In this section, Huck struggles with the moral question of whether to inform Jim. Analyze what Huck’s struggle says about the nature of morality and the morals of his time and place. Do you get a sense that Mark Twain held a specific view on what Huck should ultimately do? Cite evidence from the text to support your analysis.

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The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn | By Mark Twain
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 2
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I
I Discover Moses and the Bulrushers ……………7
CHAPTER II
Our Gang’s Dark Oath ………………………………………….10
CHAPTER III
We Ambuscade the A-rabs …………………………………..14
CHAPTER IV
The Hair-ball Oracle ……………………………………………. 17
CHAPTER V
Pap Starts in on a New Life ………………………………..20
CHAPTER VI
Pap Struggles with the Death Angel ……………23
CHAPTER VII
I Fool Pap and Get Away …………………………………….. 27
CHAPTER VIII
I Spare Miss Watson’s Jim ……………………………………. 31
CHAPTER IX
The House of Death Floats By …………………………39
CHAPTER X
What Comes of Handlin’ Snake-skin ………………42
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 3
CHAPTER XI
They’re After Us!……………………………………………………45
CHAPTER XII
“Better Let Blame Well Alone” ………………………….51
CHAPTER XIII
Honest Loot from the “Walter Scott” …………56
CHAPTER XIV
Was Solomon Wise? ………………………………………………60
CHAPTER XV
Fooling Poor Old Jim ………………………………………….64
CHAPTER XVI
The Rattlesnake-skin Does Its Work ……………..69
CHAPTER XVII
The Grangerfords Take Me In ………………………….. 75
CHAPTER XVIII
Why Harney Rode Away for His Hat ……………….82
CHAPTER XIX
The Duke and the Dauphin Come Aboard …….90
CHAPTER XX
What Royalty Did to Parkville …………………………96
CHAPTER XXI
An Arkansaw Difficulty …………………………………… 102
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CHAPTER XXII
Why the Lynching Bee Failed …………………………… 110
CHAPTER XXIII
The Orneriness of Kings …………………………………….114
CHAPTER XXIV
The King Turns Parson ……………………………………….118
CHAPTER XXV
All Full of Tears and Flapdoodle ………………..123
CHAPTER XXVI
I Steal the King’s Plunder ……………………………….. 128
CHAPTER XXVII
Dead Peter has His Gold ……………………………………135
CHAPTER XXVIII
Overreaching Don’t Pay ………………………………….. 140
CHAPTER XXIX
I Light Out in the Storm …………………………………….147
CHAPTER XXX
The Gold Saves the Thieves ……………………………..154
CHAPTER XXXI
You Can’t Pray a Lie …………………………………………….157
CHAPTER XXXII
I Have a New Name ………………………………………………..163
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CHAPTER XXXIII
The Pitiful Ending of Royalty ……………………….. 168
CHAPTER XXXIV
We Cheer Up Jim ……………………………………………………..174
CHAPTER XXXV
Dark, Deep-laid Plans ………………………………………….179
CHAPTER XXXVI
Trying to Help Jim ………………………………………………. 185
CHAPTER XXXVII
Jim Gets His Witch-pie ………………………………………… 189
CHAPTER XXXVIII
“Here a Captive Heart Busted” ………………………..194
CHAPTER XXXIX
Tom Writes Nonnamous Letters …………………… 199
CHAPTER XL
A Mixed-up and Splendid Rescue ………………….. 203
CHAPTER XLI
“Must ‘a’ Been Sperits” ………………………………………. 208
CHAPTER XLII
Why They Didn’t Hang Jim ………………………………….213
CHAPTER THE LAST
Nothing More to Write …………………………………….. 219
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 6
NOTICE
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.
By Order of the Author,
Per G. G., Chief of Ordnance.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 7
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.
The Author.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 8
CHAPTER I
I Discover Moses and the Bulrushers
You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of 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
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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 downhearted 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 10
to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 11
CHAPTER II
Our Gang’s Dark Oath
We went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back toward 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 came 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 upward 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 ag’in.”
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;
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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. Afterward 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 Joe 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 13
burnt up and the ashes scattered all around, and his name blotted off 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 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 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?”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 14
“Oh, that’s all very fine to 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 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 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 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 Joe 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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 15
CHAPTER III
We Ambuscade the A-rabs
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 snuff-box that was stole? Why can’t Miss Watson fat up? No, says I to myself, 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 16
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 Joe 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 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 us—can’t we lick the other crowd then?”
“How you going to get them?”
“I don’t know. How do 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.”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 17
“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 flatheads 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 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 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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 18
CHAPTER IV
The Hair-ball Oracle
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 awhile, 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?”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 19
“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 awhile, and then he says:
“Oho-o! I think I see. You want to 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 hairball 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:
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 20
“Yo’ ole father doan’ know yit what he’s a-gwyne to do. Sometimes he spec he’ll go ‘way, en den ag’in
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 ag’in.
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!
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 21
CHAPTER V
Pap Starts in on a New Life
I 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, 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? 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 he is. You lemme catch
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 22
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 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:
“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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 23
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 he was satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he’d make it
warm forhim.
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 toward
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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 24
CHAPTER VI
Pap Struggles with the Death Angel
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, 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 25
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 drownded, 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 toward 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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 26
This 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 him and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And they call 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 Itold ‘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 ag’in. 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 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 ag’in. Them’s the very words I said; they all heard me;
and the country may rot for all me—I’ll never vote ag’in 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 a-going 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 27
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 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 awhile, 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 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,
and 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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 28
CHAPTER VII
I Fool Pap and Get Away
“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 woodyards 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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 29
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; 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.
Huckleberry Finn
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;
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 ax, 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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 30
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 ax 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 ax, 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 ax good, and stuck it on the back side, and
slung the ax 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 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 31
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. Thinks 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 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 toward 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 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 upstream, 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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 32
CHAPTER VIII
I Spare Miss Watson’s Jim
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 cornpone.
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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 33
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 Joe 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 awhile. 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 34
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 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
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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 35
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 ag’in, whah you b’longs, en doan’ do nuffn to Ole Jim, ‘at ‘uz alwuz
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 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 36
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 run 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 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’t 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 tumbledown 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 37
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 a-gwyne 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’ 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
foun’ 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 tablecloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive and
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 38
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’ 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 a-gwyne
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 ag’in. 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.”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 39
“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 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’.”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 40
CHAPTER IX
The House of Death Floats By
I 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 41
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 gittin’ 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 framehouse down, on the west side. She was a two-story, and tilted over considerable. We paddled out and got
aboard—clumb in at an up-stairs 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 42
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 fish-line 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
currycomb, 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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 43
CHAPTER X
What Comes of Handlin’ Snake-skin
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 snakeskin 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 44
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 snakeskin 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 practised 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 45
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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 46
CHAPTER XI
They’re After Us!
“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 awhile, I reckon, and go on. I ain’t afeard 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 twelve thousand dollars (only she got it
twenty) 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.”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 47
“Well, I reckon there’s a right smart chance of people 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 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 quit 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 48
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 campfire 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 afeard 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 49
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-hat, 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 mustn’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:
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 50
“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 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 51
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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 52
CHAPTER XII
“Better Let Blame Well Alone”
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 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 towhead is a sand-bar 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 53
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 toward 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 corn-fields 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 toward 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-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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 54
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 seen 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 pilothouse; 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 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 washere.”
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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 55
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 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 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 for? Jist for noth’n’.
Jist because we stood on our rights—that’s what for. But I lay you ain’t a-goin’ to threaten nobody any
more, Jim Turner. Put 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 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 toward 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 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 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 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.”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 56
“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 things 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 pickin’s 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 considerable 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 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 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! Raf’? Dey ain’ no raf’ no mo’; she done broke loose en gone!—en here we is!”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 57
CHAPTER XIII
Honest Loot from the “Walter Scott”
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 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 farther—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 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!
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 58
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, 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?”
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“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 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—”
“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 Walter Scott?”
“Yes.”
“Good land! what are they doin’ 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 we saddle-baggsed; but all of us was saved but Bill Whipple—and oh, he 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 then what did you all do?”
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“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 like to, and, blame it, I don’t know but I will; but who in the dingnation’s a-going to
pay for it? Do you reckon your pap—”
“Why that’s all right. Miss Hooker she tole me, particular, that her uncle Hornback—”
“Great guns! is 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 wood-boats; 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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 61
CHAPTER XIV
Was Solomon Wise?
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 spy-glass, 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 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 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.”
“Ain’ dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?”
“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.”
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“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 down de biler-factry when he want to res’.”
“Well, but he was the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she told me so, her own self.”
“I doan’ k’yer what de widder say, he 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.”
“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 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 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 real pint 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. 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. 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 fetch 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 63
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?”
“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 nuffn; 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 say it?”
“Why, he is a-saying it. That’s a Frenchman’s 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.”
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“And ain’t it natural and right for a cat and a cow to talk different from us?”
“Why, mos’ sholy it is.”
“Well, then, why ain’t it natural and right for a 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.”
“Well, den! Dad blame it, why doan’ he talk like a man? You answer me dat!”
I see it warn’t no use wasting words—you can’t learn a nigger to argue. So I quit.
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CHAPTER XV
Fooling Poor Old Jim
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 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,
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 66
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 current 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 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 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 saw-logs made fast together.
Then I see another speck, and chased that; then another, and this time I was right. It was the raft.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 67
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 ag’in? 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 ag’in, ‘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?”
“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. 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 sumfn wrong, dey is. Is I me, or who is I? Is I heah, or whah 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
towhead?”
“No, I didn’t. What towhead? I hain’t seen no towhead.”
“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
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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 powerfulest 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 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’s 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 ag’in, 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 trash; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head
er dey fren’s en makes ‘em ashamed.”
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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 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 afterward, 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.
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CHAPTER XVI
The Rattlesnake-skin Does Its Work
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 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 was most free—and who was to blame for it? Why, 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 no way. That was where it pinched. Conscience says to me, “What had
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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. 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
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 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.”
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Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I got to do it—I can’t get 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 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 smallpox, and you know it
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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 smallpox, 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 smallpox, don’t you see?”
“Hold on, Parker,” says the man, “here’s a twenty to put on the board for me. Good-by, boy; you do as
Mr. Parker told you, and you’ll be all right.”
“That’s so, my boy—good-by, good-bye. If you see any runaway niggers you get help and nab them,
and you can make some money by it.”
“Good-by, 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 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 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
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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’t 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.
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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 snakeskin 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.
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CHAPTER XVII
The Grangerfords Take Me In
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?”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 77
“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 grayheaded 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, 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.”
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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.”
“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 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:
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“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 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 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 Friendship’s Offering, full of beautiful
stuff and poetry; but I didn’t read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay’s Speeches, and another was Dr.
Gunn’s 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.
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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 chairback, 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 toward
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 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:
ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC’D
And did young Stephen sicken,
And did young Stephen die?
And did the sad hearts thicken,
And did the mourners cry?
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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.
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
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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!
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CHAPTER XVIII
Why Harney Rode Away for His Hat
Col. 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. 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 gray 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 cloud-bank 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 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
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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
came 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:
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“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 him; then the other brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then the
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 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 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
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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 outrun 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 him
out.”
“I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck.”
“I reckon he 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 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 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 summertime 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 “Half past 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
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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 watermoccasins 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 him up and take
him into slavery again. Says he:
“I got hurt a little, en couldn’t swim fas’, so I wuz a considerable 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 ag’in 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-gittin’ 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—”
“What raft, Jim?”
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“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’t
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 ag’in 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 ag’in. 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 watermoccasins. If anything happens 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 woodpile 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 tell you dey warn’t no time
los’. Sich another hurryin’ up guns en hossesyou 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.”
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“Well, I reck’n he 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 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
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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 ag’in. 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’ 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 ag’in en tells me for
certain you is dead. Lawsy, I’s mighty glad to git you back ag’in, 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.
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CHAPTER XIX
The Duke and the Dauphin Come Aboard
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 wood-yard, 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 ax flash and come
down—you don’t hear nothing; you see that ax go up again, and by the time it’s above the man’s head then
you hear the 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
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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 make so many. Jim said the moon could ‘a’ laidthem; 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 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
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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 awhile; 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 woolen 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 carpetbags.
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 with
you. That’s the whole yarn—what’s yourn?”
“Well, I’d ben a-runnin’ 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 tellyou, 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.”
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Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh and says:
“Alas!”
“What ‘re you alassin’ about?” says the baldhead.
“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 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 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 us
f’r? 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, heartbroken, 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
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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, 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 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
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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 hisfather, 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.
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CHAPTER XX
What Royalty Did to Parkville
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 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
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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-whack!—bum! bum! bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum—and the thunder would go rumbling and
grumbling away, and quit—and then rip comes another flash and another sock-dolager. 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
awhile, 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 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
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“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 swordfight in ‘Richard III.’ and the balcony scene in ‘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-freezin’ 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 nightgown 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,
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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-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! (amen!) come, sick and sore! (amen!) come,
lame and halt and blind! (amen!) come, pore and needy, sunk in shame! (a-a-men!) 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!”
(a-a-men! glory, glory 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 onto 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,
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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 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 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’s
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
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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.
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CHAPTER XXI
An Arkansaw Difficulty
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 “Romeo and Juliet” by heart. When he had got it pretty good him and the duke begun
to practise 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 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
practise 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.”
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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:
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.
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‘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!
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 show-bills 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 swordfighting 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 court-house, and
we went around and stuck up our bills. They read like this:
Shaksperean Revival ! ! !
Wonderful Attraction!
For One Night Only!
The world renowned tragedians,
David Garrick the younger, of Drury Lane Theatre, London,
and
Edmund Kean the elder, of the Royal Haymarket Theatre,
Whitechapel, Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the
Royal Continental Theatres, in their sublime
Shaksperean Spectacle entitled
The Balcony Scene
in
Romeo and Juliet ! ! !
Romeo……………….Mr. Garrick
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Juliet……………….Mr. Kean
Assisted by the whole strength of the company!
New costumes, new scenery, new appointments!
Also:
The thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling
Broad-sword conflict
In Richard III. ! ! !
Richard III…………….Mr. Garrick
Richmond………………..Mr. Kean
Also:
(by special request)
Hamlet’s Immortal Soliloquy ! !
By the Illustrious Kean!
Done by him 300 consecutive nights in Paris!
For One Night Only,
On account of imperative European engagements!
Admission 25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents.
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 overflowed. 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 whitewashed
some time or another, but the duke said it was in Columbus’s 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 dry-goods 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
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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 every time; it don’t fool nobody but a stranger; but Jack
ain’t no stranger, so he says:
“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 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 chaw, and you take the plug.”
“’Gimme a Chaw’”
All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn’t nothing else but mud—mud as black as tar and
nigh about a foot deep in some places, and two or three inches deep in 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! 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
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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
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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 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, bareheaded,
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 onto 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 onto 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.
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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.
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CHAPTER XXII
Why the Lynching Bee Failed
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 onto 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 outgaze 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 you lynching anybody! It’s amusing. The idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to
lynch a 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 man? Why, a 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. I 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 as brave,
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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 would do.
“So they always acquit; and then a 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 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. You don’t like trouble and
danger. But if only 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—cowards—and so you raise a yell, and hang
yourselves onto 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 man at the head of it is beneath pitifulness. Now the thing for youto 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 man along. Now 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 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, and 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 tentroof, 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
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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 could think of so many of them, and so sudden and so pat, was what I couldn’t no way understand.
Why, I couldn’t ‘a’ thought of them in a year. And by and by a drunken 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 toward 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 dressingroom, and everybody just a-howling with pleasure and astonishment.
Then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled, and he 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 me; and wherever I run across it, it can have all
of mycustom every time.
Well, that night we had 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:
AT THE COURT HOUSE!
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FOR 3 NIGHTS ONLY!
The World-Renowned Tragedians
DAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER!
AND
EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER!
Of the London and Continental
Theatres,
In their Thrilling Tragedy of
THE KING’S CAMELEOPARD,
OR
THE ROYAL NONESUCH! ! !
Admission 50 cents.
Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which said:
LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED
“There,” says he, “if that line don’t fetch them, I don’t know Arkansaw!”
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CHAPTER XXIII
The Orneriness of Kings
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 onto 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 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. No. What we want is to go out of here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell the 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
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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 their turn now. Well, it is their turn,
and I’d give something to know how much they’d take for it. I 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.”
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“Is dat so?”
“You read about them once—you’ll see. Look at Henry the Eight; this ‘n’ ‘s a Sunday-school
Superintendent to 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 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 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 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 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 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.
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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 ag’in, 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 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 yit, en dat chile
stannin’ mos’ right in it, a-lookin’ down and mournin’, en de tears runnin’ down. My, but I 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-blam!—en my lan’, de chile never move’! My breff mos’ hop outer me; en I feel so—
so—I doan’ know 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 pow! jis’ as loud as I could yell. She
never 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!”
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CHAPTER XXIV
The King Turns Parson
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 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:
Sick Arab—but harmless when not out of his head.
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
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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 inshore,” 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
ain’t him, are you?”
“No, my name’s Blodgett—Elexander Blodgett—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 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
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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; I 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.”
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“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 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 histrionic
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 did live yesterday evening.”
Sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went all 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.
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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.
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CHAPTER XXV
All Full of Tears and Flapdoodle
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 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 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 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
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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, viz.:—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 aboveboard; 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, this ain’t bully nor noth’n! Oh, no, I reckon not! Why, Biljy, it beats the Nonesuch, 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:
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“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 spare it. I don’t k’yer noth’n ‘bout that—it’s the 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 upstairs 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 have got a rattlin’ clever head on you,” says the king. “Blest
if the old Nonesuch ain’t a heppin’ us out ag’in,” and 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
give it to the 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 more generous by
‘em if he hadn’t ben afeard o’ woundin’ his dear William and me. Now, wouldn’t he? Ther’ ain’t no
question ‘bout it in 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, Rob—sech poor sweet lambs as these ‘at he
loved so at sech a time? If I know William—and I 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
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leather-headed awhile; then all of a sudden he seems to catch his meaning, and jumps for the king, googooing 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 that ‘ll convince anybody the way he feels about it. Here, Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner,
take the money—take it 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 dear good souls!—how lovely!—how 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 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,
“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 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 orgo, outside, open, abroad; and the Hebrew jeesum, to plant, cover up;
hence inter. So, you see, funeral orgies is an open er public funeral.”
He was the worst I ever struck. Well, the iron-jawed man he laughed right in his face. Everybody was
shocked. Everybody says, “Why, 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 me!” says the doctor. “You talk like an Englishman, don’t you? It’s the worst
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imitation I ever heard. 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’s showed in forty ways that he wasHarvey, and knowed everybody
by name, and the names of the very dogs, and begged and begged him not to hurt Harvey’s feelings and
the poor girls’ 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
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 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 beg you to do it. Will you?”
Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was handsome! She says:
“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 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.
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CHAPTER XXVI
I Steal the King’s Plunder
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 doyou get biscuits to brown so nice?” and “Where, for the land’s sake, 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.”
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“I thought he lived in London?”
“Well, he does. Where would he live?”
“But I thought 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 didn’t, nuther.”
“You did!”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I never said nothing of the kind.”
“Well, what did you say, then?”
“Said he come to take the sea 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
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says:
“Do you go to church, too?”
“Yes—regular.”
“Where do you set?”
“Why, in our pew.”
“Whose pew?”
“Why, ourn—your Uncle Harvey’s.”
“His’n? What does he want with a pew?”
“Wants it to set in. What did you 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 never got to glory. It must
take ‘em a week.”
“Shucks, they don’t all of ‘em preach the same day—only 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 for?”
“Why, they’re for style. Don’t you know nothing?”
“Well, I don’t want to know no such foolishness as that. How is servants treated in England? Do they
treat ‘em better ‘n we treat our niggers?”
“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 you hain’t ever been to England by that. Why, Hare-l—why, Joanna,
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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 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, andhad 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, Jo?” 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 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 them feel ashamed.”
“Why, Maim, he said—”
“It don’t make no difference what he said—that ain’t the thing. The thing is for you to treat him 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, this is a girl that I’m letting that old reptile rob her of her money!
Then Susan 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 another one that I’m letting him rob her of her money!
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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 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 to-night 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—given back to us, flung at our heads, as you may say, when of
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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 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 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 ag’in, and that’s enough for them; they’re young and spry, and k’n easy earn a livin’.
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,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 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 ag’in, 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
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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.
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CHAPTER XXVII
Dead Peter has His Gold
I crept to their doors and listened; they was snoring. So I tiptoed along, and got downstairs 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 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
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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, “He had a 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
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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.”
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“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 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 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, 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 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, 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 sorry they was going out of
this region! And I believed they was sorry, and so did you, and so did everybody. Don’t ever tell me any
more that a nigger ain’t got any histrionic talent. Why, the way they played that thing it would fool
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 is that song—that draft?”
“In the bank for to be collected. Where would it be?”
“Well, that’s all right then, thank goodness.”
Says I, kind of timid-like:
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“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 that—you hear?” Then he says to the duke, “We got to jest swaller it
and say noth’n’: mum’s the word for us.”
As they was starting down the ladder the duke he chuckles again, and says:
“Quick sales 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, they’d be in this house yet and we 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 me again. He
give me down the banks for not coming and telling him I see the niggers come out of his room acting that
way—said any fool would ‘a’ knowed something was up. And then waltzed in and cussed 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 onto the
niggers, and yet hadn’t done the niggers no harm by it.
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CHAPTER XXVIII
Overreaching Don’t Pay
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 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 ever going to see each other any more!”
“But they will—and inside of two weeks—and I 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 again, say it again, say it 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 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?”
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“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 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 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 onto 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 second—we’ll have them tarred and feathered, and
flung in the river!”
Says I:
“Cert’nly. But do you mean before you go to Mr. Lothrop’s, or—”
“Oh,” she says, “what am I thinking about!” she says, and set right down again. “Don’t mind what I
said—please don’t—you won’t, now, 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 savehim, 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 tonight. 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?”
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“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 till eleven, and 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 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 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, that ain’t the ticket, Miss Mary Jane,” I says, “by no manner of means; go 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?”
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“Yes; never mind about them. They’ve got to stand it yet awhile. 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 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 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 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 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:
“Good-by. 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 prayfor you, too!”—and she was
gone.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 145
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 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 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 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?”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 146
“Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and consumption, and yaller janders, and brainfever, and I don’t know what all.”
“My land! And they call it the mumps?”
“That’s what Miss Mary Jane said.”
“Well, what in the nation do they call it the mumps for?”
“Why, because it 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 toe.’ Would ther’ be any sense in that? No. And ther’ ain’t no
sense in this, nuther. Is it ketching?”
“Is it ketching? Why, how you talk. Is a 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 would. Of 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 obleeged 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? 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 preacher going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to deceive a ship
clerk?—so as to get them to let Miss Mary Jane go aboard? Now you know he ain’t. What 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 see that they’d go and tell? Ther’
ain’t no way but just to not tell anybody at all.”
“Well, maybe you’re right—yes, I judge you are right.”
“But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she’s gone out awhile, anyway, so he won’t be uneasy
about her?”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 147
“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 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 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:
“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!”
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CHAPTER XXIX
I Light Out in the Storm
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 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 like an Englishman—not the king’s way, though the king’s 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’s
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—very likely, 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 mighty good!—and mighty ingenious—under the
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 gentlemen said, and was listening to the king now. And when the king got done this husky up and
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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.”
“How’d you come?”
“I come down on the Susan Powell from Cincinnati.”
“Well, then, how’d you come to be up at the Pint in the 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 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 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?”
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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 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 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’ 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:
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“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 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 them again; and then says: “These old letters is from Harvey
Wilks; and here’s 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 this old
gentleman’s handwriting, and anybody can tell, easy enough, he didn’t write them—fact is, the scratches
he makes ain’t properly writing at all. Now, here’s some letters from—”
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 his hand you’ve got there, not mine.”
“Well!” says the lawyer, “this 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 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—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 mule-headed old fool wouldn’t give in 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—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
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.”
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Then the old man turns toward 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 anybody sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that without any notice, because how was 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, 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 very tough question, ain’t it! 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. 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 this time, and says:
“There—you’ve heard what he said! Was there any such mark on Peter Wilks’s breast?”
Both of them spoke up and says:
“We didn’t see no such mark.”
“Good!” says the old gentleman. “Now, what you 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, and 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 didn’t. We never seen any marks at all.”
Well, everybody was in a state of mind now, and they sings out:
“The whole 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—gentlemen! Hear me just a word—just a single word—if you 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 them along, too!”
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“We’ll do it!” they all shouted; “and if we don’t find them marks we’ll lynch the whole gang!”
I 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 tattoomarks. 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!
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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, 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 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 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 onto the planks then, and give up; and it was all I could do to keep from crying.
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CHAPTER XXX
The Gold Saves the Thieves
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—please don’t, your majesty!”
“Quick, then, and tell us what 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 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 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 you ‘a’ done any different? Did you inquire around for 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 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 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 wear, too—longer than we’d need ‘em.”
They was still a minute—thinking; then the king says, kind of absent-minded like:
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“Mf! And we reckoned the niggers stole it!”
That made me squirm!
“Yes,” says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate and sarcastic, “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 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 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?”
“Yes, sir! I know you 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 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 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 did, I didn’t do it, anyway. But you not only had it in mind to do it, but you done
it.”
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“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
was; but you—I mean somebody—got in ahead o’ me.”
“It’s a lie! You done it, and you got to say you done it, or—”
The king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out:
“’Nough!—I own 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 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 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 ‘None-such’ and one
thing or another, and scoop it all!”
The king says, timid, and still a-snuffling:
“Why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffersit; it warn’t me.”
“Dry up! I don’t want to hear no more out of you!” says the duke. “And now you see what you got by it.
They’ve got all their own money back, and all of ourn but a shekel or twobesides. G’long to bed, and don’t
you deffersit me no more deffersits, long ‘s you live!”
So the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to his bottle for comfort, and before long the duke
tackled 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 moneybag 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.
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CHAPTER XXXI
You Can’t Pray a Lie
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 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 the chance on top of it. So me and the duke went up to
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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’s 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 reckon! There’s two hundred dollars 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 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 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 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 Newrleans. No-sirree-bob, they ain’t no
trouble ‘bout 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
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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 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 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 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 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 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:
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.
HUCK FINN.   
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
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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 smallpox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best
friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the 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 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-lo! Where’d 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.”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 162
Then he didn’t look so joyful, and says:
“What was your idea for asking 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 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 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 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.”
“Sold him?” I says, and begun to cry; “why, he was my nigger, and that was my money. Where is
he?—I want my nigger.”
“Well, you can’t get your nigger, that’s all—so dry up your blubbering. Looky here—do you think you’d
venture to blow on us? Blamed if I think I’d trust you. Why, if you 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
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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 won’t, you’ll start 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 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 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 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’s. 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.
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CHAPTER XXXII
I Have a New Name
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 you. As a general thing it makes a body wish he was
dead, too, and done with it all.
Phelps’s 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 onto 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 smokehouse back of the kitchen; three little
nigger cabins in a row t’other side the smokehouse; 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 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;
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and more a-coming; you could see them sailing over fences and around corners from every-wheres.
A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin in her hand, singing out, “Begone!
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 fortyfive 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 you, at last!—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 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?”
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“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 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 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 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
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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-ness gracious!” she says, “what in the world 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 must ‘a’ come; and you’ve missed him along the
road. I know it’s so—something tells me so.”
“Why, Sally, I couldn’t miss him along the road—you know that.”
“But oh, dear, dear, what 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 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 ‘tis?”
“I hain’t no idea. Who is it?”
“It’s Tom 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 theydidn’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.
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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 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.
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CHAPTER XXXIII
The Pitiful Ending of Royalty
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 me
for?”
I says:
“I hain’t come back—I hain’t been 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 at all?”
“No. I warn’t ever murdered at all—I played 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:
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“All right; but wait a minute. There’s one more thing—a thing that 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 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 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
nigger-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 you don’t know nothing about him, and I don’t know nothing about him.”
Then he 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 every year, and so
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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 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 let you walk—it wouldn’t be Southern hospitality to do it. Come right in.”
“Oh, 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
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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.”
“They told you I would. Whoever told you’s another lunatic. I never heard the beat of it. Who’s 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 reckon you won’t!”
“No’m, I’m honest about it; I won’t ever do it again—till you ask me.”
“Till I ask you! Well, I never see the beat of it in my born days! I lay you’ll be the Methusalemnumskull 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—” 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 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 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 you at all, but only Tom. Sis never
wrote to me about anybody coming but him.”
“It’s because it warn’t 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
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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 middle of it—it was as much as half after eight then—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 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 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.
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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.
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CHAPTER XXXIV
We Cheer Up Jim
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?”
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“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?”
“Work? Why, cert’nly it would work, like rats a-fighting. But it’s too blame’ simple; there ain’t nothing
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 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 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 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 say I was going to help steal the nigger?”
“Yes.”
“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
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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 hope we can find a
way that’s a little more complicated than 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 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 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 latchstring, 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 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 mudpuddle, and he says:
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“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? That warn’t the plan.”
“No, it warn’t; but it’s the plan 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, Huck! En good 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 who know us?”
“Why, dis-yer runaway nigger.”
“I don’t reckon he does; but what put that into your head?”
“What 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. Who sung out? When did he sing out? What did he sing out?” And turns
to me, perfectly ca’m, and says, “Did 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.”
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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 ain’t no witches. I jis’ wish to goodness he was heah now—den what would he say! I jis’ bet he
couldn’ fine no way to git aroun’ it distime. But it’s awluz jis’ so; people dat’s sot, stays sot; dey won’t look
into noth’n’ en fine it out f’r deyselves, en when 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.
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CHAPTER XXXV
Dark, Deep-laid Plans
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 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 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 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 let 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 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 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 its being sawed, and thinks the bed-leg is perfectly
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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 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 has got use for it. How you talk, you better say; you don’t know nothing about it. He’s got to have
a rope ladder; they all do.”
“What in the nation can he do with it?”
“Do with it? He can hide it in his bed, can’t he? That’s what they all do; and 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 don’t do nothing with it? ain’t it there in his bed, for a clue, after he’s gone? and don’t you
reckon they’ll want clues? Of course they will. And you wouldn’t leave them any? That would be a pretty
howdy-do, 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
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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 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 clothes-line.”
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—Jim can’t write.” “S’pose he 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.”
“Prisoners don’t have geese running around the donjon-keep to pull pens out of, you muggins. They
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. They wouldn’t use a goosequill 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 read his plates.”
“That ain’t got anything to do with it, Huck Finn. All he’s got to do is to write on the plate and throw it
out. You don’t 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 prisoner’s plates.”
“But it’s somebody’s plates, ain’t it?”
“Well, spos’n it is? What does the prisoner care whose—”
He broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn blowing. So we cleared out for the house.
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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 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 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 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 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.”
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“It don’t make no difference how foolish it is, it’s the right way—and it’s the regular way. And there
ain’t no 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 he at it, you reckon?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, guess.”
“I don’t know. A month and a half.”
“Thirty-seven year—and he come out in China. That’s the kind. I wish the bottom of this fortress was
solid rock.”
“Jim don’t know nobody in China.”
“What’s 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 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 last, too. You don’t reckon it’s going to take thirty-seven years to dig out through a 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 let 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 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 smokehouse.”
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.”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 185
So I done it.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 186
CHAPTER XXXVI
Trying to Help Jim
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 counterpin 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 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 let on it’s case-knives.”
“Now you’re 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.”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 187
“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 you to dig Jim out with a pick, withoutany 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 case-knife.”
I didn’t know just what to do—but then I thought. I scratched around amongst the old tools, and got a
pickax 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 lightningrod, 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
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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, 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:
“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 onto 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
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 189
wisht I may die right heah in dese tracks. I did, mos’ sholy. Mars Sid, I feltum—I 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 breakfasttime? It’s because they’re hungry; that’s the reason. You make them a witch pie; that’s the thing for 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!”
Tom advises a witch pie
“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 handle the witch-things.”
“Hannel ‘m, Mars Sid? What 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.”
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CHAPTER XXXVII
Jim Gets His Witch-pie
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 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 off, because—”
“Because you hain’t got but one on. Just 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 do with ‘m all is more’n I can make out. A
body’d think you would learn to take some sort of care of ‘em at your time of life.”
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“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 off of me.”
“Well, it ain’t 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 that ain’t all. There was ten, and now ther’ only nine. The
calf got the shirt, I reckon, but the calf never took the spoon, that’s certain.”
“Why, what else is gone, Sally?”
“Ther’s six 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—you’d never find it out; but you can’t lay the
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 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 onto the passage, and says:
“Missus, dey’s a sheet gone.”
“A sheet gone! Well, for the land’s sake!”
“I’ll stop up them holes to-day,” says Uncle Silas, looking sorrowful.
“Oh, do shet up!—s’pose the rats took the sheet? Where’s it gone, Lize?”
“Clah to goodness I hain’t no notion, Miss’ Sally. She wuz on de clo’s-line yistiddy, but she done gone:
she ain’ dah no mo’ now.”
“I reckon the world is coming to an end. I 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 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?”
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“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.”
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 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 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 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’ ain’t but nine!” she says. “Why, what in the world—plague take the things,
I’ll count ‘m again.”
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So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting, she says:
“Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther’s 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 count ‘m?”
“I know, but—”
“Well, I’ll count ‘m again.”
So I smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other time. Well, she 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 cler 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 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 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 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.
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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 washpan—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.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 195
CHAPTER XXXVIII
“Here a Captive Heart Busted”
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 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 is considerble trouble?—what you going to do?—how you going to get around it? Jim’s 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 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 or in the dexter base, a saltire murrey in the fess, with a dog,
couchant, for common charge, and under his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron vert in a
chief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field azure, with the nombril points rampant on a dancette
indented; crest, a runaway nigger, sable, with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a couple
of gules for supporters, which is you and me; motto, Maggiore fretta, minore atto. Got it out of a book—
means the more haste the less speed.”
“Geewhillikins,” I says, “but what does the rest of it mean?”
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 196
“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 some of it? What’s a fess?”
“A fess—a fess is—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:

1. Here a captive heart busted.
2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life.
3. Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary
   captivity.
4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger,
   natural son of Louis XIV.
   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 onto 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 onto 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
   The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 197
   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 halfway; 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’ 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 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.”
   “Tame it!”
   “Yes—easy enough. Every animal is grateful for kindness and petting, and they wouldn’t 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.”
   “Please, Tom—doan’ talk so! I can’t stan’ it! He’d 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 ast him. En mo’ en dat, I doan’want him to sleep wid me.”
   “Jim, don’t act so foolish. A prisoner’s 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
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   way you could ever think of to save your life.”
   “Why, Mars Tom, I doan’ want no sich glory. Snake take ‘n bite Jim’s chin off, den whah is de glory?
   No, sah, I doan’ want no sich doin’s.”
   “Blame it, can’t you try? I only want you to try—you needn’t keep it up if it don’t work.”
   “But de trouble all 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 leave, dat’s 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’ dem, Mars Tom, but blame’ ‘f I couldn’ get along widout um, I tell you dat. I never knowed
   b’fo’ ‘twas so much bother and trouble to be a prisoner.”
   “Well, it 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’ 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 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. 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 jew’s-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 jew’s-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, dey will, I reck’n, Mars Tom, but what kine er time is 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:
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   “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 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 start’n one wid tears.”
   “That ain’t the idea. You 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 coffeepot, 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 jew’s-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.
   The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 200
   CHAPTER XXXIX
   Tom Writes Nonnamous Letters
   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 suppertime, 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.
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   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 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 line 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 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 everything. They’re so confiding and mullet-headed they don’t take notice of nothing at all. So if we
   don’t 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 to it.”
   “Well, as for me, Tom, that’s the way I’d like.”
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   “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 then, would you?”
   “No, but there won’t be nobody to see what I look like, anyway.”
   “That ain’t got nothing to do with it. The thing for us to do is just to do our duty, and not worry about
   whether anybody 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:
   Keep a sharp lookout. Trouble is brewing. Beware.
   UNKNOWN FRIEND.
   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 no way 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 twothirds 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
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   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:
   Don’t betray me, I wish to be your friend. There is a desprate gang of cutthroats 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 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.
   UNKNOWN FRIEND.
   The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 204
   CHAPTER XL
   A Mixed-up and Splendid Rescue
   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 left it laid out, then—it ain’t here.”
   “We can get along without it,” I says.
   “We can get along 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 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.”
   “Noth’n!”
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   “No’m.”
   “Well, then, what possessed you to go down there this time of night?”
   “I don’t know ‘m.”
   “You don’t know? Don’t answer me that way. Tom, I want to know what you been 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 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 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
   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, “I’m for going and getting in the cabin first and rightnow, 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 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 tell me that was what you’d
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   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? 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! 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
   padlock, and heard a man say:
   “I 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 bang,
   bang, 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 onto 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
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   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 onto the raft I says:
   “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
   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 as 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
   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 his biography; no, sir, we’d ‘a’ whooped him over the border—that’s what we’d ‘a’ done with
   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 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 bet he wouldn’t! Well, den, is Jim gywne to say it? No, sah—I doan’
   budge a step out’n dis place ‘dout adoctor; 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
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   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.
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   CHAPTER XLI
   “Must ‘a’ Been Sperits”
   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 see 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 the 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 I’ll do. I’ll wait, and when he comes back if he
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   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, 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 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 could he ever want of—”
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   “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, look at it, s’I—what could he ‘a’ wanted of it,
   s’I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she—”
   “But how in the nation’d they ever git that grindstone in there, anyway? ‘n’ who dug that-air hole? ‘n’
   who—”
   “My very 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 did they git that grindstone in there? s’I. Without help,
   mind you—’thout help! Thar’s where ‘tis. Don’t tell me, s’I; there wuz help, s’I; ‘n’ ther’ wuz a plenty help,
   too, s’I; ther’s ben a dozen a-helpin’ that nigger, ‘n’ I lay I’d skin every last nigger on this place but I’d find
   out who done it, s’I; moreover, s’I—”
   “A dozen says you!—forty couldn’t ‘a’ done everything 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 well say it, Brer Hightower! It’s jist as I was a-sayin’ to Brer Phelps, his own self. S’e, what
   do 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? Think of it? s’I. I lay it never sawed itself off, s’I—somebody 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 anybody k’n
   start a better one, s’I, let him 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 help him, Brother Marples! Well, I reckon you’d 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 theydidn’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 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 us but the
   Injun Territory robbers too, and actuly gets 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 heard of. Why, speritscouldn’t ‘a’ done better and been no smarter. And I reckon they must ‘a’ been
   sperits—because, because, you know our dogs, and ther’ ain’t no better; well, them dogs never even got on
   the track of ‘m once! You explain that to me if you can!—any of you!”
   “Well, it does beat—”
   “Laws alive, I never—”
   “So help me, I wouldn’t ‘a’ be—”
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   “House-thieves as well as—”
   “Goodnessgracioussakes, I’d ‘a’ ben afeard to live in sich a—”
   “Fraid to live!—why, I was that scared I dasn’t hardly go to bed, or get up, or lay down, or 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 now, in
   the daytime; but I says to myself, there’s my two poor boys asleep, ‘way upstairs in that lonesome room,
   and I declare to goodness I was that uneasy ‘t I crep’ up there and locked ‘em in! I 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 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 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; 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 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 awhile 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
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   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, won’t
   you? And you won’t go? For my sake.”
   Laws knows I 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.
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   CHAPTER XLII
   Why They Didn’t Hang Jim
   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 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
   The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 215
   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-by 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 helpsomehow; 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
   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 faithfuler, 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 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
   The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 216
   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 peacefuler 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 home! How’s that? Where’s the raft?”
   “It’s all right,” I says.
   “And Jim?”
   “The same,” I says, but couldn’t say it pretty brash. But he never noticed, but says:
   “Good! Splendid! 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, the whole thing. There ain’t but one; how we set the runaway nigger free—me and Tom.”
   “Good land! Set the run—What is the child talking about! Dear, dear, out of his head again!”
   “No, I ain’t out of my HEAD; I know all what I’m talking about. We did set him free—me and Tom. We
   laid out to do it, and we done it. And we done it elegant, too.” He’d got a start, and she never checked him
   The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 217
   up, just set and stared and stared, and let him clip along, and I see it warn’t no use for 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 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 make
   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 snake’s 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 wasn’t it bully. Aunty!”
   “Well, I never heard the likes of it in all my born days! So it was 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—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 was so proud and joyful, he just couldn’t hold in, and his tongue just 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:
   “Well, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it now, for mind I tell you if I catch you meddling with
   him again—”
   “Meddling with who?” Tom says, dropping his smile and looking surprised.
   “With 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?”
   “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 right to shut him up! 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!”
   The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 218
   “What does the child mean?”
   “I mean every word I say, Aunt Sally, and if somebody don’t go, 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 said so; and she set him free in her will.”
   “Then what on earth did you want to set him free for, seeing he was already free?”
   “Well, that is a question, I must say; and just like women! Why, I wanted the adventure of it; and I’d
   ‘a’ waded neck-deep in blood to—goodness alive, Aunt 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 better turn y’r head away—I would if I was you, Tom.”
   “Oh, deary me!” says Aunt Sally; “is he changed so? Why, that ain’t Tom, it’s Sid; Tom’s—Tom’s—why,
   where is Tom? He was here a minute ago.”
   “You mean where’s Huck 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 see him. That 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 ‘taint 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 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 Sid had come all right and
   safe, she says to herself:
   The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 219
   “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 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—what?” he says, kind of pettish.
   “Don’t you what me, you impudent thing—hand out them letters.”
   “What letters?”
   “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 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 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.
   The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 220
   CHAPTER THE LAST
   Nothing More to Write
   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:
   “Dah, now, Huck, what I tell you?—what I tell you up dah on Jackson Islan’? I tole you I got a hairy
   breas’, en what’s de sign un it; en I tole you I ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich ag’in; en it’s come
   true; en heah she is! Dah, now! doan’ talk to me—signs is signs, mine I tell you; en I knowed jis’ ‘s well ‘at I
   ‘uz gwineter be rich ag’in 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:
   The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 221
   “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.