the wigwam and talk low and confidential two or three hours at
a time. Jim and me got uneasy. We didn't like the look of it. We judged
they was studying up some kind of worse deviltry than ever. We turned
it over and over, and at last we made up our minds they was going
to break into somebody's house or store, or was going into the counterfeit-money
business, or something. So then we was pretty scared, and made up
an agreement that we wouldn't have nothing in the world to do with
such actions, and if we ever got the least show we would give them
the cold shake and clear out and leave them behind. Well, early one
morning we hid the raft in a good, safe place about two mile below
a little bit of a shabby village named Pikesville, and the king he
went ashore and told us all to stay hid whilst he went up to town
and smelt around to see if anybody had got any wind of the Royal Nonesuch
there yet. ({}``House to rob, you \textit{mean},'' says I to myself;
{}``and when you get through robbing it you'll come back here and
wonder what has become of me and Jim and the raft---and you'll have
to take it out in wondering.'') And he said if he warn't back by
midday the duke and me would know it was all right, and we was to
come along.

So we stayed where we was. The duke he fretted and sweated around,
and was in a mighty sour way. He scolded us for everything, and we
couldn't seem to do nothing right; he found fault with every little
thing. Something was a-brewing, sure. I was good and glad when midday
come and no king; we could have a change, anyway---and maybe a chance
for \textit{the} chance on top of it. So me and the duke went up to
the village, and hunted around there for the king, and by and by we
found him in the back room of a little low doggery, very tight, and
a lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a-cussing and
a-threatening with all his might, and so tight he couldn't walk, and
couldn't do nothing to them. The duke he begun to abuse him for an
old fool, and the king begun to sass back, and the minute they was
fairly at it I lit out and shook the reefs out of my hind legs, and
spun down the river road like a deer, for I see our chance; and I
made up my mind that it would be a long day before they ever see me
and Jim again. I got down there all out of breath but loaded up with
joy, and sung out:

{}``Set her loose, Jim!\ we're all right now!''

But there warn't no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. Jim
was gone! I set up a shout---and then another---and then another one;
and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screeching; but
it warn't no use---old Jim was gone. Then I set down and cried; I
couldn't help it. But I couldn't set still long. Pretty soon I went
out on the road, trying to think what I better do, and I run across
a boy walking, and asked him if he'd seen a strange nigger dressed
so and so, and he says:

{}``Yes.''

{}``Whereabouts?''\ says I.

{}``Down to Silas Phelps' place, two mile below here. He's a runaway
nigger, and they've got him. Was you looking for him?''

{}``You bet I ain't! I run across him in the woods about an hour
or two ago, and he said if I hollered he'd cut my livers out---and
told me to lay down and stay where I was; and I done it. Been there
ever since; afeard to come out.''

{}``Well,'' he says, {}``you needn't be afeard no more, becuz they've
got him. He run off f'm down South, som'ers.''

{}``It's a good job they got him.''

{}``Well, I \textit{reckon}! There's two hunderd dollars reward on
him. It's like picking up money out'n the road.''

{}``Yes, it is---and I could a had it if I'd been big enough; I see
him \textit{first}. Who nailed him?''

{}``It was an old fellow---a stranger---and he sold out his chance
in him for forty dollars, becuz he's got to go up the river and can't
wait. Think o' that, now! You bet \textit{I'd} wait, if it was seven
year.''

{}``That's me, every time,'' says I. {}``But maybe his chance ain't
worth no more than that, if he'll sell it so cheap. Maybe there's
something ain't straight about it.''

{}``But it \textit{is}, though---straight as a string. I see the
handbill myself. It tells all about him, to a dot---paints him like
a picture, and tells the plantation he's frum, below Newr\emph{leans}.
No-sirree-\textit{Bob}, they ain't no trouble 'bout \textit{that}
speculation, you bet you. Say, gimme a chaw tobacker, won't ye?''

I didn't have none, so he left. I went to the raft, and set down in
the wigwam to think. But I couldn't come to nothing. I thought till
I wore my head sore, but I couldn't see no way out of the trouble.
After all this long journey, and after all we'd done for them scoundrels,
here it was all come to nothing, everything all busted up and ruined,
because they could have the heart to serve Jim such a trick as that,
and make him a slave again all his life, and amongst strangers, too,
for forty dirty dollars.

Once I said to myself it would be a thousand times better for Jim
to be a slave at home where his family was, as long as he'd \textit{got}
to be a slave, and so I'd better write a letter to Tom Sawyer and
tell him to tell Miss Watson where he was. But I soon give up that
notion for two things: she'd be mad and disgusted at his rascality
and ungratefulness for leaving her, and so she'd sell him straight
down the river again; and if she didn't, everybody naturally despises
an ungrateful nigger, and they'd make Jim feel it all the time, and
so he'd feel ornery and disgraced. And then think of \textit{me}!
It would get all around that Huck Finn helped a nigger to get his
freedom; and if I was ever to see anybody from that town again I'd
be ready to get down and lick his boots for shame. That's just the
way: a person does a low-down thing, and then he don't want to take
no consequences of it. Thinks as long as he can hide, it ain't no
disgrace. That was my fix exactly. The more I studied about this the
more my conscience went to grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down
and ornery I got to feeling. And at last, when it hit me all of a
sudden that here was the plain hand of Providence slapping me in the
face and letting me know my wickedness was being watched all the time
from up there in heaven,whilst I was stealing a poor old woman's nigger
that hadn't ever done me no harm, and now was showing me there's One
that's always on the lookout, and ain't a-going to allow no such miserable
doings to go only just so fur and no further, I most dropped in my
tracks I was so scared. Well, I tried the best I could to kinder soften
it up somehow for myself by saying I was brung up wicked, and so I
warn't so much to blame; but something inside of me kept saying, {}``There
was the Sunday-school, you could a gone to it; and if you'd a done
it they'd a learnt you there that people that acts as I'd been acting
about that nigger goes to everlasting fire.''

It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray, and see if
I couldn't try to quit being the kind of a boy I was and be better.
So I kneeled down. But the words wouldn't come. Why wouldn't they?
It warn't no use to try and hide it from Him. Nor from \textit{me},
neither. I knowed very well why they wouldn't come. It was because
my heart warn't right; it was because I warn't square; it was because
I was playing double. I was letting \textit{on} to give up sin, but
away inside of me I was holding on to the biggest one of all. I was
trying to make my mouth \textit{say} I would do the right thing and
the clean thing, and go and write to that nigger's owner and tell
where he was; but deep down in me I knowed it was a lie, and He knowed
it. You can't pray a lie---I found that out.

So I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and didn't know what
to do. At last I had an idea; and I says, I'll go and write the letter---and
then see if I can pray. Why, it was astonishing, the way I felt as
light as a feather right straight off, and my troubles all gone. So
I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set
down and wrote:

\begin{quotation}
\noindent Miss Watson, your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile
below Pikesville, and Mr.\ Phelps has got him and he will give him
up for the reward if you send.

\textit{\hspace{\stretch{1}}}\textit{\noun{Huck}} \noun{}\textit{\noun{Finn}}\noun{.}
\end{quotation}
{}

I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever
felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn't do
it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking---thinking
how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being
lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to thinking
over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me all the time:
in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms,
and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing. But somehow
I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but
only the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n,
'stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad
he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I come to him again
in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times; and
would always call me honey, and pet me and do everything he could
think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last I struck
the time I saved him by telling the men we had small-pox aboard, and
he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had
in the world, and the \textit{only} one he's got now; and then I happened
to look around and see that paper.

It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was
a-trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things,
and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and
then says to myself:

{}``All right, then, I'll \textit{go} to hell''---and tore it up.

It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. And I let
them stay said; and never thought no more about reforming. I shoved
the whole thing out of my head, and said I would take up wickedness
again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and the other warn't.
And for a starter I would go to work and steal Jim out of slavery
again; and if I could think up anything worse, I would do that, too;
because as long as I was in, and in for good, I might as well go the
whole hog.

Then I set to thinking over how to get at it, and turned over some
considerable many ways in my mind; and at last fixed up a plan that
suited me. So then I took the bearings of a woody island that was
down the river a piece, and as soon as it was fairly dark I crept
out with my raft and went for it, and hid it there, and then turned
in. I slept the night through, and got up before it was light, and
had my breakfast, and put on my store clothes, and tied up some others
and one thing or another in a bundle, and took the canoe and cleared
for shore. I landed below where I judged was Phelps's place, and hid
my bundle in the woods, and then filled up the canoe with water, and
loaded rocks into her and sunk her where I could find her again when
I wanted her, about a quarter of a mile below a little steam sawmill
that was on the bank.

Then I struck up the road, and when I passed the mill I see a sign
on it, {}``Phelps's Sawmill,'' and when I come to the farm-houses,
two or three hundred yards further along, I kept my eyes peeled, but
didn't see nobody around, though it was good daylight now. But I didn't
mind, because I didn't want to see nobody just yet---I only wanted
to get the lay of the land. According to my plan, I was going to turn
up there from the village, not from below. So I just took a look,
and shoved along, straight for town. Well, the very first man I see
when I got there was the duke. He was sticking up a bill for the Royal
Nonesuch---three-night performance---like that other time. They had
the cheek, them frauds! I was right on him before I could shirk. He
looked astonished, and says:

{}``Hel-\textit{lo}! Where'd \textit{you} come from?'' Then he says,
kind of glad and eager, {}``Where's the raft?---got her in a good
place?''

I says:

{}``Why, that's just what I was going to ask your grace.''

Then he didn't look so joyful, and says:

{}``What was your idea for asking \textit{me}?''\ he says.

{}``Well,'' I says, {}``when I see the king in that doggery yesterday
I says to myself, we can't get him home for hours, till he's soberer;
so I went a-loafing around town to put in the time and wait. A man
up and offered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff over the river
and back to fetch a sheep, and so I went along; but when we was dragging
him to the boat, and the man left me a-holt of the rope and went behind
him to shove him along, he was too strong for me and jerked loose
and run, and we after him. We didn't have no dog, and so we had to
chase him all over the country till we tired him out. We never got
him till dark; then we fetched him over, and I started down for the
raft. When I got there and see it was gone, I says to myself, `They've
got into trouble and had to leave; and they've took my nigger, which
is the only nigger I've got in the world, and now I'm in a strange
country, and ain't got no property no more, nor nothing, and no way
to make my living;' so I set down and cried. I slept in the woods
all night. But what \textit{did} become of the raft, then?---and Jim---poor
Jim!''

{}``Blamed if I know---that is, what's become of the raft. That old
fool had made a trade and got forty dollars, and when we found him
in the doggery the loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got
every cent but what he'd spent for whisky; and when I got him home
late last night and found the raft gone, we said, `That little rascal
has stole our raft and shook us, and run off down the river.'''

{}``I wouldn't shake my \textit{nigger}, would I?---the only nigger
I had in the world, and the only property.''

{}``We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we'd come to consider
him \textit{our} nigger; yes, we did consider him so---goodness knows
we had trouble enough for him. So when we see the raft was gone and
we flat broke, there warn't anything for it but to try the Royal Nonesuch
another shake. And I've pegged along ever since, dry as a powder-horn.
Where's that ten cents? Give it here.''

I had considerable money, so I give him ten cents, but begged him
to spend it for something to eat, and give me some, because it was
all the money I had, and I hadn't had nothing to eat since yesterday.
He never said nothing. The next minute he whirls on me and says:

{}``Do you reckon that nigger would blow on us? We'd skin him if
he done that!''

{}``How can he blow? Hain't he run off?''

{}``No! That old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the
money's gone.''

{}``\textit{Sold} him?''\ I says, and begun to cry; {}``why, he
was \textit{my} nigger, and that was my money. Where is he?---I want
my nigger.''

{}``Well, you can't \textit{get} your nigger, that's all---so dry
up your blubbering. Looky here---do you think \textit{you'd} venture
to blow on us? Blamed if I think I'd trust you. Why, if you \textit{was}
to blow on us---''

He stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes
before. I went on a-whimpering, and says:

{}``I don't want to blow on nobody; and I ain't got no time to blow,
nohow. I got to turn out and find my nigger.''

He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering
on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his forehead. At last he says:

{}``I'll tell you something. We got to be here three days. If you'll
promise you won't blow, and won't let the nigger blow, I'll tell you
where to find him.''

So I promised, and he says:

{}``A farmer by the name of Silas Ph---'' and then he stopped. You
see, he started to tell me the truth; but when he stopped that way,
and begun to study and think again, I reckoned he was changing his
mind. And so he was. He wouldn't trust me; he wanted to make sure
of having me out of the way the whole three days. So pretty soon he
says:

{}``The man that bought him is named Abram Foster---Abram G.\ Foster---and
he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to Lafayette.''

{}``All right,'' I says, {}``I can walk it in three days. And I'll
start this very afternoon.''

{}``No you wont, you'll start \textit{now}; and don't you lose any
time about it, neither, nor do any gabbling by the way. Just keep
a tight tongue in your head and move right along, and then you won't
get into trouble with \textit{us}, d'ye hear?''

That was the order I wanted, and that was the one I played for. I
wanted to be left free to work my plans.

{}``So clear out,'' he says; {}``and you can tell Mr.\ Foster
whatever you want to. Maybe you can get him to believe that Jim \textit{is}
your nigger---some idiots don't require documents---leastways I've
heard there's such down South here. And when you tell him the handbill
and the reward's bogus, maybe he'll believe you when you explain to
him what the idea was for getting 'em out. Go 'long now, and tell
him anything you want to; but mind you don't work your jaw any \textit{between}
here and there.''

So I left, and struck for the back country. I didn't look around,
but I kinder felt like he was watching me. But I knowed I could tire
him out at that. I went straight out in the country as much as a mile
before I stopped; then I doubled back through the woods towards Phelps'.
I reckoned I better start in on my plan straight off without fooling
around, because I wanted to stop Jim's mouth till these fellows could
get away. I didn't want no trouble with their kind. I'd seen all I
wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely shut of them.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXXII}

\textit{\emph{When}} I got there it was all still and Sunday-like,
and hot and sunshiny; the hands was gone to the fields; and there
was them kind of faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that
makes it seem so lonesome and like everybody's dead and gone; and
if a breeze fans along and quivers the leaves it makes you feel mournful,
because you feel like it's spirits whispering---spirits that's been
dead ever so many years---and you always think they're talking about
\textit{you}. As a general thing it makes a body wish \textit{he}
was dead, too, and done with it all.

Phelps' was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations, and
they all look alike. A rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile made
out of logs sawed off and up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different
length, to climb over the fence with, and for the women to stand on
when they are going to jump on to a horse; some sickly grass-patches
in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth, like an old hat
with the nap rubbed off; big double log-house for the white folks---hewed
logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar, and these mud-stripes
been whitewashed some time or another; round-log kitchen, with a big
broad, open but roofed passage joining it to the house; log smoke-house
back of the kitchen; three little log nigger-cabins in a row t'other
side the smoke-house; one little hut all by itself away down against
the back fence, and some outbuildings down a piece the other side;
ash-hopper and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut; bench
by the kitchen door, with bucket of water and a gourd; hound asleep
there in the sun; more hounds asleep round about; about three shade
trees away off in a corner; some currant bushes and gooseberry bushes
in one place by the fence; outside of the fence a garden and a watermelon
patch; then the cotton fields begins, and after the fields the woods.

I went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper, and
started for the kitchen. When I got a little ways I heard the dim
hum of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along down again;
and then I knowed for certain I wished I was dead---for that \textit{is}
the lonesomest sound in the whole world.

I went right along, not fixing up any particular plan, but just trusting
to Providence to put the right words in my mouth when the time come;
for I'd noticed that Providence always did put the right words in
my mouth if I left it alone.

When I got half-way, first one hound and then another got up and went
for me, and of course I stopped and faced them, and kept still. And
such another powwow as they made! In a quarter of a minute I was a
kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may say---spokes made out of dogs---circle
of fifteen of them packed together around me, with their necks and
noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and howling; and more a-coming;
you could see them sailing over fences and around corners from everywheres.

A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin
in her hand, singing out, {}``Begone \textit{you} Tige!\ you Spot!\ begone
sah!''\ and she fetched first one and then another of them a clip
and sent them howling, and then the rest followed; and the next second
half of them come back, wagging their tails around me, and making
friends with me. There ain't no harm in a hound, nohow.

And behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little nigger
boys without anything on but tow-linen shirts, and they hung on to
their mother's gown, and peeped out from behind her at me, bashful,
the way they always do. And here comes the white woman running from
the house, about forty-five or fifty year old, bareheaded, and her
spinning-stick in her hand; and behind her comes her little white
children, acting the same way the little niggers was going. She was
smiling all over so she could hardly stand---and says:

{}``It's \textit{you}, at last!---\textit{ain't} it?''

I out with a {}``Yes'm'' before I thought.

She grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then gripped me by both hands
and shook and shook; and the tears come in her eyes, and run down
over; and she couldn't seem to hug and shake enough, and kept saying,
{}``You don't look as much like your mother as I reckoned you would;
but law sakes, I don't care for that, I'm so glad to see you! Dear,
dear, it does seem like I could eat you up! Children, it's your cousin
Tom!---tell him howdy.''

But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their mouths,
and hid behind her. So she run on:

{}``Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right away---or did
you get your breakfast on the boat?''

I said I had got it on the boat. So then she started for the house,
leading me by the hand, and the children tagging after. When we got
there she set me down in a split-bottomed chair, and set herself down
on a little low stool in front of me, holding both of my hands, and
says:

{}``Now I can have a \textit{good} look at you; and, laws-a-me, I've
been hungry for it a many and a many a time, all these long years,
and it's come at last! We been expecting you a couple of days and
more. What kep' you?---boat get aground?''

{}``Yes'm---she---''

{}``Don't say yes'm---say Aunt Sally. Where'd she get aground?''

I didn't rightly know what to say, because I didn't know whether the
boat would be coming up the river or down. But I go a good deal on
instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming up---from down
towards Orleans. That didn't help me much, though; for I didn't know
the names of bars down that way. I see I'd got to invent a bar, or
forget the name of the one we got aground on---or---Now I struck an
idea, and fetched it out:

{}``It warn't the grounding---that didn't keep us back but a little.
We blowed out a cylinder-head.''

{}``Good gracious!\ anybody hurt?''

{}``No'm. Killed a nigger.''

{}``Well, it's lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. Two years
ago last Christmas your uncle Silas was coming up from Newrleans on
the old \emph{Lally Rook}, and she blowed out a cylinder-head and
crippled a man. And I think he died afterwards. He was a Baptist.
Your uncle Silas knowed a family in Baton Rouge that knowed his people
very well. Yes, I remember now, he \textit{did} die. Mortification
set in, and they had to amputate him. But it didn't save him. Yes,
it was mortification---that was it. He turned blue all over, and died
in the hope of a glorious resurrection. They say he was a sight to
look at. Your uncle's been up to the town every day to fetch you.
And he's gone again, not more'n an hour ago; he'll be back any minute
now. You must a met him on the road, didn't you?---oldish man, with
a---''

{}``No, I didn't see nobody, Aunt Sally. The boat landed just at
daylight, and I left my baggage on the wharf-boat and went looking
around the town and out a piece in the country, to put in the time
and not get here too soon; and so I come down the back way.''

{}``Who'd you give the baggage to?''

{}``Nobody.''

{}``Why, child, it 'll be stole!''

{}``Not where I hid it I reckon it won't,'' I says.

{}``How'd you get your breakfast so early on the boat?''

It was kinder thin ice, but I says:

{}``The captain see me standing around, and told me I better have
something to eat before I went ashore; so he took me in the texas
to the officers' lunch, and give me all I wanted.''

I was getting so uneasy I couldn't listen good. I had my mind on the
children all the time; I wanted to get them out to one side and pump
them a little, and find out who I was. But I couldn't get no show,
Mrs.\ Phelps kept it up and run on so. Pretty soon she made the cold
chills streak all down my back, because she says:

{}``But here we're a-running on this way, and you hain't told me
a word about Sis, nor any of them. Now I'll rest my works a little,
and you start up yourn; just tell me \textit{everything}---tell me
all about 'm all every one of 'm; and how they are, and what they're
doing, and what they told you to tell me; and every last thing you
can think of.''

Well, I see I was up a stump---and up it good. Providence had stood
by me this fur all right, but I was hard and tight aground now. I
see it warn't a bit of use to try to go ahead---I'd got to throw up
my hand. So I says to myself, here's another place where I got to
resk the truth. I opened my mouth to begin; but she grabbed me and
hustled me in behind the bed, and says:

{}``Here he comes! Stick your head down lower---there, that'll do;
you can't be seen now. Don't you let on you're here. I'll play a joke
on him. Children, don't you say a word.''

I see I was in a fix now. But it warn't no use to worry; there warn't
nothing to do but just hold still, and try and be ready to stand from
under when the lightning struck.

I had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he come in;
then the bed hid him. Mrs.\ Phelps she jumps for him, and says:

{}``Has he come?''

{}``No,'' says her husband.

{}``Good-\textit{ness} gracious!''\ she says, {}``what in the
warld can have become of him?''

{}``I can't imagine,'' says the old gentleman; {}``and I must say
it makes me dreadful uneasy.''

{}``Uneasy!''\ she says; {}``I'm ready to go distracted! He \textit{must}
a come; and you've missed him along the road. I \textit{know} it's
so---something tells me so.''

{}``Why, Sally, I \textit{couldn't} miss him along the road---\textit{you}
know that.''

{}``But oh, dear, dear, what \textit{will} Sis say! He must a come!
You must a missed him. He---''

{}``Oh, don't distress me any more'n I'm already distressed. I don't
know what in the world to make of it. I'm at my wit's end, and I don't
mind acknowledging 't I'm right down scared. But there's no hope that
he's come; for he \textit{couldn't} come and me miss him. Sally, it's
terrible---just terrible---something's happened to the boat, sure!''

{}``Why, Silas! Look yonder!---up the road!---ain't that somebody
coming?''

He sprung to the window at the head of the bed, and that give Mrs.\ Phelps
the chance she wanted. She stooped down quick at the foot of the bed
and give me a pull, and out I come; and when he turned back from the
window there she stood, a-beaming and a-smiling like a house afire,
and I standing pretty meek and sweaty alongside. The old gentleman
stared, and says:

{}``Why, who's that?''

{}``Who do you reckon 't is?''

{}``I hain't no idea. Who \textit{is} it?''

{}``It's \textit{Tom} \textit{Sawyer}!''

By jings, I most slumped through the floor! But there warn't no time
to swap knives; the old man grabbed me by the hand and shook, and
kept on shaking; and all the time how the woman did dance around and
laugh and cry; and then how they both did fire off questions about
Sid, and Mary, and the rest of the tribe.

But if they was joyful, it warn't nothing to what I was; for it was
like being born again, I was so glad to find out who I was. Well,
they froze to me for two hours; and at last, when my chin was so tired
it couldn't hardly go any more, I had told them more about my family---I
mean the Sawyer family---than ever happened to any six Sawyer families.
And I explained all about how we blowed out a cylinder-head at the
mouth of White River, and it took us three days to fix it. Which was
all right, and worked first-rate; because \textit{they} didn't know
but what it would take three days to fix it. If I'd a called it a
bolthead it would a done just as well.

Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pretty
uncomfortable all up the other. Being Tom Sawyer was easy and comfortable,
and it stayed easy and comfortable till by and by I hear a steamboat
coughing along down the river. Then I says to myself, s'pose Tom Sawyer
comes down on that boat? And s'pose he steps in here any minute, and
sings out my name before I can throw him a wink to keep quiet?

Well, I couldn't \textit{have} it that way; it wouldn't do at all.
I must go up the road and waylay him. So I told the folks I reckoned
I would go up to the town and fetch down my baggage. The old gentleman
was for going along with me, but I said no, I could drive the horse
myself, and I druther he wouldn't take no trouble about me.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXIII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXIII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXXIII}

\textit{\emph{So}} I started for town in the wagon, and when I was
half-way I see a wagon coming, and sure enough it was Tom Sawyer,
and I stopped and waited till he come along. I says {}``Hold on!''
and it stopped alongside, and his mouth opened up like a trunk, and
stayed so; and he swallowed two or three times like a person that's
got a dry throat, and then says:

{}``I hain't ever done you no harm. You know that. So, then, what
you want to come back and ha'nt \textit{me} for?''

I says:

{}``I hain't come back---I hain't been \textit{gone}.''

When he heard my voice it righted him up some, but he warn't quite
satisfied yet. He says:

{}``Don't you play nothing on me, because I wouldn't on you. Honest
injun, you ain't a ghost?''

{}``Honest injun, I ain't,'' I says.

{}``Well---I---I---well, that ought to settle it, of course; but
I can't somehow seem to understand it no way. Looky here, warn't you
ever murdered \textit{at} \textit{all}?''

{}``No. I warn't ever murdered at all---I play\-ed it on them. You
come in here and feel of me if you don't believe me.''

So he done it; and it satisfied him; and he was that glad to see me
again he didn't know what to do. And he wanted to know all about it
right off, because it was a grand adventure, and mysterious, and so
it hit him where he lived. But I said, leave it alone till by and
by; and told his driver to wait, and we drove off a little piece,
and I told him the kind of a fix I was in, and what did he reckon
we better do? He said, let him alone a minute, and don't disturb him.
So he thought and thought, and pretty soon he says:

{}``It's all right; I've got it. Take my trunk in your wagon, and
let on it's your'n; and you turn back and fool along slow, so as to
get to the house about the time you ought to; and I'll go towards
town a piece, and take a fresh start, and get there a quarter or a
half an hour after you; and you needn't let on to know me at first.''

I says:

{}``All right; but wait a minute. There's one more thing---a thing
that \textit{nobody} don't know but me. And that is, there's a nigger
here that I'm a-trying to steal out of slavery, and his name is \textit{Jim}---old
Miss Watson's Jim.''

He says:

{}``What ! Why, Jim is---''

He stopped and went to studying. I says:

{}``I know what you'll say. You'll say it's dirty, low-down business;
but what if it is? I'm low down; and I'm a-going to steal him, and
I want you keep mum and not let on. Will you?''

His eye lit up, and he says:

{}``I'll \textit{help} you steal him!''

Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It was the most astonishing
speech I ever heard---and I'm bound to say Tom Sawyer fell considerable
in my estimation. Only I couldn't believe it. Tom Sawyer a \textit{nigger}-\textit{stealer}!

{}``Oh, shucks!''\ I says; {}``you're joking.''

{}``I ain't joking, either.''

{}``Well, then,'' I says, {}``joking or no joking, if you hear
anything said about a runaway nigger, don't forget to remember that
\textit{you} don't know nothing about him, and I don't know nothing
about him.''

Then we took the trunk and put it in my wagon, and he drove off his
way and I drove mine. But of course I forgot all about driving slow
on accounts of being glad and full of thinking; so I got home a heap
too quick for that length of a trip. The old gentleman was at the
door, and he says:

{}``Why, this is wonderful! Whoever would a thought it was in that
mare to do it? I wish we'd a timed her. And she hain't sweated a hair---not
a hair. It's wonderful. Why, I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for
that horse now---I wouldn't, honest; and yet I'd a sold her for fifteen
before, and thought 'twas all she was worth.''

That's all he said. He was the innocentest, best old soul I ever see.
But it warn't surprising; because he warn't only just a farmer, he
was a preacher, too, and had a little one-horse log church down back
of the plantation, which he built it himself at his own expense, for
a church and schoolhouse, and never charged nothing for his preaching,
and it was worth it, too. There was plenty other farmer-preachers
like that, and done the same way, down South.

In about half an hour Tom's wagon drove up to the front stile, and
Aunt Sally she see it through the window, because it was only about
fifty yards, and says:

{}``Why, there's somebody come! I wonder who 'tis? Why, I do believe
it's a stranger. Jimmy'' (that's one of the children) {}``run and
tell Lize to put on another plate for dinner.''

Everybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course, a stranger
don't come \textit{every} year, and so he lays over the yaller-fever,
for interest, when he does come. Tom was over the stile and starting
for the house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the village,
and we was all bunched in the front door. Tom had his store clothes
on, and an audience---and that was always nuts for Tom Sawyer. In
them circumstances it warn't no trouble to him to throw in an amount
of style that was suitable. He warn't a boy to meeky along up that
yard like a sheep; no, he come ca'm and important, like the ram. When
he got a-front of us he lifts his hat ever so gracious and dainty,
like it was the lid of a box that had butterflies asleep in it and
he didn't want to disturb them, and says:

{}``Mr.\ Archibald Nichols, I presume?''

{}``No, my boy,'' says the old gentleman, {}``I'm sorry to say
't your driver has deceived you; Nichols's place is down a matter
of three mile more. Come in, come in.''

Tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says, {}``Too late---he's
out of sight.''

{}``Yes, he's gone, my son, and you must come in and eat your dinner
with us; and then we'll hitch up and take you down to Nichols's.''

{}``Oh, I \textit{can't} make you so much trouble; I couldn't think
of it. I'll walk---I don't mind the distance.''

{}``But we won't \textit{let} you walk---it wouldn't be Southern
hospitality to do it. Come right in.''

{}``Oh, \textit{do},'' says Aunt Sally; {}``it ain't a bit of trouble
to us, not a bit in the world. You must stay. It's a long, dusty three
mile, and we can't let you walk. And, besides, I've already told 'em
to put on another plate when I see you coming; so you mustn't disappoint
us. Come right in and make yourself at home.''

So Tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome, and let himself be
persuaded, and come in; and when he was in he said he was a stranger
from Hicksville, Ohio, and his name was William Thompson---and he
made another bow.

Well, he run on, and on, and on, making up stuff about Hicksville
and everybody in it he could invent, and I getting a little nervious,
and wondering how this was going to help me out of my scrape; and
at last, still talking along, he reached over and kissed Aunt Sally
right on the mouth, and then settled back again in his chair comfortable,
and was going on talking; but she jumped up and wiped it off with
the back of her hand, and says:

{}``You owdacious puppy!''

He looked kind of hurt, and says:

{}``I'm surprised at you, m'am.''

{}``You're s'rp---Why, what do you reckon I am? I've a good notion
to take and---Say, what do you mean by kissing me?''

He looked kind of humble, and says:

{}``I didn't mean nothing, m'am. I didn't mean no harm. I---I---thought
you'd like it.''

{}``Why, you born fool!'' She took up the spinning stick, and it
looked like it was all she could do to keep from giving him a crack
with it. {}``What made you think I'd like it?''

{}``Well, I don't know. Only, they---they---told me you would.''

{}``\textit{They} told you I would. Whoever told you's \textit{another}
lunatic. I never heard the beat of it. Who's \textit{they}?''

{}``Why, everybody. They all said so, m'am.''

It was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes snapped, and her
fingers worked like she wanted to scratch him; and she says:

{}``Who's `everybody'? Out with their names, or ther'll be an idiot
short.''

He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says:

{}``I'm sorry, and I warn't expecting it. They told me to. They all
told me to. They all said, kiss her; and said she'd like it. They
all said it---every one of them. But I'm sorry, m'am, and I won't
do it no more---I won't, honest.''

{}``You won't, won't you? Well, I sh'd \textit{reckon} you won't!''

{}``No'm, I'm honest about it; I won't ever do it again---till you
ask me.''

{}``Till I \textit{ask} you! Well, I never see the beat of it in
my born days! I lay you'll be the Methusalem-numskull of creation
before ever I ask you---or the likes of you.''

{}``Well,'' he says, {}``it does surprise me so. I can't make it
out, somehow. They said you would, and I thought you would. But\mbox{---''}
He stopped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across
a friendly eye somewheres, and fetched up on the old gentleman's,
and says, {}``Didn't \textit{you} think she'd like me to kiss her,
sir?''

{}``Why, no; I---I---well, no, I b'lieve I didn't.''

Then he looks on around the same way to me, and says:

{}``Tom, didn't \textit{you} think Aunt Sally 'd open out her arms
and say, `Sid Sawyer---'''

{}``My land!''\ she says, breaking in and jumping for him, {}``you
impudent young rascal, to fool a body so---'' and was going to hug
him, but he fended her off, and says:

{}``No, not till you've asked me first.''

So she didn't lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him and kissed
him over and over again, and then turned him over to the old man,
and he took what was left. And after they got a little quiet again
she says:

{}``Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We warn't looking
for \textit{you} at all, but only Tom. Sis never wrote to me about
anybody coming but him.''

{}``It's because it warn't \textit{intended} for any of us to come
but Tom,'' he says; {}``but I begged and begged, and at the last
minute she let me come, too; so, coming down the river, me and Tom
thought it would be a first-rate surprise for him to come here to
the house first, and for me to by and by tag along and drop in, and
let on to be a stranger. But it was a mistake, Aunt Sally. This ain't
no healthy place for a stranger to come.''

{}``No---not impudent whelps, Sid. You ought to had your jaws boxed;
I hain't been so put out since I don't know when. But I don't care,
I don't mind the terms---I'd be willing to stand a thousand such jokes
to have you here. Well, to think of that performance! I don't deny
it, I was most putrified with astonishment when you give me that smack.''

We had dinner out in that broad open passage betwixt the house and
the kitchen; and there was things enough on that table for seven families---and
all hot, too; none of your flabby, tough meat that's laid in a cupboard
in a damp cellar all night and tastes like a hunk of old cold cannibal
in the morning. Uncle Silas he asked a pretty long blessing over it,
but it was worth it; and it didn't cool it a bit, neither, the way
I've seen them kind of interruptions do lots of times. There was a
considerable good deal of talk all the afternoon, and me and Tom was
on the lookout all the time; but it warn't no use, they didn't happen
to say nothing about any runaway nigger, and we was afraid to try
to work up to it. But at supper, at night, one of the little boys
says:

{}``Pa, mayn't Tom and Sid and me go to the show?''

{}``No,'' says the old man, {}``I reckon there ain't going to be
any; and you couldn't go if there was; because the runaway nigger
told Burton and me all about that scandalous show, and Burton said
he would tell the people; so I reckon they've drove the owdacious
loafers out of town before this time.''

So there it was!---but I couldn't help it. Tom and me was to sleep
in the same room and bed; so, being tired, we bid good-night and went
up to bed right after supper, and clumb out of the window and down
the lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for I didn't believe anybody
was going to give the king and the duke a hint, and so if I didn't
hurry up and give them one they'd get into trouble sure.

On the road Tom he told me all about how it was reckoned I was murdered,
and how pap disappeared pretty soon, and didn't come back no more,
and what a stir there was when Jim run away; and I told Tom all about
our Royal Nonesuch rapscallions, and as much of the raft voyage as
I had time to; and as we struck into the town and up through the---here
comes a raging rush of people with torches, and an awful whooping
and yelling, and banging tin pans and blowing horns; and we jumped
to one side to let them go by; and as they went by I see they had
the king and the duke astraddle of a rail---that is, I knowed it \textit{was}
the king and the duke, though they was all over tar and feathers,
and didn't look like nothing in the world that was human---just looked
like a couple of monstrous big soldier-plumes. Well, it made me sick
to see it; and I was sorry for them poor pitiful rascals, it seemed
like I couldn't ever feel any hardness against them any more in the
world. It was a dreadful thing to see. Human beings \textit{can} be
awful cruel to one another.

We see we was too late---couldn't do no good. We asked some stragglers
about it, and they said everybody went to the show looking very innocent;
and laid low and kept dark till the poor old king was in the middle
of his cavortings on the stage; then somebody give a signal, and the
house rose up and went for them.

So we poked along back home, and I warn't feeling so brash as I was
before, but kind of ornery, and humble, and to blame, somehow---though
I hadn't done nothing. But that's always the way; it don't make no
difference whether you do right or wrong, a person's conscience ain't
got no sense, and just goes for him anyway. If I had a yaller dog
that didn't know no more than a person's conscience does I would pison
him. It takes up more room than all the rest of a person's insides,
and yet ain't no good, nohow. Tom Sawyer he says the same.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXIV.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXIV}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXXIV}

\textit{\emph{We}} stopped talking, and got to thinking. By and by
Tom says:

{}``Looky here, Huck, what fools we are to not think of it before!
I bet I know where Jim is.''

{}``No! Where?''

{}``In that hut down by the ash-hopper. Why, looky here. When we
was at dinner, didn't you see a nigger man go in there with some vittles?''

{}``Yes.''

{}``What did you think the vittles was for?''

{}``For a dog.''

{}``So 'd I.\ Well, it wasn't for a dog.''

{}``Why?''

{}``Because part of it was watermelon.''

{}``So it was---I noticed it. Well, it does beat all that I never
thought about a dog not eating watermelon. It shows how a body can
see and don't see at the same time.''

{}``Well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he went in, and he
locked it again when he came out. He fetched uncle a key about the
time we got up from table---same key, I bet. Watermelon shows man,
lock shows prisoner; and it ain't likely there's two prisoners on
such a little plantation, and where the people's all so kind and good.
Jim's the prisoner. All right---I'm glad we found it out detective
fashion; I wouldn't give shucks for any other way. Now you work your
mind, and study out a plan to steal Jim, and I will study out one,
too; and we'll take the one we like the best.''

What a head for just a boy to have! If I had Tom Sawyer's head I wouldn't
trade it off to be a duke, nor mate of a steamboat, nor clown in a
circus, nor nothing I can think of. I went to thinking out a plan,
but only just to be doing something; I knowed very well where the
right plan was going to come from. Pretty soon Tom says:

{}``Ready?''

{}``Yes,'' I says.

{}``All right---bring it out.''

{}``My plan is this,'' I says. {}``We can easy find out if it's
Jim in there. Then get up my canoe to-morrow night, and fetch my raft
over from the island. Then the first dark night that comes steal the
key out of the old man's britches after he goes to bed, and shove
off down the river on the raft with Jim, hiding daytimes and running
nights, the way me and Jim used to do before. Wouldn't that plan work?''

{}``\textit{Work}? Why, cert'nly it would work, like rats a-fighting.
But it's too blame' simple; there ain't nothing \textit{to} it. What's
the good of a plan that ain't no more trouble than that? It's as mild
as goose-milk. Why, Huck, it wouldn't make no more talk than breaking
into a soap factory.''

I never said nothing, because I warn't expecting nothing different;
but I knowed mighty well that whenever he got \textit{his} plan ready
it wouldn't have none of them objections to it.

And it didn't. He told me what it was, and I see in a minute it was
worth fifteen of mine for style, and would make Jim just as free a
man as mine would, and maybe get us all killed besides. So I was satisfied,
and said we would waltz in on it. I needn't tell what it was here,
because I knowed it wouldn't stay the way, it was. I knowed he would
be changing it around every which way as we went along, and heaving
in new bullinesses wherever he got a chance. And that is what he done.

Well, one thing was dead sure, and that was that Tom Sawyer was in
earnest, and was actuly going to help steal that nigger out of slavery.
That was the thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy that was
respectable and well brung up; and had a character to lose; and folks
at home that had characters; and he was bright and not leather-headed;
and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but kind; and yet here
he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or feeling, than to
stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and his family a
shame, before everybody. I \textit{couldn't} understand it no way
at all. It was outrageous, and I knowed I ought to just up and tell
him so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right
where he was and save himself. And I \textit{did} start to tell him;
but he shut me up, and says:

{}``Don't you reckon I know what I'm about? Don't I generly know
what I'm about?''

{}``Yes.''

{}``Didn't I \textit{say} I was going to help steal the nigger?''

{}``Yes.''

{}``\textit{Well}, then.''

That's all he said, and that's all I said. It warn't no use to say
any more; because when he said he'd do a thing, he always done it.
But I couldn't make out how he was willing to go into this thing;
so I just let it go, and never bothered no more about it. If he was
bound to have it so, I couldn't help it.

When we got home the house was all dark and still; so we went on down
to the hut by the ash-hopper for to examine it. We went through the
yard so as to see what the hounds would do. They knowed us, and didn't
make no more noise than country dogs is always doing when anything
comes by in the night. When we got to the cabin we took a look at
the front and the two sides; and on the side I warn't acquainted with---which
was the north side---we found a square window-hole, up tolerable high,
with just one stout board nailed across it. I says:

{}``Here's the ticket. This hole's big enough for Jim to get through
if we wrench off the board.''

Tom says:

{}``It's as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as easy as
playing hooky. I should \textit{hope} we can find a way that's a little
more complicated than \textit{that}, Huck Finn.''

{}``Well, then,'' I says, {}``how 'll it do to saw him out, the
way I done before I was murdered that time?''

{}``That's more \textit{like},'' he says. {}``It's real mysterious,
and troublesome, and good,'' he says; {}``but I bet we can find
a way that's twice as long. There ain't no hurry; le's keep on looking
around.''

Betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to that
joined the hut at the eaves, and was made out of plank. It was as
long as the hut, but narrow---only about six foot wide. The door to
it was at the south end, and was padlocked. Tom he went to the soap-kettle
and searched around, and fetched back the iron thing they lift the
lid with; so he took it and prized out one of the staples. The chain
fell down, and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and struck
a match, and see the shed was only built against a cabin and hadn't
no connection with it; and there warn't no floor to the shed, nor
nothing in it but some old rusty played-out hoes and spades and picks
and a crippled plow. The match went out, and so did we, and shoved
in the staple again, and the door was locked as good as ever. Tom
was joyful. He says;

{}``Now we're all right. We'll \textit{dig} him out. It 'll take
about a week!''

Then we started for the house, and I went in the back door---you only
have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don't fasten the doors---but
that warn't romantical enough for Tom Sawyer; no way would do him
but he must climb up the lightning-rod. But after he got up half way
about three times, and missed fire and fell every time, and the last
time most busted his brains out, he thought he'd got to give it up;
but after he was rested he allowed he would give her one more turn
for luck, and this time he made the trip.

In the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger cabins
to pet the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed Jim---if
it \textit{was} Jim that was being fed. The niggers was just getting
through breakfast and starting for the fields; and Jim's nigger was
piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the
others was leaving, the key come from the house.

This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool
was all tied up in little bunches with thread. That was to keep witches
off. He said the witches was pestering him awful these nights, and
making him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds of
strange words and noises, and he didn't believe he was ever witched
so long before in his life. He got so worked up, and got to running
on so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he'd been a-going
to do. So Tom says:

{}``What's the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?''

The nigger kind of smiled around graduly over his face, like when
you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle, and he says:

{}``Yes, Mars Sid, A dog. Cur'us dog, too. Does you want to go en
look at 'im?''

{}``Yes.''

I hunched Tom, and whispers:

{}``You going, right here in the daybreak? \textit{That} warn't the
plan.''

{}``No, it warn't; but it's the plan \textit{now}.''

So, drat him, we went along, but I didn't like it much. When we got
in we couldn't hardly see anything, it was so dark; but Jim was there,
sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out:

{}``Why, \textit{Huck}! En good \textit{lan}'!\ ain' dat Misto Tom?''

I just knowed how it would be; I just expected it. I didn't know nothing
to do; and if I had I couldn't a done it, because that nigger busted
in and says:

{}``Why, de gracious sakes!\ do he know you genlmen?''

We could see pretty well now. Tom he looked at the nigger, steady
and kind of wondering, and says:

{}``Does \textit{who} know us?''

{}``Why, dis-yer runaway nigger.''

{}``I don't reckon he does; but what put that into your head?''

{}``What \textit{put} it dar? Didn' he jis' dis minute sing out like
he knowed you?''

Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way:

{}``Well, that's mighty curious. \textit{Who} sung out? \textit{When}
did he sing out? \textit{What} did he sing out?''

And turns to me, perfectly ca'm, and says, {}``Did \textit{you} hear
anybody sing out?''

Of course there warn't nothing to be said but the one thing; so I
says:

{}``No; I ain't heard nobody say nothing.''

Then he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he never see him before,
and says:

{}``Did you sing out?''

{}``No, sah,'' says Jim; {}``I hain't said nothing, sah.''

{}``Not a word?''

{}``No, sah, I hain't said a word.''

{}``Did you ever see us before?''

{}``No, sah; not as I knows on.''

So Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and distressed,
and says, kind of severe:

{}``What do you reckon's the matter with you, anyway? What made you
think somebody sung out?''

{}``Oh, it's de dad-blame' witches, sah, en I wisht I was dead, I
do. Dey's awluz at it, sah, en dey do mos' kill me, dey sk'yers me
so. Please to don't tell nobody 'bout it sah, er ole Mars Silas he'll
scole me; 'kase he say dey \textit{ain't} no witches. I jis' wish
to goodness he was heah now---\textit{den} what would he say! I jis'
bet he couldn' fine no way to git aroun' it \textit{dis} time. But
it's awluz jis' so; people dat's \textit{sot}, stays sot; dey won't
look into noth'n'en fine it out f'r deyselves, en when \textit{you}
fine it out en tell um 'bout it, dey doan' b'lieve you.''

Tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn't tell nobody; and told him
to buy some more thread to tie up his wool with; and then looks at
Jim, and says:

{}``I wonder if Uncle Silas is going to hang this nigger. If I was
to catch a nigger that was ungrateful enough to run away, I wouldn't
give him up, I'd hang him.'' And whilst the nigger stepped to the
door to look at the dime and bite it to see if it was good, he whispers
to Jim and says:

{}``Don't ever let on to know us. And if you hear any digging going
on nights, it's us; we're going to set you free.''

Jim only had time to grab us by the hand and squeeze it; then the
nigger come back, and we said we'd come again some time if the nigger
wanted us to; and he said he would, more particular if it was dark,
because the witches went for him mostly in the dark, and it was good
to have folks around then.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXV.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXV}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXXV}

\textit{\emph{It}} would be most an hour yet till breakfast, so we
left and struck down into the woods; because Tom said we got to have
\textit{some} light to see how to dig by, and a lantern makes too
much, and might get us into trouble; what we must have was a lot of
them rotten chunks that's called fox-fire, and just makes a soft kind
of a glow when you lay them in a dark place. We fetched an armful
and hid it in the weeds, and set down to rest, and Tom says, kind
of dissatisfied:

{}``Blame it, this whole thing is just as easy and awkward as it
can be. And so it makes it so rotten difficult to get up a difficult
plan. There ain't no watchman to be drugged---now there \textit{ought}
to be a watchman. There ain't even a dog to give a sleeping-mixture
to. And there's Jim chained by one leg, with a ten-foot chain, to
the leg of his bed: why, all you got to do is to lift up the bedstead
and slip off the chain. And Uncle Silas he trusts everybody; sends
the key to the punkin-headed nigger, and don't send nobody to watch
the nigger. Jim could a got out of that window-hole before this, only
there wouldn't be no use trying to travel with a ten-foot chain on
his leg. Why, drat it, Huck, it's the stupidest arrangement I ever
see. You got to invent \textit{all} the difficulties. Well, we can't
help it; we got to do the best we can with the materials we've got.
Anyhow, there's one thing---there's more honor in getting him out
through a lot of difficulties and dangers, where there warn't one
of them furnished to you by the people who it was their duty to furnish
them, and you had to contrive them all out of your own head. Now look
at just that one thing of the lantern. When you come down to the cold
facts, we simply got to \textit{let} \textit{on} that a lantern's
resky. Why, we could work with a torchlight procession if we wanted
to, I believe. Now, whilst I think of it, we got to hunt up something
to make a saw out of the first chance we get.''

{}``What do we want of a saw?''

{}``What do we \textit{want} of a saw? Hain't we got to saw the leg
of Jim's bed off, so as to get the chain loose?''

{}``Why, you just said a body could lift up the bedstead and slip
the chain off.''

{}``Well, if that ain't just like you, Huck Finn. You \textit{can}
get up the infant-schooliest ways of going at a thing. Why, hain't
you ever read any books at all?---Baron Trenck, nor Casanova, nor
Benvenuto Chelleeny, nor Henri IV., nor none of them heroes? Who ever
heard of getting a prisoner loose in such an old-maidy way as that?
No; the way all the best authorities does is to saw the bed-leg in
two, and leave it just so, and swallow the sawdust, so it can't be
found, and put some dirt and grease around the sawed place so the
very keenest seneskal can't see no sign of it's being sawed, and thinks
the bed-leg is perfectly sound. Then, the night you're ready, fetch
the leg a kick, down she goes; slip off your chain, and there you
are. Nothing to do but hitch your rope ladder to the battlements,
shin down it, break your leg in the moat---because a rope ladder is
nineteen foot too short, you know---and there's your horses and your
trusty vassles, and they scoop you up and fling you across a saddle,
and away you go to your native Langudoc, or Navarre, or wherever it
is. It's gaudy, Huck. I wish there was a moat to this cabin. If we
get time, the night of the escape, we'll dig one.''

I says:

{}``What do we want of a moat when we're going to snake him out from
under the cabin?''

But he never heard me. He had forgot me and everything else. He had
his chin in his hand, thinking. Pretty soon he sighs and shakes his
head; then sighs again, and says:

{}``No, it wouldn't do---there ain't necessity enough for it.''

{}``For what?''\ I says.

{}``Why, to saw Jim's leg off,'' he says.

{}``Good land!''\ I says; {}``why, there ain't \textit{no} necessity
for it. And what would you want to saw his leg off for, anyway?''

{}``Well, some of the best authorities has done it. They couldn't
get the chain off, so they just cut their hand off and shoved. And
a leg would be better still. But we got to let that go. There ain't
necessity enough in this case; and, besides, Jim's a nigger, and wouldn't
understand the reasons for it, and how it's the custom in Europe;
so we'll let it go. But there's one thing---he can have a rope ladder;
we can tear up our sheets and make him a rope ladder easy enough.
And we can send it to him in a pie; it's mostly done that way. And
I've et worse pies.''

{}``Why, Tom Sawyer, how you talk,'' I says; {}``Jim ain't got
no use for a rope ladder.''

{}``He \textit{has} got use for it. How \textit{you} talk, you better
say; you don't know nothing about it. He's \textit{got} to have a
rope ladder; they all do.''

{}``What in the nation can he \textit{do} with it?''

{}``\textit{Do} with it? He can hide it in his bed, can't he?''
That's what they all do; and \textit{he's} got to, too. Huck, you
don't ever seem to want to do anything that's regular; you want to
be starting something fresh all the time. S'pose he \textit{don't}
do nothing with it? ain't it there in his bed, for a clew, after he's
gone? and don't you reckon they'll want clews? Of course they will.
And you wouldn't leave them any? That would be a \textit{pretty} howdy-do,
\textit{wouldn't} it! I never heard of such a thing.''

{}``Well,'' I says, {}``if it's in the regulations, and he's got
to have it, all right, let him have it; because I don't wish to go
back on no regulations; but there's one thing, Tom Sawyer---if we
go to tearing up our sheets to make Jim a rope ladder, we're going
to get into trouble with Aunt Sally, just as sure as you're born.
Now, the way I look at it, a hickry-bark ladder don't cost nothing,
and don't waste nothing, and is just as good to load up a pie with,
and hide in a straw tick, as any rag ladder you can start; and as
for Jim, he ain't had no experience, and so he don't care what kind
of a---''

{}``Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant as you I'd keep still---that's
what \textit{I'd} do. Who ever heard of a state prisoner escaping
by a hickry-bark ladder? Why, it's perfectly ridiculous.''

{}``Well, all right, Tom, fix it your own way; but if you'll take
my advice, you'll let me borrow a sheet off of the clothesline.''

He said that would do. And that gave him another idea, and he says:

{}``Borrow a shirt, too.''

{}``What do we want of a shirt, Tom?''

{}``Want it for Jim to keep a journal on.''

{}``Journal your granny---\textit{Jim} can't write.''

{}``S'pose he \textit{can't} write---he can make marks on the shirt,
can't he, if we make him a pen out of an old pewter spoon or a piece
of an old iron barrel-hoop?''

{}``Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him a
better one; and quicker, too.''

{}``\textit{Prisoners} don't have geese running around the donjon-keep
to pull pens out of, you muggins. They \textit{always} make their
pens out of the hardest, toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass
candlestick or something like that they can get their hands on; and
it takes them weeks and weeks and months and months to file it out,
too, because they've got to do it by rubbing it on the wall. \textit{They}
wouldn't use a goose-quill if they had it. It ain't regular.''

{}``Well, then, what'll we make him the ink out of?''

{}``Many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but that's the common
sort and women; the best authorities uses their own blood. Jim can
do that; and when he wants to send any little common ordinary mysterious
message to let the world know where he's captivated, he can write
it on the bottom of a tin plate with a fork and throw it out of the
window. The Iron Mask always done that, and it's a blame' good way,
too.''

{}``Jim ain't got no tin plates. They feed him in a pan.''

{}``That ain't nothing; we can get him some.''

{}``Can't nobody \textit{read} his plates.''

{}``That ain't got anything to \textit{do} with it, Huck Finn. All
\textit{he's} got to do is to write on the plate and throw it out.
You don't \textit{have} to be able to read it. Why, half the time
you can't read anything a prisoner writes on a tin plate, or anywhere
else.''

{}``Well, then, what's the sense in wasting the plates?''

{}``Why, blame it all, it ain't the \textit{prisoner's} plates.''

{}``But it's \textit{somebody's} plates, ain't it?''

{}``Well, spos'n it is? What does the \textit{prisoner} care whose---''

He broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn blowing. So
we cleared out for the house.

Along during the morning I borrowed a sheet and a white shirt off
of the clothes-line; and I found an old sack and put them in it, and
we went down and got the fox-fire, and put that in too. I called it
borrowing, because that was what pap always called it; but Tom said
it warn't borrowing, it was stealing. He said we was representing
prisoners; and prisoners don't care how they get a thing so they get
it, and nobody don't blame them for it, either. It ain't no crime
in a prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get away with, Tom said;
it's his right; and so, as long as we was representing a prisoner,
we had a perfect right to steal anything on this place we had the
least use for to get ourselves out of prison with. He said if we warn't
prisoners it would be a very different thing, and nobody but a mean,
ornery person would steal when he warn't a prisoner. So we allowed
we would steal everything there was that come handy. And yet he made
a mighty fuss, one day, after that, when I stole a watermelon out
of the nigger-patch and eat it; and he made me go and give the niggers
a dime without telling them what it was for. Tom said that what he
meant was, we could steal anything we \textit{needed}.\ Well, I says,
I needed the watermelon. But he said I didn't need it to get out of
prison with; there's where the difference was. He said if I'd a wanted
it to hide a knife in, and smuggle it to Jim to kill the seneskal
with, it would a been all right. So I let it go at that, though I
couldn't see no advantage in my representing a prisoner if I got to
set down and chaw over a lot of gold-leaf distinctions like that every
time I see a chance to hog a watermelon.

Well, as I was saying, we waited that morning till everybody was settled
down to business, and nobody in sight around the yard; then Tom he
carried the sack into the lean-to whilst I stood off a piece to keep
watch. By and by he come out, and we went and set down on the woodpile
to talk. He says:

{}``Everything's all right now except tools; and that's easy fixed.''

{}``Tools?''\ I says.

{}``Yes.''

{}``Tools for what?''

{}``Why, to dig with. We ain't a-going to \textit{gnaw} him out,
are we?''

{}``Ain't them old crippled picks and things in there good enough
to dig a nigger out with?''\ I says.

He turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a body cry, and says:

{}``Huck Finn, did you \textit{ever} hear of a prisoner having picks
and shovels, and all the modern conveniences in his wardrobe to dig
himself out with? Now I want to ask you---if you got any reasonableness
in you at all---what kind of a show would \textit{that} give him to
be a hero? Why, they might as well lend him the key and done with
it. Picks and shovels---why, they wouldn't furnish 'em to a king.''

{}``Well, then,'' I says, {}``if we don't want the picks and shovels,
what do we want?''

{}``A couple of case-knives.''

{}``To dig the foundations out from under that cabin with?''

{}``Yes.''

{}``Confound it, it's foolish, Tom.''

{}``It don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's the \textit{right}
way---and it's the regular way. And there ain't no \textit{other}
way, that ever I heard of, and I've read all the books that gives
any information about these things. They always dig out with a case-knife---and
not through dirt, mind you; generly it's through solid rock. And it
takes them weeks and weeks and weeks, and for ever and ever. Why,
look at one of them prisoners in the bottom dungeon of the Castle
Deef, in the harbor of Marseilles, that dug himself out that way;
how long was \textit{he} at it, you reckon?''

{}``I don't know.''

{}``Well, guess.''

{}``I don't know. A month and a half.''

{}``\textit{Thirty}-\textit{seven} \textit{year}---and he come out
in China. \textit{That's} the kind. I wish the bottom of \textit{this}
fortress was solid rock.''

{}``\textit{Jim} don't know nobody in China.''

{}``What's \textit{that} got to do with it? Neither did that other
fellow. But you're always a-wandering off on a side issue. Why can't
you stick to the main point?''

{}``All right---I don't care where he comes out, so he \textit{comes}
out; and Jim don't, either, I reckon. But there's one thing, anyway---Jim's
too old to be dug out with a case-knife. He won't last.''

{}``Yes he will \textit{last}, too. You don't reckon it's going to
take thirty-seven years to dig out through a \textit{dirt} foundation,
do you?''

{}``How long will it take, Tom?''

{}``Well, we can't resk being as long as we ought to, because it
mayn't take very long for Uncle Silas to hear from down there by New
Orleans. He'll hear Jim ain't from there. Then his next move will
be to advertise Jim, or something like that. So we can't resk being
as long digging him out as we ought to. By rights I reckon we ought
to be a couple of years; but we can't. Things being so uncertain,
what I recommend is this: that we really dig right in, as quick as
we can; and after that, we can \textit{let} \textit{on}, to ourselves,
that we was at it thirty-seven years. Then we can snatch him out and
rush him away the first time there's an alarm. Yes, I reckon that
'll be the best way.''

{}``Now, there's \textit{sense} in that,'' I says. {}``Letting
on don't cost nothing; letting on ain't no trouble; and if it's any
object, I don't mind letting on we was at it a hundred and fifty year.
It wouldn't strain me none, after I got my hand in. So I'll mosey
along now, and smouch a couple of case-knives.''

{}``Smouch three,'' he says; {}``we want one to make a saw out
of.''

{}``Tom, if it ain't unregular and irreligious to sejest it,'' I
says, {}``there's an old rusty saw-blade around yonder sticking under
the weather-boarding behind the smoke-house.''

He looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and says:

{}``It ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, Huck. Run along
and smouch the knives---three of them.'' So I done it.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXVI.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXVI}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXXVI}

\textit{\emph{As}} soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep that night
we went down the lightning-rod, and shut ourselves up in the lean-to,
and got out our pile of fox-fire, and went to work. We cleared everything
out of the way, about four or five foot along the middle of the bottom
log. Tom said we was right behind Jim's bed now, and we'd dig in under
it, and when we got through there couldn't nobody in the cabin ever
know there was any hole there, because Jim's counter-pin hung down
most to the ground, and you'd have to raise it up and look under to
see the hole. So we dug and dug with the case-knives till most midnight;
and then we was dog-tired, and our hands was blistered, and yet you
couldn't see we'd done anything hardly. At last I says:

{}``This ain't no thirty-seven year job; this is a thirty-eight year
job, Tom Sawyer.''

He never said nothing. But he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped digging,
and then for a good little while I knowed that he was thinking. Then
he says:

{}``It ain't no use, Huck, it ain't a-going to work. If we was prisoners
it would, because then we'd have as many years as we wanted, and no
hurry; and we wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day, while
they was changing watches, and so our hands wouldn't get blistered,
and we could keep it up right along, year in and year out, and do
it right, and the way it ought to be done. But \textit{we} can't fool
along; we got to rush; we ain't got no time to spare. If we was to
put in another night this way we'd have to knock off for a week to
let our hands get well---couldn't touch a case-knife with them sooner.''

{}``Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?''

{}``I'll tell you. It ain't right, and it ain't moral, and I wouldn't
like it to get out; but there ain't only just the one way: we got
to dig him out with the picks, and \textit{let} \textit{on} it's case-knives.''

{}``\textit{Now} you're \textit{talking}!''\ I says; {}``your
head gets leveler and leveler all the time, Tom Sawyer,'' I says.
{}``Picks is the thing, moral or no moral; and as for me, I don't
care shucks for the morality of it, nohow. When I start in to steal
a nigger, or a watermelon, or a Sunday-school book, I ain't no ways
particular how it's done so it's done. What I want is my nigger; or
what I want is my watermelon; or what I want is my Sunday-school book;
and if a pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing I'm a-going to
dig that nigger or that watermelon or that Sunday-school book out
with; and I don't give a dead rat what the authorities thinks about
it nuther.''

{}``Well,'' he says, {}``there's excuse for picks and letting-on
in a case like this; if it warn't so, I wouldn't approve of it, nor
I wouldn't stand by and see the rules broke---because right is right,
and wrong is wrong, and a body ain't got no business doing wrong when
he ain't ignorant and knows better. It might answer for \textit{you}
to dig Jim out with a pick, \textit{without} any letting on, because
you don't know no better; but it wouldn't for me, because I do know
better. Gimme a case-knife.''

He had his own by him, but I handed him mine. He flung it down, and
says:

{}``Gimme a \textit{case}-\textit{knife}.''

I didn't know just what to do---but then I thought. I scratched around
amongst the old tools, and got a pickaxe and give it to him, and he
took it and went to work, and never said a word.

He was always just that particular. Full of principle.

So then I got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn about,
and made the fur fly. We stuck to it about a half an hour, which was
as long as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole to
show for it. When I got up stairs I looked out at the window and see
Tom doing his level best with the lightning-rod, but he couldn't come
it, his hands was so sore. At last he says:

{}``It ain't no use, it can't be done. What you reckon I better do?
Can't you think of no way?''

{}``Yes,'' I says, {}``but I reckon it ain't regular. Come up the
stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod.''

So he done it.

Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the house,
for to make some pens for Jim out of, and six tallow candles; and
I hung around the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole three
tin plates. Tom says it wasn't enough; but I said nobody wouldn't
ever see the plates that Jim throwed out, because they'd fall in the
dog-fennel and jimpson weeds under the window-hole---then we could
tote them back and he could use them over again. So Tom was satisfied.
Then he says:

{}``Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to Jim.''

{}``Take them in through the hole,'' I says, {}``when we get it
done.''

He only just looked scornful, and said something about nobody ever
heard of such an idiotic idea, and then he went to studying. By and
by he said he had ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't
no need to decide on any of them yet. Said we'd got to post Jim first.

That night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten, and
took one of the candles along, and listened under the window-hole,
and heard Jim snoring; so we pitched it in, and it didn't wake him.
Then we whirled in with the pick and shovel, and in about two hours
and a half the job was done. We crept in under Jim's bed and into
the cabin, and pawed around and found the candle and lit it, and stood
over Jim awhile, and found him looking hearty and healthy, and then
we woke him up gentle and gradual. He was so glad to see us he most
cried; and called us honey, and all the pet names he could think of;
and was for having us hunt up a cold-chisel to cut the chain off of
his leg with right away, and clearing out without losing any time.
But Tom he showed him how unregular it would be, and set down and
told him all about our plans, and how we could alter them in a minute
any time there was an alarm; and not to be the least afraid, because
we would see he got away, \textit{sure}. So Jim he said it was all
right, and we set there and talked over old times awhile, and then
Tom asked a lot of questions, and when Jim told him Uncle Silas come
in every day or two to pray with him, and Aunt Sally come in to see
if he was comfortable and had plenty to eat, and both of them was
kind as they could be, Tom says:

{}``\textit{Now} I know how to fix it. We'll send you some things
by them.''

I said, {}``Don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of the most jackass
ideas I ever struck;'' but he never paid no attention to me; went
right on. It was his way when he'd got his plans set.

So he told Jim how we'd have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie and
other large things by Nat, the nigger that fed him, and he must be
on the lookout, and not be surprised, and not let Nat see him open
them; and we would put small things in uncle's coat-pockets and he
must steal them out; and we would tie things to aunt's apron-strings
or put them in her apron-pocket, if we got a chance; and told him
what they would be and what they was for. And told him how to keep
a journal on the shirt with his blood, and all that. He told him everything.
Jim he couldn't see no sense in the most of it, but he allowed we
was white folks and knowed better than him; so he was satisfied, and
said he would do it all just as Tom said.

Jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so we had a right down
good sociable time; then we crawled out through the hole, and so home
to bed, with hands that looked like they'd been chawed. Tom was in
high spirits. He said it was the best fun he ever had in his life,
and the most intellectural; and said if he only could see his way
to it we would keep it up all the rest of our lives and leave Jim
to our children to get out; for he believed Jim would come to like
it better and better the more he got used to it. He said that in that
way it could be strung out to as much as eighty year, and would be
the best time on record. And he said it would make us all celebrated
that had a hand in it.

In the morning we went out to the woodpile and chopped up the brass
candlestick into handy sizes, and Tom put them and the pewter spoon
in his pocket. Then we went to the nigger cabins, and while I got
Nat's notice off, Tom shoved a piece of candlestick into the middle
of a corn-pone that was in Jim's pan, and we went along with Nat to
see how it would work, and it just worked noble; when Jim bit into
it it most mashed all his teeth out; and there warn't ever anything
could a worked better. Tom said so himself. Jim he never let on but
what it was only just a piece of rock or something like that that's
always getting into bread, you know; but after that he never bit into
nothing but what he jabbed his fork into it in three or four places
first.

And whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish light, here comes
a couple of the hounds bulging in from under Jim's bed; and they kept
on piling in till there was eleven of them, and there warn't hardly
room in there to get your breath. By jings, we forgot to fasten that
lean-to door! The nigger Nat he only just hollered {}``Witches''
once, and keeled over on to the floor amongst the dogs, and begun
to groan like he was dying. Tom jerked the door open and flung out
a slab of Jim's meat, and the dogs went for it, and in two seconds
he was out himself and back again and shut the door, and I knowed
he'd fixed the other door too. Then he went to work on the nigger,
coaxing him and petting him, and asking him if he'd been imagining
he saw something again. He raised up, and blinked his eyes around,
and says:

{}``Mars Sid, you'll say I's a fool, but if I didn't b'lieve I see
most a million dogs, er devils, er some'n, I wisht I may die right
heah in dese tracks. I did, mos' sholy. Mars Sid, I \textit{felt}
um---I \textit{felt} um, sah; dey was all over me. Dad fetch it, I
jis' wisht I could git my han's on one er dem witches jis' wunst---on'y
jis' wunst---it's all I'd ast. But mos'ly I wisht dey'd lemme 'lone,
I does.''

Tom says:

{}``Well, I tell you what I think. What makes them come here just
at this runaway nigger's breakfast-time? It's because they're hungry;
that's the reason. You make them a witch pie; that's the thing for
\textit{you} to do.''

{}``But my lan', Mars Sid, how's I gwyne to make 'm a witch pie?
I doan' know how to make it. I hain't ever hearn er sich a thing b'fo'.''

{}``Well, then, I'll have to make it myself.''

{}``Will you do it, honey?---will you? I'll wusshup de groun' und'
yo' foot, I will!''

{}``All right, I'll do it, seeing it's you, and you've been good
to us and showed us the runaway nigger. But you got to be mighty careful.
When we come around, you turn your back; and then whatever we've put
in the pan, don't you let on you see it at all. And don't you look
when Jim unloads the pan---something might happen, I don't know what.
And above all, don't you \textit{handle} the witch-things.''

{}``\emph{Hannel} 'm, Mars Sid? What \textit{is} you a-talkin' 'bout?
I wouldn' lay de weight er my finger on um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n
billion dollars, I wouldn't.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXVII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXVII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXXVII}

\textit{\emph{That}} was all fixed. So then we went away and went
to the rubbage-pile in the back yard, where they keep the old boots,
and rags, and pieces of bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all
such truck, and scratched around and found an old tin washpan, and
stopped up the holes as well as we could, to bake the pie in, and
took it down cellar and stole it full of flour and started for breakfast,
and found a couple of shingle-nails that Tom said would be handy for
a prisoner to scrabble his name and sorrows on the dungeon walls with,
and dropped one of them in Aunt Sally's apron-pocket which was hanging
on a chair, and t'other we stuck in the band of Uncle Silas's hat,
which was on the bureau, because we heard the children say their pa
and ma was going to the runaway nigger's house this morning, and then
went to breakfast, and Tom dropped the pewter spoon in Uncle Silas's
coat-pocket, and Aunt Sally wasn't come yet, so we had to wait a little
while.

And when she come she was hot and red and cross, and couldn't hardly
wait for the blessing; and then she went to sluicing out coffee with
one hand and cracking the handiest child's head with her thimble with
the other, and says:

{}``I've hunted high and I've hunted low, and it does beat all what
\textit{has} become of your other shirt.''

My heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things, and a hard
piece of corn-crust started down my throat after it and got met on
the road with a cough, and was shot across the table, and took one
of the children in the eye and curled him up like a fishing-worm,
and let a cry out of him the size of a warwhoop, and Tom he turned
kinder blue around the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable
state of things for about a quarter of a minute or as much as that,
and I would a sold out for half price if there was a bidder. But after
that we was all right again---it was the sudden surprise of it that
knocked us so kind of cold. Uncle Silas he says:

{}``It's most uncommon curious, I can't understand it. I know perfectly
well I took it \textit{off}, because---''

{}``Because you hain't got but one \textit{on}. Just \textit{listen}
at the man! I know you took it off, and know it by a better way than
your wool-gethering memory, too, because it was on the clo's-line
yesterday---I see it there myself. But it's gone, that's the long
and the short of it, and you'll just have to change to a red flann'l
one till I can get time to make a new one. And it 'll be the third
I've made in two years. It just keeps a body on the jump to keep you
in shirts; and whatever you do manage to \textit{do} with 'm all is
more'n I can make out. A body 'd think you \textit{would} learn to
take some sort of care of 'em at your time of life.''

{}``I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it oughtn't to
be altogether my fault, because, you know, I don't see them nor have
nothing to do with them except when they're on me; and I don't believe
I've ever lost one of them \textit{off} of me.''

{}``Well, it ain't \textit{your} fault if you haven't, Silas; you'd
a done it if you could, I reckon. And the shirt ain't all that's gone,
nuther. Ther's a spoon gone; and \textit{that} ain't all. There was
ten, and now ther's only nine. The calf got the shirt, I reckon, but
the calf never took the spoon, \textit{that's} certain.''

{}``Why, what else is gone, Sally?''

{}``Ther's six \textit{candles} gone---that's what. The rats could
a got the candles, and I reckon they did; I wonder they don't walk
off with the whole place, the way you're always going to stop their
holes and don't do it; and if they warn't fools they'd sleep in your
hair, Silas---\textit{you'd} never find it out; but you can't lay
the \textit{spoon} on the rats, and that I know.''

{}``Well, Sally, I'm in fault, and I acknowledge it; I've been remiss;
but I won't let to-morrow go by without stopping up them holes.''

{}``Oh, I wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. Matilda Angelina Araminta
\textit{Phelps}!''

Whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out of the
sugar-bowl without fooling around any. Just then the nigger woman
steps on to the passage, and says:

{}``Missus, dey's a sheet gone.''

{}``A \textit{sheet} gone! Well, for the land's sake!''

{}``I'll stop up them holes to-day,'' says Uncle Silas, looking
sorrowful.

{}``Oh, \textit{do} shet up!---s'pose the rats took the \textit{sheet}?
\textit{Where's} it gone, Lize?''

{}``Clah to goodness I hain't no notion, Miss' Sally. She wuz on
de clo'sline yistiddy, but she done gone: she ain' dah no mo' now.''

{}``I reckon the world \textit{is} coming to an end. I \textit{never}
see the beat of it in all my born days. A shirt, and a sheet, and
a spoon, and six can---''

{}``Missus,'' comes a young yaller wench, {}``dey's a brass cannelstick
miss'n.''

{}``Cler out from here, you hussy, er I'll take a skillet to ye!''

Well, she was just a-biling. I begun to lay for a chance; I reckoned
I would sneak out and go for the woods till the weather moderated.
She kept a-raging right along, running her insurrection all by herself,
and everybody else mighty meek and quiet; and at last Uncle Silas,
looking kind of foolish, fishes up that spoon out of his pocket. She
stopped, with her mouth open and her hands up; and as for me, I wished
I was in Jeruslem or somewheres. But not long, because she says:

{}``It's \textit{just} as I expected. So you had it in your pocket
all the time; and like as not you've got the other things there, too.
How'd it get there?''

{}``I reely don't know, Sally,'' he says, kind of apologizing, {}``or
you know I would tell. I was a-studying over my text in Acts Seventeen
before breakfast, and I reckon I put it in there, not noticing, meaning
to put my Testament in, and it must be so, because my Testament ain't
in; but I'll go and see; and if the Testament is where I had it, I'll
know I didn't put it in, and that will show that I laid the Testament
down and took up the spoon, and---''

{}``Oh, for the land's sake! Give a body a rest! Go 'long now, the
whole kit and biling of ye; and don't come nigh me again till I've
got back my peace of mind.''

\textit{I'd} a heard her if she'd a said it to herself, let alone
speaking it out; and I'd a got up and obeyed her if I'd a been dead.
As we was passing through the setting-room the old man he took up
his hat, and the shingle-nail fell out on the floor, and he just merely
picked it up and laid it on the mantel-shelf, and never said nothing,
and went out. Tom see him do it, and remembered about the spoon, and
says:

{}``Well, it ain't no use to send things by \textit{him} no more,
he ain't reliable.'' Then he says: {}``But he done us a good turn
with the spoon, anyway, without knowing it, and so we'll go and do
him one without \textit{him} knowing it---stop up his rat-holes.''

There was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and it took us a whole
hour, but we done the job tight and good and shipshape. Then we heard
steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; and here comes
the old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle of stuff in t'other,
looking as absent-minded as year before last. He went a mooning around,
first to one rat-hole and then another, till he'd been to them all.
Then he stood about five minutes, picking tallow-drip off of his candle
and thinking. Then he turns off slow and dreamy towards the stairs,
saying:

{}``Well, for the life of me I can't remember when I done it. I could
show her now that I warn't to blame on account of the rats. But never
mind---let it go. I reckon it wouldn't do no good.''

And so he went on a-mumbling up stairs, and then we left. He was a
mighty nice old man. And always is.

Tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but he
said we'd got to have it; so he took a think. When he had ciphered
it out he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around
the spoon-basket till we see Aunt Sally coming, and then Tom went
to counting the spoons and laying them out to one side, and I slid
one of them up my sleeve, and Tom says:

{}``Why, Aunt Sally, there ain't but nine spoons \textit{yet}.''

She says:

{}``Go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. I know better, I
counted 'm myself.''

{}``Well, I've counted them twice, Aunty, and I can't make but nine.''

She looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count---anybody
would.

{}``I declare to gracious ther' \textit{ain't} but nine!''\ she
says. {}``Why, what in the world---plague \textit{take} the things,
I'll count 'm again.''

So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting, she
says:

{}``Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's \textit{ten} now!''\ and
she looked huffy and bothered both. But Tom says:

{}``Why, Aunty, I don't think there's ten.''

{}``You numskull, didn't you see me \textit{count} 'm?''

{}``I know, but---''

{}``Well, I'll count 'm \textit{again}.''

So I smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other time.
Well, she \textit{was} in a tearing way---just a-trembling all over,
she was so mad. But she counted and counted till she got that addled
she'd start to count in the basket for a spoon sometimes; and so,
three times they come out right, and three times they come out wrong.
Then she grabbed up the basket and slammed it across the house and
knocked the cat galley-west; and she said cle'r out and let her have
some peace, and if we come bothering around her again betwixt that
and dinner she'd skin us. So we had the odd spoon, and dropped it
in her apron-pocket whilst she was a-giving us our sailing orders,
and Jim got it all right, along with her shingle nail, before noon.
We was very well satisfied with this business, and Tom allowed it
was worth twice the trouble it took, because he said \textit{now}
she couldn't ever count them spoons twice alike again to save her
life; and wouldn't believe she'd counted them right if she \textit{did};
and said that after she'd about counted her head off for the next
three days he judged she'd give it up and offer to kill anybody that
wanted her to ever count them any more.

So we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one out
of her closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it again for
a couple of days till she didn't know how many sheets she had any
more, and she didn't \textit{care}, and warn't a-going to bullyrag
the rest of her soul out about it, and wouldn't count them again not
to save her life; she druther die first.

So we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the spoon
and the candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and the mixed-up
counting; and as to the candlestick, it warn't no consequence, it
would blow over by and by.

But that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie. We
fixed it up away down in the woods, and cooked it there; and we got
it done at last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one day;
and we had to use up three wash-pans full of flour before we got through,
and we got burnt pretty much all over, in places, and eyes put out
with the smoke; because, you see, we didn't want nothing but a crust,
and we couldn't prop it up right, and she would always cave in. But
of course we thought of the right way at last---which was to cook
the ladder, too, in the pie. So then we laid in with Jim the second
night, and tore up the sheet all in little strings and twisted them
together, and long before daylight we had a lovely rope that you could
a hung a person with. We let on it took nine months to make it.

And in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it wouldn't
go into the pie. Being made of a whole sheet, that way, there was
rope enough for forty pies if we'd a wanted them, and plenty left
over for soup, or sausage, or anything you choose. We could a had
a whole dinner.

But we didn't need it. All we needed was just enough for the pie,
and so we throwed the rest away. We didn't cook none of the pies in
the wash-pan---afraid the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas he had
a noble brass warming-pan which he thought considerable of, because
it belonged to one of his ancesters with a long wooden handle that
come over from England with William the Conqueror in the Mayflower
or one of them early ships and was hid away up garret with a lot of
other old pots and things that was valuable, not on account of being
any account, because they warn't, but on account of them being relicts,
you know, and we snaked her out, private, and took her down there,
but she failed on the first pies, because we didn't know how, but
she come up smiling on the last one. We took and lined her with dough,
and set her in the coals, and loaded her up with rag rope, and put
on a dough roof, and shut down the lid, and put hot embers on top,
and stood off five foot, with the long handle, cool and comfortable,
and in fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that was a satisfaction
to look at. But the person that et it would want to fetch a couple
of kags of toothpicks along, for if that rope ladder wouldn't cramp
him down to business I don't know nothing what I'm talking about,
and lay him in enough stomach-ache to last him till next time, too.

Nat didn't look when we put the witch pie in Jim's pan; and we put
the three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the vittles; and
so Jim got everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself
he busted into the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw
tick, and scratched some marks on a tin plate and throwed it out of
the window-hole.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXVIII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXVIII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXXVIII}

\textit{\emph{Making}} them pens was a distressid tough job, and so
was the saw; and Jim allowed the inscription was going to be the toughest
of all. That's the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the wall.
But he had to have it; Tom said he'd \textit{got} to; there warn't
no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling his inscription to leave
behind, and his coat of arms.

{}``Look at Lady Jane Grey,'' he says; {}``look at Gilford Dudley;
look at old Northumberland! Why, Huck, s'pose it \textit{is} considerble
trouble?---what you going to do?---how you going to get around it?
Jim's \textit{got} to do his inscription and coat of arms. They all
do.''

Jim says:

{}``Why, Mars Tom, I hain't got no coat o' arm; I hain't got nuffn
but dish yer ole shirt, en you knows I got to keep de journal on dat.''

{}``Oh, you don't understand, Jim; a coat of arms is very different.''

{}``Well,'' I says, {}``Jim's right, anyway, when he says he ain't
got no coat of arms, because he hain't.''

{}``I reckon I knowed that,'' Tom says, {}``but you bet he'll have
one before he goes out of this---because he's going out \textit{right},
and there ain't going to be no flaws in his record.''

So whilst me and Jim filed away at the pens on a brickbat apiece,
Jim a-making his'n out of the brass and I making mine out of the spoon,
Tom set to work to think out the coat of arms. By and by he said he'd
struck so many good ones he didn't hardly know which to take, but
there was one which he reckoned he'd decide on. He says:

{}``On the scutcheon we'll have a bend \textit{Or} in the dexter
base, a saltire \textit{Murrey} in the fess, with a dog, couchant,
for common charge, and under his foot a chain embattled, for slavery,
with a chevron \textit{Vert} in a chief engrailed, and three invected
lines on a field \textit{Azure}, with the nombril points rampant on
a dancette indented; crest, a runaway nigger, \textit{Sable}, with
his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a couple of gules
for supporters, which is you and me; motto, \textit{Maggiore} \textit{fretta},
\textit{minore} \textit{otto}. Got it out of a book---means the more
haste the less speed.''

{}``Geewhillikins,'' I says, {}``but what does the rest of it mean?''

{}``We ain't got no time to bother over that,'' he says; {}``we
got to dig in like all git-out.''

{}``Well, anyway,'' I says, {}``what's \textit{some} of it? What's
a fess?''

{}``A fess---a fess is---\textit{you} don't need to know what a fess
is. I'll show him how to make it when he gets to it.''

{}``Shucks, Tom,'' I says, {}``I think you might tell a person.
What's a bar sinister?''

{}``Oh, I don't know. But he's got to have it. All the nobility does.''

That was just his way. If it didn't suit him to explain a thing to
you, he wouldn't do it. You might pump at him a week, it wouldn't
make no difference.

He'd got all that coat of arms business fixed, so now he started in
to finish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan
out a mournful inscription---said Jim got to have one, like they all
done. He made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and read them
off, so:

\begin{enumerate}
\item Here a captive heart busted. 
\item Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted his
sorrowful life. 
\item Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after
thirty-seven years of solitary captivity. 
\item Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter
captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of Louis XIV. 
\end{enumerate}
Tom's voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he most broke
down. When he got done he couldn't no way make up his mind which one
for Jim to scrabble on to the wall, they was all so good; but at last
he allowed he would let him scrabble them all on. Jim said it would
take him a year to scrabble such a lot of truck on to the logs with
a nail, and he didn't know how to make letters, besides; but Tom said
he would block them out for him, and then he wouldn't have nothing
to do but just follow the lines. Then pretty soon he says:

{}``Come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they don't have
log walls in a dungeon: we got to dig the inscriptions into a rock.
We'll fetch a rock.''

Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would take him
such a pison long time to dig them into a rock he wouldn't ever get
out. But Tom said he would let me help him do it. Then he took a look
to see how me and Jim was getting along with the pens. It was most
pesky tedious hard work and slow, and didn't give my hands no show
to get well of the sores, and we didn't seem to make no headway, hardly;
so Tom says:

{}``I know how to fix it. We got to have a rock for the coat of arms
and mournful inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with that same
rock. There's a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll smouch
it, and carve the things on it, and file out the pens and the saw
on it, too.''

It warn't no slouch of an idea; and it warn't no slouch of a grindstone
nuther; but we allowed we'd tackle it. It warn't quite midnight yet,
so we cleared out for the mill, leaving Jim at work. We smouched the
grindstone, and set out to roll her home, but it was a most nation
tough job. Sometimes, do what we could, we couldn't keep her from
falling over, and she come mighty near mashing us every time. Tom
said she was going to get one of us, sure, before we got through.
We got her half way; and then we was plumb played out, and most drownded
with sweat. We see it warn't no use; we got to go and fetch Jim So
he raised up his bed and slid the chain off of the bed-leg, and wrapt
it round and round his neck, and we crawled out through our hole and
down there, and Jim and me laid into that grindstone and walked her
along like nothing; and Tom superintended. He could out-superintend
any boy I ever see. He knowed how to do everything.

Our hole was pretty big, but it warn't big enough to get the grindstone
through; but Jim he took the pick and soon made it big enough. Then
Tom marked out them things on it with the nail, and set Jim to work
on them, with the nail for a chisel and an iron bolt from the rubbage
in the lean-to for a hammer, and told him to work till the rest of
his candle quit on him, and then he could go to bed, and hide the
grindstone under his straw tick and sleep on it. Then we helped him
fix his chain back on the bed-leg, and was ready for bed ourselves.
But Tom thought of something, and says:

{}``You got any spiders in here, Jim?''

{}``No, sah, thanks to goodness I hain't, Mars Tom.''

{}``All right, we'll get you some.''

{}``But bless you, honey, I doan' \textit{want} none. I's afeard
un um. I jis' 's soon have rattlesnakes aroun'.''

Tom thought a minute or two, and says:

{}``It's a good idea. And I reckon it's been done. It \textit{must}
a been done; it stands to reason. Yes, it's a prime good idea. Where
could you keep it?''

{}``Keep what, Mars Tom?''

{}``Why, a rattlesnake.''

{}``De goodness gracious alive, Mars Tom! Why, if dey was a rattlesnake
to come in heah I'd take en bust right out thoo dat log wall, I would,
wid my head.''

{}``Why, Jim, you wouldn't be afraid of it after a little. You could
tame it.''

{}``\textit{Tame} it!''

{}``Yes---easy enough. Every animal is grateful for kindness and
petting, and they wouldn't \textit{think} of hurting a person that
pets them. Any book will tell you that. You try---that's all I ask;
just try for two or three days. Why, you can get him so in a little
while that he'll love you; and sleep with you; and won't stay away
from you a minute; and will let you wrap him round your neck and put
his head in your mouth.''

{}``\textit{Please}, Mars Tom---\textit{doan}' talk so! I can't \textit{stan}'
it! He'd \textit{let} me shove his head in my mouf---fer a favor,
hain't it? I lay he'd wait a pow'ful long time 'fo' I \textit{ast}
him. En mo' en dat, I doan' \textit{want} him to sleep wid me.''

{}``Jim, don't act so foolish. A prisoner's \textit{got} to have
some kind of a dumb pet, and if a rattlesnake hain't ever been tried,
why, there's more glory to be gained in your being the first to ever
try it than any other way you could ever think of to save your life.''

{}``Why, Mars Tom, I doan' \textit{want} no sich glory. Snake take
'n bite Jim's chin off, den \textit{whah} is de glory? No, sah, I
doan' want no sich doin's.''

{}``Blame it, can't you \textit{try}? I only \textit{want} you to
try---you needn't keep it up if it don't work.''

{}``But de trouble all \textit{done} ef de snake bite me while I's
a tryin' him. Mars Tom, I's willin' to tackle mos' anything 'at ain't
onreasonable, but ef you en Huck fetches a rattlesnake in heah for
me to tame, I's gwyne to \textit{leave}, dat's \textit{shore}.''

{}``Well, then, let it go, let it go, if you're so bull-headed about
it. We can get you some garter-snakes, and you can tie some buttons
on their tails, and let on they're rattlesnakes, and I reckon that
'll have to do.''

{}``I k'n stan' \textit{dem}, Mars Tom, but blame' 'f I couldn' get
along widout um, I tell you dat. I never knowed b'fo' 't was so much
bother and trouble to be a prisoner.''

{}``Well, it \textit{always} is when it's done right. You got any
rats around here?''

{}``No, sah, I hain't seed none.''

{}``Well, we'll get you some rats.''

{}``Why, Mars Tom, I doan' \textit{want} no rats. Dey's de dadblamedest
creturs to 'sturb a body, en rustle roun' over 'im, en bite his feet,
when he's tryin' to sleep, I ever see. No, sah, gimme g'yarter-snakes,
'f I's got to have 'm, but doan' gimme no rats; I hain' got no use
f'r um, skasely.''

{}``But, Jim, you \textit{got} to have 'em---they all do. So don't
make no more fuss about it. Prisoners ain't ever without rats. There
ain't no instance of it. And they train them, and pet them, and learn
them tricks, and they get to be as sociable as flies. But you got
to play music to them. You got anything to play music on?''

{}``I ain' got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o' paper, en a juice-harp;
but I reck'n dey wouldn' take no stock in a juice-harp.''

{}``Yes they would. \textit{They} don't care what kind of music 'tis.
A jews-harp's plenty good enough for a rat. All animals like music---in
a prison they dote on it. Specially, painful music; and you can't
get no other kind out of a jews-harp. It always interests them; they
come out to see what's the matter with you. Yes, you're all right;
you're fixed very well. You want to set on your bed nights before
you go to sleep, and early in the mornings, and play your jews-harp;
play `The Last Link is Broken'---that's the thing that 'll scoop a
rat quicker 'n anything else; and when you've played about two minutes
you'll see all the rats, and the snakes, and spiders, and things begin
to feel worried about you, and come. And they'll just fairly swarm
over you, and have a noble good time.''

{}``Yes, \textit{dey} will, I reck'n, Mars Tom, but what kine er
time is \textit{Jim} havin'? Blest if I kin see de pint. But I'll
do it ef I got to. I reck'n I better keep de animals satisfied, en
not have no trouble in de house.''

Tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn't nothing else;
and pretty soon he says:

{}``Oh, there's one thing I forgot. Could you raise a flower here,
do you reckon?''

{}``I doan know but maybe I could, Mars Tom; but it's tolable dark
in heah, en I ain' got no use f'r no flower, nohow, en she'd be a
pow'ful sight o' trouble.''

{}``Well, you try it, anyway. Some other prisoners has done it.''

{}``One er dem big cat-tail-lookin' mullen-stalks would grow in heah,
Mars Tom, I reck'n, but she wouldn't be wuth half de trouble she'd
coss.''

{}``Don't you believe it. We'll fetch you a little one and you plant
it in the corner over there, and raise it. And don't call it mullen,
call it Pitchiola---that's its right name when it's in a prison. And
you want to water it with your tears.''

{}``Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom.''

{}``You don't \textit{want} spring water; you want to water it with
your tears. It's the way they always do.''

{}``Why, Mars Tom, I lay I kin raise one er dem mullen-stalks twyste
wid spring water whiles another man's a \emph{start'n} one wid tears.''

{}``That ain't the idea. You \textit{got} to do it with tears.''

{}``She'll die on my han's, Mars Tom, she sholy will; kase I doan'
skasely ever cry.''

So Tom was stumped. But he studied it over, and then said Jim would
have to worry along the best he could with an onion. He promised he
would go to the nigger cabins and drop one, private, in Jim's coffee-pot,
in the morning. Jim said he would {}``jis' 's soon have tobacker
in his coffee;'' and found so much fault with it, and with the work
and bother of raising the mullen, and jews-harping the rats, and petting
and flattering up the snakes and spiders and things, on top of all
the other work he had to do on pens, and inscriptions, and journals,
and things, which made it more trouble and worry and responsibility
to be a prisoner than anything he ever undertook, that Tom most lost
all patience with him; and said he was just loadened down with more
gaudier chances than a prisoner ever had in the world to make a name
for himself, and yet he didn't know enough to appreciate them, and
they was just about wasted on him. So Jim he was sorry, and said he
wouldn't behave so no more, and then me and Tom shoved for bed.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXIX.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXIX}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XXXIX}

\textit{\emph{In}} the morning we went up to the village and bought
a wire rat-trap and fetched it down, and unstopped the best rat-hole,
and in about an hour we had fifteen of the bulliest kind of ones;
and then we took it and put it in a safe place under Aunt Sally's
bed. But while we was gone for spiders little Thomas Franklin Benjamin
Jefferson Elexander Phelps found it there, and opened the door of
it to see if the rats would come out, and they did; and Aunt Sally
she come in, and when we got back she was a-standing on top of the
bed raising Cain, and the rats was doing what they could to keep off
the dull times for her. So she took and dusted us both with the hickry,
and we was as much as two hours catching another fifteen or sixteen,
drat that meddlesome cub, and they warn't the likeliest, nuther, because
the first haul was the pick of the flock. I never see a likelier lot
of rats than what that first haul was.

We got a splendid stock of sorted spiders, and bugs, and frogs, and
caterpillars, and one thing or another; and we like to got a hornet's
nest, but we didn't. The family was at home. We didn't give it right
up, but stayed with them as long as we could; because we allowed we'd
tire them out or they'd got to tire us out, and they done it. Then
we got allycumpain and rubbed on the places, and was pretty near all
right again, but couldn't set down convenient. And so we went for
the snakes, and grabbed a couple of dozen garters and house-snakes,
and put them in a bag, and put it in our room, and by that time it
was supper-time, and a rattling good honest day's work: and hungry?---oh,
no, I reckon not! And there warn't a blessed snake up there when we
went back---we didn't half tie the sack, and they worked out somehow,
and left. But it didn't matter much, because they was still on the
premises somewheres. So we judged we could get some of them again.
No, there warn't no real scarcity of snakes about the house for a
considerable spell. You'd see them dripping from the rafters and places
every now and then; and they generly landed in your plate, or down
the back of your neck, and most of the time where you didn't want
them. Well, they was handsome and striped, and there warn't no harm
in a million of them; but that never made no difference to Aunt Sally;
she despised snakes, be the breed what they might, and she couldn't
stand them no way you could fix it; and every time one of them flopped
down on her, it didn't make no difference what she was doing, she
would just lay that work down and light out. I never see such a woman.
And you could hear her whoop to Jericho. You couldn't get her to take
a-holt of one of them with the tongs. And if she turned over and found
one in bed she would scramble out and lift a howl that you would think
the house was afire. She disturbed the old man so that he said he
could most wish there hadn't ever been no snakes created. Why, after
every last snake had been gone clear out of the house for as much
as a week Aunt Sally warn't over it yet; she warn't near over it;
when she was setting thinking about something you could touch her
on the back of her neck with a feather and she would jump right out
of her stockings. It was very curious. But Tom said all women was
just so. He said they was made that way for some reason or other.

We got a licking every time one of our snakes come in her way, and
she allowed these lickings warn't nothing to what she would do if
we ever loaded up the place again with them. I didn't mind the lickings,
because they didn't amount to nothing; but I minded the trouble we
had to lay in another lot. But we got them laid in, and all the other
things; and you never see a cabin as blithesome as Jim's was when
they'd all swarm out for music and go for him. Jim didn't like the
spiders, and the spiders didn't like Jim; and so they'd lay for him,
and make it mighty warm for him. And he said that between the rats
and the snakes and the grindstone there warn't no room in bed for
him, skasely; and when there was, a body couldn't sleep, it was so
lively, and it was always lively, he said, because \textit{they} never
all slept at one time, but took turn about, so when the snakes was
asleep the rats was on deck, and when the rats turned in the snakes
come on watch, so he always had one gang under him, in his way, and
t'other gang having a circus over him, and if he got up to hunt a
new place the spiders would take a chance at him as he crossed over.
He said if he ever got out this time he wouldn't ever be a prisoner
again, not for a salary.

Well, by the end of three weeks everything was in pretty good shape.
The shirt was sent in early, in a pie, and every time a rat bit Jim
he would get up and write a little in his journal whilst the ink was
fresh; the pens was made, the inscriptions and so on was all carved
on the grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in two, and we had et up
the sawdust, and it give us a most amazing stomach-ache. We reckoned
we was all going to die, but didn't. It was the most undigestible
sawdust I ever see; and Tom said the same. But as I was saying, we'd
got all the work done now, at last; and we was all pretty much fagged
out, too, but mainly Jim. The old man had wrote a couple of times
to the plantation below Orleans to come and get their runaway nigger,
but hadn't got no answer, because there warn't no such plantation;
so he allowed he would advertise Jim in the St.\ Louis and New Orleans
papers; and when he mentioned the St.\ Louis ones it give me the
cold shivers, and I see we hadn't no time to lose. So Tom said, now
for the nonnamous letters.

{}``What's them?''\ I says.

{}``Warnings to the people that something is up. Sometimes it's done
one way, sometimes another. But there's always somebody spying around
that gives notice to the governor of the castle. When Louis XVI.\ was
going to light out of the Tooleries a servant-girl done it. It's a
very good way, and so is the nonnamous letters. We'll use them both.
And it's usual for the prisoner's mother to change clothes with him,
and she stays in, and he slides out in her clothes. We'll do that,
too.''

{}``But looky here, Tom, what do we want to \textit{warn} anybody
for that something's up? Let them find it out for themselves---it's
their lookout.''

{}``Yes, I know; but you can't depend on them. It's the way they've
acted from the very start---left us to do \textit{everything}. They're
so confiding and mullet-headed they don't take notice of nothing at
all. So if we don't \textit{give} them notice there won't be nobody
nor nothing to interfere with us, and so after all our hard work and
trouble this escape 'll go off perfectly flat; won't amount to nothing---won't
be nothing \textit{to} it.''

{}``Well, as for me, Tom, that's the way I'd like.''

{}``Shucks!''\ he says, and looked disgusted. So I says:

{}``But I ain't going to make no complaint. Any way that suits you
suits me. What you going to do about the servant-girl?''

{}``You'll be her. You slide in, in the middle of the night, and
hook that yaller girl's frock.''

{}``Why, Tom, that 'll make trouble next morning; because, of course,
she prob'bly hain't got any but that one.''

{}``I know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the
nonnamous letter and shove it under the front door.''

{}``All right, then, I'll do it; but I could carry it just as handy
in my own togs.''

{}``You wouldn't look like a servant-girl \textit{then}, would you?''

{}``No, but there won't be nobody to see what I look like, \textit{anyway}.''

{}``That ain't got nothing to do with it. The thing for us to do
is just to do our \textit{duty}, and not worry about whether anybody
\textit{sees} us do it or not. Hain't you got no principle at all?''

{}``All right, I ain't saying nothing; I'm the servant-girl. Who's
Jim's mother?''

{}``I'm his mother. I'll hook a gown from Aunt Sally.''

{}``Well, then, you'll have to stay in the cabin when me and Jim
leaves.''

{}``Not much. I'll stuff Jim's clothes full of straw and lay it on
his bed to represent his mother in disguise, and Jim 'll take the
nigger woman's gown off of me and wear it, and we'll all evade together.
When a prisoner of style escapes it's called an evasion. It's always
called so when a king escapes, f'rinstance. And the same with a king's
son; it don't make no difference whether he's a natural one or an
unnatural one.''

So Tom he wrote the nonnamous letter, and I smouched the yaller wench's
frock that night, and put it on, and shoved it under the front door,
the way Tom told me to. It said:

\begin{quotation}
\noindent Beware. Trouble is brewing. Keep a sharp lookout.

\hspace{\stretch{1}}\textit{\noun{Unknown}} \noun{}\textit{\noun{friend}}.
\end{quotation}
Next night we stuck a picture, which Tom drawed in blood, of a skull
and crossbones on the front door; and next night another one of a
coffin on the back door. I never see a family in such a sweat. They
couldn't a been worse scared if the place had a been full of ghosts
laying for them behind everything and under the beds and shivering
through the air. If a door banged, Aunt Sally she jumped and said
{}``ouch!''; if anything fell, she jumped and said {}``ouch!'';
if you happened to touch her, when she warn't noticing, she done the
same; she couldn't face noway and be satisfied, because she allowed
there was something behind her every time---so she was always a-whirling
around sudden, and saying {}``ouch,'' and before she'd got two-thirds
around she'd whirl back again, and say it again; and she was afraid
to go to bed, but she dasn't set up. So the thing was working very
well, Tom said; he said he never see a thing work more satisfactory.
He said it showed it was done right.

So he said, now for the grand bulge! So the very next morning at the
streak of dawn we got another letter ready, and was wondering what
we better do with it, because we heard them say at supper they was
going to have a nigger on watch at both doors all night. Tom he went
down the lightning-rod to spy around; and the nigger at the back door
was asleep, and he stuck it in the back of his neck and come back.
This letter said:

\begin{quotation}
\noindent Don't betray me, I wish to be your friend. There is a desprate
gang of cut-throats from over in the Indian Territory going to steal
your runaway nigger to-night, and they have been trying to scare you
so as you will stay in the house and not bother them. I am one of
the gang, but have got religgion and wish to quit it and lead an honest
life again, and will betray the helish design. They will sneak down
from northards, along the fence, at midnight exact, with a false key,
and go in the nigger's cabin to get him. I am to be off a piece and
blow a tin horn if I see any danger; but stead of that I will \textit{ba}
like a sheep soon as they get in and not blow at all; then whilst
they are getting his chains loose, you slip there and lock them in,
and can kill them at your leasure. Don't do anything but just the
way I am telling you; if you do they will suspicion something and
raise whoop-jamboreehoo. I do not wish any reward but to know I have
done the right thing.\nopagebreak[4]

\nopagebreak[4]\hspace{\stretch{1}}\textit{\noun{Unknown}} \noun{}\textit{\noun{friend}}.
\end{quotation}

\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XL.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XL}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XL}

\textit{\emph{We}} was feeling pretty good after breakfast, and took
my canoe and went over the river a-fishing, with a lunch, and had
a good time, and took a look at the raft and found her all right,
and got home late to supper, and found them in such a sweat and worry
they didn't know which end they was standing on, and made us go right
off to bed the minute we was done supper, and wouldn't tell us what
the trouble was, and never let on a word about the new letter, but
didn't need to, because we knowed as much about it as anybody did,
and as soon as we was half up stairs and her back was turned we slid
for the cellar cubboard and loaded up a good lunch and took it up
to our room and went to bed, and got up about half-past eleven, and
Tom put on Aunt Sally's dress that he stole and was going to start
with the lunch, but says:

{}``Where's the butter?''

{}``I laid out a hunk of it,'' I says, {}``on a piece of a corn-pone.''

{}``Well, you \textit{left} it laid out, then---it ain't here.''

{}``We can get along without it,'' I says.

{}``We can get along \textit{with} it, too,'' he says; {}``just
you slide down cellar and fetch it. And then mosey right down the
lightning-rod and come along. I'll go and stuff the straw into Jim's
clothes to represent his mother in disguise, and be ready to \textit{ba}
like a sheep and shove soon as you get there.''

So out he went, and down cellar went I.\ The hunk of butter, big
as a person's fist, was where I had left it, so I took up the slab
of corn-pone with it on, and blowed out my light, and started up stairs
very stealthy, and got up to the main floor all right, but here comes
Aunt Sally with a candle, and I clapped the truck in my hat, and clapped
my hat on my head, and the next second she see me; and she says:

{}``You been down cellar?''

{}``Yes'm.''

{}``What you been doing down there?''

{}``Noth'n.''

{}``\textit{Noth'n}!''

{}``No'm.''

{}``Well, then, what possessed you to go down there this time of
night?''

{}``I don't know 'm.''

{}``You don't \textit{know}? Don't answer me that way. Tom, I want
to know what you been \textit{doing} down there.''

{}``I hain't been doing a single thing, Aunt Sally, I hope to gracious
if I have.''

I reckoned she'd let me go now, and as a generl thing she would; but
I s'pose there was so many strange things going on she was just in
a sweat about every little thing that warn't yard-stick straight;
so she says, very decided:

{}``You just march into that setting-room and stay there till I come.
You been up to something you no business to, and I lay I'll find out
what it is before \textit{I'm} done with you.''

So she went away as I opened the door and walked into the setting-room.
My, but there was a crowd there! Fifteen farmers, and every one of
them had a gun. I was most powerful sick, and slunk to a chair and
set down. They was setting around, some of them talking a little,
in a low voice, and all of them fidgety and uneasy, but trying to
look like they warn't; but I knowed they was, because they was always
taking off their hats, and putting them on, and scratching their heads,
and changing their seats, and fumbling with their buttons. I warn't
easy myself, but I didn't take my hat off, all the same.

I did wish Aunt Sally would come, and get done with me, and lick me,
if she wanted to, and let me get away and tell Tom how we'd overdone
this thing, and what a thundering hornet's-nest we'd got ourselves
into, so we could stop fooling around straight off, and clear out
with Jim before these rips got out of patience and come for us.

At last she come and begun to ask me questions, but I \textit{couldn't}
answer them straight, I didn't know which end of me was up; because
these men was in such a fidget now that some was wanting to start
right \textit{now} and lay for them desperadoes, and saying it warn't
but a few minutes to midnight; and others was trying to get them to
hold on and wait for the sheep-signal; and here was Aunty pegging
away at the questions, and me a-shaking all over and ready to sink
down in my tracks I was that scared; and the place getting hotter
and hotter, and the butter beginning to melt and run down my neck
and behind my ears; and pretty soon, when one of them says, {}``\textit{I'm}
for going and getting in the cabin \textit{first} and right \textit{now},
and catching them when they come,'' I most dropped; and a streak
of butter come a-trickling down my forehead, and Aunt Sally she see
it, and turns white as a sheet, and says:

{}``For the land's sake, what \textit{is} the matter with the child?
He's got the brain-fever as shore as you're born, and they're oozing
out!''

And everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my hat, and out comes
the bread and what was left of the butter, and she grabbed me, and
hugged me, and says:

{}``Oh, what a turn you did give me!\ and how glad and grateful
I am it ain't no worse; for luck's against us, and it never rains
but it pours, and when I see that truck I thought we'd lost you, for
I knowed by the color and all it was just like your brains would be
if---Dear, dear, whyd'nt you \textit{tell} me that was what you'd
been down there for, I wouldn't a cared. Now cler out to bed, and
don't lemme see no more of you till morning!''

I was up stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod in another
one, and shinning through the dark for the lean-to. I couldn't hardly
get my words out, I was so anxious; but I told Tom as quick as I could
we must jump for it now, and not a minute to lose---the house full
of men, yonder, with guns!

His eyes just blazed; and he says:

{}``No!---is that so? \textit{Ain't} it bully! Why, Huck, if it was
to do over again, I bet I could fetch two hundred! If we could put
it off till---''

{}``Hurry! \textit{Hurry}!''\ I says. {}``Where's Jim?''

{}``Right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm you can touch
him. He's dressed, and everything's ready. Now we'll slide out and
give the sheep-signal.''

But then we heard the tramp of men coming to the door, and heard them
begin to fumble with the pad-lock, and heard a man say:

{}``I \textit{told} you we'd be too soon; they haven't come---the
door is locked. Here, I'll lock some of you into the cabin, and you
lay for 'em in the dark and kill 'em when they come; and the rest
scatter around a piece, and listen if you can hear 'em coming.''

So in they come, but couldn't see us in the dark, and most trod on
us whilst we was hustling to get under the bed. But we got under all
right, and out through the hole, swift but soft---Jim first, me next,
and Tom last, which was according to Tom's orders. Now we was in the
lean-to, and heard trampings close by outside. So we crept to the
door, and Tom stopped us there and put his eye to the crack, but couldn't
make out nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and said he would
listen for the steps to get further, and when he nudged us Jim must
glide out first, and him last. So he set his ear to the crack and
listened, and listened, and listened, and the steps a-scraping around
out there all the time; and at last he nudged us, and we slid out,
and stooped down, not breathing, and not making the least noise, and
slipped stealthy towards the fence in Injun file, and got to it all
right, and me and Jim over it; but Tom's britches catched fast on
a splinter on the top rail, and then he hear the steps coming, so
he had to pull loose, which snapped the splinter and made a noise;
and as he dropped in our tracks and started somebody sings out:

{}``Who's that? Answer, or I'll shoot!''

But we didn't answer; we just unfurled our heels and shoved. Then
there was a rush, and a \textit{bang}, \textit{bang}, \textit{bang}!\ and
the bullets fairly whizzed around us! We heard them sing out:

{}``Here they are! They've broke for the river! After 'em, boys,
and turn loose the dogs!''

So here they come, full tilt. We could hear them because they wore
boots and yelled, but we didn't wear no boots and didn't yell. We
was in the path to the mill; and when they got pretty close on to
us we dodged into the bush and let them go by, and then dropped in
behind them. They'd had all the dogs shut up, so they wouldn't scare
off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let them loose, and
here they come, making powwow enough for a million; but they was our
dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till they catched up; and when they
see it warn't nobody but us, and no excitement to offer them, they
only just said howdy, and tore right ahead towards the shouting and
clattering; and then we up-steam again, and whizzed along after them
till we was nearly to the mill, and then struck up through the bush
to where my canoe was tied, and hopped in and pulled for dear life
towards the middle of the river, but didn't make no more noise than
we was obleeged to. Then we struck out, easy and comfortable, for
the island where my raft was; and we could hear them yelling and barking
at each other all up and down the bank, till we was so far away the
sounds got dim and died out. And when we stepped on to the raft I
says:

{}``\textit{Now}, old Jim, you're a free man again, and I bet you
won't ever be a slave no more.''

{}``En a mighty good job it wuz, too, Huck. It 'uz planned beautiful,
en it 'uz done beautiful; en dey ain't \textit{nobody} kin git up
a plan dat's mo' mixed-up en splendid den what dat one wuz.''

We was all glad as we could be, but Tom was the gladdest of all because
he had a bullet in the calf of his leg.

When me and Jim heard that we didn't feel so brash as what we did
before. It was hurting him considerable, and bleeding; so we laid
him in the wigwam and tore up one of the duke's shirts for to bandage
him, but he says:

{}``Gimme the rags; I can do it myself. Don't stop now; don't fool
around here, and the evasion booming along so handsome; man the sweeps,
and set her loose! Boys, we done it elegant!---'deed we did. I wish
\textit{we'd} a had the handling of Louis XVI., there wouldn't a been
no `Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven!'\ wrote down in \textit{his}
biography; no, sir, we'd a whooped him over the \textit{border}---that's
what we'd a done with \textit{him}---and done it just as slick as
nothing at all, too. Man the sweeps---man the sweeps!''

But me and Jim was consulting---and thinking. And after we'd thought
a minute, I says:

{}``Say it, Jim.''

So he says:

{}``Well, den, dis is de way it look to me, Huck. Ef it wuz \textit{him}
dat 'uz bein' sot free, en one er de boys wuz to git shot, would he
say, `Go on en save me, nemmine 'bout a doctor f'r to save dis one?'
Is dat like Mars Tom Sawyer? Would he say dat? You \textit{bet} he
wouldn't! \textit{Well}, den, is \textit{Jim} gywne to say it? No,
sah---I doan' budge a step out'n dis place 'dout a \textit{doctor},
not if it's forty year!''

I knowed he was white inside, and I reckoned he'd say what he did
say---so it was all right now, and I told Tom I was a-going for a
doctor. He raised considerable row about it, but me and Jim stuck
to it and wouldn't budge; so he was for crawling out and setting the
raft loose himself; but we wouldn't let him. Then he give us a piece
of his mind, but it didn't do no good.

So when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he says:

{}``Well, then, if you re bound to go, I'll tell you the way to do
when you get to the village. Shut the door and blindfold the doctor
tight and fast, and make him swear to be silent as the grave, and
put a purse full of gold in his hand, and then take and lead him all
around the back alleys and everywheres in the dark, and then fetch
him here in the canoe, in a roundabout way amongst the islands, and
search him and take his chalk away from him, and don't give it back
to him till you get him back to the village, or else he will chalk
this raft so he can find it again. It's the way they all do.''

So I said I would, and left, and Jim was to hide in the woods when
he see the doctor coming till he was gone again.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XLI.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XLI}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XLI}

\textit{\emph{The}} doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking
old man when I got him up. I told him me and my brother was over on
Spanish Island hunting yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece
of a raft we found, and about midnight he must a kicked his gun in
his dreams, for it went off and shot him in the leg, and we wanted
him to go over there and fix it and not say nothing about it, nor
let anybody know, because we wanted to come home this evening and
surprise the folks.

{}``Who is your folks?''\ he says.

{}``The Phelpses, down yonder.''

{}``Oh,'' he says. And after a minute, he says:

{}``How'd you say he got shot?''

{}``He had a dream,'' I says, {}``and it shot him.''

{}``Singular dream,'' he says.

So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started.
But when he sees the canoe he didn't like the look of her---said she
was big enough for one, but didn't look pretty safe for two. I says:

{}``Oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us easy
enough.''

{}``What three?''

{}``Why, me and Sid, and---and---and \textit{the} \textit{guns};
that's what I mean.''

{}``Oh,'' he says.

But he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook his head,
and said he reckoned he'd look around for a bigger one. But they was
all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait
till he come back, or I could hunt around further, or maybe I better
go down home and get them ready for the surprise if I wanted to. But
I said I didn't; so I told him just how to find the raft, and then
he started.

I struck an idea pretty soon. I says to myself, spos'n he can't fix
that leg just in three shakes of a sheep's tail, as the saying is?
spos'n it takes him three or four days? What are we going to do?---lay
around there till he lets the cat out of the bag? No, sir; I know
what \textit{I'll} do. I'll wait, and when he comes back if he says
he's got to go any more I'll get down there, too, if I swim; and we'll
take and tie him, and keep him, and shove out down the river; and
when Tom's done with him we'll give him what it's worth, or all we
got, and then let him get ashore.

So then I crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and next time
I waked up the sun was away up over my head! I shot out and went for
the doctor's house, but they told me he'd gone away in the night some
time or other, and warn't back yet. Well, thinks I, that looks powerful
bad for Tom, and I'll dig out for the island right off. So away I
shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly rammed my head into Uncle
Silas's stomach! He says:

{}``Why, \textit{Tom}! Where you been all this time, you rascal?''

{}``I hain't been nowheres,'' I says, {}``only just hunting for
the runaway nigger---me and Sid.''

{}``Why, where ever did you go?''\ he says. {}``Your aunt's been
mighty uneasy.''

{}``She needn't,'' I says, {}``because we was all right. We followed
the men and the dogs, but they outrun us, and we lost them; but we
thought we heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and took out
after them and crossed over, but couldn't find nothing of them; so
we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired and beat out;
and tied up the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up till about
an hour ago; then we paddled over here to hear the news, and Sid's
at the post-office to see what he can hear, and I'm a-branching out
to get something to eat for us, and then we're going home.''

So then we went to the post-office to get {}``Sid''; but just as
I suspicioned, he warn't there; so the old man he got a letter out
of the office, and we waited awhile longer, but Sid didn't come; so
the old man said, come along, let Sid foot it home, or canoe it, when
he got done fooling around---but we would ride. I couldn't get him
to let me stay and wait for Sid; and he said there warn't no use in
it, and I must come along, and let Aunt Sally see we was all right.

When we got home Aunt Sally was that glad to see me she laughed and
cried both, and hugged me, and give me one of them lickings of hern
that don't amount to shucks, and said she'd serve Sid the same when
he come.

And the place was plum full of farmers and farmers' wives, to dinner;
and such another clack a body never heard. Old Mrs.\ Hotchkiss was
the worst; her tongue was a-going all the time. She says:

{}``Well, Sister Phelps, I've ransacked that-air cabin over, an'
I b'lieve the nigger was crazy. I says to Sister Damrell---didn't
I, Sister Damrell?---s'I, he's crazy, s'I---them's the very words
I said. You all hearn me: he's crazy, s'I; everything shows it, s'I.
Look at that-air grindstone, s'I; want to tell \emph{me}'t any cretur
't's in his right mind 's a goin' to scrabble all them crazy things
onto a grindstone, s'I? Here sich 'n' sich a person busted his heart;
'n' here so 'n' so pegged along for thirty-seven year, 'n' all that---natcherl
son o' Louis somebody, 'n' sich everlast'n rubbage. He's plumb crazy,
s'I; it's what I says in the fust place, it's what I says in the middle,
'n' it's what I says last 'n' all the time---the nigger's crazy---crazy
's Nebokoodneezer, s'I.''

{}``An' look at that-air ladder made out'n rags, Sister Hotchkiss,''
says old Mrs.\ Damrell; {}``what in the name o' goodness \textit{could}
he ever want of---''

{}``The very words I was a-sayin' no longer ago th'n this minute
to Sister Utterback, 'n' she'll tell you so herself. Sh-she, look
at that-air rag ladder, sh-she; 'n' s'I, yes, \textit{look} at it,
s'I---what \textit{could} he a-wanted of it, s'I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss,
sh-she---''

{}``But how in the nation'd they ever \textit{git} that grindstone
\textit{in} there, \textit{anyway}? 'n' who dug that-air \textit{hole}?
'n' who---''

{}``My very \textit{words}, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin'---pass that-air
sasser o' m'lasses, won't ye?---I was a-sayin' to Sister Dunlap, jist
this minute, how \textit{did} they git that grindstone in there, s'I.
Without \textit{help}, mind you---'thout \textit{help}! \textit{That's}
wher 'tis. Don't tell \textit{me}, s'I; there \textit{wuz} help, s'I;
'n' ther' wuz a \textit{plenty} help, too, s'I; ther's ben a \textit{dozen}
a-helpin' that nigger, 'n' I lay I'd skin every last nigger on this
place but \textit{I'd} find out who done it, s'I; 'n' moreover, s'I---''

{}``A \textit{dozen} says you!---\textit{forty} couldn't a done every
thing that's been done. Look at them case-knife saws and things, how
tedious they've been made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with 'm,
a week's work for six men; look at that nigger made out'n straw on
the bed; and look at---''

{}``You may \textit{well} say it, Brer Hightower! It's jist as I
was a-sayin' to Brer Phelps, his own self. S'e, what do \textit{you}
think of it, Sister Hotchkiss, s'e? Think o' what, Brer Phelps, s'I?
Think o' that bed-leg sawed off that a way, s'e? \textit{Think} of
it, s'I? I lay it never sawed \textit{itself} off, s'I---somebody
\textit{sawed} it, s'I; that's my opinion, take it or leave it, it
mayn't be no 'count, s'I, but sich as 't is, it's my opinion, s'I,
'n' if any body k'n start a better one, s'I, let him \textit{do} it,
s'I, that's all. I says to Sister Dunlap, s'I---''

{}``Why, dog my cats, they must a ben a house-full o' niggers in
there every night for four weeks to a done all that work, Sister Phelps.
Look at that shirt---every last inch of it kivered over with secret
African writ'n done with blood! Must a ben a raft uv 'm at it right
along, all the time, amost. Why, I'd give two dollars to have it read
to me; 'n' as for the niggers that wrote it, I 'low I'd take 'n' lash
'm t'll---''

{}``People to \textit{help} him, Brother Marples! Well, I reckon
you'd \textit{think} so if you'd a been in this house for a while
back. Why, they've stole everything they could lay their hands on---and
we a-watching all the time, mind you. They stole that shirt right
off o' the line!\ and as for that sheet they made the rag ladder
out of, ther' ain't no telling how many times they \textit{didn't}
steal that; and flour, and candles, and candlesticks, and spoons,
and the old warming-pan, and most a thousand things that I disremember
now, and my new calico dress; and me and Silas and my Sid and Tom
on the constant watch day \textit{and} night, as I was a-telling you,
and not a one of us could catch hide nor hair nor sight nor sound
of them; and here at the last minute, lo and behold you, they slides
right in under our noses and fools us, and not only fools \textit{us}
but the Injun Territory robbers too, and actuly gets \textit{away}
with that nigger safe and sound, and that with sixteen men and twenty-two
dogs right on their very heels at that very time! I tell you, it just
bangs anything I ever \textit{heard} of. Why, \textit{sperits} couldn't
a done better and been no smarter. And I reckon they must a \textit{been}
sperits---because, \textit{you} know our dogs, and ther' ain't no
better; well, them dogs never even got on the \textit{track} of 'm
once! You explain \textit{that} to me if you can!---\textit{any} of
you!''

{}``Well, it does beat---''

{}``Laws alive, I never---''

{}``So help me, I wouldn't a be---''

{}``\textit{House}-thieves as well as---''

{}``Goodnessgracioussakes, I'd a ben afeard to live in sich a---''

{}``'Fraid to \textit{live}!---why, I was that scared I dasn't hardly
go to bed, or get up, or lay down, or \textit{set} down, Sister Ridgeway.
Why, they'd steal the very---why, goodness sakes, you can guess what
kind of a fluster I was in by the time midnight come last night. I
hope to gracious if I warn't afraid they'd steal some o' the family!
I was just to that pass I didn't have no reasoning faculties no more.
It looks foolish enough \textit{now}, in the daytime; but I says to
myself, there's my two poor boys asleep, 'way up stairs in that lonesome
room, and I declare to goodness I was that uneasy 't I crep' up there
and locked 'em in! I \textit{did}. And anybody would. Because, you
know, when you get scared that way, and it keeps running on, and getting
worse and worse all the time, and your wits gets to addling, and you
get to doing all sorts o' wild things, and by and by you think to
yourself, spos'n I was a boy, and was away up there, and the door
ain't locked, and you---'' She stopped, looking kind of wondering,
and then she turned her head around slow, and when her eye lit on
me---I got up and took a walk.

Says I to myself, I can explain better how we come to not be in that
room this morning if I go out to one side and study over it a little.
So I done it. But I dasn't go fur, or she'd a sent for me. And when
it was late in the day the people all went, and then I come in and
told her the noise and shooting waked up me and {}``Sid,'' and the
door was locked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the
lightning-rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn't never
want to try \textit{that} no more. And then I went on and told her
all what I told Uncle Silas before; and then she said she'd forgive
us, and maybe it was all right enough anyway, and about what a body
might expect of boys, for all boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as
fur as she could see; and so, as long as no harm hadn't come of it,
she judged she better put in her time being grateful we was alive
and well and she had us still, stead of fretting over what was past
and done. So then she kissed me, and patted me on the head, and dropped
into a kind of a brown study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says:

{}``Why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and Sid not come yet! What
\textit{has} become of that boy?''

I see my chance; so I skips up and says:

{}``I'll run right up to town and get him,'' I says.

{}``No you won't,'' she says. {}``You'll stay right wher' you are;
\textit{one's} enough to be lost at a time. If he ain't here to supper,
your uncle 'll go.''

Well, he warn't there to supper; so right after supper uncle went.

He come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn't run across Tom's
track. Aunt Sally was a good \textit{deal} uneasy; but Uncle Silas
he said there warn't no occasion to be---boys will be boys, he said,
and you'll see this one turn up in the morning all sound and right.
So she had to be satisfied. But she said she'd set up for him a while
anyway, and keep a light burning so he could see it.

And then when I went up to bed she come up with me and fetched her
candle, and tucked me in, and mothered me so good I felt mean, and
like I couldn't look her in the face; and she set down on the bed
and talked with me a long time, and said what a splendid boy Sid was,
and didn't seem to want to ever stop talking about him; and kept asking
me every now and then if I reckoned he could a got lost, or hurt,
or maybe drownded, and might be laying at this minute somewheres suffering
or dead, and she not by him to help him, and so the tears would drip
down silent, and I would tell her that Sid was all right, and would
be home in the morning, sure; and she would squeeze my hand, or maybe
kiss me, and tell me to say it again, and keep on saying it, because
it done her good, and she was in so much trouble. And when she was
going away she looked down in my eyes so steady and gentle, and says:

{}``The door ain't going to be locked, Tom, and there's the window
and the rod; but you'll be good, \textit{won't} you? And you won't
go? For \textit{my} sake.''

Laws knows I \textit{wanted} to go bad enough to see about Tom, and
was all intending to go; but after that I wouldn't a went, not for
kingdoms.

But she was on my mind and Tom was on my mind, so I slept very restless.
And twice I went down the rod away in the night, and slipped around
front, and see her setting there by her candle in the window with
her eyes towards the road and the tears in them; and I wished I could
do something for her, but I couldn't, only to swear that I wouldn't
never do nothing to grieve her any more. And the third time I waked
up at dawn, and slid down, and she was there yet, and her candle was
most out, and her old gray head was resting on her hand, and she was
asleep.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XLII.}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XLII}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER XLII}

\textit{\emph{The}} old man was uptown again before breakfast, but
couldn't get no track of Tom; and both of them set at the table thinking,
and not saying nothing, and looking mournful, and their coffee getting
cold, and not eating anything. And by and by the old man says:

{}``Did I give you the letter?''

{}``What letter?''

{}``The one I got yesterday out of the post-office.''

{}``No, you didn't give me no letter.''

{}``Well, I must a forgot it.''

So he rummaged his pockets, and then went off somewheres where he
had laid it down, and fetched it, and give it to her. She says:

{}``Why, it's from St.\ Petersburg---it's from Sis.''

I allowed another walk would do me good; but I couldn't stir. But
before she could break it open she dropped it and run---for she see
something. And so did I.\ It was Tom Sawyer on a mattress; and that
old doctor; and Jim, in \textit{her} calico dress, with his hands
tied behind him; and a lot of people. I hid the letter behind the
first thing that come handy, and rushed. She flung herself at Tom,
crying, and says:

{}``Oh, he's dead, he's dead, I know he's dead!''

And Tom he turned his head a little, and muttered something or other,
which showed he warn't in his right mind; then she flung up her hands,
and says:

{}``He's alive, thank God! And that's enough!''\ and she snatched
a kiss of him, and flew for the house to get the bed ready, and scattering
orders right and left at the niggers and everybody else, as fast as
her tongue could go, every jump of the way.

I followed the men to see what they was going to do with Jim; and
the old doctor and Uncle Silas followed after Tom into the house.
The men was very huffy, and some of them wanted to hang Jim for an
example to all the other niggers around there, so they wouldn't be
trying to run away like Jim done, and making such a raft of trouble,
and keeping a whole family scared most to death for days and nights.
But the others said, don't do it, it wouldn't answer at all; he ain't
our nigger, and his owner would turn up and make us pay for him, sure.
So that cooled them down a little, because the people that's always
the most anxious for to hang a nigger that hain't done just right
is always the very ones that ain't the most anxious to pay for him
when they've got their satisfaction out of him.

They cussed Jim considerble, though, and give him a cuff or two side
the head once in a while, but Jim never said nothing, and he never
let on to know me, and they took him to the same cabin, and put his
own clothes on him, and chained him again, and not to no bed-leg this
time, but to a big staple drove into the bottom log, and chained his
hands, too, and both legs, and said he warn't to have nothing but
bread and water to eat after this till his owner come, or he was sold
at auction because he didn't come in a certain length of time, and
filled up our hole, and said a couple of farmers with guns must stand
watch around about the cabin every night, and a bulldog tied to the
door in the daytime; and about this time they was through with the
job and was tapering off with a kind of generl good-bye cussing, and
then the old doctor comes and takes a look, and says:

{}``Don't be no rougher on him than you're obleeged to, because he
ain't a bad nigger. When I got to where I found the boy I see I couldn't
cut the bullet out without some help, and he warn't in no condition
for me to leave to go and get help; and he got a little worse and
a little worse, and after a long time he went out of his head, and
wouldn't let me come a-nigh him any more, and said if I chalked his
raft he'd kill me, and no end of wild foolishness like that, and I
see I couldn't do anything at all with him; so I says, I got to have
\textit{help} somehow; and the minute I says it out crawls this nigger
from somewheres and says he'll help, and he done it, too, and done
it very well. Of course I judged he must be a runaway nigger, and
there I \textit{was}!\ and there I had to stick right straight along
all the rest of the day and all night. It was a fix, I tell you! I
had a couple of patients with the chills, and of course I'd of liked
to run up to town and see them, but I dasn't, because the nigger might
get away, and then I'd be to blame; and yet never a skiff come close
enough for me to hail. So there I had to stick plumb until daylight
this morning; and I never see a nigger that was a better nuss or faithfuller,
and yet he was risking his freedom to do it, and was all tired out,
too, and I see plain enough he'd been worked main hard lately. I liked
the nigger for that; I tell you, gentlemen, a nigger like that is
worth a thousand dollars---and kind treatment, too. I had everything
I needed, and the boy was doing as well there as he would a done at
home---better, maybe, because it was so quiet; but there I \textit{was},
with both of 'm on my hands, and there I had to stick till about dawn
this morning; then some men in a skiff come by, and as good luck would
have it the nigger was setting by the pallet with his head propped
on his knees sound asleep; so I motioned them in quiet, and they slipped
up on him and grabbed him and tied him before he knowed what he was
about, and we never had no trouble. And the boy being in a kind of
a flighty sleep, too, we muffled the oars and hitched the raft on,
and towed her over very nice and quiet, and the nigger never made
the least row nor said a word from the start. He ain't no bad nigger,
gentlemen; that's what I think about him.''

Somebody says:

{}``Well, it sounds very good, doctor, I'm obleeged to say.''

Then the others softened up a little, too, and I was mighty thankful
to that old doctor for doing Jim that good turn; and I was glad it
was according to my judgment of him, too; because I thought he had
a good heart in him and was a good man the first time I see him. Then
they all agreed that Jim had acted very well, and was deserving to
have some notice took of it, and reward. So every one of them promised,
right out and hearty, that they wouldn't cuss him no more.

Then they come out and locked him up. I hoped they was going to say
he could have one or two of the chains took off, because they was
rotten heavy, or could have meat and greens with his bread and water;
but they didn't think of it, and I reckoned it warn't best for me
to mix in, but I judged I'd get the doctor's yarn to Aunt Sally somehow
or other as soon as I'd got through the breakers that was laying just
ahead of me---explanations, I mean, of how I forgot to mention about
Sid being shot when I was telling how him and me put in that dratted
night paddling around hunting the runaway nigger.

But I had plenty time. Aunt Sally she stuck to the sick-room all day
and all night, and every time I see Uncle Silas mooning around I dodged
him.

Next morning I heard Tom was a good deal better, and they said Aunt
Sally was gone to get a nap. So I slips to the sick-room, and if I
found him awake I reckoned we could put up a yarn for the family that
would wash. But he was sleeping, and sleeping very peaceful, too;
and pale, not fire-faced the way he was when he come. So I set down
and laid for him to wake. In about half an hour Aunt Sally comes gliding
in, and there I was, up a stump again! She motioned me to be still,
and set down by me, and begun to whisper, and said we could all be
joyful now, because all the symptoms was first-rate, and he'd been
sleeping like that for ever so long, and looking better and peacefuller
all the time, and ten to one he'd wake up in his right mind.

So we set there watching, and by and by he stirs a bit, and opened
his eyes very natural, and takes a look, and says:

{}``Hello!---why, I'm at \textit{home}! How's that? Where's the raft?''

{}``It's all right,'' I says.

{}``And \textit{Jim}?''

{}``The same,'' I says, but couldn't say it pretty brash. But he
never noticed, but says:

{}``Good! Splendid! \textit{Now} we're all right and safe! Did you
tell Aunty?''

I was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says: {}``About what,
Sid?''

{}``Why, about the way the whole thing was done.''

{}``What whole thing?''

{}``Why, \textit{the} whole thing. There ain't but one; how we set
the runaway nigger free---me and Tom.''

{}``Good land! Set the run---What \textit{is} the child talking about!
Dear, dear, out of his head again!''

{}``\textit{No}, I ain't out of my \textit{head}; I know all what
I'm talking about. We \textit{did} set him free---me and Tom. We laid
out to do it, and we \textit{done} it. And we done it elegant, too.''
He'd got a start, and she never checked him up, just set and stared
and stared, and let him clip along, and I see it warn't no use for
\textit{me} to put in. {}``Why, Aunty, it cost us a power of work---weeks
of it---hours and hours, every night, whilst you was all asleep. And
we had to steal candles, and the sheet, and the shirt, and your dress,
and spoons, and tin plates, and case-knives, and the warming-pan,
and the grindstone, and flour, and just no end of things, and you
can't think what work it was to make the saws, and pens, and inscriptions,
and one thing or another, and you can't think \textit{half} the fun
it was. And we had to make up the pictures of coffins and things,
and nonnamous letters from the robbers, and get up and down the lightning-rod,
and dig the hole into the cabin, and made the rope ladder and send
it in cooked up in a pie, and send in spoons and things to work with
in your apron pocket---''

{}``Mercy sakes!''

{}``---and load up the cabin with rats and snakes and so on, for
company for Jim; and then you kept Tom here so long with the butter
in his hat that you come near spiling the whole business, because
the men come before we was out of the cabin, and we had to rush, and
they heard us and let drive at us, and I got my share, and we dodged
out of the path and let them go by, and when the dogs come they warn't
interested in us, but went for the most noise, and we got our canoe,
and made for the raft, and was all safe, and Jim was a free man, and
we done it all by ourselves, and \textit{wasn't} it bully, Aunty!''

{}``Well, I never heard the likes of it in all my born days! So it
was \textit{you}, you little rapscallions, that's been making all
this trouble, and turned everybody's wits clean inside out and scared
us all most to death. I've as good a notion as ever I had in my life
to take it out o' you this very minute. To think, here I've been,
night after night, a---\textit{you} just get well once, you young
scamp, and I lay I'll tan the Old Harry out o' both o' ye!''

But Tom, he \textit{was} so proud and joyful, he just \textit{couldn't}
hold in, and his tongue just \textit{went} it---she a-chipping in,
and spitting fire all along, and both of them going it at once, like
a cat convention; and she says:

{}``\textit{Well}, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it \textit{now},
for mind I tell you if I catch you meddling with him again---''

{}``Meddling with \textit{who}?''\ Tom says, dropping his smile
and looking surprised.

{}``With \textit{who}? Why, the runaway nigger, of course. Who'd
you reckon?''

Tom looks at me very grave, and says:

{}``Tom, didn't you just tell me he was all right? Hasn't he got
away?''

{}``\textit{Him}?''\ says Aunt Sally; {}``the runaway nigger?
'Deed he hasn't. They've got him back, safe and sound, and he's in
that cabin again, on bread and water, and loaded down with chains,
till he's claimed or sold!''

Tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and his nostrils opening
and shutting like gills, and sings out to me:

{}``They hain't no \textit{right} to shut him up! \textit{Shove}!---and
don't you lose a minute. Turn him loose!\ he ain't no slave; he's
as free as any cretur that walks this earth!''

{}``What \textit{does} the child mean?''

{}``I mean every word I \textit{say}, Aunt Sally, and if somebody
don't go, \textit{I'll} go. I've knowed him all his life, and so has
Tom, there. Old Miss Watson died two months ago, and she was ashamed
she ever was going to sell him down the river, and \textit{said} so;
and she set him free in her will.''

{}``Then what on earth did \textit{you} want to set him free for,
seeing he was already free?''

{}``Well, that \textit{is} a question, I must say; and just like
women! Why, I wanted the \textit{adventure} of it; and I'd a waded
neck-deep in blood to---goodness alive, \textit{Aunt} \textit{Polly}!''

If she warn't standing right there, just inside the door, looking
as sweet and contented as an angel half full of pie, I wish I may
never!

Aunt Sally jumped for her, and most hugged the head off of her, and
cried over her, and I found a good enough place for me under the bed,
for it was getting pretty sultry for us, seemed to me. And I peeped
out, and in a little while Tom's Aunt Polly shook herself loose and
stood there looking across at Tom over her spectacles---kind of grinding
him into the earth, you know. And then she says:

{}``Yes, you \textit{better} turn y'r head away---I would if I was
you, Tom.''

{}``Oh, deary me!''\ says Aunt Sally; {}``\textit{Is} he changed
so? Why, that ain't \textit{Tom}, it's Sid; Tom's---Tom's---why, where
is Tom? He was here a minute ago.''

{}``You mean where's Huck \textit{Finn}---that's what you mean! I
reckon I hain't raised such a scamp as my Tom all these years not
to know him when I \textit{see} him. That \textit{would} be a pretty
howdy-do. Come out from under that bed, Huck Finn.''

So I done it. But not feeling brash.

Aunt Sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking persons I ever see---except
one, and that was Uncle Silas, when he come in and they told it all
to him. It kind of made him drunk, as you may say, and he didn't know
nothing at all the rest of the day, and preached a prayer-meeting
sermon that night that gave him a rattling ruputation, because the
oldest man in the world couldn't a understood it. So Tom's Aunt Polly,
she told all about who I was, and what; and I had to up and tell how
I was in such a tight place that when Mrs.\ Phelps took me for Tom
Sawyer---she chipped in and says, {}``Oh, go on and call me Aunt
Sally, I'm used to it now, and 'tain't no need to change''---that
when Aunt Sally took me for Tom Sawyer I had to stand it---there warn't
no other way, and I knowed he wouldn't mind, because it would be nuts
for him, being a mystery, and he'd make an adventure out of it, and
be perfectly satisfied. And so it turned out, and he let on to be
Sid, and made things as soft as he could for me.

And his Aunt Polly she said Tom was right about old Miss Watson setting
Jim free in her will; and so, sure enough, Tom Sawyer had gone and
took all that trouble and bother to set a free nigger free!\ and
I couldn't ever understand before, until that minute and that talk,
how he \textit{could} help a body set a nigger free with his bringing-up.

Well, Aunt Polly she said that when Aunt Sally wrote to her that Tom
and \textit{Sid} had come all right and safe, she says to herself:

{}``Look at that, now! I might have expected it, letting him go off
that way without anybody to watch him. So now I got to go and trapse
all the way down the river, eleven hundred mile, and find out what
that creetur's up to \textit{this} time, as long as I couldn't seem
to get any answer out of you about it.''

{}``Why, I never heard nothing from you,'' says Aunt Sally.

{}``Well, I wonder! Why, I wrote you twice to ask you what you could
mean by Sid being here.''

{}``Well, I never got 'em, Sis.''

Aunt Polly she turns around slow and severe, and says:

{}``You, Tom!''

{}``Well---\textit{what}?''\ he says, kind of pettish.

{}``Don't you what \textit{me}, you impudent thing---hand out them
letters.''

{}``What letters?''

{}``\textit{Them} letters. I be bound, if I have to take a-holt of
you I'll---''

{}``They're in the trunk. There, now. And they're just the same as
they was when I got them out of the office. I hain't looked into them,
I hain't touched them. But I knowed they'd make trouble, and I thought
if you warn't in no hurry, I'd---''

{}``Well, you \textit{do} need skinning, there ain't no mistake about
it. And I wrote another one to tell you I was coming; and I s'pose
he---''

{}``No, it come yesterday; I hain't read it yet, but \textit{it's}
all right, I've got that one.''

I wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn't, but I reckoned maybe
it was just as safe to not to. So I never said nothing.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER THE LAST}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER THE LAST}

\markboth{The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn}{CHAPTER THE LAST}

\textit{\emph{The}} first time I catched Tom private I asked him what
was his idea, time of the evasion?---what it was he'd planned to do
if the evasion worked all right and he managed to set a nigger free
that was already free before? And he said, what he had planned in
his head from the start, if we got Jim out all safe, was for us to
run him down the river on the raft, and have adventures plumb to the
mouth of the river, and then tell him about his being free, and take
him back up home on a steamboat, in style, and pay him for his lost
time, and write word ahead and get out all the niggers around, and
have them waltz him into town with a torchlight procession and a brass-band,
and then he would be a hero, and so would we. But I reckoned it was
about as well the way it was.

We had Jim out of the chains in no time, and when Aunt Polly and Uncle
Silas and Aunt Sally found out how good he helped the doctor nurse
Tom, they made a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him up prime, and
give him all he wanted to eat, and a good time, and nothing to do.
And we had him up to the sick-room, and had a high talk; and Tom give
Jim forty dollars for being prisoner for us so patient, and doing
it up so good, and Jim was pleased most to death, and busted out,
and says:

{}``\textit{Dah}, now, Huck, what I tell you?---what I tell you up
dah on Jackson islan'? I \textit{tole} you I got a hairy breas', en
what's de sign un it; en I \textit{tole} you I ben rich wunst, en
gwineter to be rich \textit{agin}; en it's come true; en heah she
is! \textit{Dah}, now!\ doan' talk to \textit{me}---signs is \textit{signs},
mine I tell you; en I knowed jis' 's well 'at I 'uz gwineter be rich
agin as I's a-stannin' heah dis minute!''

And then Tom he talked along and talked along, and says, le's all
three slide out of here one of these nights and get an outfit, and
go for howling adventures amongst the Injuns, over in the Territory,
for a couple of weeks or two; and I says, all right, that suits me,
but I ain't got no money for to buy the outfit, and I reckon I couldn't
get none from home, because it's likely pap's been back before now,
and got it all away from Judge Thatcher and drunk it up.

{}``No, he hain't,'' Tom says; {}``it's all there yet---six thousand
dollars and more; and your pap hain't ever been back since. Hadn't
when I come away, anyhow.''

Jim says, kind of solemn:

{}``He ain't a-comin' back no mo', Huck.''

I says:

{}``Why, Jim?''

{}``Nemmine why, Huck---but he ain't comin' back no mo.''

But I kept at him; so at last he says:

{}``Doan' you 'member de house dat was float'n down de river, en
dey wuz a man in dah, kivered up, en I went in en unkivered him and
didn' let you come in? Well, den, you kin git yo' money when you wants
it, kase dat wuz him.''

Tom's most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on a watch-guard
for a watch, and is always seeing what time it is, and so there ain't
nothing more to write about, and I am rotten glad of it, because if
I'd a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't a tackled
it, and ain't a-going to no more. But I reckon I got to light out
for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going
to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before.

\noindent \begin{center}\textit{\noun{The}} \noun{}\textit{\noun{End}}\end{center}
\end{document}
