DALA

Digital American Literature Anthology

Version 1.5

Edited by Dr. Michael O'Conner, Millikin University

Unit 12: Mark Twain and the Rise of Realism

American Literary Realism

Broadly defined as "the faithful representation of reality" or "verisimilitude," realism is a school of writing that shares a broad range of similar characteristics. Although strictly speaking, realism is a technique, it also denotes a particular kind of subject matter, especially the representation of middle-class life. A reaction against literary romanticism, an interest in scientific method, the systematizing of the study of documentary history, and the influence of rational philosophy all affected the rise of realism.

According to William Harmon and Hugh Holman, "Where romanticists transcend the immediate to find the ideal, and naturalists plumb the actual or superficial to find the scientific laws that control its actions, realists center their attention to a remarkable degree on the immediate, the here and now, the specific action, and the verifiable consequence" (A Handbook to Literature 428).

 Core writers of American Realism included:

Mark Twain
William Dean Howells
Henry James

As editor of the Atlantic Monthly and of Harper's New Monthly Magazine, William Dean Howells promoted writers of realism as well as those writing local color fiction.

The realism of Henry James and Mark Twain was critically acclaimed throughout the twentieth century; Howellsian realism, however, fell into disfavor as part of an early twentieth century rebellion against the "genteel tradition."

There are multiple "varieties" of realism, which may sometime be confusing.  Of the core American realists, Howells bases his reality firmly within the middle classes, often flavored with New England sensibilities.  Twain, as a "southwestern humorist," is more often associated with Midwestern, Southern or Western sensibilities away from the East Coast.  James writes more often about upper class characters and utilizes European settings and characters in his work, giving it an international flair.  His distinctive "interior" point of view makes his realism much more psychological.  

Another form of literary realism, is sometimes call "local color" or "regional writing."  It carried a strong emphasis on a specific regional setting and the cultures and customs of that setting.  Writers like Sarah Orne Jewett and Kate Chopin are consider realistic regional writers.

Yet another subset of realism is identified as "literary naturalism" with its own unique qualities and characteristics. Stephen Crane and Theodore Dreiser would be called naturalists.

Many critics have suggested that there is no clear distinction between realism and its related late nineteenth-century movement, naturalism. As Donald Pizer notes in his introduction to The Cambridge Companion to American Realism and Naturalism: Howells to London, the term "realism" is difficult to define, in part because it is used differently in European contexts than in American literature. Pizer suggests that "whatever was being produced in fiction during the 1870s and 1880s that was new, interesting, and roughly similar in a number of ways can be designated as realism, and that an equally new, interesting, and roughly similar body of writing produced at the turn of the century can be designated as naturalism" (5). Put rather too simplistically, one rough distinction made by critics is that realism espousing a deterministic philosophy and focusing on the lower classes is considered naturalism.

In American literature, the term "realism" usually encompasses the period of time from the end of the Civil War to the turn of the century during which William Dean Howells, Rebecca Harding Davis, Henry James, Mark Twain, and others wrote fiction devoted to accurate representation and an exploration of American lives in various contexts. As the United States grew rapidly after the Civil War, the increasing rates of literacy, the rapid growth in industrialism and urbanization, an expanding population base due to immigration, and a relative rise in middle-class affluence provided a fertile literary environment for readers interested in understanding these rapid shifts in culture. In drawing attention to this connection, Amy Kaplan has called realism a "strategy for imagining and managing the threats of social change" (The Social Construction of American Realism ix).

Richard Chase provides a more detailed listing of characteristics of Realism in his book, The American Novel and Its Tradition:

• Renders reality closely and in comprehensive detail. Selective presentation of reality with an emphasis on verisimilitude, even at the expense of a well-made plot
• Character is more important than action and plot; complex ethical choices are often the subject.
• Characters appear in their real complexity of temperament and motive; they are in explicable relation to nature, to each other, to their social class, to their own past.
• Class is important; the novel has traditionally served the interests and aspirations of an insurgent middle class. (See Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel)
• Events will usually be plausible. Realistic novels avoid the sensational, dramatic elements of naturalistic novels and romances.
• Diction is natural vernacular, not heightened or poetic; the tone may be comic, satiric, or matter-of-fact.
• Objectivity in presentation becomes increasingly important: overt authorial comments or intrusions, like we see in Hawthorne's work, diminish as the century progresses.
• Interior or psychological realism (often associated with James) a variant form.

Note this Comparison Chart between Romanticism and Realism

Mark Twain (1835-1910)

[image] Mark Twain was born as Samuel Langhorne Clements on November 30, 1835 in the hamlet of Florida, Missouri, under the sign of Halley’s Comet. He was the son of Jane Lampton and John Marshall Clemens. He would be one of four surviving siblings, including brothers Orion and Henry, along with sister Pamela. The family moved to the village of Hannibal, Missouri, on the Mississippi River when Twain was four. This town would play an important role in this author’s later popular fiction, reimagined as the St. Petersburg of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. When Twain was 11 his father died, and he soon began working as a printer’s apprentice, never completing any formal education. He worked as a typesetter for newspapers around the country and tried his hand at writing from time to time. In his early twenties, Twain decided to be a riverboat pilot and apprenticed under Horace Bixby. After earning his license, he piloted on the Mississippi and Ohio until the outbreak of the Civil War. Here he often heard the linesman’s call, mark twain, indicating river water two fathoms (12 feet) deep. During the war, Twain accompanied his brother Orion to Nevada territory. While in the West, he tried his hand at prospecting, but eventually became a full-time writer for various newspapers. Twain’s first popular story, “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County,” was widely republished in papers around the country. After trips to the Sandwich Islands (Hawaii) and Europe, and a successful lecture tour, Twain wrote The Innocents Abroad (1869) and Roughing It (1872), enhancing his reputation as an author. He married Olivia Langdon, of respectable eastern stock, in 1870 and would have three daughters. Over the next few decades, Twain continued to write prolifically and produced many of the books he is best known for, including The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876), The Prince and the Pauper (1881), Life on the Mississippi (1883), Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885) and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1889). A number of later works assumed darker tones, accompanying many setbacks in Twain’s personal life, including poor investments, near bankruptcy, and the deaths of one of his daughters and his beloved wife. But as he aged, Twain became a worldwide icon and popular personality, constantly followed by the press, and known for his wit, humor, and his political commentary. Twain died on April 21, 1910, when Halley’s Comet was in the night skies once again. He is buried with the other members of his family in Elmira, New York. Twain biographies are plentiful. Two key examinations include Ron Power’s Mark Twain: A Life (2005) and Justin Kaplan’s Mr. Clemens and Mark Twain (1966). From the multitude of critical examinations, students might find especially valuable Gregg Camfield’s The Oxford Companion to Mark Twain (2003), R. Kent Rasmussen’s Critical Companion to Mark Twain: A Literary Reference to His Life and Works (2007), and Messent’s and Budd’s A Companion to Mark Twain (2005).

[resources for Twain]

from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Chapter IX, A Solemn Situation

Twain, Mark. "Chapter IX." The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Hartford, Conn., Chicago, Ill., Cincinnati, Oh.: The American Publishing Company, 1884.

source of etext: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/74/74-h/74-h.htm#c9

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

It was a graveyard of the old-fashioned Western kind. It was on a hill, about a mile and a half from the village. It had a crazy board fence around it, which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest of the time, but stood upright nowhere. Grass and weeds grew rank over the whole cemetery. All the old graves were sunken in, there was not a tombstone on the place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards staggered over the graves, leaning for support and finding none. "Sacred to the memory of" So-and-So had been painted on them once, but it could no longer have been read, on the most of them, now, even if there had been light.

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

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

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

Huckleberry whispered:

"I wisht I knowed. It's awful solemn like, ain't it?"

"I bet it is."

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

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

"O' course he does. Least his sperrit does."

Tom, after a pause:

"I wish I'd said Mister Williams. But I never meant any harm. Everybody calls him Hoss."

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

This was a damper, and conversation died again.

Presently Tom seized his comrade's arm and said:

"Sh!"

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

"Sh! There 'tis again! Didn't you hear it?"

"I—"

"There! Now you hear it."

"Lord, Tom, they're coming! They're coming, sure. What'll we do?"

"I dono. Think they'll see us?"

"Oh, Tom, they can see in the dark, same as cats. I wisht I hadn't come."

"Oh, don't be afeard. I don't believe they'll bother us. We ain't doing any harm. If we keep perfectly still, maybe they won't notice us at all."

"I'll try to, Tom, but, Lord, I'm all of a shiver."

"Listen!"

The boys bent their heads together and scarcely breathed. A muffled sound of voices floated up from the far end of the graveyard.

"Look! See there!" whispered Tom. "What is it?"

"It's devil-fire. Oh, Tom, this is awful."

Some vague figures approached through the gloom, swinging an old-fashioned tin lantern that freckled the ground with innumerable little spangles of light. Presently Huckleberry whispered with a shudder:

"It's the devils sure enough. Three of 'em! Lordy, Tom, we're goners! Can you pray?"

"I'll try, but don't you be afeard. They ain't going to hurt us. 'Now I lay me down to sleep, I—'"

"Sh!"

"What is it, Huck?"

"They're humans! One of 'em is, anyway. One of 'em's old Muff Potter's voice."

"No—'tain't so, is it?"

"I bet I know it. Don't you stir nor budge. He ain't sharp enough to notice us. Drunk, the same as usual, likely—blamed old rip!"

"All right, I'll keep still. Now they're stuck. Can't find it. Here they come again. Now they're hot. Cold again. Hot again. Red hot! They're p'inted right, this time. Say, Huck, I know another o' them voices; it's Injun Joe."

"That's so—that murderin' half-breed! I'd druther they was devils a dern sight. What kin they be up to?"

The whisper died wholly out, now, for the three men had reached the grave and stood within a few feet of the boys' hiding-place.

"Here it is," said the third voice; and the owner of it held the lantern up and revealed the face of young Doctor Robinson.

Potter and Injun Joe were carrying a handbarrow with a rope and a couple of shovels on it. They cast down their load and began to open the grave. The doctor put the lantern at the head of the grave and came and sat down with his back against one of the elm trees. He was so close the boys could have touched him.

"Hurry, men!" he said, in a low voice; "the moon might come out at any moment."

They growled a response and went on digging. For some time there was no noise but the grating sound of the spades discharging their freight of mould and gravel. It was very monotonous. Finally a spade struck upon the coffin with a dull woody accent, and within another minute or two the men had hoisted it out on the ground. They pried off the lid with their shovels, got out the body and dumped it rudely on the ground. The moon drifted from behind the clouds and exposed the pallid face. The barrow was got ready and the corpse placed on it, covered with a blanket, and bound to its place with the rope. Potter took out a large spring-knife and cut off the dangling end of the rope and then said:

"Now the cussed thing's ready, Sawbones, and you'll just out with another five, or here she stays."

"That's the talk!" said Injun Joe.

"Look here, what does this mean?" said the doctor. "You required your pay in advance, and I've paid you."

"Yes, and you done more than that," said Injun Joe, approaching the doctor, who was now standing. "Five years ago you drove me away from your father's kitchen one night, when I come to ask for something to eat, and you said I warn't there for any good; and when I swore I'd get even with you if it took a hundred years, your father had me jailed for a vagrant. Did you think I'd forget? The Injun blood ain't in me for nothing. And now I've got you, and you got to settle, you know!"

He was threatening the doctor, with his fist in his face, by this time. The doctor struck out suddenly and stretched the ruffian on the ground. Potter dropped his knife, and exclaimed:

"Here, now, don't you hit my pard!" and the next moment he had grappled with the doctor and the two were struggling with might and main, trampling the grass and tearing the ground with their heels. Injun Joe sprang to his feet, his eyes flaming with passion, snatched up Potter's knife, and went creeping, catlike and stooping, round and round about the combatants, seeking an opportunity. All at once the doctor flung himself free, seized the heavy headboard of Williams' grave and felled Potter to the earth with it—and in the same instant the half-breed saw his chance and drove the knife to the hilt in the young man's breast. He reeled and fell partly upon Potter, flooding him with his blood, and in the same moment the clouds blotted out the dreadful spectacle and the two frightened boys went speeding away in the dark.

Presently, when the moon emerged again, Injun Joe was standing over the two forms, contemplating them. The doctor murmured inarticulately, gave a long gasp or two and was still. The half-breed muttered:

"That score is settled—damn you."

Then he robbed the body. After which he put the fatal knife in Potter's open right hand, and sat down on the dismantled coffin. Three—four—five minutes passed, and then Potter began to stir and moan. His hand closed upon the knife; he raised it, glanced at it, and let it fall, with a shudder. Then he sat up, pushing the body from him, and gazed at it, and then around him, confusedly. His eyes met Joe's.

"Lord, how is this, Joe?" he said.

"It's a dirty business," said Joe, without moving.

"What did you do it for?"

"I! I never done it!"

"Look here! That kind of talk won't wash."

Potter trembled and grew white.

"I thought I'd got sober. I'd no business to drink to-night. But it's in my head yet—worse'n when we started here. I'm all in a muddle; can't recollect anything of it, hardly. Tell me, Joe—honest, now, old feller—did I do it? Joe, I never meant to—'pon my soul and honor, I never meant to, Joe. Tell me how it was, Joe. Oh, it's awful—and him so young and promising."

"Why, you two was scuffling, and he fetched you one with the headboard and you fell flat; and then up you come, all reeling and staggering like, and snatched the knife and jammed it into him, just as he fetched you another awful clip—and here you've laid, as dead as a wedge til now."

"Oh, I didn't know what I was a-doing. I wish I may die this minute if I did. It was all on account of the whiskey and the excitement, I reckon. I never used a weepon in my life before, Joe. I've fought, but never with weepons. They'll all say that. Joe, don't tell! Say you won't tell, Joe—that's a good feller. I always liked you, Joe, and stood up for you, too. Don't you remember? You won't tell, will you, Joe?" And the poor creature dropped on his knees before the stolid murderer, and clasped his appealing hands.

"No, you've always been fair and square with me, Muff Potter, and I won't go back on you. There, now, that's as fair as a man can say."

"Oh, Joe, you're an angel. I'll bless you for this the longest day I live." And Potter began to cry.

"Come, now, that's enough of that. This ain't any time for blubbering. You be off yonder way and I'll go this. Move, now, and don't leave any tracks behind you."

Potter started on a trot that quickly increased to a run. The half-breed stood looking after him. He muttered:

"If he's as much stunned with the lick and fuddled with the rum as he had the look of being, he won't think of the knife till he's gone so far he'll be afraid to come back after it to such a place by himself—chicken-heart!"

Two or three minutes later the murdered man, the blanketed corpse, the lidless coffin, and the open grave were under no inspection but the moon's. The stillness was complete again, too.

[resources for Twain]

from Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Twain, Mark. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. New York: Charles L. Webster and Company, 1885.

source of etext:  https://www.gutenberg.org/files/76/76-h/76-h.htm

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

Scene:  The Mississippi Valley

Time:  Forty to fifty years ago [from 1885]

CHAPTER I.

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 Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it.  And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

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

“Who dah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some thought it would be good to kill the 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?”

“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 Jo Harper second captain of the Gang, and so started home.

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

CHAPTER III.

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

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

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

We played robber now and then about a month, and then I resigned.  All the boys did.  We hadn’t robbed nobody, hadn’t killed any people, but only just pretended.  We used to hop out of the woods and go charging down on hog-drivers and women in carts taking garden stuff to market, but we never hived any of them.  Tom Sawyer called the hogs “ingots,” and he called the turnips and stuff “julery,” and we would go to the cave and powwow over what we had done, and how many people we had killed and marked.  But I couldn’t see no profit in it.  One time Tom sent a boy to run about town with a blazing stick, which he called a slogan (which was the sign for the Gang to get together), and then he said he had got secret news by his spies that next day a whole parcel of Spanish merchants and rich A-rabs was going to camp in Cave Hollow with two hundred elephants, and six hundred camels, and over a thousand “sumter” mules, all loaded down with di’monds, and they didn’t have only a guard of four hundred soldiers, and so we would lay in ambuscade, as he called it, and kill the lot and scoop the things.  He said we must slick up our swords and guns, and get ready.  He never could go after even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords and guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath and broomsticks, and you might scour at them till you rotted, and then they warn’t worth a mouthful of ashes more than what they was before.  I didn’t believe we could lick such a crowd of Spaniards and A-rabs, but I wanted to see the camels and elephants, so I was on hand next day, Saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got the word we rushed out of the woods and down the hill.  But there warn’t no Spaniards and A-rabs, and there warn’t no camels nor no elephants.  It warn’t anything but a Sunday-school picnic, and only a primer-class at that.  We busted it up, and chased the children up the hollow; but we never got anything but some doughnuts and jam, though Ben Rogers got a rag doll, and Jo Harper got a hymn-book and a tract; and then the teacher charged in, and made us drop everything and cut.

I didn’t see no di’monds, and I told Tom Sawyer so.  He said there was loads of them there, anyway; and he said there was A-rabs there, too, and elephants and things.  I said, why couldn’t we see them, then?  He said if I warn’t so ignorant, but had read a book called 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.”

“Who makes them tear around so?”

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

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

“How you talk, Huck Finn.  Why, you’d 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.

CHAPTER IV.

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, my boy, you are all out of breath.  Did you come for your interest?”

“No, sir,” I says; “is there some for me?”

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

“No, sir,” I says, “I don’t want to spend it.  I don’t want it at all—nor the six thousand, nuther.  I want you to take it; I want to give it to you—the six thousand and all.”

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

“Why, what can you mean, my boy?”

I says, “Don’t you ask me no questions about it, please.  You’ll take it—won’t you?”

He says:

“Well, I’m puzzled.  Is something the matter?”

“Please take it,” says I, “and don’t ask me nothing—then I won’t have to tell no lies.”

He studied a while, and then he says:

“Oho-o!  I think I see.  You want to sell all your property to me—not give it.  That’s the correct idea.”

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

“There; you see it says ‘for a consideration.’  That means I have bought it of you and paid you for it.  Here’s a dollar for you.  Now you sign it.”

So I signed it, and left.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

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 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 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 for him.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI.

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 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 towards the end of it when I heard pap’s gun in the woods.  I got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in.

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

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

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

I got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark.  While I was cooking supper the old man took a swig or two and got sort of warmed up, and went to ripping again.  He had been drunk over in town, and laid in the gutter all night, and he was a sight to look at.  A body would a thought he was Adam—he was just all mud.  Whenever his liquor begun to work he most always went for the govment, 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 I told ’em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face.  Lots of ’em heard me, and can tell what I said.  Says I, for two cents I’d leave the blamed country and never come a-near it agin.  Them’s the very words.  I says look at my hat—if you call it a hat—but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it’s below my chin, and then it ain’t rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o’ stove-pipe.  Look at it, says I—such a hat for me to wear—one of the wealthiest men in this town if I could git my rights.

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

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

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

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

“Tramp—tramp—tramp; that’s the dead; tramp—tramp—tramp; they’re coming after me; but I won’t go.  Oh, they’re here! don’t touch me—don’t! hands off—they’re cold; let go.  Oh, let a poor devil alone!”

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.

“GIT up!  What you ’bout?”

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

“What you doin’ with this gun?”

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

“Somebody tried to get in, so I was laying for him.”

“Why didn’t you roust me out?”

“Well, I tried to, but I couldn’t; I couldn’t budge you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I didn’t lose no time.  The next minute I was a-spinning down stream soft but quick in the shade of the bank.  I made two mile and a half, and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more towards the middle of the river, because pretty soon I would be passing the ferry landing, and people might see me and hail me.  I got out amongst the driftwood, and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her float.

I laid there, and had a good rest and a smoke out of my pipe, looking away into the sky; not a cloud in it.  The sky looks ever so deep when you lay down on your back in the moonshine; I never knowed it before.  And how far a body can hear on the water such nights!  I heard people talking at the ferry landing. I heard what they said, too—every word of it.  One man said it was getting towards the long days and the short nights now.  T’other one said this warn’t one of the short ones, he reckoned—and then they laughed, and he said it over again, and they laughed again; then they waked up another fellow and told him, and laughed, but he didn’t laugh; he ripped out something brisk, and said let him alone.  The first fellow said he ’lowed to tell it to his old woman—she would think it was pretty good; but he said that warn’t nothing to some things he had said in his time. I heard one man say it was nearly three o’clock, and he hoped daylight wouldn’t wait more than about a week longer.  After that the talk got further and further away, and I couldn’t make out the words any more; but I could hear the mumble, and now and then a laugh, too, but it seemed a long ways off.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I didn’t see nothing, I didn’t hear nothing—I only 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 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 fan-tods. He had a blanket around his head, and his head was nearly in the fire.  I set there behind a clump of bushes, in about six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him steady.  It was getting gray daylight now.  Pretty soon he gapped and stretched himself and hove off the blanket, and it was Miss Watson’s Jim!  I bet I was glad to see him.  I says:

“Hello, Jim!” and skipped out.

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

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

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

“It’s good daylight.  Le’s get breakfast.  Make up your camp fire good.”

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

“Strawberries and such truck,” I says.  "Is that what you live on?”

“I couldn’ git nuffn else,” he says.

“Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?”

“I come heah de night arter you’s killed.”

“What, all that time?”

“Yes—indeedy.”

“And ain’t you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?”

“No, sah—nuffn else.”

“Well, you must be most starved, ain’t you?”

“I reck’n I could eat a hoss.  I think I could. How long you ben on de islan’?”

“Since the night I got killed.”

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

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

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

“But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat ’uz killed in dat shanty ef it warn’t you?”

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

“How do you come to be here, Jim, and how’d you get here?”

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

“Maybe I better not tell.”

“Why, Jim?”

“Well, dey’s reasons.  But you wouldn’ tell on me ef I uz to tell you, would you, Huck?”

“Blamed if I would, Jim.”

“Well, I b’lieve you, Huck.  I—I 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’ do it, but I never waited to hear de res’.  I lit out mighty quick, I tell you.

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

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

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

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

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

“And so you ain’t had no meat nor bread to eat all this time?  Why didn’t you get mud-turkles?”

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

“Well, that’s so.  You’ve had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. Did you hear ’em shooting the cannon?”

“Oh, yes.  I knowed dey was arter you.  I see um go by heah—watched um thoo de bushes.”

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

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

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

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

“Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?”

“What’s de use to ax dat question?  Don’t you see I has?”

“Well, are you rich?”

“No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich agin.  Wunst I had foteen dollars, but I tuck to specalat’n’, en got busted out.”

“What did you speculate in, Jim?”

“Well, fust I tackled stock.”

“What kind of stock?”

“Why, live stock—cattle, you know.  I put ten dollars in a cow.  But I ain’ gwyne to resk no mo’ money in stock.  De cow up ’n’ died on my han’s.”

“So you lost the ten dollars.”

“No, I didn’t lose it all.  I on’y los’ ’bout nine of it.  I sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents.”

“You had five dollars and ten cents left.  Did you speculate any more?”

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

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

“What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?”

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

“Well, what did come of it, Jim?”

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

“Well, it’s all right anyway, Jim, long as you’re going to be rich again some time or other.”

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

CHAPTER IX.

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 hear the thunder let go with an awful crash, and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down stairs—where it’s long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know.

“Jim, this is nice,” I says.  "I wouldn’t want to be nowhere else but here. Pass me along another hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, you!”

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

“De man ain’t asleep—he’s dead.  You hold still—I’ll go en see.”

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X.

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

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

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

“Never you mind, honey, never you mind.  Don’t you git too peart.  It’s a-comin’.  Mind I tell you, it’s a-comin’.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI.

“COME in,” says the woman, and I did.  She says:  "Take a cheer.”

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

“What might your name be?”

“Sarah Williams.”

“Where ’bouts do you live?  In this neighborhood?’

“No’m.  In Hookerville, seven mile below.  I’ve walked all the way and I’m all tired out.”

“Hungry, too, I reckon.  I’ll find you something.”

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

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

“No,” I says; “I’ll rest a while, I reckon, and go on.  I ain’t afeared of the dark.”

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

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

“Well, I reckon there’s a right smart chance of people 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 of the table and went to threading it. My hands shook, and I was making a bad job of it.  When the woman stopped talking I looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curious and smiling a little.  I put down the needle and thread, and let on to be interested—and I was, too—and says:

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

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

“Couldn’t they see better if they was to wait till daytime?”

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

“I didn’t think of that.”

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

“What did you say your name was, honey?”

“M—Mary Williams.”

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

“Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?”

“Oh, yes’m, I did.  Sarah Mary Williams.  Sarah’s my first name.  Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary.”

“Oh, that’s the way of it?”

“Yes’m.”

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

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

“Keep your eye on the rats.  You better have the lead in your lap, handy.”

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

“Come, now, what’s your real name?”

“Wh—what, mum?”

“What’s your real name?  Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?—or what is it?”

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

“Please to don’t poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum.  If I’m in the way here, I’ll—”

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

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

“Goshen, child?  This ain’t Goshen.  This is St. Petersburg.  Goshen’s ten mile further up the river.  Who told you this was Goshen?”

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

“He was drunk, I reckon.  He told you just exactly wrong.”

“Well, he did act like he was drunk, but it ain’t no matter now.  I got to be moving along.  I’ll fetch Goshen before daylight.”

“Hold on a minute.  I’ll put you up a snack to eat.  You might want it.”

So she put me up a snack, and says:

“Say, when a cow’s laying down, which end of her gets up first?  Answer up prompt now—don’t stop to study over it.  Which end gets up first?”

“The hind end, mum.”

“Well, then, a horse?”

“The for’rard end, mum.”

“Which side of a tree does the moss grow on?”

“North side.”

“If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats with their heads pointed the same direction?”

“The whole fifteen, mum.”

“Well, I reckon you have lived in the country.  I thought maybe you was trying to hocus me again.  What’s your real name, now?”

“George Peters, mum.”

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

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

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

“Git up and hump yourself, Jim!  There ain’t a minute to lose.  They’re after us!”

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

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

CHAPTER XII.

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 tow-head is a sandbar that has cottonwoods on it as thick as harrow-teeth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Le’s land on her, Jim.”

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

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

“Watchman your grandmother,” I says; “there ain’t nothing to watch but the texas and the pilot-house; and do you reckon anybody’s going to resk his life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this, when it’s likely to break up and wash off down the river any minute?”  Jim couldn’t say nothing to that, so he didn’t try.  "And besides,” I says, “we might borrow something worth having out of the captain’s stateroom.  Seegars, I bet you—and cost five cents apiece, solid cash.  Steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty dollars a month, and 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 was here.”

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

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

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

“Oh, please don’t, boys; I swear I won’t ever tell!”

Another voice said, pretty loud:

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

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

“I’d 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 towards where I was there in the dark, and motioned Bill to come.  I crawfished as fast as I could about two yards, but the boat slanted so that I couldn’t make very good time; so to keep from getting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom on the upper side.  The man came a-pawing along in the dark, and when Packard got to my stateroom, he says:

“Here—come in here.”

And in he come, and Bill after him.  But before they got in I was up in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come.  Then they stood there, with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked.  I couldn’t see them, but I could tell where they was by the whisky they’d been having.  I was glad I didn’t drink whisky; but it wouldn’t made much difference anyway, because most of the time they couldn’t a treed me because I didn’t breathe.  I was too scared.  And, besides, a body 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.”

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

“You bet it is.  But how you goin’ to manage it this time?”

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

“Yes, I reck’n you are.  But s’pose she 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 I—en here we is!”

CHAPTER XIII.

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 further—so scared he hadn’t hardly any strength left, he said.  But I said, come on, if we get left on this wreck we are in a fix, sure.  So on we prowled again.  We struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water.  When we got pretty close to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough!  I could just barely see her.  I felt ever so thankful.  In another second I would a been aboard of her, but just then the door opened.  One of the men stuck his head out only about a couple of foot from me, and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says:

“Heave that blame lantern out o’ sight, Bill!”

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

“All ready—shove off!”

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

“Hold on—’d you go through him?”

“No.  Didn’t you?”

“No.  So he’s got his share o’ the cash yet.”

“Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money.”

“Say, won’t he suspicion what we’re up to?”

“Maybe he won’t.  But we got to have it anyway. Come along.”

So they got out and went in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, what’s up?  Don’t cry, bub.  What’s the trouble?”

I says:

“Pap, and mam, and sis, and—”

Then I broke down.  He says:

“Oh, dang it now, don’t take on so; we all has to have our troubles, and this ’n ’ll come out all right.  What’s the matter with ’em?”

“They’re—they’re—are you the watchman of the boat?”

“Yes,” he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like.  "I’m the captain and the owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman and head deck-hand; and sometimes I’m the freight and passengers.  I ain’t as rich as old Jim Hornback, and I can’t be so blame’ generous and good to Tom, Dick, and Harry as what he is, and slam around money the way he does; but I’ve told him a many a time ’t I wouldn’t trade places with him; for, says I, a sailor’s life’s the life for me, and I’m derned if 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?”

“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 woodboats; for I couldn’t rest easy till I could see the ferryboat start. But take it all around, I was feeling ruther comfortable on accounts of taking all this trouble for that gang, for not many would a done it.  I wished the widow knowed about it.  I judged she would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions, because rapscallions and dead beats is the kind the widow and good people takes the most interest in.

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIV.

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

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

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

“Get?”  I says; “why, they get a thousand dollars a month if they want it; they can have just as much as they want; everything belongs to them.”

“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.”

“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 is down furder—it’s down deeper.  It lays in de way Sollermun was raised.  You take a man dat’s got on’y one or two chillen; is dat man gwyne to be waseful o’ chillen?  No, he ain’t; he can’t ’ford it.  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 fatch him!”

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

“Po’ little chap.”

“But some says he got out and got away, and come to America.”

“Dat’s good!  But he’ll be pooty lonesome—dey ain’ no kings here, is dey, Huck?”

“No.”

“Den he cain’t git no situation.  What he gwyne to do?”

“Well, I don’t know.  Some of them gets on the police, and some of them learns people how to talk French.”

“Why, Huck, doan’ de French people talk de same way we does?”

“No, Jim; you couldn’t understand a word they said—not a single word.”

“Well, now, I be ding-busted!  How do dat come?”

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

“I wouldn’ think nuff’n; I’d take en bust him over de head—dat is, if he warn’t white.  I wouldn’t ’low no nigger to call me dat.”

“Shucks, it ain’t calling you anything.  It’s only saying, do you know how to talk French?”

“Well, den, why couldn’t he 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.”

“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.

CHAPTER XV.

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, and I knowed the current had swung the canoe’s head down-stream, and I was all right if that was Jim and not some other raftsman hollering.  I couldn’t tell nothing about voices in a fog, for nothing don’t look natural nor sound natural in a fog.

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

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

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

I kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, I reckon.  I was floating along, of course, four or five miles an hour; but you don’t ever think of that.  No, you 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 sawlogs made fast together.  Then I see another speck, and chased that; then another, and this time I was right.  It was the raft.

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

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

“Hello, Jim, have I been asleep?  Why didn’t you stir me up?”

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

“What’s the matter with you, Jim?  You been a-drinking?”

“Drinkin’?  Has I ben a-drinkin’?  Has I had a chance to be a-drinkin’?”

“Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?”

“How does I talk wild?”

“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 sumf’n 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 tow-head?”

“No, I didn’t.  What tow-head?  I hain’t see no tow-head.”

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

“What fog?”

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

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

“Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?”

“Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn’t any of it happen.”

“But, Huck, it’s all jis’ as plain to me as—”

“It don’t make no difference how plain it is; there ain’t nothing in it. I know, because I’ve been here all the time.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, well, that’s all interpreted well enough as far as it goes, Jim,” I says; “but what does these things stand for?”

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

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

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

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

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

[text omitted]

CHAPTER XXXI.

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 change on top of it.  So me and the duke went up to the village, and hunted around there for the king, and by and by we found him in the back room of a little low doggery, very tight, and a lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a-cussing and a-threatening with all his might, and so tight he couldn’t walk, and couldn’t do nothing to them.  The duke he begun to abuse him for an old fool, and the king begun to sass back, and the minute they was fairly at it I lit out and shook the reefs out of my hind legs, and spun down the river road like a deer, for I see our chance; and I made up my mind that it would be a long day before they ever see me and Jim again.  I got down there all out of breath but loaded up with joy, and sung out:

“Set her loose, Jim! we’re all right now!”

But there warn’t no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam.  Jim was gone!  I set up a shout—and then another—and then another one; and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screeching; but it warn’t no use—old Jim was gone.  Then I set down and cried; I couldn’t help it. But I couldn’t set still long.  Pretty soon I went out on the road, trying to think what I better do, and I run across a boy walking, and asked him if he’d seen a strange nigger dressed so and so, and he says:

“Yes.”

“Whereabouts?” says I.

“Down to Silas Phelps’ place, two mile below here.  He’s a runaway nigger, and they’ve got him.  Was you looking for him?”

“You bet I ain’t!  I run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago, and he said if I hollered he’d cut my livers out—and told me to lay down and stay where I was; and I done it.  Been there ever since; afeard to come out.”

“Well,” he says, “you needn’t be afeard no more, becuz they’ve got him. He run off f’m down South, som’ers.”

“It’s a good job they got him.”

“Well, I reckon!  There’s two hunderd dollars reward on him.  It’s like picking up money out’n the road.”

“Yes, it is—and I could a had it if I’d been big enough; I see him 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 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, 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 thinking.  And got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me all the time:  in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing.  But somehow I couldn’t seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind.  I’d see him standing my watch on top of his’n, ’stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had small-pox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the 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.”

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 nigger.”

He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his forehead.  At last he says:

“I’ll tell you something.  We got to be here three days.  If you’ll promise you won’t blow, and won’t let the nigger blow, I’ll tell you where to find him.”

So I promised, and he says:

“A farmer by the name of Silas Ph—” and then he stopped.  You see, he started to tell me the truth; but when he stopped that way, and begun to study and think again, I reckoned he was changing his mind.  And so he was. He wouldn’t trust me; he wanted to make sure of having me out of the way the whole three days.  So pretty soon he says:

“The man that bought him is named Abram Foster—Abram G. Foster—and he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to Lafayette.”

“All right,” I says, “I can walk it in three days.  And I’ll start this very afternoon.”

“No you wont, you’ll start 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’.  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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