Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
(Tom Sawyer's Comrade)Mark Twain

May 25, 2015

POD

www.cas-ub.com

HUCKLEBERRY FINN

Contents
List of Figures
EXPLANATORY

xi
xvii

HUCKLEBERRY FINN

1

Chapter 1

2

Chapter 2

6Chapter 3

12Chapter 4

16

Chapter 5

20

Chapter 6

25

Chapter 7

32

Chapter 8

39

Chapter 950

Chapter 10

54

Chapter 11

58

Chapter 1265

Chapter 13

72

Chapter 14

78

viii

Chapter 15

83

Chapter 16

89

Chapter 17

98

Chapter 18

107

Chapter 19

118

Chapter 20

126

Chapter 21

135

Chapter 22

145

Chapter 23

151

Chapter 24

157

Chapter 25

163

Chapter 26

170

Chapter 27

178

Chapter 28

185

Chapter 29

194

Chapter 30

203

Chapter 31

207

Chapter 32

216

Contentsix

Chapter 33

222

Chapter 34

229

Chapter 35

235

Chapter 36

242

Chapter 37

247

Chapter 38

254

Chapter 39

261

Chapter 40

266

Chapter 41

272

Chapter 42

279

Chapter the Last

287

List of Figures
HUCKLEBERRY FINN (p. v)

Chapter 1
The Widow's (p. 2)
Learning About Moses and the "Bulrushers" (p. 3)
Miss Watson (p. 4)
Huck Stealing Away (p. 5)

Chapter 2
They Tip-toed Along (p. 6)
JIM (p. 7)
Tom Sawyer's Band of Robbers (p. 9)
Huck Creeps into his Window (p. 11)

Chapter 3
Miss Watson's Lecture (p. 12)
The Robbers Dispersed (p. 14)
Rubbing the Lamp (p. 15)

Chapter 4!!!! (p. 16)
Judge Thatcher Surprised (p. 17)
Jim Listening (p. 18)

Chapter 5“PAP” (p. 20)
Huck and his Father (p. 22)
Reforming the Drunkard (p. 23)
Falling from Grace (p. 24)

Chapter 6
Getting out of the Way (p. 25)
Solid Comfort (p. 26)
Thinking it over (p. 28)
Raising a Howl (p. 30)

Chapter 7“Git up” (p. 32)
The Shanty (p. 33)
Shooting the Pig (p. 35)
Taking a Rest (p. 37)

Chapter 8
In the Woods (p. 39)
Watching the Boat (p. 40)
Discovering the Camp Fire (p. 42)
Jim and the Ghost (p. 44)
Misto Bradish's Nigger (p. 48)

Chapter 9
Exploring the Cave (p. 50)
In the Cave (p. 51)

xii
Jim Sees a Dead Man (p. 53)

Chapter 10
They Found Eight Dollars (p. 54)
Jim and the Snake (p. 55)
Old Hank Bunker (p. 56)“A Fair Fit” (p. 57)

Chapter 11“Come in” (p. 58)
Him and Another Man (p. 60)
She Puts up a Snack (p. 63)“Hump Yourself” (p. 64)

Chapter 12
On the Raft (p. 65)
He Sometimes Lifted a Chicken (p. 67)“Please Don't, Bill” (p. 69)“It Ain't Good Morals” (p. 71)“Oh! Lordy Lordy!” (p. 71)

Chapter 13
In a Fix (p. 72)“Hello, What's up” (p. 74)
The Wreck (p. 76)
We Turned in and Slept (p. 77)

Chapter 14
Turning Over the Truck (p. 78)
Solomon and his Million Wives (p. 79)

Chapter 15“We Would Sell the Raft” (p. 83)
Among the Snags (p. 85)
Asleep on the Raft (p. 85)

Chapter 16“It Amounted to Something Being a Raftsman” (p. 89)“Boy, That's a Lie” (p. 92)“Here I is Huck” (p. 94)
Climbing up the Bank (p. 97)

Chapter 17“Who's There ?” (p. 98)“Buck” (p. 100)
“It Made her Look Spidery” (p. 103)
“They Got Him out and Emptied Him” (p. 105)
The House (p. 106)

Chapter 18
Col. Grangerford (p. 107)
Young Harney Shepherdson (p. 109)Miss Charlotte (p. 110)
“And Asked me if I Liked Her” (p. 112)
“Behind the Wood-pile” (p. 115)

Chapter 19
Hiding Day Times (p. 118)

List of Figures“And Dogs A-Coming” (p. 121)
“By Rights I am a Duke” (p. 123)
“I am the Late Dauphin” (p. 124)

Chapter 20
On the Raft (p. 126)
The King as Juliet (p. 129)
“Couting on the SLY” (p. 130)
“A Pirate for Thirty Years” (p. 132)
Another Little Job (p. 133)

Chapter 21
Practicing (p. 135)
Hamlet's Soliloquy (p. 136)
“Gimme a Chaw” (p. 139)
A Little Monthly Drunk (p. 141)
The Death of Boggs (p. 143)

Chapter 22
Sherburn Steps out (p. 145)
A Dead Head (p. 147)
He Shed Seventeen Suits (p. 149)

Chapter 23
Tragedy (p. 151)
Their Pockets Bulged (p. 153)
Henry the Eighth in Boston Harbor (p. 154)

Chapter 24
Harmless (p. 157)
Adolphus (p. 159)
He Fairly Emptied that Young Fellow (p. 160)
“Alas, our Poor Brother” (p. 162)

Chapter 25“You Bet It Is” (p. 163)
Leaking (p. 164)
Making up the “Deffisit” (p. 166)
Going for Him (p. 167)
The Doctor (p. 169)
The Bag of Money (p. 169)

Chapter 26
The Cubby (p. 170)
Supper with the Hare-Lip (p. 171)
“Honest Injun” (p. 173)
The Duke Looks under the Bed (p. 175)
Huck Takes the Money (p. 177)

Chapter 27
A Crack in the Dining-Room Door (p. 178)
The Undertaker (p. 180)
“He Had a Rat!” (p. 180)
“Was You in My Room?” (p. 182)
Jawing (p. 183)

xiii

xiv

Chapter 28
In Trouble (p. 185)
Indignation (p. 187)
How to Find Them (p. 188)
He Wrote (p. 189)
Hanner with the Mumps (p. 191)
The Auction (p. 193)

Chapter 29
The True Brothers (p. 194)
The Doctor Leads Huck (p. 196)
The Duke Wrote (p. 198)“gentlemen—Gentlemen!” (p. 200)
“Jim Let Out” (p. 202)

Chapter 30
The King Shakes Huck (p. 203)
The Duke Went for him (p. 204)

Chapter 31
Spanish Moss (p. 207)
“Who Nailed Him?” (p. 209)
Thinking (p. 211)
He Game Him The Cents (p. 214)
Striking for the Back Country (p. 215)

Chapter 32
Still and Sunday Like (p. 216)
She Hugged Him Tight (p. 218)
“Who Do You Reckon It Is?” (p. 220)

Chapter 33“It Was Tom Sawyer” (p. 222)
“Mr. Archibald Nichols, I Presume?” (p. 224)
A Pretty Long Blessing (p. 227)
Travelling by Rail (p. 228)

Chapter 34
Vittles (p. 229)
A Simple Job (p. 231)
Witches (p. 234)

Chapter 35
Getting Wood (p. 235)
One of the Best Authorities (p. 237)
The Breakfast-Horn (p. 239)
Smouching the Knives (p. 241)

Chapter 36
Going Down the Lightning-Rod (p. 242)
Stealing Spoons (p. 244)
Tom Advises a Witch Pie (p. 246)

Chapter 37
The Rubbage-File (p. 247)
“Missus, Dey's a Sheet Gone.” (p. 249)
In a Tearing Way (p. 251)

List of Figures
One of His Ancesters (p. 252)

Chapter 38
Jim's Coat of Arms (p. 254)
A Togh Job (p. 256)
Buttons on Their Tails (p. 258)
Irrigations (p. 259)

Chapter 39
Keeping off Dull Times (p. 261)
Sawdust Diet (p. 263)
Trouble is Brewing (p. 264)

Chapter 40
Fishing (p. 266)
Every One Had a Gun (p. 267)
Tom Caught on a Splinter (p. 269)
Jim Advises a Doctor (p. 271)

Chapter 41
The Doctor (p. 272)
Uncle Silas in Danger (p. 273)
Old Mrs. Hotchkiss (p. 274)
Aunt Sally Talks to Huck (p. 277)

Chapter 42
Tom Sawyer Wounded (p. 279)
The Doctor Speaks for Jim (p. 281)
Tom Rose Square up in Bed (p. 284)
“Hand out Them Letters.” (p. 285)

Chapter the Last
Out of Bondage (p. 287)
Tom's Liberality (p. 287)

xv

EXPLANATORYIN 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 thislast. The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or byguesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance andsupport of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.
I make this explanation for the reason that without it many read‐ers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alikeand not succeeding.
THE AUTHOR.

HUCKLEBERRY FINN
Scene: The Mississippi Valley
Time: Forty to fifty years ago

Chapter 1
YOU don't know about me without
you have read a book by the name of
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; butthat ain't no matter. That book wasmade by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told
the truth, mainly. There was things
which he stretched, but mainly hetold the truth. That is nothing. I neverseen anybody but lied one time or an‐other, without it was Aunt Polly, or
the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Pol‐ly—Tom's Aunt Polly, she is—andMary, and the Widow Douglas is all
told about in that book, which ismostly a true book, with somestretchers, as I said before.
Now the way that the bookwinds up is this: Tom and me foundthe money that the robbers hid in the
cave, and it made us rich. We got six
The Widow's
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 abody could tell what to do with. The Widow Douglas she took me forher son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in
the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent thewidow 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 wasfree and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he wasgoing 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 noharm by it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't donothing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, theold thing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, andChapter 1

3

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 herhead and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't reallyanything the matter with them,—that is, nothing only everything wascooked 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 longtime; so then I didn't care no more about him, because I don't take nostock in dead people.
Pretty soon I wanted tosmoke, and asked the widow
to let me. But she wouldn't.
She said it was a mean prac‐
tice and wasn't clean, and I
must try to not do it any more.
That is just the way withsome 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 toher, and no use to anybody,being gone, you see, yet find‐ing a power of fault with me
Learning About Moses and the "Bulrushers"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 aspelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, andthen 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 noharm. 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

4wouldn'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 neversaid 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 goodplace. She said all a body would have todo there was to go around all day longwith a harp and sing, forever and ever.
So I didn't think much of it. But I neversaid so. I asked her if she reckoned Tom
Sawyer would go there, and she said notby 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 inand had prayers, and then everybody
was off to bed. I went up to my room
Miss Watsonwith a piece of candle, and put it on thetable. Then I set down in a chair by the window and tried to think ofsomething cheerful, but it warn't no use. I felt so lonesome I mostwished 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-whoo‐
ing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying
about somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying towhisper 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 somecompany. 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 aw‐
ful bad sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared andmost shook the clothes off of me. I got up and turned around in mytracks 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Chapter 1

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 aspider.
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 stillagain—stiller than ever. Pretty soon I
heard a twig snap down in the dark
amongst the trees—something was astirring. I set still and listened. Directly
I could just barely hear a "me-yow! meyow!" down there. That was good! SaysI, "me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as I
could, and then I put out the light andHuck Stealing Away
scrambled out of the window on to theshed. Then I slipped down to theground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was
Tom Sawyer waiting for me.

5

Chapter 2
WE went tiptoeing along a pathamongst the trees back towards theend of the widow's garden, stooping
down so as the branches wouldn't
scrape our heads. When we was pass‐ing by the kitchen I fell over a rootand made a noise. We scroucheddown 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 behindhim. He got up and stretched his neckout about a minute, listening. Then hesays:"Who dah?"He listened some more; then hecome tiptoeing down and stood rightbetween us; we could a touched him,nearly. Well, likely it was minutes andminutes that there warn't a sound, and
we all there so close together. There
was a place on my ankle that got to
They Tip-toed Alongitching, but I dasn't scratch it; andthen 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 slee‐
py—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 hisback 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Chapter 2

7

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 lon‐
ger than that. I was itching in eleven differ‐ent places now. I reckoned I couldn't standit more'n a minute longer, but I set myteeth hard and got ready to try. Just thenJim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun
to snore—and then I was pretty soon com‐
fortable again.
Tom he made a sign to me—kind of alittle noise with his mouth—and we wentcreeping away on our hands and knees.
When we was ten foot off Tom whispered
JIM
to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree forfun. But I said no; he might wake andmake 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 threecandles, 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 hemust crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play some‐thing 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 gar‐den fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill theother side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his headand hung it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but hedidn'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 un‐
der 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 nig‐
gers. Niggers would come miles to hear Jim tell about it, and he wasmore 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

8

he was a wonder. Niggers is always talking about witches in the darkby the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and letting on toknow all about such things, Jim would happen in and say, "Hm! What
you know 'bout witches?" and that nigger was corked up and had totake a back seat. Jim always kept that five-center piece round his neckwith 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 henever told what it was he said to it. Niggers would come from allaround 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 bywitches.
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 twin‐kling, 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 wholemile broad, and awful still and grand. We went down the hill andfound 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 theriver 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 wasa hole. We went along a narrow place and got into a kind of room, alldamp and sweaty and cold, and there we stopped. Tom says:"Now, we'll start this band of robbers and call it Tom Sawyer'sGang. 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 hehad wrote the oath on, and read it. It swore every boy to stick to theband, 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 thesign of the band. And nobody that didn't belong to the band could use

Chapter 2

9

Tom Sawyer's Band of Robbersthat mark, and if he did he must be sued; and if he done it again hemust be killed. And if anybody that belonged to the band told the se‐crets, 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 ofpirate-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 andwrote 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 ofanything to do—everybody was stumped, and set still. I was mostready to cry; but all at once I thought of a way, and so I offered themMiss 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.

10"Now," says Ben Rogers, "what's the line of business of thisGang?""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, withmasks 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; andso 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 thebooks? 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 na‐tion 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 ran‐somed, 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 abothersome lot they'll be, too—eating up everything, and always try‐
ing 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 allnight 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 cor‐
rect thing to do? Do you reckon you can learn 'em anything? Not by agood deal. No, sir, we'll just go on and ransom them in the regularway."Chapter 2

11"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 fel‐lows waiting to be ransomed, that there won't be no place for the rob‐bers. 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 thatmade him mad, and he said he would go straight and tell all the se‐crets. 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 somepeople.
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 andclayey, and I was dog-tired.

Huck Creeps into his WindowChapter 3
WELL, I got a good going-over in themorning from old Miss Watson on ac‐
count of my clothes; but the widow she
didn't scold, but only cleaned off thegrease and clay, and looked so sorry that
I thought I would behave awhile if I
could. Then Miss Watson she took me inthe closet and prayed, but nothing comeof it. She told me to pray every day, andwhatever I asked for I would get it. But
it warn't so. I tried it. Once I got a fishline, but no hooks. It warn't any good tome without hooks. I tried for the hooks
three or four times, but somehow I
couldn't make it work. By and by, oneday,
I asked Miss Watson to try for me,
Miss Watson's Lecture
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 thewidow 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 wentand told the widow about it, and she said the thing a body could get bypraying 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 neverthink 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 atlast 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 Provi‐
dence 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Chapter 3

13

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 com‐
fortable 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 thisdrownded man was just his size, and was ragged, and had uncommon
long hair, which was all like pap; but they couldn't make nothing outof 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 wellthat 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 re‐signed. 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 andgo 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 wewould 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 to‐gether), 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 tocamp in Cave Hollow with two hundred elephants, and six hundred
camels, and over a thousand "sumter" mules, all loaded down withdi'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 andscoop the things. He said we must slick up our swords and guns, andget ready. He never could go after even a turnip-cart but he must havethe swords and guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lathand broomsticks, and you might scour at them till you rotted, and thenthey warn't worth a mouthful of ashes more than what they was be‐14fore. I didn't believe we could lick such a crowd of Spaniards and Arabs, but I wanted to see the camels and elephants, so I was on handnext 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 Span‐iards 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 atthat. We busted it up, and chased the children up the hollow; but wenever 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 theteacher 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 ele‐phants and things. I said, why
couldn't we see them, then? Hesaid if I warn't so ignorant, but
had read a book called Don
Quixote, I would know without
asking. He said it was all doneby enchantment. He said there
was hundreds of soldiers there,
and elephants and treasure, andso on, but we had enemies
which he called magicians; andthey had turned the whole thing
The Robbers Dispersed
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, andthey would hash you up like nothing before you could say Jack Robin‐son. 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 welick 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 gen‐ies come tearing in, with the thunder and lightning a-ripping aroundand the smoke a-rolling, and everything they're told to do they up and15

Chapter 3

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 whoev‐
er 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, andfill it full of chewing-gum, or whatever you want, and fetch an emper‐or'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 keep‐
ing 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 herubbed 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 seemto 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 andan iron ring, and went out inthe woods and rubbed and rub‐
bed till I sweat like an Injun,
calculating to build a palaceand 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 Sa‐
wyer's lies. I reckoned he be‐lieved in the A-rabs and the el‐ephants, but as for me I think
different. It had all the marks ofa Sunday-school.
Rubbing the Lamp

Chapter 4
WELL, three or four months run
along, and it was well into the win‐
ter now. I had been to school most
all the time and could spell andread and write just a little, andcould 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 inmathematics, 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 toschool 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 andsleeping 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 sothat 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 shoul‐
der 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 thatwell enough. I started out, after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky,and wondering where it was going to fall on me, and what it was go‐
ing to be. There is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but thiswasn'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Chapter 4

17

you go through the high board fence. There was an inch of new snowon the ground, and I seen somebody's tracks. They had come up fromthe quarry and stood around the stile a while, and then went on aroundthe garden fence. It was funny they hadn't come in, after standingaround so. I couldn't make it out. It was very curious, somehow. I wasgoing 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 theleft boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil.
I was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I looked overmy 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 yourinterest?""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 alongwith 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 itout. 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'tyou?"
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 tellJudge Thatcher Surprised
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:

18"There; you see it says 'for a consideration.' That means I havebought 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 washere 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 anddropped it on the floor. It fell pretty solid, and only rolled about aninch. Jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just thesame. Jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and lis‐
tened. 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 counter‐feit quarter that warn't no good because the brass showed through thesilver 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 hairball 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 hairball 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, andnext 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 ahair-ball. Well, I knowed a potato would do that before, but I had for‐got it.
Jim put the quarter
under the hair-ball, andgot down and listenedagain. This time he said
the hair-ball was all right.
He said it would tell mywhole fortune if I wanted
it to. I says, go on. So thehair-ball talked to Jim,
and Jim told it to me. He
says:"Yo' ole father doan'
Jim Listening

Chapter 4

19know yit what he's a-gwyne to do. Sometimes he spec he'll go 'way, enden 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 consida‐
ble joy. Sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne togit 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 5
I had shut the door to. Then I turned
around and there he was. I used tobe scared of him all the time, he tan‐
ned me so much. I reckoned I wasscared now, too; but in a minute I
see I was mistaken—that is, after the
first jolt, as you may say, when mybreath 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 helooked it. His hair was long and tan‐gled and greasy, and hung down,
and you could see his eyes shining
through like he was behind vines. It“PAP”
was all black, no gray; so was hislong, mixed-up whiskers. There
warn't no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; notlike 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 ont'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 hischair 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 bigbug, 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, be‐cause he can't? I'll take it out of you. Who told you you might meddle

Chapter 5

21

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 dropthat 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 lemmecatch 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-swellingyourself up like this. I ain't the man to stand it—you hear? Say, lemmehear 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 booka 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 foryou, 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 aboy, 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 bed‐
clothes; and a look'n'-glass; and a piece of carpet on the floor—andyour 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 donewith 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 itaway 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."22

Huck and his Father"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 That‐cher; he'll tell you the same.""All right. I'll ask him; andI'll make him pungle, too, or I'll
know the reason why. Say, howmuch 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 differ‐ence 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 wasgoing down town to get some whisky; said he hadn't had a drink allday. When he had got out on the shed he put his head in again, andcussed me for putting on frills and trying to be better than him; andwhen 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 forme and lick me if I didn't drop that.
Next day he was drunk, and he went to Judge Thatcher's and bul‐lyragged him, and tried to make him give up the money; but hecouldn'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 meaway from him and let one of them be my guardian; but it was a newjudge 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 cow‐
hide 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 car‐rying on; and he kept it up all over town, with a tin pan, till most mid‐night; 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 aman of him. So he took him to his own house, and dressed him up

Chapter 5

23clean and nice, and had him to breakfast and dinner and supper withthe 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 beashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not lookdown on him. The judge said he could hug him for them words; so hecried, 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 sympa‐
thy, 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 oldman he signed a pledge—
made his mark. The judge
said it was the holiest timeon record, or something
like that. Then they tucked
the old man into a beauti‐
ful room, which was thespare room, and in thenight some time he got
Reforming the Drunkard
powerful thirsty and clumbout on to the porch-roof and slid down a stanchion and traded his newcoat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb back again and had a good oldtime; 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 wasmost 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 oth‐er way.

24

Falling from GraceChapter 6
WELL, pretty soon the old man wasup and around again, and then hewent for Judge Thatcher in the courts
to make him give up that money, andhe went for me, too, for not stopping
school. He catched me a couple oftimes and thrashed me, but I went toschool just the same, and dodged him
or outrun him most of the time. I
didn't want to go to school much be‐fore, but I reckoned I'd go now tospite pap. That law trial was a slow
business—appeared like they warn't
ever going to get started on it; so ev‐
ery now and then I'd borrow two or
Getting out of the Way
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; andevery time he raised Cain he got jailed. He was just suited—this kindof 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 maketrouble 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. Ev‐
ery 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 ithome 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

26

after that till I was used to being where I was, and liked it—all but thecowhide part.
It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day,smoking and fishing, and no books nor study. Two months or morerun 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 towash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up regu‐
lar, 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, andlocking me in. Oncehe locked me in andwas gone three days.
It was dreadful lone‐some. I judged hehad
got drownded,
Solid Comfort
and I wasn't ever go‐
ing 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 atime, 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 inthe 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 theclapboards 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 be‐hind the table, to keep the wind from blowing through the chinks andputting the candle out. I got under the table and raised the blanket, andwent to work to saw a section of the big bottom log out—big enoughChapter 6

27

to let me through. Well, it was a good long job, but I was getting to‐wards 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, andpretty 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 evergot started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it off a longtime, and Judge Thatcher knowed how to do it. And he said people al‐
lowed 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 thewidow'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 every‐
body he could think of, and then cussed them all over again to makesure 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-hisname 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 knowedof a place six or seven mile off to stow me in, where they might hunttill they dropped and they couldn't find me. That made me pretty unea‐sy 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 hadgot. 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, andwent 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28

in town, and laid in the gutter
all night, and he was a sight tolook at. A body would athought he was Adam—he wasjust all mud. Whenever his liq‐
uor begun to work he most al‐ways 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 awayfrom him—a man's own son,which he has had all the trouble
and all the anxiety and all theThinking it overexpense of raising. Yes, just asthat man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work andbegin to do suthin' for him and give him a rest, the law up and goes forhim. 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 proper‐ty. 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 callthat govment! A man can't get his rights in a govment like this. Some‐times 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 theblamed 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 therest 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' stovepipe. Look at it, says I—such a hat for me to wear—one of the wealth‐iest 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 fineclothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a sil‐ver-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, andcould talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. And that

Chapter 6

29

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 'lec‐tion 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 thiscountry where they'd let that nigger vote, I drawed out. I says I'll nevervote agin. Them's the very words I said; they all heard me; and thecountry 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 theroad 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 toknow. 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 therethat long yet. There, now—that's a specimen. They call that a govmentthat 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, andthinks it is a govment, and yet's got to set stock-still for six wholemonths 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 aroundthe 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 leftfoot 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 any‐
thing 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 hisword. 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 anddrank, 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

30

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 andI was up. There was pap look‐ing wild, and skipping aroundevery which way and yelling
about snakes. He said they was
crawling up his legs; and thenhe would give a jump andscream, and say one had bit
him on the cheek—but I
couldn't see no snakes. He star‐
ted and run round and roundthe cabin, hollering "Take him
off! take him off! he's biting meon the neck!" I never see a man
Raising a Howllook 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 tolet him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed inunder 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 theplace with a clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying hewould 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Chapter 6

31

the jacket between my shoulders, and I thought I was gone; but I slidout 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 un‐der 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 loa‐
ded, then I laid it across the turnip barrel, pointing towards pap, andset down behind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow and still thetime did drag along.

Chapter 7"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 stand‐ing over me looking sour and sick,too. He says:"What you doin' with thisgun?"
I judged he didn't know noth‐ing about what he had been doing,so I says:"Somebody tried to get in, so I
was laying for him."“Git up”"Why didn't you roust meout?""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 withyou and see if there's a fish on the lines for breakfast. I'll be along in aminute."He unlocked the door, and I cleared out up the river-bank. I no‐ticed some pieces of limbs and such things floating down, and a sprin‐kling 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 riseused to be always luck for me; because as soon as that rise begins herecomes cordwood floating down, and pieces of log rafts—sometimes adozen logs together; so all you have to do is to catch them and sellthem 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 besomebody laying down in it, because people often done that to foolfolks, 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 sureenough, and I clumb in and paddled her ashore. Thinks I, the old man

Chapter 7

33will 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 an‐other idea: I judged I'd hide her good, and then, 'stead of taking to thewoods when I run off, I'd go down the river about fifty mile and campin one place for good, and not have such a rough time tramping onfoot.
It was pretty
close to the shanty,
and I thought I
heard the old man
coming all thetime; but I got herhid; and then I out
and looked arounda bunch of willows,
and there was theold man down thepath a piece justdrawing a bead on
The Shanty
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 thelines 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 tokeep pap and the widow from trying to follow me, it would be a cer‐tainer thing than trusting to luck to get far enough off before theymissed 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.

34

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 to‐gether. We went out with the skiff and towed it ashore. Then we haddinner. 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 wasenough for one time; he must shove right over to town and sell. So helocked 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 wasout 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 washid, 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 thecoffee and sugar there was, and all the ammunition; I took the wad‐ding; I took the bucket and gourd; I took a dipper and a tin cup, andmy old saw and two blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot. I tookfish-lines and matches and other things—everything that was worth acent. I cleaned out the place. I wanted an axe, but there wasn't any, on‐ly the one out at the woodpile, and I knowed why I was going to leavethat. I fetched out the gun, and now I was done.
I had wore the ground a good deal crawling out of the hole anddragging out so many things. So I fixed that as good as I could fromthe outside by scattering dust on the place, which covered up thesmoothness 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, forit was bent up at that place and didn't quite touch ground. If you stoodfour 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 fol‐
lowed 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, andwas 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Chapter 7

35

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 coulddrag—and I started itfrom the pig, and drag‐ged it to the door andthrough the woods down
to the river and dumped
it in, and down it sunk,
Shooting the Pig
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 thiskind 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 (sohe couldn't drip) till I got a good piece below the house and then dum‐ped 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 themto the house. I took the bag to where it used to stand, and ripped a holein 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 thecooking. Then I carried the sack about a hundred yards across thegrass and through the willows east of the house, to a shallow lake thatwas 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 theother 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 thelake. 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 un‐
der some willows that hung over the bank, and waited for the moon torise. I made fast to a willow; then I took a bite to eat, and by and bylaid down in the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan. I says to36myself, they'll follow the track of that sackful of rocks to the shore andthen drag the river for me. And they'll follow that meal track to thelake and go browsing down the creek that leads out of it to find therobbers that killed me and took the things. They won't ever hunt theriver 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 andlooked around, a little scared. Then I remembered. The river looked
miles and miles across. The moon was so bright I could a counted thedrift logs that went a-slipping along, black and still, hundreds of yards
out from shore. Everything was dead quiet, and it looked late, andsmelt late. You know what I mean—I don't know the words to put itin.
I took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch andstart 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 fromoars working in rowlocks when it's a still night. I peeped out throughthe 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'spap, though I warn't expecting him. He dropped below me with thecurrent, 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 ahalf, and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more towards the mid‐dle of the river, because pretty soon I would be passing the ferry land‐ing, and people might see me and hail me. I got out amongst the drift‐
wood, 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 neverknowed it before. And how far a body can hear on the water suchnights! I heard people talking at the ferry landing. I heard what they

Chapter 737

said, too—every
word of it. One
man said it was
getting towards thelong days and theshort nights now.
T'other one said
this warn't one of
the short ones, hereckoned—and
then they laughed,and he said it overagain, and they
Taking a Rest
laughed again;
then they waked up another fellow and told him, and laughed, but hedidn'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 threeo'clock, and he hoped daylight wouldn't wait more than about a weeklonger. 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 Jack‐
son's Island, about two mile and a half down stream, heavy timberedand 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 barat 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 andlanded 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 ca‐
noe from the outside.
I went up and set down on a log at the head of the island, andlooked out on the big river and the black driftwood and away over tothe town, three mile away, where there was three or four lights twin‐kling. A monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile up stream, com‐
ing along down, with a lantern in the middle of it. I watched it comecreeping down, and when it was most abreast of where I stood I hearda man say, "Stern oars, there! heave her head to stabboard!" I heard

38

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 thewoods, and laid down for a nap before breakfast.

Chapter 8
THE sun was up so highwhen I waked that I judged it
was after eight o'clock. I laid
there in the grass and the coolshade thinking about things,
and feeling rested and ruthercomfortable and satisfied. I
could see the sun out at one
or two holes, but mostly it
was big trees all about, andgloomy in there amongst
them. There was freckled pla‐ces on the ground where thelight sifted down through theleaves, and the freckled pla‐
ces swapped about a little,
showing there was a little
breeze up there. A couple ofsquirrels set on a limb andjabbered at me very friendly.
I was powerful lazy andIn the Woods
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, andrests 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 bunchof 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 can‐non-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 agood enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders if I only had abite to eat. Well, then I happened to think how they always put quick‐

40

silver in loaves of bread and float them off, because they always goright to the drownded carcass and stop there. So, says I, I'll keep alookout, and if any of them's floating around after me I'll give them ashow. 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 floatedout further. Of course I was where the current set in the closest to theshore—I knowed enough for that. But by and by along comes anotherone, 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 satis‐
fied. And then something struck me. I says, now I reckon the widow
or the parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find me, andhere it has gone and done it. So there ain't no doubt but there is some‐thing in that thing—that is, there's something in it when a body likethe 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 agood 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 shewould come in close, where
the bread did. When she'd got
pretty well along down to‐wards me, I put out my pipe
and went to where I fished out
the bread, and laid down be‐hind a log on the bank in a lit‐
tle open place. Where the log
forked I could peep through.
By and by she come
Watching the Boatalong, and she drifted in so
close that they could a run out
a plank and walked ashore. Most everybody was on the boat. Pap, andJudge Thatcher, and Bessie Thatcher, and Jo Harper, and Tom Sawyer,
and his old Aunt Polly, and Sid and Mary, and plenty more. Every‐

Chapter 8

41

body 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'sedge. 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 sungout:
"Stand away!" and the cannon let off such a blast right before methat it made me deef with the noise and pretty near blind with thesmoke, and I judged I was gone. If they'd a had some bullets in, I reck‐
on 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 aroundthe shoulder of the island. I could hear the booming now and then, fur‐ther and further off, and by and by, after an hour, I didn't hear it nomore. The island was three mile long. I judged they had got to thefoot, 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 Missou‐
ri 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 thehead 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 mythings under so the rain couldn't get at them. I catched a catfish andhaggled him open with my saw, and towards sundown I started mycamp fire and had supper. Then I set out a line to catch some fish forbreakfast.
When it was dark I set by my camp fire smoking, and feelingpretty 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 thenwent to bed; there ain't no better way to put in time when you arelonesome; you can't stay so, you soon get over it.
And so for three days and nights. No difference—just the samething. But the next day I went exploring around down through the is‐land. I was boss of it; it all belonged to me, so to say, and I wanted toknow all about it; but mainly I wanted to put in the time. I found plen‐ty strawberries, ripe and prime; and green summer grapes, and green
razberries; and the green blackberries was just beginning to show.

42

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 shotnothing; it was for protection; thought I would kill some game nighhome. 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, try‐
ing to get a shot at it. I clipped along, and all of a sudden I boundedright on to the ashes of a camp fire that was still smoking.
My heart jumped up
amongst my lungs. I never wai‐ted for to look further, but un‐cocked my gun and went sneak‐ing back on my tiptoes as fast as
ever I could. Every now and thenI stopped a second amongst the
thick leaves and listened, but mybreath come so hard I couldn't
hear nothing else. I slunk along
another piece further, then lis‐
tened again; and so on, and soon. If I see a stump, I took it for aman; if I trod on a stick andbroke it, it made me feel like aperson had cut one of my breathsin two and I only got half, andDiscovering the Camp Firethe 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 foolingaround. So I got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have themout of sight, and I put out the fire and scattered the ashes around tolook 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 athousand 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 break‐fast.
By the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So when it wasgood and dark I slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled overto 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

Chapter 8

43

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 every‐
thing 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 isabout 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 lightas day. I poked along well on to an hour, everything still as rocks andsound asleep. Well, by this time I was most down to the foot of theisland. A little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as goodas 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 andinto 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 be‐
gin to blanket the river. But in a little while I see a pale streak over thetreetops, and knowed the day was coming. So I took my gun and slip‐
ped 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 seemto find the place. But by and by, sure enough, I catched a glimpse offire 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, andhis head was nearly in the fire. I set there behind a clump of bushes, inabout six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him steady. It was getting
gray daylight now. Pretty soon he gapped and stretched himself andhove off the blanket, and it was Miss Watson's Jim! I bet I was glad tosee 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44

alwuz liked dead people, en done all I could for 'em. You go en git inde river agin, whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to Ole Jim, 'at 'uz
awluz yo' fren'."Well, I
warn't long mak‐ing him under‐
stand I warn't
dead. I was everso glad to see Jim.
I warn't lonesome
now. I told him I
warn't afraid of
him telling thepeople where I
was. I talked
along, but he only
Jim and the Ghost
set there andlooked 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 ensich truck? But you got a gun, hain't you? Den we kin git sumfn betterden 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 firein a grassy open place amongst the trees, I fetched meal and bacon andChapter 845

coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and thenigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was all donewith 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 smok‐
ing 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 tellyou, 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 totell, and I ain't a-going back there, anyways. So, now, le's know allabout 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 anigger 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 toOrleans, 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 deres'. I lit out mighty quick, I tell you.
"I tuck out en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a skift 'long de46

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 detime. '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 comeover 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 toknow 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 tode 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 holi‐
day 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 mymine '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 yutherside, 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 yonderin de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz a-risin', en dey wuz agood current; so I reck'n'd 'at by fo' in de mawnin' I'd be twenty-fivemile 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 anotion 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 dewoods en jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey move delantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en some matches

Chapter 8

47

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 day‐time.""Well, that's so. You've had to keep in the woods all the time, ofcourse. 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 andlighting. Jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it was asign 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 ofthem, 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 cookfor 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 nextmorning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work anddie. Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, be‐cause I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't stingme.
I had heard about some of these things before, but not all ofthem. Jim knowed all kinds of signs. He said he knowed most every‐
thing. I said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, andso 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 toknow when good luck's a-comin' for? Want to keep it off?" And hesaid: "Ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's ag‐
wyne 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

48

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 onelaigged 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 stuckout for mo' dan fo' dollars, en I
said 'f I didn' git it I'd start abank mysef. Well, o' course dat
nigger want' to keep me out er
de business, bekase he says dey
warn't business 'nough for twobanks, so he say I could put inMisto Bradish's Nigger
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 rightoff 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 onelaigged nigger say de bank's busted. So dey didn' none uv us git nomoney.""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 forshort; he's one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he's lucky, dey

Chapter 8

49say, en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let Balum inves' de ten centsen 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 Ba‐
lum 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 noway; 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 preach‐er 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 richagain 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 nomo'."Chapter 9
I wanted to go and look at aplace right about the middle ofthe island that I'd found when I
was exploring; so we started andsoon got to it, because the island
was only three miles long and aquarter of a mile wide.
This place was a tolerable
long, steep hill or ridge about
forty foot high. We had a roughtime getting to the top, the sides
was so steep and the bushes sothick. We tramped and clumbaround all over it, and by and by
found a good big cavern in therock, most up to the top on theside towards Illinois. The cavern
was as big as two or three rooms
bunched together, and Jim could
stand up straight in it. It was coolin
there. Jim was for putting our
Exploring the Cavetraps 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 thetraps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to theisland, and they would never find us without dogs. And, besides, hesaid them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did I want thethings to get wet?
So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast thecavern, and lugged all the traps up there. Then we hunted up a placeclose 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 readyfor dinner.
The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, andon one side of the door the floor stuck out a little bit, and was flat anda 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Chapter 951

there. We put all theother things handy atthe back of the cav‐
ern. Pretty soon it
darkened up, and be‐
gun to thunder andlighten; so the birds
was right about it.
Directly it begun torain, and it rained
like all fury, too, andI never see the wind
In the Caveblow so. It was oneof these regular sum‐
mer 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 ablast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale un‐derside 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 justwild; 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 aplunging about away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards fur‐ther 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 rum‐bling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the under side of
the world, like rolling empty barrels down stairs—where it's longstairs 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 aben down dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittn' mos' drown‐ded, too; dat you would, honey. Chickens knows when it's gwyne torain, en so do de birds, chile."
The river went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till atlast 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 sameold distance across—a half a mile—because the Missouri shore wasjust a wall of high bluffs.
Daytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe, It was

52

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 some‐times the vines hung so thick we had to back away and go some otherway. Well, on every old broken-down tree you could see rabbits andsnakes 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 enoughif 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 letthem go; we didn't show ourselves in daylight.
Another night when we was up at the head of the island, just be‐fore 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 ta‐
ble, and two old chairs, and lots of things around about on the floor,
and there was clothes hanging against the wall. There was somethinglaying 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 deback. 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 cloth‐ing, too. We put the lot into the canoe—it might come good. ThereChapter 953

was a boy's old
speckled straw haton the floor; I
took that, too.
And there was abottle 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
Jim Sees a Dead Man
chest, and an oldhair trunk with the hinges broke. They stood open, but there warn't
nothing left in them that was any account. The way things was scat‐
tered 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 aratty old bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles and pins andbeeswax and buttons and thread and all such truck in it, and a hatchetand some nails, and a fishline as thick as my little finger with somemonstrous 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 labelon them; and just as we was leaving I found a tolerable good currycomb, and Jim he found a ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg. The
straps was broke off of it, but, barring that, it was a good enough leg,
though it was too long for me and not long enough for Jim, and we
couldn't find the other one, though we hunted all around.
And so, take it all around, we made a good haul. When we wasready 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 coverup with the quilt, because if he set up people could tell he was a niggera 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 10
AFTER breakfast I wanted to talkabout 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, hemight 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 comforta‐
ble. 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 theman, and what they done it for.
We rummaged the clothes we'dgot, and found eight dollars in silver
sewed up in the lining of an old
blanket overcoat. Jim said he reck‐
oned the people in that house stole
the coat, because if they'd a knowed
They Found Eight Dollars
the money was there they wouldn't aleft 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 fetch‐ed 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 asnake-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 badluck 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, af‐
ter 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, andfound a rattlesnake in there. I killed him, and curled him up on thefoot 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,Chapter 10

55

and when Jim flung himself down on the blanket while I struck a lightthe 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 asecond with a stick, and Jim grabbed pap's whisky-jug and begun topour it down.
He was barefooted, andthe snake bit him right on theheel. That all comes of my be‐
ing such a fool as to not re‐member that wherever you
leave a dead snake its mate al‐ways comes there and curls
around it. Jim told me to chopoff 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 andthrowed the snakes clear away
Jim and the Snakeamongst the bushes; for I
warn't going to let Jim find out it was all my fault, not if I could helpit.
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 tohimself 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 evertake 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 thatmaybe 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 thantake up a snake-skin in his hand. Well, I was getting to feel that way

56

myself, though I've always reckoned that looking at the new moonover your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things abody can do. Old Hank Bunker done it once, and bragged about it; andin less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot-tower, andspread 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 firstthing 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 foottwo inches long, and weighed over
two hundred pounds. We couldn't
handle him, of course; he would aflung us into Illinois. We just set
there and watched him rip and teararound till he drownded. We founda brass button in his stomach and around ball, and lots of rubbage. We
split the ball open with the hatchet,
Old Hank Bunker
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 evercatched in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he hadn't ever seen abigger 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-housethere; everybody buys some of him; his meat's as white as snow andmakes a good fry.
Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted toget a stirring up some way. I said I reckoned I would slip over the riv‐
er 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 hitch‐
ed it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit. I put on the sun-bon‐
net and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and seeChapter 1057

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 wellin 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, anddone better.
I started up
the Illinois shorein the canoe justafter dark.
I started
across to the town
from a little below
the ferry-landing,and the drift of thecurrent fetched
me in at the bot‐
tom of the town. I
tied up and started“A Fair Fit”
along the bank.
There was a lightburning 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 inat the window. There was a woman about forty year old in there knit‐
ting 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 tellme all I wanted to know; so I knocked at the door, and made up mymind I wouldn't forget I was a girl.

Chapter 11"COME in," says the woman,
and I did. She says: "Take a cheer."
I done it. She looked me allover with her little shiny eyes, andsays:"What might your name be?""Sarah Williams.""Where 'bouts do you live? In
this neighborhood?'"No'm. In Hookerville, sevenmile below. I've walked all the way
and I'm all tired out.""Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll findyou something.""No'm, I ain't hungry. I was sohungry I had to stop two miles below“Come in”
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 totell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end of the town, shesays. 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 afearedof 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 wellalone—and so on and so on, till I was afeard I had made a mistakecoming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by andby she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then I was pretty willingto let her clatter right along. She told about me and Tom Sawyer find‐ing the six thousand dollars (only she got it ten) and all about pap andChapter 1159what 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 ondown 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'dlike 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 nighhe come to getting lynched. But before night they changed around andjudged it was done by a runaway nigger named Jim.""Why he—"I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run on, and never no‐
ticed 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 re‐ward out for old Finn, too—two hundred dollars. You see, he come totown 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. Beforenight 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, andthat evening he got drunk, and was around till after midnight with acouple 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 backtill 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 thenhe'd get Huck's money without having to bother a long time with alawsuit. 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 downthen, 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 ev‐
erybody 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 outof him.""Why, are they after him yet?"60"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 tothat 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 overthere, 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 goingover 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 withmy hands; so I took up a needle offof the table and went to threadingit. My hands shook, and I was mak‐ing a bad job of it. When the wom‐
an stopped talking I looked up, andshe was looking at me pretty curi‐
ous and smiling a little. I put down
the needle and thread, and let on to
be interested—and I was, too—andsays:"Three hundred dollars is a
power of money. I wish my mother
could get it. Is your husband going
Him and Another Man
over there to-night?""Oh, yes. He went up-townwith 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?"Chapter 11

61"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 cor‐nered, and was afeared maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the wom‐
an 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, andhow poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if theyowned 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 inthe corner every little while. She said she had to have things handy tothrow 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 agood shot with it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a day or twoago, 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 washe'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 leadand fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn which she wan‐
ted me to help her with. I held up my two hands and she put the hankover 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 abouta minute. Then she took off the hank and looked me straight in theface, and very pleasant, and says:"Come, now, what's your real name?""Wh—what, mum?"62"What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?—or what isit?"
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 theway here, I'll—""No, you won't. Set down and stay where you are. I ain't going tohurt you, and I ain't going to tell on you, nuther. You just tell me yoursecret, 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 trea‐
ted 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 wasdead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the coun‐try 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 andcleared out, and I had been three nights coming the thirty miles. I trav‐
eled 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 thatwas why I struck out for this town of Goshen.
"Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St. Petersburg. Gosh‐en'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 goingto turn into the woods for my regular sleep. He told me when theroads 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 wantit."
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 getsup first?""The hind end, mum."Chapter 11

63"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 brows‐
ing on a hillside, how many ofthem eats with their heads poin‐ted the same direction?""The whole fifteen, mum.""Well, I reckon you have
lived in the country. I thoughtmaybe you was trying to hocus
me again. What's your real
name, now?"She Puts up a Snack"George Peters, mum.""Well, try to remember it,
George. Don't forget and tell me it's Elexander before you go, and thenget 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 tothread 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 yourhand up over your head as awkward as you can, and miss your rat
about six or seven foot. Throw stiff-armed from the shoulder, likethere was a pivot there for it to turn on, like a girl; not from the wristand 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 thread‐ing the needle; and I contrived the other things just to make certain.
Now trot along to your uncle, Sarah Mary Williams George ElexanderPeters, and if you get into trouble you send word to Mrs. Judith Lof‐tus, which is me, and I'll do what I can to get you out of it. Keep theriver 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 condi‐tion when you get to Goshen, I reckon."
I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I doubled on mytracks and slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below

64

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 lis‐
tens; 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 mostwinded, but I shoved right into the timber where my old camp used tobe, 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 anda half below, as hard as I could go. I landed, and slopped through thetimber and up the ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, soundasleep 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 neverasked no questions,
he never said aword; but the way
he worked for the
next half an hour
showed about how
he was scared. By
that time every‐
thing we had in theworld was on ourraft, and she wasready to be shoved“Hump Yourself”
out from the wil‐
low cove where she
was hid. We put out the camp fire at the cavern the first thing, anddidn'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 downin the shade, past the foot of the island dead still—never saying aword.

Chapter 12
IT must a been close on to one
o'clock when we got below theisland at last, and the raft didseem to go mighty slow. If a boat
was to come along we was goingto take to the canoe and break for
the Illinois shore; and it was wella boat didn't come, for we hadn't
ever thought to put the gun in thecanoe, or a fishing-line, or any‐
thing to eat. We was in ruther too
much of a sweat to think of somany things. It warn't good judg‐
ment to put everything on theraft.
If the men went to the island
I just expect they found the campfire I built, and watched it allnight for Jim to come. Anyways,
On the Raftthey stayed away from us, and if
my building the fire never fooledthem 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 tow‐head in a big bend on the Illinois side, and hacked off cottonwood
branches with the hatchet, and covered up the raft with them so shelooked like there had been a cave-in in the bank there. A tow-head is asandbar 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 thatplace, 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?

66

Jim said he bet she did think of it by the time the men was ready tostart, and he believed they must a gone up-town to get a dog and sothey lost all that time, or else we wouldn't be here on a towhead six‐teen or seventeen mile below the village—no, indeedy, we would be inthat 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 outof the cottonwood thicket, and looked up and down and across; noth‐ing 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 ormore 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 wig‐
wam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep with aframe around it for to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on insloppy 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 tohang the old lantern on, because we must always light the lantern
whenever we see a steamboat coming down-stream, to keep from get‐ting run over; but we wouldn't have to light it for up-stream boats un‐
less we see we was in what they call a "crossing"; for the river waspretty high yet, very low banks being still a little under water; so upbound boats didn't always run the channel, but hunted easy water.
This second night we run between seven and eight hours, with acurrent that was making over four mile an hour. We catched fish andtalked, 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 ourbacks 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 chuck‐le. 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 wholeworld 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 thatwonderful 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 somelittle village, and buy ten or fifteen cents' worth of meal or bacon orChapter 1267

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 iswhat he used to say, anyway.
Mornings before daylight
I slipped into cornfields andborrowed a watermelon, or amushmelon, or a punkin, orsome new corn, or things ofthat kind. Pap always said it
warn't no harm to borrowthings if you was meaning to
pay them back some time; but
the widow said it warn't any‐
thing but a soft name for steal‐ing, and no decent body would
do it. Jim said he reckoned thewidow was partly right andpap was partly right; so the
He Sometimes Lifted a Chicken
best way would be for us topick out two or three thingsfrom the list and say we wouldn't borrow them any more—then hereckoned it wouldn't be no harm to borrow the others. So we talked itover all one night, drifting along down the river, trying to make up our
minds whether to drop the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or themushmelons, or what. But towards daylight we got it all settled satis‐
factory, 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, andthe 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 themorning 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 mid‐night, 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 takecare of itself. When the lightning glared out we could see a big
straight river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. By and bysays I, "Hel-lo, Jim, looky yonder!" It was a steamboat that had killed

68

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 mysteri‐ous-like, I felt just the way any other boy would a felt when I see thatwreck laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle of the riv‐
er. 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 towatch 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 state‐room. Seegars, I bet you—and cost five cents apiece, solid cash.
Steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty dollars a month, andthey 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 arummaging. 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'dcall 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 KingdomCome. 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 theforward 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 Jim‐Chapter 1269

miny, away down through the texas-hall we see a light! and all in thesame 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, be‐cause 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 withcuriosity; 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 crosshall of the texas. Then in there I see a man stretched on the floor andtied hand and foot, and two men standing over him, and one of themhad 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 thefloor would shrivel up
and say, "Oh, please
don't, Bill; I hain't evergoin' to tell."And every time hesaid that the man withthe lantern would laughand say:"'Deed you ain't!
You never said no truer
thing 'n that, you betyou." And once he“Please Don't, Bill”
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."

70Bill says:"I don't want to, Jake Packard. I'm for killin' him—and didn't hekill 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 anail 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 theboat slanted so that I couldn't make very good time; so to keep fromgetting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom on the upperside. 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 wasup in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come. Then they stoodthere, 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 muchdifference 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. Billwanted to kill Turner. He says:"He's said he'll tell, and he will. If we was to give both our sharesto 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 ahalter 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 andhide 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.

71

Chapter 12

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 thetwo hours anyway and see,
can't we?""All right, then; comealong."
So they started, and I lit
out, all in a cold sweat, andscrambled 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 sortof a moan, and I says:“It Ain't Good Morals”"Quick, Jim, it ain't notime for fooling around andmoaning; there's a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don't huntup 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 thesheriff 'll get 'em. Quick—hurry! I'll hunt the labboard side, you huntthe 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!"“Oh! Lordy Lordy!”

Chapter 13
WELL, I catched my breath andmost fainted. Shut up on a wreckwith such a gang as that! But it
warn't no time to be sentimenter‐ing. We'd got to find that boat
now—had to have it for our‐selves. So we went a-quaking andshaking down the stabboard side,and slow work it was, too—
seemed a week before we got tothe 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
In a Fix
struck for the stern of the texas,
and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hang‐
ing on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in thewater. 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 footfrom 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 him‐
self 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?"

Chapter 13

73"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 ina 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, andwe knowed by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was be‐
ginning 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, evenfor murderers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself, there ain't no tell‐ing 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 orabove it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place for you and theskiff, and then I'll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get some‐body to go for that gang and get them out of their scrape, so they canbe 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 nevera light showed; everybody in bed, I reckon. We boomed along down
the river, watching for lights and watching for our raft. After a longtime 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 hadstole 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 hadgone 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 orfour more showed—up on a hillside. It was a village. I closed in above

74

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 heslept; and by and by I found him roosting on the bitts forward, withhis head down between his knees. I gave his shoulder two or three lit‐
tle 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 ourtroubles, and this 'n 'll
come out all right.
What's the matter with'em?"
"They're—they're—are you the“Hello, What's up”
watchman of theboat?""Yes," he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. "I'm the captainand the owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman and headdeck-hand; and sometimes I'm the freight and passengers. I ain't asrich as old Jim Hornback, and I can't be so blame' generous and goodto Tom, Dick, and Harry as what he is, and slam around money theway 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 takeyour ferryboat and go up there—""Up where? Where are they?""On the wreck."

Chapter 13

75"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 edgeof the evening she started over with her nigger woman in the horseferry to stay all night at her friend's house, Miss What-you-may-callher I disremember her name—and they lost their steering-oar, andswung 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 comealong 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 dashfor it, and Miss Hooker she said if I didn't strike help sooner, comehere 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 getpeople to do something, but they said, 'What, in such a night and sucha 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, thather uncle Hornback—""Great guns! is he her uncle? Looky here, you break for that light76

over yonder-way, and turn out west when you git there, and about aquarter 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 aroundany, 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-goingup 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 shorein the easy water about six hundred yards, and tucked myself inamong some woodboats; for I couldn't rest easy till I could see the fer‐ryboat 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 adone it. I wished the widow knowed about it. I judged she would be
proud of me for helping these rapscallions, because rapscallions anddead beats is the kind the widow and good people takes the most inter‐
est in.
Well, before
long here comes
the wreck, dimand dusky, sliding
along down! A
kind of cold shiv‐er went throughme, and then I
struck out for her.
She was very
deep, and I see ina minute there
The Wreck
warn't muchchance for anybody being alive in her. I pulled all around her and hol‐lered 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 theriver on a long down-stream slant; and when I judged I was out ofeye-reach I laid on my oars, and looked back and see her go and smellaround the wreck for Miss Hooker's remainders, because the captainwould 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 mywork and went a-booming down the river.
It did seem a powerful long time before Jim's light showed up;

Chapter 13

77

and when it did show it looked like it was a thousand mile off. By thetime 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 turnedin and slept like dead people.

We Turned in and Slept

Chapter 14
BY and by, when we got up, we
turned over the truck the gang hadstole off of the wreck, and foundboots, and blankets, and clothes, andall sorts of other things, and a lot ofbooks, and a spyglass, and threeboxes of seegars. We hadn't everbeen this rich before in neither of
our lives. The seegars was prime.
We laid off all the afternoon in thewoods talking, and me reading thebooks, and having a general goodtime. I told Jim all about what hap‐
pened inside the wreck and at the
ferryboat, and I said these kinds ofthings was adventures; but he said
he didn't want no more adventures.
He said that when I went in thetexas and he crawled back to get on
Turning Over the Truck
the raft and found her gone he near‐ly 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 didget 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 andsuch, 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 in‐terested. 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 theywant it; they can have just as much as they want; everything belongs
to them."Chapter 14

79"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 lazyaround; or go hawking—just hawking and sp—Sh!—d' you hear anoise?"
We skipped out and looked; but it warn't nothing but the flutter ofa steamboat's wheel away down, coming around the point; so we comeback.
"Yes," says I, "and other times, when things is dull, they fuss withthe 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? Solo‐mon had one; hehad about a mil‐lion wives.""Why, yes,
dat's so; I—I'ddone forgot it. A
harem's a bo'd'nhouse, I reck'n.
Mos' likely dey
Solomon and his Million Wives
has rackety times
in de nussery. En I reck'n de wives quarrels considable; en dat 'creasede 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 demids' 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 debiler-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.

80

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 wom‐en; 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 shinaroun' 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 any‐
body 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'sde 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 halfa 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, dereal pint is down furder—it's down deeper. It lays in de way Soller‐
mun was raised. You take a man dat's got on'y one or two chillen; isdat 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 fivemillion chillen runnin' roun' de house, en it's diffunt. He as soon chopa 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 Solo‐mon 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 headcut 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, andsome 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

Chapter 14

81

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 someof 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 talkdifferent 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 theyuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman a man?"

82"Yes.""Well, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he talk like a man? You an‐swer me dat!"
I see it warn't no use wasting words—you can't learn a nigger toargue. So I quit.

Chapter 15
WE judged that three nights more
would fetch us to Cairo, at the bottomof Illinois, where the Ohio River comesin, and that was what we was after. We
would sell the raft and get on a steam‐boat and go way up the Ohio amongst
the free States, and then be out of trou‐ble.
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“We Would Sell the Raft”
to tie to. I passed the line around one ofthem right on the edge of the cut bank,
but there was a stiff current, and the raft come booming down so live‐
ly 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 ahalf 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 tothe 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 andtried 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 bankor 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

84

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 thewhoops that was making the trouble for me. Well, I fought along, anddirectly 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 be‐hind me yet, but in a different place; it kept coming, and kept chang‐ing 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 downstream, 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 cur‐rent throwed me off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags thatfairly 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 timberof a regular island; it might be five or six miles long and more thanhalf a mile wide.
I kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, I reck‐
on. 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 toyourself 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 andlonesome 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 anarrow channel between, and some that I couldn't see I knowed wasthere because I'd hear the wash of the current against the old dead

Chapter 15

85

brush and trash thathung over the banks.
Well, I warn't longloosing the whoops
down amongst the
towheads; and I only
tried to chase them alittle while, anyway,
because it was worse
than chasing a Jacko'-lantern. You neverknowed a soundAmong the Snags
dodge around so,and swap places soquick 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 theraft 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 fast‐er 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 fetch‐
ed up on a snag, maybe, and it was all up with him. I was good andtired, 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 thestars 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 wasdreaming; andwhen things began
to come back to me
they seemed tocome up dim out oflast week.
It was a mon‐strous big river
here, with the tallest
Asleep on the Raft

86

and the thickest kind of timber on both banks; just a solid wall, as wellas 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 anotherspeck, 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 be‐
tween his knees, asleep, with his right arm hanging over the steeringoar. The other oar was smashed off, and the raft was littered up withleaves 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 toogood 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—desame 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-drin‐kin'?""Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?""How does I talk wild?""How? Why, hain't you been talking about my coming back, andall 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 beengone 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 tan‐gle-headed old fool, Jim.""I is, is I? Well, you answer me dis: Didn't you tote out de line inde 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 pullloose en de raf' go a-hummin' down de river, en leave you en de canoebehine in de fog?""What fog?""Why, de fog!—de fog dat's been aroun' all night. En didn't youChapter 15

87whoop, 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 aturrible 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 noislands, nor no troubles, nor nothing. I been setting here talking withyou 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 study‐
ing 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 dreamb'fo' dat's tired me like dis one.""Oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does tire a body likeeverything sometimes. But this one was a staving dream; tell me allabout 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 hemust 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 somegood, but the current was another man that would get us away fromhim. The whoops was warnings that would come to us every now andthen, and if we didn't try hard to make out to understand them they'djust take us into bad luck, 'stead of keeping us out of it. The lot of tow‐heads 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, andwouldn'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?"88

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 thetrash again. He had got the dream fixed so strong in his head that hecouldn't seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its placeagain right away. But when he did get the thing straightened around helooked at me steady without ever smiling, and says:"What do dey stan' for? I'se gwyne to tell you. When I got allwore out wid work, en wid de callin' for you, en went to sleep, myheart 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 backagin, all safe en soun', de tears come, en I could a got down on myknees 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 mademe feel so mean I could almost kissed his foot to get him to take itback.
It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go andhumble myself to a nigger; but I done it, and I warn't ever sorry for itafterwards, 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 thatway.

Chapter 16
WE slept most all day, andstarted out at night, a little
ways behind a monstrous
long raft that was as long go‐
ing by as a procession. She
had four long sweeps at eachend, so we judged she car‐ried as many as thirty men,likely. She had five big wig‐
wams aboard, wide apart,and an open camp fire in the
middle, and a tall flag-pole
at each end. There was apower of style about her. It
amounted to something be‐“It Amounted to Something Being a Raftsman”
ing a raftsman on such a
craft as that.
We went drifting down into a big bend, and the night clouded up
and got hot. The river was very wide, and was walled with solid tim‐
ber on both sides; you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever, or a light.
We talked about Cairo, and wondered whether we would know it
when we got to it. I said likely we wouldn't, because I had heard say
there warn't but about a dozen houses there, and if they didn't happen
to have them lit up, how was we going to know we was passing a
town? Jim said if the two big rivers joined together there, that would
show. But I said maybe we might think we was passing the foot of anisland and coming into the same old river again. That disturbed Jim—and me too. So the question was, what to do? I said, paddle ashore thefirst time a light showed, and tell them pap was behind, coming alongwith a trading-scow, and was a green hand at the business, and wanted
to know how far it was to Cairo. Jim thought it was a good idea, so wetook a smoke on it and waited.
There warn't nothing to do now but to look out sharp for thetown, and not pass it without seeing it. He said he'd be mighty sure tosee it, because he'd be a free man the minute he seen it, but if hemissed it he'd be in a slave country again and no more show for free‐dom. Every little while he jumps up and says:

90"Dah she is?"But it warn't. It was Jack-o'-lanterns, or lightning bugs; so he set
down again, and went to watching, same as before. Jim said it madehim all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom. Well, I
can tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear him,
because I begun to get it through my head that he was most free—and
who was to blame for it? Why, me. I couldn't get that out of my con‐science, no how nor no way. It got to troubling me so I couldn't rest; I
couldn't stay still in one place. It hadn't ever come home to me before,
what this thing was that I was doing. But now it did; and it stayed withme, and scorched me more and more. I tried to make out to myselfthat I warn't to blame, because I didn't run Jim off from his rightful
owner; but it warn't no use, conscience up and says, every time, "Butyou knowed he was running for his freedom, and you could a paddledashore and told somebody." That was so—I couldn't get around thatnoway. That was where it pinched. Conscience says to me, "What hadpoor Miss Watson done to you that you could see her nigger go off
right under your eyes and never say one single word? What did thatpoor old woman do to you that you could treat her so mean? Why, shetried to learn you your book, she tried to learn you your manners, shetried to be good to you every way she knowed how. That's what she
done."
I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished I wasdead. I fidgeted up and down the raft, abusing myself to myself, andJim was fidgeting up and down past me. We neither of us could keep
still. Every time he danced around and says, "Dah's Cairo!" it went
through me like a shot, and I thought if it was Cairo I reckoned I
would die of miserableness.
Jim talked out loud all the time while I was talking to myself. He
was saying how the first thing he would do when he got to a free Statehe would go to saving up money and never spend a single cent, andwhen he got enough he would buy his wife, which was owned on a
farm close to where Miss Watson lived; and then they would both
work to buy the two children, and if their master wouldn't sell them,
they'd get an Ab'litionist to go and steal them.
It most froze me to hear such talk. He wouldn't ever dared to talksuch talk in his life before. Just see what a difference it made in him
the minute he judged he was about free. It was according to the oldsaying, "Give a nigger an inch and he'll take an ell." Thinks I, this iswhat comes of my not thinking. Here was this nigger, which I had as
good as helped to run away, coming right out flat-footed and saying heChapter 16

91

would steal his children—children that belonged to a man I didn't
even know; a man that hadn't ever done me no harm.
I was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a lowering of him.
My conscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last I
says to it, "Let up on me—it ain't too late yet—I'll paddle ashore at thefirst light and tell." I felt easy and happy and light as a feather rightoff. All my troubles was gone. I went to looking out sharp for a light,
and sort of singing to myself. By and by one showed. Jim sings out:
"We's safe, Huck, we's safe! Jump up and crack yo' heels! Dat'sde good ole Cairo at las', I jis knows it!"
I says:"I'll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It mightn't be, you
know."
He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in thebottom for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as I shoved off,
he says:"Pooty soon I'll be a-shout'n' for joy, en I'll say, it's all on ac‐
counts o' Huck; I's a free man, en I couldn't ever ben free ef it hadn'ben for Huck; Huck done it. Jim won't ever forgit you, Huck; you's debes' fren' Jim's ever had; en you's de only fren' ole Jim's got now."
I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says
this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. I went along slow
then, and I warn't right down certain whether I was glad I started orwhether I warn't. When I was fifty yards off, Jim says:"Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on'y white genlman dat ever
kep' his promise to ole Jim."
Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I got to do it—I can't get out of it.
Right then along comes a skiff with two men in it with guns, and they
stopped and I stopped. One of them says:"What's that yonder?""A piece of a raft," I says.
"Do you belong on it?""Yes, sir.""Any men on it?"
"Only one, sir.""Well, there's five niggers run off to-night up yonder, above thehead of the bend. Is your man white or black?"
I didn't answer up prompt. I tried to, but the words wouldn't
come. I tried for a second or two to brace up and out with it, but I
warn't man enough—hadn't the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was weaken‐
ing; so I just give up trying, and up and says:

92"He's white.""I reckon we'll go and see for ourselves.""I wish you would," says I, "because it's pap that's there, andmaybe you'd help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. He's sick—and so is mam and Mary Ann.""Oh, the devil! we're in a hurry, boy. But I s'pose we've got to.
Come, buckle to your paddle, and let's get along."
I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. When we had
made a stroke or two, I says:"Pap'll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can tell you. Every‐
body goes away when I want them to help me tow the raft ashore, andI can't do it by myself.""Well, that's infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy, what's the matterwith your father?""It's the—a—the—well, it ain't anything much."
They stopped pulling. It warn't but a mighty little ways to the raft
now. One says:"Boy, that's a lie. What is the matter with your pap? Answer up
square now, and it'll be the better for you.""I will, sir, I
will, honest—but
don't leave us,
please. It's the—the—Gentlemen, if
you'll only pullahead, and let me
heave you theheadline, you won't
have to come anear the raft—please do."“Boy, That's a Lie”
"Set her back,John, set her
back!" says one. They backed water. "Keep away, boy—keep tolooard. Confound it, I just expect the wind has blowed it to us. Your
pap's got the small-pox, and you know it precious well. Why didn't
you come out and say so? Do you want to spread it all over?""Well," says I, a-blubbering, "I've told everybody before, andthey just went away and left us.""Poor devil, there's something in that. We are right down sorry
for you, but we—well, hang it, we don't want the small-pox, you see.

Chapter 16

93

Look here, I'll tell you what to do. Don't you try to land by yourself, or
you'll smash everything to pieces. You float along down about twenty
miles, and you'll come to a town on the left-hand side of the river. It
will be long after sun-up then, and when you ask for help you tellthem your folks are all down with chills and fever. Don't be a foolagain, and let people guess what is the matter. Now we're trying to do
you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us, that's a goodboy. It wouldn't do any good to land yonder where the light is—it's
only a wood-yard. Say, I reckon your father's poor, and I'm bound tosay he's in pretty hard luck. Here, I'll put a twenty-dollar gold piece on
this board, and you get it when it floats by. I feel mighty mean to leaveyou; but my kingdom! it won't do to fool with small-pox, don't you
see?""Hold on, Parker," says the other man, "here's a twenty to put on
the board for me. Good-bye, boy; you do as Mr. Parker told you, andyou'll be all right.""That's so, my boy—good-bye, good-bye. If you see any run‐away niggers you get help and nab them, and you can make somemoney by it."
"Good-bye, sir," says I; "I won't let no runaway niggers get byme if I can help it."
They went off and I got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low, be‐cause I knowed very well I had done wrong, and I see it warn't no use
for me to try to learn to do right; a body that don't get started rightwhen he's little ain't got no show—when the pinch comes there ain't
nothing to back him up and keep him to his work, and so he gets beat.
Then I thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on; s'pose you'd adone right and give Jim up, would you felt better than what you donow? No, says I, I'd feel bad—I'd feel just the same way I do now.
Well, then, says I, what's the use you learning to do right when it's
troublesome to do right and ain't no trouble to do wrong, and the wa‐
ges is just the same? I was stuck. I couldn't answer that. So I reckoned
I wouldn't bother no more about it, but after this always do whichevercome handiest at the time.
I went into the wigwam; Jim warn't there. I looked all around; hewarn't anywhere. I says:"Jim!""Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o' sight yit? Don't talk loud."He was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out. I
told him they were out of sight, so he come aboard. He says:"I was a-listenin' to all de talk, en I slips into de river en was

94“Here I is Huck”

gwyne to shove for sho' if dey come aboard. Den I was gwyne toswim to de raf' agin when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool'em, Huck! Dat wuz de smartes' dodge! I tell you, chile, I'spec it save'ole Jim—ole Jim ain't going to forgit you for dat, honey."
Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty good raise—twenty dollars apiece. Jim said we could take deck passage on asteamboat now, and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go
in the free States. He said twenty mile more warn't far for the raft togo, but he wished we was already there.
Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty particular
about hiding the raft good. Then he worked all day fixing things inbundles, and getting all ready to quit rafting.
That night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away
down in a left-hand bend.
I went off in the canoe to ask about it. Pretty soon I found a manout in the river with a skiff, setting a trot-line. I ranged up and says:"Mister, is that town Cairo?""Cairo? no. You must be a blame' fool.""What town is it, mister?""If you want to know, go and find out. If you stay here botherin'around me for about a half a minute longer you'll get something you
won't want."
I paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed, but I said nevermind, Cairo would be the next place, I reckoned.
We passed another town before daylight, and I was going out
again; but it was high ground, so I didn't go. No high ground aboutChapter 16

95

Cairo, Jim said. I had forgot it. We laid up for the day on a towhead
tolerable close to the left-hand bank. I begun to suspicion something.
So did Jim. I says:"Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night."
He says:"Doan' le's talk about it, Huck. Po' niggers can't have no luck. I
awluz 'spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn't done wid its work.""I wish I'd never seen that snake-skin, Jim—I do wish I'd neverlaid eyes on it."
"It ain't yo' fault, Huck; you didn' know. Don't you blame yo'self'bout it."
When it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio water inshore, sureenough, and outside was the old regular Muddy! So it was all up with
Cairo.
We talked it all over. It wouldn't do to take to the shore; we
couldn't take the raft up the stream, of course. There warn't no way but
to wait for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the chances. So
we slept all day amongst the cottonwood thicket, so as to be fresh for
the work, and when we went back to the raft about dark the canoe wasgone!
We didn't say a word for a good while. There warn't anything tosay. We both knowed well enough it was some more work of the rat‐
tlesnake-skin; so what was the use to talk about it? It would only look
like we was finding fault, and that would be bound to fetch more badluck—and keep on fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep
still.
By and by we talked about what we better do, and found there
warn't no way but just to go along down with the raft till we got achance to buy a canoe to go back in. We warn't going to borrow it
when there warn't anybody around, the way pap would do, for thatmight set people after us.
So we shoved out after dark on the raft.
Anybody that don't believe yet that it's foolishness to handle asnake-skin, after all that that snake-skin done for us, will believe it
now if they read on and see what more it done for us.
The place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore. But wedidn't see no rafts laying up; so we went along during three hours andmore. Well, the night got gray and ruther thick, which is the next
meanest thing to fog. You can't tell the shape of the river, and you
can't see no distance. It got to be very late and still, and then alongcomes a steamboat up the river. We lit the lantern, and judged she

96

would see it. Up-stream boats didn't generly come close to us; they goout and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the reefs; butnights like this they bull right up the channel against the whole river.
We could hear her pounding along, but we didn't see her good till
she was close. She aimed right for us. Often they do that and try to see
how close they can come without touching; sometimes the wheel bites
off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and laughs, andthinks he's mighty smart. Well, here she comes, and we said she wasgoing to try and shave us; but she didn't seem to be sheering off a bit.
She was a big one, and she was coming in a hurry, too, looking like a
black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it; but all of a sudden
she bulged out, big and scary, with a long row of wide-open furnace
doors shining like red-hot teeth, and her monstrous bows and guards
hanging right over us. There was a yell at us, and a jingling of bells tostop the engines, a powwow of cussing, and whistling of steam—andas Jim went overboard on one side and I on the other, she comesmashing straight through the raft.
I dived—and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-footwheel had got to go over me, and I wanted it to have plenty of room. I
could always stay under water a minute; this time I reckon I stayed
under a minute and a half. Then I bounced for the top in a hurry, for I
was nearly busting. I popped out to my armpits and blowed the waterout of my nose, and puffed a bit. Of course there was a booming cur‐rent; and of course that boat started her engines again ten seconds after
she stopped them, for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now she
was churning along up the river, out of sight in the thick weather,though I could hear her.
I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn't get any an‐swer; so I grabbed a plank that touched me while I was "treading wa‐
ter," and struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. But I made out
to see that the drift of the current was towards the left-hand shore,
which meant that I was in a crossing; so I changed off and went thatway.
It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so I was agood long time in getting over. I made a safe landing, and clumb up
the bank. I couldn't see but a little ways, but I went poking along overrough ground for a quarter of a mile or more, and then I run across a
big old-fashioned double log-house before I noticed it. I was going torush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went to howl‐
ing and barking at me, and I knowed better than to move another peg.

97

Chapter 16

Climbing up the BankChapter 17
IN about a minute somebody spokeout of a window without putting hishead out, and says:"Be done, boys! Who's there?"
I says:"It's me."
"Who's me?""George Jackson, sir.""What do you want?""I don't want nothing, sir. I only
want to go along by, but the dogs
won't let me.""What are you prowling aroundhere this time of night for—hey?""I warn't prowling around, sir, I
fell
overboard
off of the steamboat."“Who's There ?”"Oh, you did, did you? Strike alight there, somebody. What did you say your name was?""George Jackson, sir. I'm only a boy.""Look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't be afraid—no‐body'll hurt you. But don't try to budge; stand right where you are.
Rouse out Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George
Jackson, is there anybody with you?""No, sir, nobody."
I heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see alight. The man sung out:
"Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool—ain't you got any
sense? Put it on the floor behind the front door. Bob, if you and Tom
are ready, take your places.""All ready.""Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?""No, sir; I never heard of them.""Well, that may be so, and it mayn't. Now, all ready. Step for‐ward, George Jackson. And mind, don't you hurry—come mighty
slow. If there's anybody with you, let him keep back—if he shows
himself he'll be shot. Come along now. Come slow; push the door
open yourself—just enough to squeeze in, d' you hear?"Chapter 17

99

I didn't hurry; I couldn't if I'd a wanted to. I took one slow step at
a time and there warn't a sound, only I thought I could hear my heart.
The dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behindme. When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard them unlocking andunbarring and unbolting. I put my hand on the door and pushed it alittle and a little more till somebody said, "There, that's enough—put
your head in." I done it, but I judged they would take it off.
The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at
me, and me at them, for about a quarter of a minute: Three big men
with guns pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest,gray and about sixty, the other two thirty or more—all of them fineand handsome—and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back ofher two young women which I couldn't see right well. The old gentle‐
man says:"There; I reckon it's all right. Come in."As soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked the door andbarred it and bolted it, and told the young men to come in with theirguns, and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on thefloor, and got together in a corner that was out of the range of the front
windows—there warn't none on the side. They held the candle, andtook a good look at me, and all said, "Why, he ain't a Shepherdson—no, there ain't any Shepherdson about him." Then the old man said hehoped I wouldn't mind being searched for arms, because he didn't
mean no harm by it—it was only to make sure. So he didn't pry into
my pockets, but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was allright. He told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all about
myself; but the old lady says:"Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; anddon't you reckon it may be he's hungry?""True for you, Rachel—I forgot."
So the old lady says:"Betsy" (this was a nigger woman), "you fly around and get him
something to eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girls
go and wake up Buck and tell him—oh, here he is himself. Buck, takethis little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress him
up in some of yours that's dry."
Buck looked about as old as me—thirteen or fourteen or along
there, though he was a little bigger than me. He hadn't on anything but
a shirt, and he was very frowzy-headed. He came in gaping and dig‐ging one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with theother one. He says:

100"Ain't they no Shepherdsons
around?"They said, no, 'twas a false
alarm.
"Well," he says, "if they'd a ben
some, I reckon I'd a got one."
They all laughed, and Bob says:"Why, Buck, they might havescalped us all, you've been so slow in
coming.""Well, nobody come after me,
and it ain't right I'm always kept
down; I don't get no show.""Never mind, Buck, my boy,"says the old man, "you'll have show
enough,all in good time, don't you“Buck”
fret about that. Go 'long with you now,and do as your mother told you."
When we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and aroundabout and pants of his, and I put them on. While I was at it heasked me what my name was, but before I could tell him he started totell me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in thewoods day before yesterday, and he asked me where Moses was when
the candle went out. I said I didn't know; I hadn't heard about it be‐fore, no way.
"Well, guess," he says.
"How'm I going to guess," says I, "when I never heard tell of it
before?""But you can guess, can't you? It's just as easy.""Which candle?" I says.
"Why, any candle," he says.
"I don't know where he was," says I; "where was he?""Why, he was in the dark! That's where he was!""Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?""Why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? Say, how long are you
going to stay here? You got to stay always. We can just have booming
times—they don't have no school now. Do you own a dog? I've got a
dog—and he'll go in the river and bring out chips that you throw in.
Do you like to comb up Sundays, and all that kind of foolishness? You
bet I don't, but ma she makes me. Confound these ole britches! I reck‐
on I'd better put 'em on, but I'd ruther not, it's so warm. Are you allChapter 17

101

ready? All right. Come along, old hoss."
Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk—that iswhat they had for me down there, and there ain't nothing better thatever I've come across yet. Buck and his ma and all of them smoked
cob pipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two
young women. They all smoked and talked, and I eat and talked. The
young women had quilts around them, and their hair down their backs.
They all asked me questions, and I told them how pap and me and all
the family was living on a little farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw,
and my sister Mary Ann run off and got married and never was heardof no more, and Bill went to hunt them and he warn't heard of nomore, and Tom and Mort died, and then there warn't nobody but justme and pap left, and he was just trimmed down to nothing, on accountof his troubles; so when he died I took what there was left, because thefarm didn't belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, andfell overboard; and that was how I come to be here. So they said I
could have a home there as long as I wanted it. Then it was most day‐light and everybody went to bed, and I went to bed with Buck, andwhen I waked up in the morning, drat it all, I had forgot what myname was. So I laid there about an hour trying to think, and when
Buck waked up I says:"Can you spell, Buck?""Yes," he says.
"I bet you can't spell my name," says I.
"I bet you what you dare I can," says he.
"All right," says I, "go ahead.""G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n—there now," he says.
"Well," says I, "you done it, but I didn't think you could. It ain't
no slouch of a name to spell—right off without studying."
I set it down, private, because somebody might want me to spell
it next, and so I wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like I wasused to it.
It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. I
hadn't seen no house out in the country before that was so nice andhad so much style. It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor awooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same
as houses in town. There warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of abed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them. There was a big
fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept
clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with an‐other brick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that

102

they call Spanish-brown, same as they do in town. They had big brass
dog-irons that could hold up a saw-log. There was a clock on the mid‐dle of the mantelpiece, with a picture of a town painted on the bottom
half of the glass front, and a round place in the middle of it for the sun,and you could see the pendulum swinging behind it. It was beautiful
to hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of these peddlers had
been along and scoured her up and got her in good shape, she would
start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she got tuckered out.
They wouldn't took any money for her.
Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock,made out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. By one of theparrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the other;and when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but didn't open
their mouths nor look different nor interested. They squeaked throughunderneath. There was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans spreadout behind those things. On the table in the middle of the room was akind of a lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges andpeaches and grapes piled up in it, which was much redder and yellow‐
er and prettier than real ones is, but they warn't real because you could
see where pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, orwhatever it was, underneath.
This table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red
and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around. It
come all the way from Philadelphia, they said. There was some books,
too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table. One was a
big family Bible full of pictures. One was Pilgrim's Progress, about aman that left his family, it didn't say why. I read considerable in it now
and then. The statements was interesting, but tough. Another wasFriendship's Offering, full of beautiful stuff and poetry; but I didn't
read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay's Speeches, and another was
Dr. Gunn's Family Medicine, which told you all about what to do if abody was sick or dead. There was a hymn book, and a lot of otherbooks. And there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound,
too—not bagged down in the middle and busted, like an old basket.
They had pictures hung on the walls—mainly Washingtons andLafayettes, and battles, and Highland Marys, and one called "Signing
the Declaration." There was some that they called crayons, which oneof the daughters which was dead made her own self when she was on‐ly fifteen years old. They was different from any pictures I ever see
before—blacker, mostly, than is common. One was a woman in a slim
black dress, belted small under the armpits, with bulges like a cabbage

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103

in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet
with a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape,and very wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive
on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping willow, and herother hand hanging down her side holding a white handkerchief and a
reticule, and underneath the picture it said "Shall I Never See Thee
More Alas." Another one was a young lady with her hair all combed
up straight to the top of her head, and knotted there in front of a comb
like a chair-back, and she was crying into a handkerchief and had adead bird laying on its back in her other hand with its heels up, andunderneath the picture it said "I Shall Never Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup
More Alas." There was one where a young lady was at a window
looking up at the moon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she
had an open letter in one hand with black sealing wax showing on oneedge of it, and she was mashing a locket with a chain to it against her
mouth, and underneath the picture it said "And Art Thou Gone Yes
Thou Art Gone Alas." These was all nice pictures, I reckon, but I
didn't somehow seem to take to them, because if ever I was down alittle they always give me the fan-tods. Everybody was sorry she died,because she had laid out a lot more of these pictures to do, and a body
could see by what she had done what they had lost. But I reckonedthat with her disposition she was having a better time in the graveyard.
She was at work on what they said
was her greatest picture when she
took sick, and every day and every
night it was her prayer to be al‐
lowed to live till she got it done,
but she never got the chance. It
was a picture of a young woman
in a long white gown, standing on
the rail of a bridge all ready tojump off, with her hair all down
her back, and looking up to themoon, with the tears running
down her face, and she had twoarms folded across her breast, andtwo arms stretched out in front,
and two more reaching up towards“It Made her Look Spidery”
the moon—and the idea was tosee which pair would look best, and then scratch out all the otherarms; but, as I was saying, she died before she got her mind made up,

104

and now they kept this picture over the head of the bed in her room,and every time her birthday come they hung flowers on it. Other times
it was hid with a little curtain. The young woman in the picture had akind of a nice sweet face, but there was so many arms it made her look
too spidery, seemed to me.
This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used
to paste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it outof the Presbyterian Observer, and write poetry after them out of her
own head. It was very good poetry. This is what she wrote about a boy
by the name of Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a well and was
drownded:
ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D
And did young Stephen sicken,
And did young Stephen die?
And did the sad hearts thicken,
And did the mourners cry?
No; such was not the fate ofYoung Stephen Dowling Bots;
Though sad hearts round him thickened,'Twas not from sickness' shots.
No whooping-cough did rack his frame,
Nor measles drear with spots;
Not these impaired the sacred name
Of Stephen Dowling Bots.
Despised love struck not with woe
That head of curly knots,
Nor stomach troubles laid him low,
Young Stephen Dowling Bots.
O no. Then list with tearful eye,Whilst I his fate do tell.
His soul did from this cold world fly
By falling down a well.
They got him out and emptied him;
Alas it was too late;
His spirit was gone for to sport aloft

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In the realmsof the good andgreat.
If Emmeline
Grangerford could
make poetry like that
before she was four‐teen, there ain't no tell‐ing what she could adone by and by. Bucksaid she could rattle
off poetry like nothing.
She didn't ever have tostop to think. He said
she would slap down aline, and if she“They Got Him out and Emptied Him”
couldn't find anything
to rhyme with it would
just scratch it out and slap down another one, and go ahead. She warn't
particular; she could write about anything you choose to give her towrite about just so it was sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman
died, or a child died, she would be on hand with her "tribute" before
he was cold. She called them tributes. The neighbors said it was thedoctor first, then Emmeline, then the undertaker—the undertaker nev‐
er got in ahead of Emmeline but once, and then she hung fire on arhyme for the dead person's name, which was Whistler. She warn't ev‐
er the same after that; she never complained, but she kinder pinedaway and did not live long. Poor thing, many's the time I made myself
go up to the little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old
scrap-book and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me
and I had soured on her a little. I liked all that family, dead ones andall, and warn't going to let anything come between us. Poor Emmeline
made poetry about all the dead people when she was alive, and it
didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make some about her
now she was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but I
couldn't seem to make it go somehow. They kept Emmeline's room
trim and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked tohave them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. The oldlady took care of the room herself, though there was plenty of niggers,
and she sewed there a good deal and read her Bible there mostly.
Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful cur‐106

tains on the windows: white, with pictures painted on them of castles
with vines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. There
was a little old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, I reckon, and nothing
was ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies sing "The Last Link is
Broken" and play "The Battle of Prague" on it. The walls of all therooms was plastered, and most had carpets on the floors, and thewhole house was whitewashed on the outside.
It was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them wasroofed and floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the mid‐dle of the day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. Nothing couldn't
be better. And warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it too!

The HouseChapter 18
COL. Grangerford was a gentleman,
you see. He was a gentleman all over;and so was his family. He was wellborn, as the saying is, and that's
worth as much in a man as it is in ahorse, so the Widow Douglas said,
and nobody ever denied that she wasof the first aristocracy in our town;
and pap he always said it, too, though
he warn't no more quality than amudcat himself. Col. Grangerford
was very tall and very slim, and had adarkish-paly complexion, not a signof red in it anywheres; he was clean
shaved every morning all over his
thin face, and he had the thinnest kindof lips, and the thinnest kind of nos‐trils, and a high nose, and heavy eye‐Col. Grangerfordbrows, and the blackest kind of eyes,
sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of cav‐
erns at you, as you may say. His forehead was high, and his hair was
black and straight and hung to his shoulders. His hands was long andthin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suitfrom head to foot made out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to lookat it; and on Sundays he wore a blue tail-coat with brass buttons on it.
He carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it. There warn't no
frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud. He was askind as he could be—you could feel that, you know, and so you had
confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see; but when hestraightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun toflicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree first,
and find out what the matter was afterwards. He didn't ever have totell anybody to mind their manners—everybody was always goodmannered where he was. Everybody loved to have him around, too; hewas sunshine most always—I mean he made it seem like good weath‐er. When he turned into a cloudbank it was awful dark for half a mi‐nute, and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for108a week.
When him and the old lady come down in the morning all thefamily got up out of their chairs and give them good-day, and didn't
set down again till they had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the
sideboard where the decanter was, and mixed a glass of bitters andhanded it to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till Tom's andBob's was mixed, and then they bowed and said, "Our duty to you, sir,and madam;" and they bowed the least bit in the world and said thankyou, and so they drank, all three, and Bob and Tom poured a spoonfulof water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple brandy in thebottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and Buck, and we drank to
the old people too.
Bob was the oldest and Tom next—tall, beautiful men with verybroad shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black eyes.
They dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman,
and wore broad Panama hats.
Then there was Miss Charlotte; she was twenty-five, and tall andproud and grand, but as good as she could be when she warn't stirredup; but when she was she had a look that would make you wilt in yourtracks, like her father. She was beautiful.
So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different kind. She
was gentle and sweet like a dove, and she was only twenty.
Each person had their own nigger to wait on them—Buck too.
My nigger had a monstrous easy time, because I warn't used to having
anybody do anything for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of thetime.
This was all there was of the family now, but there used to be
more—three sons; they got killed; and Emmeline that died.
The old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over a hundred nig‐
gers. Sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, fromten or fifteen mile around, and stay five or six days, and have suchjunketings round about and on the river, and dances and picnics in thewoods daytimes, and balls at the house nights. These people wasmostly kinfolks of the family. The men brought their guns with them.
It was a handsome lot of quality, I tell you.
There was another clan of aristocracy around there—five or six
families—mostly of the name of Shepherdson. They was as high-ton‐
ed and well born and rich and grand as the tribe of Grangerfords. The
Shepherdsons and Grangerfords used the same steamboat landing,which was about two mile above our house; so sometimes when I
went up there with a lot of our folks I used to see a lot of the Shep‐

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herdsons there on their fine horses.
One day Buck and me was away out in the woods hunting, andheard a horse coming. We was crossing the road. Buck says:"Quick! Jump for the woods!"
We done it, and then pee‐ped down the woods throughthe leaves. Pretty soon a splen‐
did young man come galloping
down the road, setting his horseeasy and looking like a soldier.
He had his gun across his pom‐mel. I had seen him before. It
was young Harney Shepherd‐son. I heard Buck's gun go off
at my ear, and Harney's hat
tumbled off from his head. He
grabbed his gun and rodestraight to the place where wewas hid. But we didn't wait. We
started through the woods on a
Young Harney Shepherdson
run. The woods warn't thick, so
I looked over my shoulder tododge the bullet, and twice I seen Harney cover Buck with his gun;and then he rode away the way he come—to get his hat, I reckon, but I
couldn't see. We never stopped running till we got home. The old gen‐tleman's eyes blazed a minute—'twas pleasure, mainly, I judged—then
his face sort of smoothed down, and he says, kind of gentle:"I don't like that shooting from behind a bush. Why didn't you
step into the road, my boy?""The Shepherdsons don't, father. They always take advantage."Miss Charlotte she held her head up like a queen while Buck wastelling his tale, and her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped. The two
young men looked dark, but never said nothing. Miss Sophia sheturned pale, but the color come back when she found the man warn't
hurt.
Soon as I could get Buck down by the corn-cribs under the trees
by ourselves, I says:"Did you want to kill him, Buck?""Well, I bet I did.""What did he do to you?""Him? He never done nothing to me."110

"Well, then, what did you want tokill him for?""Why, nothing—only it's on ac‐
count of the feud.""What's a feud?""Why, where was you raised?
Don't you know what a feud is?""Never heard of it before—tellme about it.""Well," says Buck, "a feud is thisway: A man has a quarrel with anoth‐er man, and kills him; then that otherman's brother kills him; then the otherbrothers, on both sides, goes for one
another; then the cousins chip in—andMiss Charlotteby and by everybody's killed off, andthere ain't no more feud. But it's kind of slow, and takes a long time.""Has this one been going on long, Buck?""Well, I should reckon! It started thirty year ago, or som'ers along
there. There was trouble 'bout something, and then a lawsuit to settle
it; and the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot theman that won the suit—which he would naturally do, of course. Any‐body would.""What was the trouble about, Buck?—land?""I reckon maybe—I don't know.""Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Grangerford or a Shep‐
herdson?""Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago.""Don't anybody know?""Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old people;
but they don't know now what the row was about in the first place.""Has there been many killed, Buck?""Yes; right smart chance of funerals. But they don't always kill.
Pa's got a few buckshot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't
weigh much, anyway. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, andTom's been hurt once or twice.""Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?""Yes; we got one and they got one. 'Bout three months ago mycousin Bud, fourteen year old, was riding through the woods on t'otherside of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which was
blame' foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse a-comingChapter 18

111behind him, and sees old Baldy Shepherdson a-linkin' after him withhis gun in his hand and his white hair a-flying in the wind; and 'steadof jumping off and taking to the brush, Bud 'lowed he could out-run
him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or more, the old man againing all the time; so at last Bud seen it warn't any use, so he stop‐
ped and faced around so as to have the bullet holes in front, you know,
and the old man he rode up and shot him down. But he didn't git muchchance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid him out.""I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck.""I reckon he warn't a coward. Not by a blame' sight. There ain't a
coward amongst them Shepherdsons—not a one. And there ain't no
cowards amongst the Grangerfords either. Why, that old man kep' up
his end in a fight one day for half an hour against three Grangerfords,
and come out winner. They was all a-horseback; he lit off of his horseand got behind a little woodpile, and kep' his horse before him to stop
the bullets; but the Grangerfords stayed on their horses and caperedaround the old man, and peppered away at him, and he peppered away
at them. Him and his horse both went home pretty leaky and crippled,but the Grangerfords had to be fetched home—and one of 'em wasdead, and another died the next day. No, sir; if a body's out hunting forcowards he don't want to fool away any time amongst them Shepherd‐sons, becuz they don't breed any of that kind."
Next Sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody
a-horseback. The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept
them between their knees or stood them handy against the wall. The
Shepherdsons done the same. It was pretty ornery preaching—allabout brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said it
was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and hadsuch a powerful lot to say about faith and good works and free graceand preforeordestination, and I don't know what all, that it did seem to
me to be one of the roughest Sundays I had run across yet.
About an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, somein their chairs and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull.
Buck and a dog was stretched out on the grass in the sun sound asleep.
I went up to our room, and judged I would take a nap myself. I foundthat sweet Miss Sophia standing in her door, which was next to ours,
and she took me in her room and shut the door very soft, and asked me
if I liked her, and I said I did; and she asked me if I would do some‐thing for her and not tell anybody, and I said I would. Then she said
she'd forgot her Testament, and left it in the seat at church between
two other books, and would I slip out quiet and go there and fetch it to112

her, and not say nothing to nobody. I said I would. So I slid out andslipped off up the road, and there warn't anybody at the church, except
maybe a hog or two, for there warn't any lock on the door, and hogs
likes a puncheon floor in summer-time because it's cool. If you notice,most folks don't go to church only when they've got to; but a hog isdifferent.
Says I to myself, some‐thing's up; it ain't natural for agirl to be in such a sweat about a
Testament. So I give it a shake,and out drops a little piece of pa‐
per with "HALF-PAST TWO"
wrote on it with a pencil. I ran‐sacked it, but couldn't find any‐
thing else. I couldn't make any‐
thing out of that, so I put the pa‐
per in the book again, and when
I got home and upstairs there
was Miss Sophia in her door
waiting for me. She pulled me inand shut the door; then she“And Asked me if I Liked Her”
looked in the Testament till she
found the paper, and as soon as
she read it she looked glad; and before a body could think she grabbed
me and give me a squeeze, and said I was the best boy in the world,and not to tell anybody. She was mighty red in the face for a minute,and her eyes lighted up, and it made her powerful pretty. I was a gooddeal astonished, but when I got my breath I asked her what the paper
was about, and she asked me if I had read it, and I said no, and she
asked me if I could read writing, and I told her "no, only coarse-hand,"and then she said the paper warn't anything but a book-mark to keep
her place, and I might go and play now.
I went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty
soon I noticed that my nigger was following along behind. When wewas out of sight of the house he looked back and around a second, andthen comes a-running, and says:"Mars Jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp I'll show you awhole stack o' water-moccasins."
Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he said that yesterday. He oughter
know a body don't love water-moccasins enough to go around hunting
for them. What is he up to, anyway? So I says:

Chapter 18

113"All right; trot ahead."I followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the swamp, andwaded ankle deep as much as another half-mile. We come to a little
flat piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes
and vines, and he says:"You shove right in dah jist a few steps, Mars Jawge; dah's whah
dey is. I's seed 'm befo'; I don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'."
Then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon thetrees hid him. I poked into the place a-ways and come to a little open
patch as big as a bedroom all hung around with vines, and found a
man laying there asleep—and, by jings, it was my old Jim!
I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be a grand sur‐prise to him to see me again, but it warn't. He nearly cried he was so
glad, but he warn't surprised. Said he swum along behind me thatnight, and heard me yell every time, but dasn't answer, because hedidn't want nobody to pick him up and take him into slavery again.
Says he:"I got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so I wuz a considable
ways behine you towards de las'; when you landed I reck'ned I could
ketch up wid you on de lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when I see
dat house I begin to go slow. I 'uz off too fur to hear what dey say to
you—I wuz 'fraid o' de dogs; but when it 'uz all quiet agin I knowed
you's in de house, so I struck out for de woods to wait for day. Early inde mawnin' some er de niggers come along, gwyne to de fields, en dey
tuk me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can't track me on ac‐
counts o' de water, en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells
me how you's a-gitt'n along.""Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim?""Well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck, tell we could do sumfn—but we's all right now. I ben a-buyin' pots en pans en vittles, as I got
a chanst, en a-patchin' up de raf' nights when—""What raft, Jim?""Our ole raf'.""You mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all to flinders?""No, she warn't. She was tore up a good deal—one en' of her
was; but dey warn't no great harm done, on'y our traps was mos' alllos'. Ef we hadn' dive' so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night
hadn' ben so dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads,
as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'. But it's jis' as well we didn't, 'kase
now she's all fixed up agin mos' as good as new, en we's got a new lot
o' stuff, in de place o' what 'uz los'."114"Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim—did you catchher?""How I gwyne to ketch her en I out in de woods? No; some er deniggers foun' her ketched on a snag along heah in de ben', en dey hid
her in a crick 'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'boutwhich un 'um she b'long to de mos' dat I come to heah 'bout it pooty
soon, so I ups en settles de trouble by tellin' 'um she don't b'long tonone uv um, but to you en me; en I ast 'm if dey gwyne to grab ayoung white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? Den I gin 'm ten
cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo' raf's'ud come along en make 'm rich agin. Dey's mighty good to me, deseniggers is, en whatever I wants 'm to do fur me I doan' have to ast 'm
twice, honey. Dat Jack's a good nigger, en pooty smart.""Yes, he is. He ain't ever told me you was here; told me to come,and he'd show me a lot of water-moccasins. If anything happens heain't mixed up in it. He can say he never seen us together, and it 'll be
the truth."I don't want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I'll cut it
pretty short. I waked up about dawn, and was a-going to turn over and
go to sleep again when I noticed how still it was—didn't seem to be
anybody stirring. That warn't usual. Next I noticed that Buck was up
and gone. Well, I gets up, a-wondering, and goes down stairs—no‐body around; everything as still as a mouse. Just the same outside.
Thinks I, what does it mean? Down by the wood-pile I comes across
my Jack, and says:"What's it all about?"
Says he:"Don't you know, Mars Jawge?""No," says I, "I don't.""Well, den, Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed she has. She run off in denight some time—nobody don't know jis' when; run off to get married
to dat young Harney Shepherdson, you know—leastways, so dey'spec. De fambly foun' it out 'bout half an hour ago—maybe a little
mo'—en' I tell you dey warn't no time los'. Sich another hurryin' up
guns en hosses you never see! De women folks has gone for to stir up
de relations, en ole Mars Saul en de boys tuck dey guns en rode up deriver road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him 'fo' he kin git
acrost de river wid Miss Sophia. I reck'n dey's gwyne to be mighty
rough times.""Buck went off 'thout waking me up."
"Well, I reck'n he did! Dey warn't gwyne to mix you up in it.

Chapter 18

115

Mars Buck he loaded up his gun en 'lowed he's gwyne to fetch home aShepherdson or bust. Well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, I reck'n, en you
bet you he'll fetch one ef he gits a chanst."
I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By and by I begin
to hear guns a good ways off. When I come in sight of the log store
and the woodpile where the steamboats lands I worked along under
the trees and brush till I got to a good place, and then I clumb up into
the forks of a cottonwood that was out of reach, and watched. There
was a wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front of the tree, andfirst I was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was luckier I didn't.
There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in
the open place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to
get at a couple of young chaps that was behind the wood-rank along‐side of the steamboat landing; but they couldn't come it. Every time
one of them showed himself on the river side of the woodpile he got
shot at. The two boys was squatting back to back behind the pile, sothey could watch both ways.

“Behind the Wood-pile”

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

116

One of the boys was Buck, and the other was a slim young chap about
nineteen years old.
The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. As soon as
they was out of sight I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn't knowwhat to make of my voice coming out of the tree at first. He was awful
surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him know when themen come in sight again; said they was up to some devilment or other—wouldn't be gone long. I wished I was out of that tree, but I dasn't
come down. Buck begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed that him and his
cousin Joe (that was the other young chap) would make up for this day
yet. He said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or
three of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons laid for them in ambush.
Buck said his father and brothers ought to waited for their relations—
the Shepherdsons was too strong for them. I asked him what was be‐come of young Harney and Miss Sophia. He said they'd got across theriver and was safe. I was glad of that; but the way Buck did take on
because he didn't manage to kill Harney that day he shot at him—I
hain't ever heard anything like it.
All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns—themen had slipped around through the woods and come in from behindwithout their horses! The boys jumped for the river—both of themhurt—and as they swum down the current the men run along the bankshooting at them and singing out, "Kill them, kill them!" It made me
so sick I most fell out of the tree. I ain't a-going to tell all that hap‐
pened—it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I wished I
hadn't ever come ashore that night to see such things. I ain't ever goingto get shut of them—lots of times I dream about them.
I stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down.
Sometimes I heard guns away off in the woods; and twice I seen little
gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so I reckoned thetrouble was still a-going on. I was mighty downhearted; so I made up
my mind I wouldn't ever go anear that house again, because I reck‐
oned I was to blame, somehow. I judged that that piece of paper meantthat Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at half-past two andrun off; and I judged I ought to told her father about that paper and the
curious way she acted, and then maybe he would a locked her up, andthis awful mess wouldn't ever happened.
When I got down out of the tree I crept along down the riverbank a piece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water,
and tugged at them till I got them ashore; then I covered up theirfaces, and got away as quick as I could. I cried a little when I was cov‐

Chapter 18

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ering up Buck's face, for he was mighty good to me.
It was just dark now. I never went near the house, but struck
through the woods and made for the swamp. Jim warn't on his island,so I tramped off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the wil‐lows, red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful country. The
raft was gone! My souls, but I was scared! I couldn't get my breath formost a minute. Then I raised a yell. A voice not twenty-five foot fromme says:"Good lan'! is dat you, honey? Doan' make no noise."
It was Jim's voice—nothing ever sounded so good before. I run
along the bank a piece and got aboard, and Jim he grabbed me andhugged me, he was so glad to see me. He says:"Laws bless you, chile, I 'uz right down sho' you's dead agin.
Jack's been heah; he say he reck'n you's ben shot, kase you didn' comehome no mo'; so I's jes' dis minute a startin' de raf' down towards demouf er de crick, so's to be all ready for to shove out en leave soon as
Jack comes agin en tells me for certain you is dead. Lawsy, I's mighty
glad to git you back again, honey."
I says:"All right—that's mighty good; they won't find me, and they'll
think I've been killed, and floated down the river—there's something
up there that 'll help them think so—so don't you lose no time, Jim,
but just shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can."I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out inthe middle of the Mississippi. Then we hung up our signal lantern, andjudged that we was free and safe once more. I hadn't had a bite to eat
since yesterday, so Jim he got out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk,
and pork and cabbage and greens—there ain't nothing in the world sogood when it's cooked right—and whilst I eat my supper we talked
and had a good time. I was powerful glad to get away from the feuds,
and so was Jim to get away from the swamp. We said there warn't nohome like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up andsmothery, but a raft don't. You feel mighty free and easy and comforta‐
ble on a raft.

Chapter 19
TWO or three days and nights wentby; I reckon I might say they swumby, they slid along so quiet andsmooth and lovely. Here is the way
we put in the time. It was a mon‐strous big river down there—some‐times a mile and a half wide; we runnights, and laid up and hid daytimes;
soon as night was most gone westopped navigating and tied up—nearly always in the dead water un‐
der a towhead; and then cut young
cottonwoods and willows, and hid
the raft with them. Then we set out
the lines. Next we slid into the riverand had a swim, so as to freshen up
and cool off; then we set down on
the sandy bottom where the water
was about knee deep, and watched
the daylight come. Not a sound any‐
Hiding Day Times
wheres—perfectly still—just likethe whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering,maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kindof dull line—that was the woods on t'other side; you couldn't makenothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more palenessspreading around; then the river softened up away off, and warn't
black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along
ever so far away—trading scows, and such things; and long black
streaks—rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jum‐bled up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by
you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of thestreak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it andmakes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of thewater, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a logcabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t'other side of theriver, being a woodyard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you canthrow a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, andChapter 19

119

comes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh and sweet tosmell on account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not thatway, because they've left dead fish laying around, gars and such, andthey do get pretty rank; and next you've got the full day, and every‐
thing smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it!
A little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would take somefish off of the lines and cook up a hot breakfast. And afterwards wewould watch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along,and by and by lazy off to sleep. Wake up by and by, and look to see
what done it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing along up-stream,so far off towards the other side you couldn't tell nothing about her on‐
ly whether she was a stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour
there wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see—just solid lone‐
someness. Next you'd see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, andmaybe a galoot on it chopping, because they're most always doing it
on a raft; you'd see the axe flash and come down—you don't hearnothing; you see that axe go up again, and by the time it's above the
man's head then you hear the k'chunk!—it had took all that time tocome over the water. So we would put in the day, lazying around, lis‐tening to the stillness. Once there was a thick fog, and the rafts andthings that went by was beating tin pans so the steamboats wouldn't
run over them. A scow or a raft went by so close we could hear themtalking and cussing and laughing—heard them plain; but we couldn't
see no sign of them; it made you feel crawly; it was like spirits carry‐ing on that way in the air. Jim said he believed it was spirits; but I
says:"No; spirits wouldn't say, 'Dern the dern fog.'"
Soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about
the middle we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current
wanted her to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water,
and talked about all kinds of things—we was always naked, day andnight, whenever the mosquitoes would let us—the new clothes Buck's
folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I
didn't go much on clothes, nohow.
Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the lon‐gest time. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; andmaybe a spark—which was a candle in a cabin window; and some‐times on the water you could see a spark or two—on a raft or a scow,
you know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a song coming overfrom one of them crafts. It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up
there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and120look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only justhappened. Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they hap‐
pened; I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said
the moon could a laid them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I
didn't say nothing against it, because I've seen a frog lay most as
many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch the stars that
fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they'd got spoiled andwas hove out of the nest.
Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping alongin the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of
sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the riverand look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights
would wink out and her powwow shut off and leave the river stillagain; and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she
was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hearnothing for you couldn't tell how long, except maybe frogs or some‐thing.
After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for twoor three hours the shores was black—no more sparks in the cabin win‐
dows. These sparks was our clock—the first one that showed again
meant morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and tie up
right away.
One morning about daybreak I found a canoe and crossed over achute to the main shore—it was only two hundred yards—and paddled
about a mile up a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if I couldn't
get some berries. Just as I was passing a place where a kind of a cow‐
path crossed the crick, here comes a couple of men tearing up the pathas tight as they could foot it. I thought I was a goner, for wheneveranybody was after anybody I judged it was me—or maybe Jim. I was
about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they was pretty close to me
then, and sung out and begged me to save their lives—said they hadn't
been doing nothing, and was being chased for it—said there was men
and dogs a-coming. They wanted to jump right in, but I says:"Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs and horses yet; you've got
time to crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little ways; then
you take to the water and wade down to me and get in—that'll throw
the dogs off the scent."
They done it, and soon as they was aboard I lit out for our tow‐
head, and in about five or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the men
away off, shouting. We heard them come along towards the crick, but
couldn't see them; they seemed to stop and fool around a while; then,Chapter 19

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as we got further and further
away all the time, we
couldn't hardly hear them atall; by the time we had left amile of woods behind us andstruck the river, everything
was quiet, and we paddled
over to the towhead and hid
in the cottonwoods and wassafe.
One of these fellows
was about seventy or up‐
wards, and had a bald headand very gray whiskers. He
had an old battered-up slouch
hat on, and a greasy blue
woollen shirt, and ragged old“And Dogs A-Coming”
blue jeans britches stuffed in‐
to his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses—no, he only had one. He had
an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung over
his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags.
The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery.
After breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that comeout was that these chaps didn't know one another.
"What got you into trouble?" says the baldhead to t'other chap.
"Well, I'd been selling an article to take the tartar off the teeth—
and it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with it—but I
stayed about one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the actof sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side of town, andyou told me they were coming, and begged me to help you to get off.
So I told you I was expecting trouble myself, and would scatter out
with you. That's the whole yarn—what's yourn?
"Well, I'd ben a-running' a little temperance revival thar 'bout aweek, and was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for I was ma‐
kin' it mighty warm for the rummies, I tell you, and takin' as much as
five or six dollars a night—ten cents a head, children and niggers free—and business a-growin' all the time, when somehow or another a lit‐
tle report got around last night that I had a way of puttin' in my timewith a private jug on the sly. A nigger rousted me out this mornin', andtold me the people was getherin' on the quiet with their dogs andhorses, and they'd be along pretty soon and give me 'bout half an122hour's start, and then run me down if they could; and if they got me
they'd tar and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. I didn't wait for
no breakfast—I warn't hungry.""Old man," said the young one, "I reckon we might double-team
it together; what do you think?""I ain't undisposed. What's your line—mainly?""Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-ac‐
tor—tragedy, you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology
when there's a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change;sling a lecture sometimes—oh, I do lots of things—most anything thatcomes handy, so it ain't work. What's your lay?""I've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin' on
o' hands is my best holt—for cancer and paralysis, and sich things;
and I k'n tell a fortune pretty good when I've got somebody along tofind out the facts for me. Preachin's my line, too, and workin' campmeetin's, and missionaryin' around."
Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man
hove a sigh and says:"Alas!""What 're you alassin' about?" says the bald-head.
"To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be de‐graded down into such company." And he begun to wipe the corner of
his eye with a rag.
"Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?" says
the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.
"Yes, it is good enough for me; it's as good as I deserve; for who
fetched me so low when I was so high? I did myself. I don't blame
you, gentlemen—far from it; I don't blame anybody. I deserve it all.
Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know—there's a grave
somewhere for me. The world may go on just as it's always done, andtake everything from me—loved ones, property, everything; but it
can't take that. Some day I'll lie down in it and forget it all, and mypoor broken heart will be at rest." He went on a-wiping.
"Drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead; "what are you
heaving your pore broken heart at us f'r? we hain't done nothing.""No, I know you haven't. I ain't blaming you, gentlemen. I
brought myself down—yes, I did it myself. It's right I should suffer—perfectly right—I don't make any moan.""Brought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down
from?""Ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes—let itChapter 19

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pass—'tis no matter. The secret of my birth—""The secret of your birth! Do you mean to say—""Gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn, "I will reveal it
to you, for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights I am aduke!"
Jim's eyes bugged out
when he heard that; and I reck‐on mine did, too. Then thebaldhead says: "No! you can't
mean it?""Yes. My great-grandfa‐
ther, eldest son of the Duke ofBridgewater, fled to this coun‐
try about the end of the lastcentury, to breathe the pure airof freedom; married here, anddied, leaving a son, his own fa‐
ther dying about the same time.
The second son of the late duke
seized the titles and estates—
the infant real duke was ignor‐“By Rights I am a Duke”
ed. I am the lineal descendantof that infant—I am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; and here am I,
forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold
world, ragged, worn, heart-broken, and degraded to the companion‐
ship of felons on a raft!"
Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort
him, but he said it warn't much use, he couldn't be much comforted;
said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him moregood than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us
how. He said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say "Your
Grace," or "My Lord," or "Your Lordship"—and he wouldn't mind it if
we called him plain "Bridgewater," which, he said, was a title anyway,
and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do
any little thing for him he wanted done.
Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim
stood around and waited on him, and says, "Will yo' Grace have someo' dis or some o' dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was mighty
pleasing to him.
But the old man got pretty silent by and by—didn't have much tosay, and didn't look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was124

going on around that duke. He seemed to have something on his mind.
So, along in the afternoon, he says:"Looky here, Bilgewater," he says, "I'm nation sorry for you, but
you ain't the only person that's had troubles like that.""No?""No you ain't. You ain't the only person that's ben snaked down
wrongfully out'n a high place.""Alas!""No, you ain't the only person that's had a secret of his birth."And, by jings, he begins to cry.
"Hold! What do you mean?""Bilgewater, kin I trustyou?" says the old man, still
sort of sobbing.
"To the bitter death!" He
took the old man by the handand squeezed it, and says,"That secret of your being:
speak!""Bilgewater, I am thelate Dauphin!"
You bet you, Jim and me
stared this time. Then theduke says:"You are what?""Yes, my friend, it is too“I am the Late Dauphin”
true—your eyes is lookin' atthis very moment on the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seven‐teen, son of Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette.""You! At your age! No! You mean you're the late Charlemagne;
you must be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least.""Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has
brung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen,
you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled,trampled-on, and sufferin' rightful King of France."
Well, he cried and took on so that me and Jim didn't know hardly
what to do, we was so sorry—and so glad and proud we'd got him
with us, too. So we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried
to comfort him. But he said it warn't no use, nothing but to be deadand done with it all could do him any good; though he said it often
made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated him ac‐

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cording to his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to him, andalways called him "Your Majesty," and waited on him first at meals,
and didn't set down in his presence till he asked them. So Jim and me
set to majestying him, and doing this and that and t'other for him, andstanding up till he told us we might set down. This done him heaps ofgood, and so he got cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind ofsoured on him, and didn't look a bit satisfied with the way things wasgoing; still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and said theduke's great-grandfather and all the other Dukes of Bilgewater was agood deal thought of by his father, and was allowed to come to thepalace considerable; but the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by
and by the king says:"Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this hyer raft, Bilgewater, and so what's the use o' your bein' sour? It 'll only
make things oncomfortable. It ain't my fault I warn't born a duke, it
ain't your fault you warn't born a king—so what's the use to worry?
Make the best o' things the way you find 'em, says I—that's my motto.
This ain't no bad thing that we've struck here—plenty grub and aneasy life—come, give us your hand, duke, and le's all be friends."
The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It
took away all the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it,
because it would a been a miserable business to have any unfriendli‐
ness on the raft; for what you want, above all things, on a raft, is foreverybody to be satisfied, and feel right and kind towards the others.
It didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn't
no kings nor dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. But
I never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best way;then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get into no trouble. If theywanted us to call them kings and dukes, I hadn't no objections, 'long as
it would keep peace in the family; and it warn't no use to tell Jim, so I
didn't tell him. If I never learnt nothing else out of pap, I learnt that thebest way to get along with his kind of people is to let them have theirown way.

Chapter 20
THEY asked us considerable manyquestions; wanted to know what wecovered up the raft that way for, andlaid by in the daytime instead of run‐ning—was Jim a runaway nigger?
Says I:"Goodness sakes! would a run‐away nigger run south?"No, they allowed he wouldn't. I
had to account for things some way, so
I says:"My folks was living in Pike
County, in Missouri, where I was born,
and they all died off but me and pa andmy brother Ike. Pa, he 'lowed he'dbreak up and go down and live with
Uncle Ben, who's got a little one-horse
On the Raftplace on the river, forty-four mile be‐
low Orleans. Pa was pretty poor, andhad some debts; so when he'd squared up there warn't nothing left but
sixteen dollars and our nigger, Jim. That warn't enough to take us
fourteen hundred mile, deck passage nor no other way. Well, when theriver rose pa had a streak of luck one day; he ketched this piece of araft; so we reckoned we'd go down to Orleans on it. Pa's luck didn't
hold out; a steamboat run over the forrard corner of the raft one night,
and we all went overboard and dove under the wheel; Jim and mecome up all right, but pa was drunk, and Ike was only four years old,so they never come up no more. Well, for the next day or two we had
considerable trouble, because people was always coming out in skiffs
and trying to take Jim away from me, saying they believed he was a
runaway nigger. We don't run daytimes no more now; nights they don't
bother us."The duke says:"Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the day‐time if we want to. I'll think the thing over—I'll invent a plan that'll fix
it. We'll let it alone for to-day, because of course we don't want to go
by that town yonder in daylight—it mightn't be healthy."Chapter 20

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Towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the heat
lightning was squirting around low down in the sky, and the leaves
was beginning to shiver—it was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy to
see that. So the duke and the king went to overhauling our wigwam, tosee what the beds was like. My bed was a straw tick better than Jim's,
which was a corn-shuck tick; there's always cobs around about in a
shuck tick, and they poke into you and hurt; and when you roll overthe dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of deadleaves; it makes such a rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke al‐
lowed he would take my bed; but the king allowed he wouldn't. He
says:"I should a reckoned the difference in rank would a sejested to
you that a corn-shuck bed warn't just fitten for me to sleep on. Your
Grace 'll take the shuck bed yourself."
Jim and me was in a sweat again for a minute, being afraid there
was going to be some more trouble amongst them; so we was pretty
glad when the duke says:"'Tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the ironheel of oppression. Misfortune has broken my once haughty spirit; I
yield, I submit; 'tis my fate. I am alone in the world—let me suffer;
can bear it."
We got away as soon as it was good and dark. The king told us tostand well out towards the middle of the river, and not show a light till
we got a long ways below the town. We come in sight of the little
bunch of lights by and by—that was the town, you know—and slid by,about a half a mile out, all right. When we was three-quarters of a mile
below we hoisted up our signal lantern; and about ten o'clock it comeon to rain and blow and thunder and lighten like everything; so theking told us to both stay on watch till the weather got better; then him
and the duke crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the night. It
was my watch below till twelve, but I wouldn't a turned in anyway if
I'd had a bed, because a body don't see such a storm as that every day
in the week, not by a long sight. My souls, how the wind did screamalong! And every second or two there'd come a glare that lit up thewhite-caps for a half a mile around, and you'd see the islands looking
dusty through the rain, and the trees thrashing around in the wind;then comes a H-WHACK!—bum! bum! bumble-umble-um-bumbum-bum-bum—and the thunder would go rumbling and grumbling
away, and quit—and then RIP comes another flash and another sock‐dolager. The waves most washed me off the raft sometimes, but I
hadn't any clothes on, and didn't mind. We didn't have no trouble

128

about snags; the lightning was glaring and flittering around so con‐stant that we could see them plenty soon enough to throw her head
this way or that and miss them.
I had the middle watch, you know, but I was pretty sleepy by thattime, so Jim he said he would stand the first half of it for me; he wasalways mighty good that way, Jim was. I crawled into the wigwam,
but the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around so there
warn't no show for me; so I laid outside—I didn't mind the rain, be‐cause it was warm, and the waves warn't running so high now. About
two they come up again, though, and Jim was going to call me; but hechanged his mind, because he reckoned they warn't high enough yet to
do any harm; but he was mistaken about that, for pretty soon all of asudden along comes a regular ripper and washed me overboard. It
most killed Jim a-laughing. He was the easiest nigger to laugh that ev‐
er was, anyway.
I took the watch, and Jim he laid down and snored away; and by
and by the storm let up for good and all; and the first cabin-light thatshowed I rousted him out, and we slid the raft into hiding quarters forthe day.
The king got out an old ratty deck of cards after breakfast, andhim and the duke played seven-up a while, five cents a game. Thenthey got tired of it, and allowed they would "lay out a campaign," asthey called it. The duke went down into his carpet-bag, and fetched up
a lot of little printed bills and read them out loud. One bill said, "Thecelebrated Dr. Armand de Montalban, of Paris," would "lecture on the
Science of Phrenology" at such and such a place, on the blank day ofblank, at ten cents admission, and "furnish charts of character at twen‐
ty-five cents apiece." The duke said that was him. In another bill he
was the "world-renowned Shakespearian tragedian, Garrick theYounger, of Drury Lane, London." In other bills he had a lot of othernames and done other wonderful things, like finding water and goldwith a "divining-rod," "dissipating witch spells," and so on. By and by
he says:"But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you ever trod theboards, Royalty?""No," says the king.
"You shall, then, before you're three days older, Fallen Gran‐deur," says the duke. "The first good town we come to we'll hire a halland do the sword fight in Richard III. and the balcony scene in Romeoand Juliet. How does that strike you?""I'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, Bilgewater; but,Chapter 20

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you see, I don't know nothing about play-actin', and hain't ever seenmuch of it. I was too small when pap used to have 'em at the palace.
Do you reckon you can learn me?""Easy!""All right. I'm jist a-freezn' for something fresh, anyway. Le'scommence right away."
So the duke he told him all about who Romeo was and who Juliet
was, and said he was used to being Romeo, so the king could be Juliet.
"But if Juliet's such a young gal, duke, my peeled head and mywhite whiskers is goin' to look oncommon odd on her, maybe.""No, don't you worry; these country jakes won't ever think ofthat. Besides, you know, you'll be in costume, and that makes all thedifference in the world; Juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight
before she goes to bed, and she's got on her night-gown and her ruf‐
fled nightcap. Here are the costumes for the parts."
He got out two or three cur‐tain-calico suits, which he said
was meedyevil armor for Richard
III. and t'other chap, and a longwhite cotton nightshirt and a ruf‐
fled nightcap to match. The kingwas satisfied; so the duke got out
his book and read the parts overin the most splendid spread-eagle
way, prancing around and acting
at the same time, to show how it
had got to be done; then he givethe book to the king and told him
to get his part by heart.
There was a little one-horse
town about three mile down the
The King as Juliet
bend, and after dinner the duke
said he had ciphered out his idea
about how to run in daylight without it being dangersome for Jim; sohe allowed he would go down to the town and fix that thing. The kingallowed he would go, too, and see if he couldn't strike something. We
was out of coffee, so Jim said I better go along with them in the canoeand get some.
When we got there there warn't nobody stirring; streets empty,
and perfectly dead and still, like Sunday. We found a sick nigger sun‐ning himself in a back yard, and he said everybody that warn't too

130young or too sick or too old was gone to camp-meeting, about twomile back in the woods. The king got the directions, and allowed he'dgo and work that camp-meeting for all it was worth, and I might go,
too.
The duke said what he was after was a printing-office. We foundit; a little bit of a concern, up over a carpenter shop—carpenters andprinters all gone to the meeting, and no doors locked. It was a dirty,
littered-up place, and had ink marks, and handbills with pictures ofhorses and runaway niggers on them, all over the walls. The duke shedhis coat and said he was all right now. So me and the king lit out forthe camp-meeting.
We got there in about a half an hour fairly dripping, for it was amost awful hot day. There was as much as a thousand people there
from twenty mile around. The woods was full of teams and wagons,
hitched everywheres, feeding out of the wagon-troughs and stomping
to keep off the flies. There was sheds made out of poles and roofed
over with branches, where they had lemonade and gingerbread to sell,and piles of watermelons and green corn and such-like truck.
The preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only
they was bigger and held crowds of people. The benches was madeout of outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive
sticks into for legs. They didn't have no backs. The preachers had highplatforms to stand on at one end of the sheds. The women had on sunbonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham ones,
and a few of the young ones hadon calico. Some of the young
men was barefooted, and some of
the children didn't have on any
clothes but just a tow-linen shirt.
Some of the old women was
knitting, and some of the young
folks was courting on the sly.
The first shed we come tothe preacher was lining out ahymn. He lined out two lines, ev‐
erybody sung it, and it was kindof grand to hear it, there was somany of them and they done it insuch a rousing way; then he lined
out two more for them to sing—and so on. The people woke up“Couting on the SLY”

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more and more, and sung louder and louder; and towards the end
some begun to groan, and some begun to shout. Then the preacher be‐
gun to preach, and begun in earnest, too; and went weaving first to
one side of the platform and then the other, and then a-leaning downover the front of it, with his arms and his body going all the time, andshouting his words out with all his might; and every now and then hewould hold up his Bible and spread it open, and kind of pass it aroundthis way and that, shouting, "It's the brazen serpent in the wilderness!
Look upon it and live!" And people would shout out, "Glory!—A-amen!" And so he went on, and the people groaning and crying andsaying amen:"Oh, come to the mourners' bench! come, black with sin!
(Amen!) come, sick and sore! (Amen!) come, lame and halt and blind!
(Amen!) come, pore and needy, sunk in shame! (A-A-Men!) come, allthat's worn and soiled and suffering!—come with a broken spirit!
come with a contrite heart! come in your rags and sin and dirt! the wa‐
ters that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open—oh, enter inand be at rest!" (A-A-Men! Glory, Glory Hallelujah!)
And so on. You couldn't make out what the preacher said any
more, on account of the shouting and crying. Folks got up every‐
wheres in the crowd, and worked their way just by main strength tothe mourners' bench, with the tears running down their faces; andwhen all the mourners had got up there to the front benches in a
crowd, they sung and shouted and flung themselves down on the
straw, just crazy and wild.
Well, the first I knowed the king got a-going, and you could hear
him over everybody; and next he went a-charging up on to the plat‐form, and the preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and hedone it. He told them he was a pirate—been a pirate for thirty years
out in the Indian Ocean—and his crew was thinned out considerable
last spring in a fight, and he was home now to take out some freshmen, and thanks to goodness he'd been robbed last night and put
ashore off of a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad of it; it was
the blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he was achanged man now, and happy for the first time in his life; and, poor as
he was, he was going to start right off and work his way back to theIndian Ocean, and put in the rest of his life trying to turn the pirates
into the true path; for he could do it better than anybody else, being
acquainted with all pirate crews in that ocean; and though it would
take him a long time to get there without money, he would get there
anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he would say to him,

132

"Don't you thank me, don't you give me no credit; it all belongs tothem dear people in Pokeville camp-meeting, natural brothers andbenefactors of the race, and that dear preacher there, the truest friend apirate ever had!"
And then he busted into tears,
and so did everybody. Then some‐body sings out, "Take up a collection
for him, take up a collection!" Well,
a half a dozen made a jump to do it,
but somebody sings out, "Let him
pass the hat around!" Then every‐
body said it, the preacher too.
So the king went all through thecrowd with his hat swabbing hiseyes, and blessing the people andpraising them and thanking them forbeing so good to the poor pirates
away off there; and every little while
the prettiest kind of girls, with the“A Pirate for Thirty Years”
tears running down their cheeks,
would up and ask him would he letthem kiss him for to remember him by; and he always done it; andsome of them he hugged and kissed as many as five or six times—andhe was invited to stay a week; and everybody wanted him to live intheir houses, and said they'd think it was an honor; but he said as thiswas the last day of the camp-meeting he couldn't do no good, and be‐sides he was in a sweat to get to the Indian Ocean right off and go towork on the pirates.
When we got back to the raft and he come to count up he foundhe had collected eighty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents. And thenhe had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he foundunder a wagon when he was starting home through the woods. The
king said, take it all around, it laid over any day he'd ever put in in the
missionarying line. He said it warn't no use talking, heathens don't
amount to shucks alongside of pirates to work a camp-meeting with.
The duke was thinking he'd been doing pretty well till the kingcome to show up, but after that he didn't think so so much. He had set
up and printed off two little jobs for farmers in that printing-office—horse bills—and took the money, four dollars. And he had got in ten
dollars' worth of advertisements for the paper, which he said he would
put in for four dollars if they would pay in advance—so they done it.

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The price of the paper was two dollars a year, but he took in three sub‐scriptions for half a dollar apiece on condition of them paying him inadvance; they were going to pay in cordwood and onions as usual, but
he said he had just bought the concern and knocked down the price as
low as he could afford it, and was going to run it for cash. He set up alittle piece of poetry, which he made, himself, out of his own head—
three verses—kind of sweet and saddish—the name of it was, "Yes,crush, cold world, this breaking heart"—and he left that all set up andready to print in the paper, and didn't charge nothing for it. Well, hetook in nine dollars and a half, and said he'd done a pretty square day's
work for it.
Then he showed us another little job he'd printed and hadn't
charged for, because it was for us. It had a picture of a runaway nigger
with a bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and "$200 reward" under it.
The reading was all about Jim, and just described him to a dot. It said
he run away from St. Jacques' plantation, forty mile below New Or‐leans, last winter, and likely went north, and whoever would catch him
and send him back he could have the reward and expenses.
"Now," says the duke, "af‐ter to-night we can run in thedaytime if we want to. Whenev‐
er we see anybody coming we
can tie Jim hand and foot with arope, and lay him in the wig‐
wam and show this handbill andsay we captured him up the riv‐
er, and were too poor to travel
on a steamboat, so we got thislittle raft on credit from ourfriends and are going down to
get the reward. Handcuffs andchains would look still better on
Jim, but it wouldn't go wellwith the story of us being so
Another Little Job
poor. Too much like jewelry.
Ropes are the correct thing—we must preserve the unities, as we sayon the boards."
We all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn't be notrouble about running daytimes. We judged we could make miles
enough that night to get out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned
the duke's work in the printing office was going to make in that little

134

town; then we could boom right along if we wanted to.
We laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten
o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn't
hoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it.
When Jim called me to take the watch at four in the morning, hesays:"Huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost any mo' kings on
dis trip?""No," I says, "I reckon not.""Well," says he, "dat's all right, den. I doan' mine one er twokings, but dat's enough. Dis one's powerful drunk, en de duke ain'much better."
I found Jim had been trying to get him to talk French, so he could
hear what it was like; but he said he had been in this country so long,and had so much trouble, he'd forgot it.

Chapter 21
IT was after sun-up now, but wewent right on and didn't tie up.
The king and the duke turned out
by and by looking pretty rusty; but
after they'd jumped overboard andtook a swim it chippered them up
a good deal. After breakfast theking he took a seat on the cornerof the raft, and pulled off his bootsand rolled up his britches, and let
his legs dangle in the water, so as
to be comfortable, and lit his pipe,
and went to getting his Romeo andJuliet by heart. When he had got it
pretty good him and the duke be‐
Practicing
gun to practice it together. The
duke had to learn him over and over again how to say every speech;
and he made him sigh, and put his hand on his heart, and after a while
he said he done it pretty well; "only," he says, "you mustn't bellow out
Romeo! that way, like a bull—you must say it soft and sick and lan‐guishy, so—R-o-o-meo! that is the idea; for Juliet's a dear sweet mere
child of a girl, you know, and she doesn't bray like a jackass."
Well, next they got out a couple of long swords that the duke
made out of oak laths, and begun to practice the sword fight—theduke called himself Richard III.; and the way they laid on and pranced
around the raft was grand to see. But by and by the king tripped andfell overboard, and after that they took a rest, and had a talk about allkinds of adventures they'd had in other times along the river.
After dinner the duke says:"Well, Capet, we'll want to make this a first-class show, youknow, so I guess we'll add a little more to it. We want a little some‐thing to answer encores with, anyway.""What's onkores, Bilgewater?"
The duke told him, and then says:"I'll answer by doing the Highland fling or the sailor's hornpipe;
and you—well, let me see—oh, I've got it—you can do Hamlet's solil‐oquy."

136"Hamlet's which?""Hamlet's soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated thing in
Shakespeare. Ah, it's sublime, sublime! Always fetches the house. I
haven't got it in the book—I've only got one volume—but I reckon I
can piece it out from memory. I'll just walk up and down a minute, andsee if I can call it back from recollection's vaults."
So he went to marching up
and down, thinking, and frown‐
ing horrible every now and then;
then he would hoist up his eye‐brows; next he would squeeze
his hand on his forehead andstagger back and kind of moan;
next he would sigh, and next
he'd let on to drop a tear. It was
beautiful to see him. By and by
he got it. He told us to give at‐tention. Then he strikes a mostnoble attitude, with one leg
shoved forwards, and his arms
stretched away up, and his headtilted back, looking up at the
Hamlet's Soliloquysky; and then he begins to rip
and rave and grit his teeth; andafter that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread around, andswelled up his chest, and just knocked the spots out of any acting everI see before. This is the speech—I learned it, easy enough, while he
was learning it to the king:
To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsi‐
nane,
But that the fear of something after death
Murders the innocent sleep,
Great nature's second course,
And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune
Than fly to others that we know not of.
There's the respect must give us pause:
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,Chapter 21

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The law's delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take.
In the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards
yawn
In customary suits of solemn black,But that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler
returns,
Breathes forth contagion on the world,
And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i' theadage,Is sicklied o'er with care.
And all the clouds that lowered o'er our housetops,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. But soft you, the fair
Ophelia:
Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws.
But get thee to a nunnery—go!
Well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so hecould do it first rate. It seemed like he was just born for it; and when
he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the way hewould rip and tear and rair up behind when he was getting it off.
The first chance we got, the duke he had some show bills printed;
and after that, for two or three days as we floated along, the raft was amost uncommon lively place, for there warn't nothing but sword-fight‐
ing and rehearsing—as the duke called it—going on all the time. One
morning, when we was pretty well down the State of Arkansaw, wecome in sight of a little one-horse town in a big bend; so we tied up
about three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth of a crick which
was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of us but Jim
took the canoe and went down there to see if there was any chance inthat place for our show.
We struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a circus therethat afternoon, and the country people was already beginning to comein, in all kinds of old shackly wagons, and on horses. The circus
would leave before night, so our show would have a pretty goodchance. The duke he hired the court house, and we went around andstuck up our bills. They read like this:Shaksperean Revival!!!
Wonderful Attraction!
For One Night Only! The world renowned tragedians,
David Garrick the younger, of Drury Lane Theatre, London,

138

and
Edmund Kean the elder, of the Royal Haymarket Theatre,
Whitechapel, Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the RoyalContinental Theatres, in their sublime Shaksperean Spectacle en‐titled The Balcony Scene in
Romeo and Juliet!!!
Romeo........................................ Mr. Garrick.
Juliet........................................... Mr. Kean.
Assisted by the whole strength of the company!
New costumes, new scenery, new appointments!
Also:
The thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling Broad-sword
conflict In Richard III.!!!
Richard III.................................. Mr. Garrick.
Richmond................................... Mr. Kean.
also:(by special request,)
Hamlet's Immortal Soliloquy!!
By the Illustrious Kean!
Done by him 300 consecutive nights in Paris!
For One Night Only,
On account of imperative European engagements!
Admission 25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents.
Then we went loafing around the town. The stores and houses wasmost all old shackly dried-up frame concerns that hadn't ever been
painted; they was set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as
to be out of reach of the water when the river was overflowed. The
houses had little gardens around them, but they didn't seem to raise
hardly anything in them but jimpson weeds, and sunflowers, and ashpiles, and old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces of bottles, andrags, and played-out tin-ware. The fences was made of different kindsof boards, nailed on at different times; and they leaned every whichway, and had gates that didn't generly have but one hinge—a leather
one. Some of the fences had been whitewashed, some time or another,
but the duke said it was in Clumbus's time, like enough. There was
generly hogs in the garden, and people driving them out.
All the stores was along one street. They had white domestic
awnings in front, and the country people hitched their horses to theawning-posts. There was empty drygoods boxes under the awnings,
and loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them with their
Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping and yawning andChapter 21

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stretching—a mighty ornery lot. They generly had on yellow straw
hats most as wide as an umbrella, but didn't wear no coats nor waist‐coats, they called one another Bill, and Buck, and Hank, and Joe, andAndy, and talked lazy and drawly, and used considerable many cusswords. There was as many as one loafer leaning up against every awn‐
ing-post, and he most always had his hands in his britches-pockets,
except when he fetched them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch.
What a body was hearing amongst them all the time was:"Gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, Hank.""Cain't; I hain't got but one chaw left. Ask Bill."
Maybe Bill he gives him achaw; maybe he lies and says
he ain't got none. Some of themkinds of loafers never has a centin the world, nor a chaw of to‐bacco of their own. They get all
their chawing by borrowing;
they say to a fellow, "I wisht
you'd len' me a chaw, Jack, I jist
this minute give Ben Thompson
the last chaw I had"—which isa lie pretty much everytime; it
don't fool nobody but a strang‐
er; but Jack ain't no stranger, so
he says:"You give him a chaw, didyou? So did your sister's cat's“Gimme a Chaw”
grandmother. You pay me backthe chaws you've awready bor‐
ry'd off'n me, Lafe Buckner, then I'll loan you one or two ton of it, andwon't charge you no back intrust, nuther.""Well, I did pay you back some of it wunst.""Yes, you did—'bout six chaws. You borry'd store tobacker andpaid back nigger-head."
Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws
the natural leaf twisted. When they borrow a chaw they don't generly
cut it off with a knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw
with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they get it in
two; then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks mournful at
it when it's handed back, and says, sarcastic:"Here, gimme the chaw, and you take the plug."140

All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't nothing else
but mud—mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some pla‐ces, and two or three inches deep in all the places. The hogs loafedand grunted around everywheres. You'd see a muddy sow and a litterof pigs come lazying along the street and whollop herself right downin the way, where folks had to walk around her, and she'd stretch out
and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs was milking her,and look as happy as if she was on salary. And pretty soon you'd heara loafer sing out, "Hi! so boy! sick him, Tige!" and away the sow
would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog or two swinging to eachear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and then you would see
all the loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh at the
fun and look grateful for the noise. Then they'd settle back again tillthere was a dog fight. There couldn't anything wake them up all over,and make them happy all over, like a dog fight—unless it might be
putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to him, or tying a tin
pan to his tail and see him run himself to death.
On the river front some of the houses was sticking out over thebank, and they was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in. The
people had moved out of them. The bank was caved away under one
corner of some others, and that corner was hanging over. People lived
in them yet, but it was dangersome, because sometimes a strip of landas wide as a house caves in at a time. Sometimes a belt of land a quar‐ter of a mile deep will start in and cave along and cave along till it all
caves into the river in one summer. Such a town as that has to be al‐ways moving back, and back, and back, because the river's always
gnawing at it.
The nearer it got to noon that day the thicker and thicker was thewagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time. Fami‐
lies fetched their dinners with them from the country, and eat them in
the wagons. There was considerable whisky drinking going on, and I
seen three fights. By and by somebody sings out:
"Here comes old Boggs!—in from the country for his little oldmonthly drunk; here he comes, boys!"
All the loafers looked glad; I reckoned they was used to having
fun out of Boggs. One of them says:"Wonder who he's a-gwyne to chaw up this time. If he'd achawed up all the men he's ben a-gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty
year he'd have considerable ruputation now."
Another one says, "I wisht old Boggs 'd threaten me, 'cuz then I'dknow I warn't gwyne to die for a thousan' year."Chapter 21

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Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling
like an Injun, and singing out:
"Cler the track, thar. I'm on the waw-path, and the price uv cof‐
fins is a-gwyne to raise."

A Little Monthly DrunkHe was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over fifty
year old, and had a very red face. Everybody yelled at him and laugh‐
ed at him and sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he'd attend tothem and lay them out in their regular turns, but he couldn't wait now
because he'd come to town to kill old Colonel Sherburn, and his motto
was, "Meat first, and spoon vittles to top off on."He see me, and rode up and says:"Whar'd you come f'm, boy? You prepared to die?"Then he rode on. I was scared, but a man says:"He don't mean nothing; he's always a-carryin' on like that when
he's drunk. He's the best naturedest old fool in Arkansaw—never hurt
nobody, drunk nor sober."Boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and bent his head
down so he could see under the curtain of the awning and yells:"Come out here, Sherburn! Come out and meet the man you've
swindled. You're the houn' I'm after, and I'm a-gwyne to have you,too!"
And so he went on, calling Sherburn everything he could lay his
tongue to, and the whole street packed with people listening andlaughing and going on. By and by a proud-looking man about fiftyfive—and he was a heap the best dressed man in that town, too—steps
out of the store, and the crowd drops back on each side to let him
come. He says to Boggs, mighty ca'm and slow—he says:

142"I'm tired of this, but I'll endure it till one o'clock. Till one
o'clock, mind—no longer. If you open your mouth against me only
once after that time you can't travel so far but I will find you."
Then he turns and goes in. The crowd looked mighty sober; no‐body stirred, and there warn't no more laughing. Boggs rode off black‐
guarding Sherburn as loud as he could yell, all down the street; andpretty soon back he comes and stops before the store, still keeping it
up. Some men crowded around him and tried to get him to shut up, but
he wouldn't; they told him it would be one o'clock in about fifteen mi‐nutes, and so he must go home—he must go right away. But it didn't
do no good. He cussed away with all his might, and throwed his hat
down in the mud and rode over it, and pretty soon away he went araging down the street again, with his gray hair a-flying. Everybody
that could get a chance at him tried their best to coax him off of his
horse so they could lock him up and get him sober; but it warn't no use—up the street he would tear again, and give Sherburn another cus‐sing. By and by somebody says:"Go for his daughter!—quick, go for his daughter; sometimes
he'll listen to her. If anybody can persuade him, she can."So somebody started on a run. I walked down street a ways andstopped. In about five or ten minutes here comes Boggs again, but noton his horse. He was a-reeling across the street towards me, bareheaded, with a friend on both sides of him a-holt of his arms and hur‐rying him along. He was quiet, and looked uneasy; and he warn't
hanging back any, but was doing some of the hurrying himself. Some‐body sings out:
"Boggs!"I looked over there to see who said it, and it was that Colonel
Sherburn. He was standing perfectly still in the street, and had a pistol
raised in his right hand—not aiming it, but holding it out with the bar‐
rel tilted up towards the sky. The same second I see a young girl com‐
ing on the run, and two men with her. Boggs and the men turned roundto see who called him, and when they see the pistol the men jumped to
one side, and the pistol-barrel come down slow and steady to a level—
both barrels cocked. Boggs throws up both of his hands and says, "O
Lord, don't shoot!" Bang! goes the first shot, and he staggers back,clawing at the air—bang! goes the second one, and he tumbles back‐wards on to the ground, heavy and solid, with his arms spread out.
That young girl screamed out and comes rushing, and down she
throws herself on her father, crying, and saying, "Oh, he's killed him,
he's killed him!" The crowd closed up around them, and shoulderedChapter 21

143

and jammed one another, with their necks stretched, trying to see, andpeople on the inside trying to shove them back and shouting, "Back,back! give him air, give him air!"Colonel Sherburn hetossed his pistol on to theground, and turned around on
his heels and walked off.
They took Boggs to a lit‐
tle drug store, the crowd press‐
ing around just the same, andthe whole town following, andI rushed and got a good placeat the window, where I wasclose to him and could see in.
They laid him on the floor andput one large Bible under his
head, and opened another one
and spread it on his breast; but
they tore open his shirt first,
The Death of Boggs
and I seen where one of thebullets went in. He made abouta dozen long gasps, his breast lifting the Bible up when he drawed in
his breath, and letting it down again when he breathed it out—and af‐
ter that he laid still; he was dead. Then they pulled his daughter awayfrom him, screaming and crying, and took her off. She was about six‐teen, and very sweet and gentle looking, but awful pale and scared.
Well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming andscrouging and pushing and shoving to get at the window and have alook, but people that had the places wouldn't give them up, and folks
behind them was saying all the time, "Say, now, you've looked
enough, you fellows; 'tain't right and 'tain't fair for you to stay thar all
the time, and never give nobody a chance; other folks has their rights
as well as you."
There was considerable jawing back, so I slid out, thinking
maybe there was going to be trouble. The streets was full, and every‐
body was excited. Everybody that seen the shooting was telling how it
happened, and there was a big crowd packed around each one of thesefellows, stretching their necks and listening. One long, lanky man,with long hair and a big white fur stovepipe hat on the back of hishead, and a crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the
ground where Boggs stood and where Sherburn stood, and the people

144

following him around from one place to t'other and watching every‐
thing he done, and bobbing their heads to show they understood, andstooping a little and resting their hands on their thighs to watch him
mark the places on the ground with his cane; and then he stood up
straight and stiff where Sherburn had stood, frowning and having his
hat-brim down over his eyes, and sung out, "Boggs!" and then fetched
his cane down slow to a level, and says "Bang!" staggered backwards,
says "Bang!" again, and fell down flat on his back. The people that
had seen the thing said he done it perfect; said it was just exactly theway it all happened. Then as much as a dozen people got out their bot‐
tles and treated him.
Well, by and by somebody said Sherburn ought to be lynched. In
about a minute everybody was saying it; so away they went, mad andyelling, and snatching down every clothes-line they come to to do thehanging with.

Chapter 22
THEY swarmed up towards Sher‐
burn's house, a-whooping andraging like Injuns, and everything
had to clear the way or get run
over and tromped to mush, and it
was awful to see. Children was
heeling it ahead of the mob,screaming and trying to get out of
the way; and every window along
the road was full of women's
heads, and there was nigger boysin every tree, and bucks andwenches looking over every
fence; and as soon as the mob
would get nearly to them theywould break and skaddle back outof reach. Lots of the women andgirls was crying and taking on,scared most to death.
Sherburn Steps out
They swarmed up in front of
Sherburn's palings as thick asthey could jam together, and you couldn't hear yourself think for thenoise. It was a little twenty-foot yard. Some sung out "Tear down thefence! tear down the fence!" Then there was a racket of ripping andtearing and smashing, and down she goes, and the front wall of thecrowd begins to roll in like a wave.
Just then Sherburn steps out on to the roof of his little front
porch, with a double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand, per‐fectly ca'm and deliberate, not saying a word. The racket stopped, andthe wave sucked back.
Sherburn never said a word—just stood there, looking down. The
stillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable. Sherburn run his eye
slow along the crowd; and wherever it struck the people tried a little toout-gaze him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes and lookedsneaky. Then pretty soon Sherburn sort of laughed; not the pleasantkind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you are eating breadthat's got sand in it.

146

Then he says, slow and scornful:"The idea of you lynching anybody! It's amusing. The idea of you
thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a man! Because you're braveenough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women that comealong here, did that make you think you had grit enough to lay yourhands on a man? Why, a man's safe in the hands of ten thousand ofyour kind—as long as it's daytime and you're not behind him.
"Do I know you? I know you clear through. I was born and raisedin the South, and I've lived in the North; so I know the average all
around. The average man's a coward. In the North he lets anybody
walk over him that wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble
spirit to bear it. In the South one man all by himself, has stopped astage full of men in the daytime, and robbed the lot. Your newspapers
call you a brave people so much that you think you are braver thanany other people—whereas you're just as brave, and no braver. Why
don't your juries hang murderers? Because they're afraid the man's
friends will shoot them in the back, in the dark—and it's just what theywould do.
"So they always acquit; and then a man goes in the night, with ahundred masked cowards at his back and lynches the rascal. Your mis‐take is, that you didn't bring a man with you; that's one mistake, andthe other is that you didn't come in the dark and fetch your masks. You
brought part of a man—Buck Harkness, there—and if you hadn't had
him to start you, you'd a taken it out in blowing.
"You didn't want to come. The average man don't like trouble anddanger. You don't like trouble and danger. But if only half a man—like
Buck Harkness, there—shouts 'Lynch him! lynch him!' you're afraid toback down—afraid you'll be found out to be what you are—cowards—and so you raise a yell, and hang yourselves on to that half-a-man's
coat-tail, and come raging up here, swearing what big things you'regoing to do. The pitifulest thing out is a mob; that's what an army is—a mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in them, but withcourage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their officers. But a
mob without any man at the head of it is beneath pitifulness. Now thething for you to do is to droop your tails and go home and crawl in ahole. If any real lynching's going to be done it will be done in thedark, Southern fashion; and when they come they'll bring their masks,
and fetch a man along. Now leave—and take your half-a-man withyou"—tossing his gun up across his left arm and cocking it when hesays this.
The crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart, and147

Chapter 22

went tearing off every which way, and Buck Harkness he heeled it af‐
ter them, looking tolerable cheap. I could a stayed if I wanted to, but I
didn't want to.
I went to the circus and loafed around the back side till thewatchman went by, and then dived in under the tent. I had my twentydollar gold piece and some other money, but I reckoned I better saveit, because there ain't no telling how soon you are going to need it,away from home and amongst strangers that way. You can't be too
careful. I ain't opposed to spending money on circuses when there ain't
no other way, but there ain't no use in wasting it on them.

A Dead Head

It was a real bully circus. It was the splendidest sight that ever
was when they all come riding in, two and two, a gentleman and lady,side by side, the men just in their drawers and undershirts, and no
shoes nor stirrups, and resting their hands on their thighs easy andcomfortable—there must a been twenty of them—and every lady witha lovely complexion, and perfectly beautiful, and looking just like agang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed in clothes that cost mil‐lions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. It was a powerful finesight; I never see anything so lovely. And then one by one they got up
and stood, and went a-weaving around the ring so gentle and wavy
and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy and straight, with
their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up there under thetent-roof, and every lady's rose-leafy dress flapping soft and silkyaround her hips, and she looking like the most loveliest parasol.
And then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing, first
one foot out in the air and then the other, the horses leaning more andmore, and the ringmaster going round and round the center-pole,cracking his whip and shouting "Hi!—hi!" and the clown cracking
jokes behind him; and by and by all hands dropped the reins, and ev‐

148

ery lady put her knuckles on her hips and every gentleman folded hisarms, and then how the horses did lean over and hump themselves!
And so one after the other they all skipped off into the ring, and madethe sweetest bow I ever see, and then scampered out, and everybody
clapped their hands and went just about wild.
Well, all through the circus they done the most astonishing
things; and all the time that clown carried on so it most killed the peo‐
ple. The ringmaster couldn't ever say a word to him but he was back at
him quick as a wink with the funniest things a body ever said; andhow he ever could think of so many of them, and so sudden and so
pat, was what I couldn't noway understand. Why, I couldn't a thoughtof them in a year. And by and by a drunk man tried to get into the ring—said he wanted to ride; said he could ride as well as anybody thatever was. They argued and tried to keep him out, but he wouldn't lis‐ten, and the whole show come to a standstill. Then the people begun
to holler at him and make fun of him, and that made him mad, and hebegun to rip and tear; so that stirred up the people, and a lot of men
begun to pile down off of the benches and swarm towards the ring,saying, "Knock him down! throw him out!" and one or two women
begun to scream. So, then, the ringmaster he made a little speech, andsaid he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and if the man would
promise he wouldn't make no more trouble he would let him ride if hethought he could stay on the horse. So everybody laughed and said allright, and the man got on. The minute he was on, the horse begun to
rip and tear and jump and cavort around, with two circus men hanging
on to his bridle trying to hold him, and the drunk man hanging on to
his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump, and the whole
crowd of people standing up shouting and laughing till tears rolled
down. And at last, sure enough, all the circus men could do, the horse
broke loose, and away he went like the very nation, round and roundthe ring, with that sot laying down on him and hanging to his neck,with first one leg hanging most to the ground on one side, and thent'other one on t'other side, and the people just crazy. It warn't funny tome, though; I was all of a tremble to see his danger. But pretty soon hestruggled up astraddle and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way andthat; and the next minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle andstood! and the horse a-going like a house afire too. He just stood up
there, a-sailing around as easy and comfortable as if he warn't ever
drunk in his life—and then he begun to pull off his clothes and slingthem. He shed them so thick they kind of clogged up the air, and alto‐
gether he shed seventeen suits. And, then, there he was, slim andChapter 22

149

handsome, and dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you ever saw, and helit into that horse with his whip and made him fairly hum—and finallyskipped off, and made his bow and danced off to the dressing-room,and everybody just a-howling with pleasure and astonishment.
Then the ringmaster hesee how he had been fooled,and he was the sickest ring‐
master you ever see, I reckon.
Why, it was one of his own
men! He had got up that joke
all out of his own head, andnever let on to nobody. Well, I
felt sheepish enough to be took
in so, but I wouldn't a been inthat ringmaster's place, not fora thousand dollars. I don't
know; there may be bullier cir‐cuses than what that one was,but I never struck them yet.
Anyways, it was plenty good
He Shed Seventeen Suitsenough for me; and wherever I
run across it, it can have all of
my custom every time.
Well, that night we had our show; but there warn't only about
twelve people there—just enough to pay expenses. And they laughed
all the time, and that made the duke mad; and everybody left, anyway,
before the show was over, but one boy which was asleep. So the duke
said these Arkansaw lunkheads couldn't come up to Shakespeare;what they wanted was low comedy—and maybe something rutherworse than low comedy, he reckoned. He said he could size their style.

150

So next morning he got some big sheets of wrapping paper and someblack paint, and drawed off some handbills, and stuck them up all overthe village. The bills said:
Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all—which said:
LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED.
"There," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, I dont know about
Arkansaw!"

Chapter 23
WELL, all day him and the king
was hard at it, rigging up a stage
and a curtain and a row of candles
for footlights; and that night thehouse was jam full of men in notime. When the place couldn't holdno more, the duke he quit tending
door and went around the back way
and come on to the stage and stood
up before the curtain and made a lit‐
tle speech, and praised up this trage‐
dy, and said it was the most thrill‐ingest one that ever was; and so hewent on a-bragging about the trage‐
dy, and about Edmund Kean the
Elder, which was to play the mainprincipal part in it; and at last when
he'd got everybody's expectations
up high enough, he rolled up theTragedycurtain, and the next minute theking come a-prancing out on all
fours, naked; and he was painted all over, ring-streaked-and-striped,
all sorts of colors, as splendid as a rainbow. And—but never mind therest of his outfit; it was just wild, but it was awful funny. The people
most killed themselves laughing; and when the king got done caperingand capered off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped andstormed and haw-hawed till he come back and done it over again, andafter that they made him do it another time. Well, it would make a cow
laugh to see the shines that old idiot cut.
Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people,
and says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more, on
accounts of pressing London engagements, where the seats is all soldalready for it in Drury Lane; and then he makes them another bow,and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and instructing them, hewill be deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their friends and getthem to come and see it.
Twenty people sings out:

152

"What, is it over? Is that all?"The duke says yes. Then there was a fine time. Everybody singsout, "Sold!" and rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and themtragedians. But a big, fine looking man jumps up on a bench andshouts:"Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen." They stopped to listen. "We
are sold—mighty badly sold. But we don't want to be the laughing
stock of this whole town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this thing
as long as we live. No. What we want is to go out of here quiet, andtalk this show up, and sell the rest of the town! Then we'll all be in thesame boat. Ain't that sensible?" ("You bet it is!—the jedge is right!"
everybody sings out.) "All right, then—not a word about any sell. Go
along home, and advise everybody to come and see the tragedy."
Next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how
splendid that show was. House was jammed again that night, and wesold this crowd the same way. When me and the king and the duke got
home to the raft we all had a supper; and by and by, about midnight,
they made Jim and me back her out and float her down the middle of
the river, and fetch her in and hide her about two mile below town.
The third night the house was crammed again—and they warn't
new-comers this time, but people that was at the show the other twonights. I stood by the duke at the door, and I see that every man thatwent in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under hiscoat—and I see it warn't no perfumery, neither, not by a long sight. I
smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such things;
and if I know the signs of a dead cat being around, and I bet I do, there
was sixty-four of them went in. I shoved in there for a minute, but it
was too various for me; I couldn't stand it. Well, when the place
couldn't hold no more people the duke he give a fellow a quarter andtold him to tend door for him a minute, and then he started around forthe stage door, I after him; but the minute we turned the corner andwas in the dark he says:"Walk fast now till you get away from the houses, and then shinfor the raft like the dickens was after you!"
I done it, and he done the same. We struck the raft at the sametime, and in less than two seconds we was gliding down stream, alldark and still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody say‐ing a word. I reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it withthe audience, but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he crawls out fromunder the wigwam, and says:"Well, how'd the old thing pan out this time, duke?" He hadn'tChapter 23

153

been up-town at all.
We never showed a light till we was about ten mile below the vil‐lage. Then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke fairly
laughed their bones loose over the way they'd served them people. The
duke says:"Greenhorns, flatheads! I knew the first house would keep mum
and let the rest of the town get roped in; and I knew they'd lay for us
the third night, and consider it was their turn now. Well, it is their turn,and I'd give something to know how much they'd take for it. I would
just like to know how they're putting in their opportunity. They canturn it into a picnic if they want to—they brought plenty provisions."
Them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars inthat three nights. I never see money hauled in by the wagon-load likethat before. By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says:"Don't it s'prise you de way demkings carries on, Huck?""No," I says, "it don't.""Why don't it, Huck?""Well, it don't, because it's inthe breed. I reckon they're all alike.""But, Huck, dese kings o' ournis reglar rapscallions; dat's jist what
dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions.""Well, that's what I'm a-saying;
all kings is mostly rapscallions, as
fur as I can make out.""Is dat so?""You read about them once—
you'll see. Look at Henry the Eight;
this 'n 's a Sunday-school Superin‐
Their Pockets Bulged
tendent to him. And look at Charles
Second, and Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James Second,and Edward Second, and Richard Third, and forty more; besides allthem Saxon heptarchies that used to rip around so in old times andraise Cain. My, you ought to seen old Henry the Eight when he was inbloom. He was a blossom. He used to marry a new wife every day,and chop off her head next morning. And he would do it just as indif‐
ferent as if he was ordering up eggs. 'Fetch up Nell Gwynn,' he says.
They fetch her up. Next morning, 'Chop off her head!' And they chop
it off. 'Fetch up Jane Shore,' he says; and up she comes, Next morning,'Chop off her head'—and they chop it off. 'Ring up Fair Rosamun.'

154

Fair Rosamun answers the bell. Next morning, 'Chop off her head.'And he made every one of them tell him a tale every night; and hekept that up till he had hogged a thousand and one tales that way, andthen he put them all in a book, and called it Domesday Book—which
was a good name and stated the case. You don't know kings, Jim, but I
know them; and this old rip of ourn is one of the cleanest I've struck inhistory. Well, Henry he takes a notion he wants to get up some trouble
with this country. How does he go at it—give notice?—give the coun‐
try a show? No. All of a sudden he heaves all the tea in Boston Harbor
overboard, and whacks out a declaration of independence, and dares
them to come on. That was his style—he never give anybody achance. He had suspicions of his father, the Duke of Wellington. Well,what did he do? Ask him to show up? No—drownded him in a butt ofmamsey, like a cat. S'pose people left money laying around where he
was—what did he do? He collared it. S'pose he contracted to do athing, and you paid him, and didn't set down there and see that hedone it—what did he do? He always done the other thing. S'pose heopened his mouth—what then? If he didn't shut it up powerful quick
he'd lose a lie every time. That's the kind of a bug Henry was; and if
we'd a had him along 'stead of our kings he'd a fooled that town a heap
worse than ourn done. I don't say that ourn is lambs, because they
ain't, when you come right down to the cold facts; but they ain't noth‐ing to that old ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is kings, and you got tomake allowances. Take them all around, they're a mighty ornery lot.
It's the way they're raised.""But dis one do smell so likede nation, Huck.""Well, they all do, Jim. We
can't help the way a king smells;
history don't tell no way.""Now de duke, he's a toler‐
ble likely man in some ways.""Yes, a duke's different. But
not very different. This one's a
middling hard lot for a duke.
When he's drunk there ain't nonear-sighted man could tell himfrom a king.""Well, anyways, I doan'hanker for no mo' un um, Huck.
Dese is all I kin stan'."
Henry the Eighth in Boston HarborChapter 23

155"It's the way I feel, too, Jim. But we've got them on our hands,
and we got to remember what they are, and make allowances. Some‐times I wish we could hear of a country that's out of kings."
What was the use to tell Jim these warn't real kings and dukes? It
wouldn't a done no good; and, besides, it was just as I said: you
couldn't tell them from the real kind.
I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it was my turn. He
often done that. When I waked up just at daybreak he was sitting therewith his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to him‐self. I didn't take notice nor let on. I knowed what it was about. He
was thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he
was low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home
before in his life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his people
as white folks does for their'n. It don't seem natural, but I reckon it'sso. He was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when hejudged I was asleep, and saying, "Po' little 'Lizabeth! po' little Johnny!
it's mighty hard; I spec' I ain't ever gwyne to see you no mo', no mo'!"He was a mighty good nigger, Jim was.
But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife andyoung ones; and by and by he says:"What makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase I hear sumpn
over yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mineme er de time I treat my little 'Lizabeth so ornery. She warn't on'y'bout fo' year ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a powful roughspell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin' aroun', en I says
to her, I says:"'Shet de do'.'"She never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin' up at me. It makeme mad; en I says agin, mighty loud, I says:"'Doan' you hear me? Shet de do'!'"She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. I was a-bilin'! I
says:"'I lay I make you mine!'"En wid dat I fetch' her a slap side de head dat sont her a-spraw‐
lin'. Den I went into de yuther room, en 'uz gone 'bout ten minutes; enwhen I come back dah was dat do' a-stannin' open yit, en dat chile
stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin' down and mournin', en de tears run‐nin' down. My, but I wuz mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis' den—it was a do' dat open innerds—jis' den, 'long come de wind en slamit to, behine de chile, ker-BLAM!—en my lan', de chile never move'!
My breff mos' hop outer me; en I feel so—so—I doan' know HOW I

156

feel. I crope out, all a-tremblin', en crope aroun' en open de do' easy enslow, en poke my head in behine de chile, sof' en still, en all uv a sud‐den I says POW! jis' as loud as I could yell. She never budge! Oh,
Huck, I bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in my arms, en say, 'Oh, de po'little thing! De Lord God Amighty fogive po' ole Jim, kaze he nevergwyne to fogive hisself as long's he live!' Oh, she was plumb deef endumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb—en I'd ben a-treat'n her so!"

Chapter 24
NEXT day, towards night, we laid
up under a little willow towhead out
in the middle, where there was a vil‐lage on each side of the river, andthe duke and the king begun to lay
out a plan for working them towns.
Jim he spoke to the duke, and said
he hoped it wouldn't take but a few
hours, because it got mighty heavy
and tiresome to him when he had tolay all day in the wigwam tied withthe rope. You see, when we left him
all alone we had to tie him, because
if anybody happened on to him allby himself and not tied it wouldn't
look much like he was a runaway
Harmless
nigger, you know. So the duke said it
was kind of hard to have to lay ro‐
ped all day, and he'd cipher out some way to get around it.
He was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it.
He dressed Jim up in King Lear's outfit—it was a long curtain-calicogown, and a white horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his
theater paint and painted Jim's face and hands and ears and neck allover a dead, dull, solid blue, like a man that's been drownded ninedays. Blamed if he warn't the horriblest looking outrage I ever see.
Then the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so:Sick Arab—but harmless when not out of his head.
And he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four orfive foot in front of the wigwam. Jim was satisfied. He said it was asight better than lying tied a couple of years every day, and trembling
all over every time there was a sound. The duke told him to makehimself free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling around, hemust hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl or
two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light out and leave
him alone. Which was sound enough judgment; but you take the aver‐age man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. Why, he didn't only
look like he was dead, he looked considerable more than that.

158

These rapscallions wanted to try the Nonesuch again, because
there was so much money in it, but they judged it wouldn't be safe,
because maybe the news might a worked along down by this time.
They couldn't hit no project that suited exactly; so at last the duke said
he reckoned he'd lay off and work his brains an hour or two and see if
he couldn't put up something on the Arkansaw village; and the king heallowed he would drop over to t'other village without any plan, butjust trust in Providence to lead him the profitable way—meaning thedevil, I reckon. We had all bought store clothes where we stopped last;and now the king put his'n on, and he told me to put mine on. I done it,of course. The king's duds was all black, and he did look real swelland starchy. I never knowed how clothes could change a body before.
Why, before, he looked like the orneriest old rip that ever was; butnow, when he'd take off his new white beaver and make a bow and doa smile, he looked that grand and good and pious that you'd say he had
walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old Leviticus himself. Jim
cleaned up the canoe, and I got my paddle ready. There was a big
steamboat laying at the shore away up under the point, about threemile above the town—been there a couple of hours, taking on freight.
Says the king:"Seein' how I'm dressed, I reckon maybe I better arrive downfrom St. Louis or Cincinnati, or some other big place. Go for thesteamboat, Huckleberry; we'll come down to the village on her."I didn't have to be ordered twice to go and take a steamboat ride.
I fetched the shore a half a mile above the village, and then went
scooting along the bluff bank in the easy water. Pretty soon we cometo a nice innocent-looking young country jake setting on a log swab‐
bing the sweat off of his face, for it was powerful warm weather; andhe had a couple of big carpet-bags by him.
"Run her nose in shore," says the king. I done it. "Wher' you
bound for, young man?""For the steamboat; going to Orleans.""Git aboard," says the king. "Hold on a minute, my servant 'll
he'p you with them bags. Jump out and he'p the gentleman, Adol‐phus"—meaning me, I see.
I done so, and then we all three started on again. The young chap
was mighty thankful; said it was tough work toting his baggage such
weather. He asked the king where he was going, and the king told him
he'd come down the river and landed at the other village this morning,
and now he was going up a few mile to see an old friend on a farm up
there. The young fellow says:

Chapter 24

159"When I first see
you I says to myself,'It's Mr. Wilks, sure,and he come mighty
near getting here intime.' But then I says
again, 'No, I reckon it
ain't him, or else hewouldn't be paddlingup the river.' You ain't
him, are you?""No, my name's
Adolphus
Blodgett—Elexander
Blodgett—Reverend Elexander Blodgett, I s'pose I must say, as I'm
one o' the Lord's poor servants. But still I'm jist as able to be sorry for
Mr. Wilks for not arriving in time, all the same, if he's missed any‐
thing by it—which I hope he hasn't.""Well, he don't miss any property by it, because he'll get that all
right; but he's missed seeing his brother Peter die—which he mayn't
mind, nobody can tell as to that—but his brother would a give any‐
thing in this world to see him before he died; never talked about noth‐ing else all these three weeks; hadn't seen him since they was boys to‐gether—and hadn't ever seen his brother William at all—that's thedeef and dumb one—William ain't more than thirty or thirty-five. Pe‐
ter and George were the only ones that come out here; George was themarried brother; him and his wife both died last year. Harvey and Wil‐
liam's the only ones that's left now; and, as I was saying, they haven't
got here in time.""Did anybody send 'em word?""Oh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was first took; becausePeter said then that he sorter felt like he warn't going to get well thistime. You see, he was pretty old, and George's g'yirls was too young to
be much company for him, except Mary Jane, the red-headed one; andso he was kinder lonesome after George and his wife died, and didn't
seem to care much to live. He most desperately wanted to see Harvey—and William, too, for that matter—because he was one of them kindthat can't bear to make a will. He left a letter behind for Harvey, andsaid he'd told in it where his money was hid, and how he wanted therest of the property divided up so George's g'yirls would be all right—
for George didn't leave nothing. And that letter was all they could get
him to put a pen to."

160

"Why do you reckon Harvey don't come? Wher' does he live?""Oh, he lives in England—Sheffield—preaches there—hasn't ev‐
er been in this country. He hasn't had any too much time—and besides
he mightn't a got the letter at all, you know.""Too bad, too bad he couldn't a lived to see his brothers, poor
soul. You going to Orleans, you say?""Yes, but that ain't only a part of it. I'm going in a ship, next Wed‐nesday, for Ryo Janeero, where my uncle lives.""It's a pretty long journey. But it'll be lovely; wisht I was a-going.
Is Mary Jane the oldest? How old is the others?""Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and Joanna's about four‐teen—that's the one that gives herself to good works and has a harelip.""Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so."
"Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had friends, and they
ain't going to let them come to no harm. There's Hobson, the Babtis'
preacher; and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner Shack‐leford, and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr. Robinson, and their wives,
and the widow Bartley, and—well, there's a lot of them; but these are
the ones that Peter was thickest with, and used to write about some‐times, when he wrote home; so Harvey 'll know where to look forfriends when he gets here."He Fairly Emptied that Young Fellow

Well, the old man went on asking questions till he just fairly emptied
that young fellow. Blamed if he didn't inquire about everybody andeverything in that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and aboutPeter's business—which was a tanner; and about George's—which
was a carpenter; and about Harvey's—which was a dissentering minis‐

Chapter 24

161ter; and so on, and so on. Then he says:"What did you want to walk all the way up to the steamboat for?""Because she's a big Orleans boat, and I was afeard she mightn't
stop there. When they're deep they won't stop for a hail. A Cincinnati
boat will, but this is a St. Louis one.""Was Peter Wilks well off?""Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses and land, and it's reck‐
oned he left three or four thousand in cash hid up som'ers.""When did you say he died?""I didn't say, but it was last night.""Funeral to-morrow, likely?""Yes, 'bout the middle of the day.""Well, it's all terrible sad; but we've all got to go, one time or an‐other. So what we want to do is to be prepared; then we're all right.""Yes, sir, it's the best way. Ma used to always say that."
When we struck the boat she was about done loading, and pretty
soon she got off. The king never said nothing about going aboard, so I
lost my ride, after all. When the boat was gone the king made me pad‐dle up another mile to a lonesome place, and then he got ashore andsays:"Now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up here, and the
new carpet-bags. And if he's gone over to t'other side, go over there
and git him. And tell him to git himself up regardless. Shove along,now."
I see what he was up to; but I never said nothing, of course.
When I got back with the duke we hid the canoe, and then they set
down on a log, and the king told him everything, just like the young
fellow had said it—every last word of it. And all the time he was adoing it he tried to talk like an Englishman; and he done it pretty well,too, for a slouch. I can't imitate him, and so I ain't a-going to try to;
but he really done it pretty good. Then he says:"How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?"
The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a deef
and dumb person on the histronic boards. So then they waited for asteamboat.
About the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats comealong, but they didn't come from high enough up the river; but at last
there was a big one, and they hailed her. She sent out her yawl, and wewent aboard, and she was from Cincinnati; and when they found weonly wanted to go four or five mile they was booming mad, and gave
us a cussing, and said they wouldn't land us. But the king was ca'm.

162

He says:"If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece to be took
on and put off in a yawl, a steamboat kin afford to carry 'em, can't it?"So they softened down and said it was all right; and when we got
to the village they yawled us ashore. About two dozen men flocked
down when they see the yawl a-coming, and when the king says:"Kin any of you gentlemen tell me wher' Mr. Peter Wilks lives?"
they give a glance at one another, and nodded their heads, as much as
to say, "What d' I tell you?" Then one of them says, kind of soft andgentle:"I'm sorry sir, but the best we can do is to tell you where he did
live yesterday evening."
Sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went an to smash, andfell up against the man, and put his chin on his shoulder, and crieddown his back, and says:"Alas, alas, our poor brother—gone, and we never got to see him;oh, it's too, too hard!"
Then he turns around, blub‐
bering, and makes a lot of idiotic
signs to the duke on his hands,
and blamed if he didn't drop a
carpet-bag and bust out a-crying.
If they warn't the beatenest lot,them two frauds, that ever I
struck.
Well, the men gatheredaround and sympathized withthem, and said all sorts of kindthings to them, and carried theircarpet-bags up the hill for them,and let them lean on them andcry, and told the king all about his“Alas, our Poor Brother”
brother's last moments, and the
king he told it all over again on his hands to the duke, and both ofthem took on about that dead tanner like they'd lost the twelve disci‐
ples. Well, if ever I struck anything like it, I'm a nigger. It was enoughto make a body ashamed of the human race.

Chapter 25
THE news was all over town in two
minutes, and you could see the people
tearing down on the run from every
which way, some of them putting on
their coats as they come. Pretty soon
we was in the middle of a crowd, andthe noise of the tramping was like asoldier march. The windows and door‐
yards was full; and every minute
somebody would say, over a fence:"Is it them?"
And somebody trotting alongwith the gang would answer back andsay:"You bet it is."When we got to the house thestreet in front of it was packed, and thethree girls was standing in the door.
Mary Jane was red-headed, but that
don't make no difference, she was most“You Bet It Is”
awful beautiful, and her face and hereyes was all lit up like glory, she wasso glad her uncles was come. The king he spread his arms, and Mary
Jane she jumped for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the duke, andthere they had it! Everybody most, leastways women, cried for joy tosee them meet again at last and have such good times.
Then the king he hunched the duke private—I see him do it—andthen he looked around and see the coffin, over in the corner on twochairs; so then him and the duke, with a hand across each other's
shoulder, and t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and solemn overthere, everybody dropping back to give them room, and all the talkand noise stopping, people saying "Sh!" and all the men taking theirhats off and drooping their heads, so you could a heard a pin fall. And
when they got there they bent over and looked in the coffin, and took
one sight, and then they bust out a-crying so you could a heard themto Orleans, most; and then they put their arms around each other's
necks, and hung their chins over each other's shoulders; and then for164three minutes, or maybe four, I never see two men leak the way they
done. And, mind you, everybody was doing the same; and the place
was that damp I never see anything like it. Then one of them got on
one side of the coffin, and t'other on t'other side, and they kneeled
down and rested their foreheads on the coffin, and let on to pray all tothemselves. Well, when it come to that it worked the crowd like you
never see anything like it, and everybody broke down and went tosobbing right out loud—the poor girls, too; and every woman, nearly,
went up to the girls, without saying a word, and kissed them, solemn,on the forehead, and then put their hand on their head, and looked up
towards the sky, with the tears running down, and then busted out andwent off sobbing and swabbing, and give the next woman a show. I
never see anything so disgusting.
Well, by and by the king he getsup and comes forward a little, andworks himself up and slobbers out aspeech, all full of tears and flapdoo‐
dle about its being a sore trial for him
and his poor brother to lose the dis‐
eased, and to miss seeing diseased
alive after the long journey of fourthousand mile, but it's a trial that's
sweetened and sanctified to us by
this dear sympathy and these holytears, and so he thanks them out of
his heart and out of his brother's
heart, because out of their mouths
they can't, words being too weak andLeaking
cold, and all that kind of rot andslush, till it was just sickening; and then he blubbers out a pious
goody-goody Amen, and turns himself loose and goes to crying fit tobust.
And the minute the words were out of his mouth somebody overin the crowd struck up the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with all
their might, and it just warmed you up and made you feel as good aschurch letting out. Music is a good thing; and after all that soul-butter
and hogwash I never see it freshen up things so, and sound so honest
and bully.
Then the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him
and his nieces would be glad if a few of the main principal friends ofthe family would take supper here with them this evening, and help set

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165

up with the ashes of the diseased; and says if his poor brother laying
yonder could speak he knows who he would name, for they wasnames that was very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters;
and so he will name the same, to wit, as follows, vizz.:—Rev. Mr.
Hobson, and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Mr. Ben Rucker, and Abner
Shackleford, and Levi Bell, and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and thewidow Bartley.
Rev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down to the end of the town
a-hunting together—that is, I mean the doctor was shipping a sick man
to t'other world, and the preacher was pinting him right. Lawyer Bellwas away up to Louisville on business. But the rest was on hand, andso they all come and shook hands with the king and thanked him andtalked to him; and then they shook hands with the duke and didn't say
nothing, but just kept a-smiling and bobbing their heads like a passelof sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs with his hands and said
"Goo-goo—goo-goo-goo" all the time, like a baby that can't talk.
So the king he blattered along, and managed to inquire about
pretty much everybody and dog in town, by his name, and mentioned
all sorts of little things that happened one time or another in the town,
or to George's family, or to Peter. And he always let on that Peterwrote him the things; but that was a lie: he got every blessed one ofthem out of that young flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat.
Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father left behind, andthe king he read it out loud and cried over it. It give the dwellinghouse and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the tan‐yard (which was doing a good business), along with some other hous‐es and land (worth about seven thousand), and three thousand dollars
in gold to Harvey and William, and told where the six thousand cash
was hid down cellar. So these two frauds said they'd go and fetch it up,
and have everything square and above-board; and told me to comewith a candle. We shut the cellar door behind us, and when they foundthe bag they spilt it out on the floor, and it was a lovely sight, all themyaller-boys. My, the way the king's eyes did shine! He slaps the dukeon the shoulder and says:"Oh, this ain't bully nor noth'n! Oh, no, I reckon not! Why, bully,
it beats the Nonesuch, don't it?"
The duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted
them through their fingers and let them jingle down on the floor; andthe king says:"It ain't no use talkin'; bein' brothers to a rich dead man and rep‐resentatives of furrin heirs that's got left is the line for you and me,166

Bilge. Thish yer comes of trust'n to Providence. It's the best way, inthe long run. I've tried 'em all, and ther' ain't no better way."
Most everybody would a been satisfied with the pile, and took it
on trust; but no, they must count it. So they counts it, and it comes out
four hundred and fifteen dollars short. Says the king:"Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four hundred and fif‐
teen dollars?"
They worried over that awhile, and ransacked all around for it.
Then the duke says:"Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake—I
reckon that's the way of it. The best way's to let it go, and keep still
about it. We can spare it."
"Oh, shucks, yes, we can spare it. I don't k'yer noth'n 'bout that—it's the count I'm thinkin' about. We want to be awful square and open
and above-board here, you know. We want to lug this h-yer money up
stairs and count it before everybody—then ther' ain't noth'n suspi‐
cious. But when the dead man says ther's six thous'n dollars, youknow, we don't want to—""Hold on," says the duke. "Le's make up the deffisit," and he be‐
gun to haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket.
"It's a most amaz'n' good
idea, duke—you have got a rat‐
tlin' clever head on you," says theking. "Blest if the old Nonesuch
ain't a heppin' us out agin," andhe begun to haul out yaller-jack‐ets and stack them up.
It most busted them, butthey made up the six thousand
clean and clear.
"Say," says the duke, "I got
another idea. Le's go up stairs
and count this money, and thentake and give it to the girls.""Good land, duke, lemmehug
you!
It's the most dazzling
Making up the “Deffisit”
idea 'at ever a man struck. You
have cert'nly got the most astonishin' head I ever see. Oh, this is theboss dodge, ther' ain't no mistake 'bout it. Let 'em fetch along theirsuspicions now if they want to—this 'll lay 'em out."
When we got up-stairs everybody gethered around the table, andChapter 25

167

the king he counted it and stacked it up, three hundred dollars in a pile—twenty elegant little piles. Everybody looked hungry at it, andlicked their chops. Then they raked it into the bag again, and I see theking begin to swell himself up for another speech. He says:"Friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has done generousby them that's left behind in the vale of sorrers. He has done generousby these yer poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and that's
left fatherless and motherless. Yes, and we that knowed him knowsthat he would a done more generous by 'em if he hadn't ben afeard o'woundin' his dear William and me. Now, wouldn't he? Ther' ain't noquestion 'bout it in my mind. Well, then, what kind o' brothers would it
be that 'd stand in his way at sech a time? And what kind o' uncles
would it be that 'd rob—yes, rob—sech poor sweet lambs as these 'at
he loved so at sech a time? If I know William—and I think I do—he—well, I'll jest ask him." He turns around and begins to make a lot ofsigns to the duke with his hands, and the duke he looks at him stupid
and leather-headed a while; then all of a sudden he seems to catch hismeaning, and jumps for the king, goo-gooing with all his might forjoy, and hugs him about fifteen times before he lets up. Then the kingsays, "I knowed it; I reckon that 'll convince anybody the way he feels
about it. Here, Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner, take the money—take it all.
It's the gift of him that lays yonder, cold but joyful."
Mary Jane she went for him,
Susan and the hare-lip went for theduke, and then such another hug‐ging and kissing I never see yet.
And everybody crowded up with thetears in their eyes, and most shookthe hands off of them frauds, saying
all the time:"You dear good souls!—how
lovely!—how could you!"
Well, then, pretty soon allhands got to talking about the dis‐
eased again, and how good he was,and what a loss he was, and all that;and before long a big iron-jawed
Going for Him
man worked himself in there fromoutside, and stood a-listening andlooking, and not saying anything; and nobody saying anything to himeither, because the king was talking and they was all busy listening.

168

The king was saying—in the middle of something he'd started in on—"—they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased. That's why they're
invited here this evenin'; but tomorrow we want all to come—every‐
body; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody, and so it's fittenthat his funeral orgies sh'd be public."
And so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk,and every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies again, till theduke he couldn't stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap of pa‐
per, "Obsequies, you old fool," and folds it up, and goes to goo-gooing
and reaching it over people's heads to him. The king he reads it andputs it in his pocket, and says:"Poor William, afflicted as he is, his heart's aluz right. Asks me
to invite everybody to come to the funeral—wants me to make 'em all
welcome. But he needn't a worried—it was jest what I was at."Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and goes to drop‐
ping in his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like he done
before. And when he done it the third time he says:"I say orgies, not because it's the common term, because it ain't—
obsequies bein' the common term—but because orgies is the rightterm. Obsequies ain't used in England no more now—it's gone out. We
say orgies now in England. Orgies is better, because it means the thing
you're after more exact. It's a word that's made up out'n the Greek or‐go, outside, open, abroad; and the Hebrew jeesum, to plant, cover up;
hence inter. So, you see, funeral orgies is an open er public funeral."
He was the worst I ever struck. Well, the iron-jawed man helaughed right in his face. Everybody was shocked. Everybody says,"Why, doctor!" and Abner Shackleford says:"Why, Robinson, hain't you heard the news? This is Harvey
Wilks."The king he smiled eager, and shoved out his flapper, and says:"Is it my poor brother's dear good friend and physician? I—""Keep your hands off of me!" says the doctor. "You talk like an
Englishman, don't you? It's the worst imitation I ever heard. You Peter
Wilks's brother! You're a fraud, that's what you are!"Well, how they all took on! They crowded around the doctor andtried to quiet him down, and tried to explain to him and tell him how
Harvey 'd showed in forty ways that he was Harvey, and knowed ev‐
erybody by name, and the names of the very dogs, and begged andbegged him not to hurt Harvey's feelings and the poor girl's feelings,
and all that. But it warn't no use; he stormed right along, and said any
man that pretended to be an Englishman and couldn't imitate the lingo

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Chapter 25

no better than what he did was a fraud anda liar. The poor girls was hanging to theking and crying; and all of a sudden the
doctor ups and turns on them. He says:"I was your father's friend, and I'm
your friend; and I warn you as a friend,and an honest one that wants to protect
you and keep you out of harm and trouble,
to turn your backs on that scoundrel andhave nothing to do with him, the ignoranttramp, with his idiotic Greek and Hebrew,
as he calls it. He is the thinnest kind of an
impostor—has come here with a lot of
empty names and facts which he picked
up somewheres, and you take them for
The Doctor
proofs, and are helped to fool yourselvesby these foolish friends here, who ought to know better. Mary Jane
Wilks, you know me for your friend, and for your unselfish friend,
too. Now listen to me; turn this pitiful rascal out—I beg you to do it.
Will you?"
Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was hand‐some! She says:"Here is my answer." She hove up the bag of money and put it in
the king's hands, and says, "Take this six thousand dollars, and invest
for me and my sisters any way you want to, and don't give us no re‐ceipt for it."
Then she put her arm around the king on one side, and Susan andthe hare-lip done the same on the other. Everybody clapped theirhands and stomped on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the kingheld up his head and smiled proud. The doctor says:"All right; I wash my hands of the matter. But I warn you all thata time 's coming when you're going to feel sick whenever you think ofthis day." And away he went.
"All right, doctor," says the king, kinder mocking him; "we'll try
and get 'em to send foryou;" which made them
all laugh, and they said it
was a prime good hit.

The Bag of MoneyChapter 26
WELL, when they was all gone
the king he asks Mary Jane how
they was off for spare rooms, andshe said she had one spare room,
which would do for Uncle Wil‐liam, and she'd give her own room
to Uncle Harvey, which was a lit‐
tle bigger, and she would turn into
the room with her sisters and sleep
on a cot; and up garret was a little
cubby, with a pallet in it. The kingsaid the cubby would do for his
valley—meaning me.
So Mary Jane took us up, andshe showed them their rooms,
which was plain but nice. She said
she'd have her frocks and a lot of
The Cubby
other traps took out of her room ifthey was in Uncle Harvey's way, but he said they warn't. The frocks
was hung along the wall, and before them was a curtain made out ofcalico that hung down to the floor. There was an old hair trunk in one
corner, and a guitar-box in another, and all sorts of little knickknacks
and jimcracks around, like girls brisken up a room with. The king said
it was all the more homely and more pleasanter for these fixings, andso don't disturb them. The duke's room was pretty small, but plenty
good enough, and so was my cubby.
That night they had a big supper, and all them men and women
was there, and I stood behind the king and the duke's chairs and wai‐
ted on them, and the niggers waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set atthe head of the table, with Susan alongside of her, and said how bad
the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was, and how ornery
and tough the fried chickens was—and all that kind of rot, the way
women always do for to force out compliments; and the people allknowed everything was tiptop, and said so—said "How do you get
biscuits to brown so nice?" and "Where, for the land's sake, did you
get these amaz'n pickles?" and all that kind of humbug talky-talk, justthe way people always does at a supper, you know.

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171

And when it was all doneme and the hare-lip had supperin the kitchen off of the leav‐ings, whilst the others was
helping the niggers clean up thethings. The hare-lip she got topumping me about England,and blest if I didn't think the ice
was getting mighty thin some‐times. She says:"Did you ever see the
king?""Who? William Fourth?
Well, I bet I have—he goes toSupper with the Hare-Lip
our church." I knowed he wasdead years ago, but I never let
on. So when I says he goes to our church, she says:"What—regular?""Yes—regular. His pew's right over opposite ourn—on t'otherside the pulpit.""I thought he lived in London?""Well, he does. Where would he live?""But I thought you lived in Sheffield?"
I see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get choked with a chick‐en bone, so as to get time to think how to get down again. Then I says:"I mean he goes to our church regular when he's in Sheffield.
That's only in the summer time, when he comes there to take the sea
baths.""Why, how you talk—Sheffield ain't on the sea.""Well, who said it was?""Why, you did.""I didn't nuther.""You did!""I didn't.""You did.""I never said nothing of the kind.""Well, what did you say, then?""Said he come to take the sea baths—that's what I said.""Well, then, how's he going to take the sea baths if it ain't on thesea?""Looky here," I says; "did you ever see any Congress-water?"172"Yes.""Well, did you have to go to Congress to get it?""Why, no.""Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to the sea to get a
sea bath.""How does he get it, then?""Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-water—in bar‐rels. There in the palace at Sheffield they've got furnaces, and hewants his water hot. They can't bile that amount of water away off
there at the sea. They haven't got no conveniences for it."
"Oh, I see, now. You might a said that in the first place and saved
time."
When she said that I see I was out of the woods again, and so I
was comfortable and glad. Next, she says:"Do you go to church, too?""Yes—regular.""Where do you set?""Why, in our pew.""Whose pew?""Why, ourn—your Uncle Harvey's.""His'n? What does he want with a pew?""Wants it to set in. What did you reckon he wanted with it?""Why, I thought he'd be in the pulpit."
Rot him, I forgot he was a preacher. I see I was up a stump again,
so I played another chicken bone and got another think. Then I says:"Blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one preacher to achurch?""Why, what do they want with more?""What!—to preach before a king? I never did see such a girl asyou. They don't have no less than seventeen.""Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn't set out such a string as
that, not if I never got to glory. It must take 'em a week.""Shucks, they don't all of 'em preach the same day—only one of'em.""Well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?""Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate—and one thing or
another. But mainly they don't do nothing.""Well, then, what are they for?""Why, they're for style. Don't you know nothing?""Well, I don't want to know no such foolishness as that. How isservants treated in England? Do they treat 'em better 'n we treat ourChapter 26

173niggers?""No! A servant ain't nobody there. They treat them worse thandogs.""Don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do, Christmas and
New Year's week, and Fourth of July?""Oh, just listen! A body could tell you hain't ever been to Eng‐
land by that. Why, Hare-l—why, Joanna, they never see a holiday
from year's end to year's end; never go to the circus, nor theater, nor
nigger shows, nor nowheres.""Nor church?""Nor church.""But you always went to church."Well, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old man's servant.
But next minute I whirled in on a kind of an explanation how a valley
was different from a common servant and had to go to church whether
he wanted to or not, and set with the family, on account of its being
the law. But I didn't do it pretty good, and when I got done I see she
warn't satisfied. She says:"Honest injun, now, hain't you been telling me a lot of lies?""Honest injun," says I.
"None of it at all?""None of it at all. Not a lie
in it," says I.
"Lay your hand on thisbook and say it."
I see it warn't nothing but a
dictionary, so I laid my hand on
it and said it. So then she looked
a little better satisfied, and says:"Well, then, I'll believe
some of it; but I hope to gra‐cious if I'll believe the rest.""What is it you won't be‐lieve, Joe?" says Mary Jane,
stepping in with Susan behind“Honest Injun”
her. "It ain't right nor kind for
you to talk so to him, and him astranger and so far from his people. How would you like to be treatedso?""That's always your way, Maim—always sailing in to help some‐body before they're hurt. I hain't done nothing to him. He's told some

174

stretchers, I reckon, and I said I wouldn't swallow it all; and that's ev‐
ery bit and grain I did say. I reckon he can stand a little thing like that,
can't he?""I don't care whether 'twas little or whether 'twas big; he's here in
our house and a stranger, and it wasn't good of you to say it. If you
was in his place it would make you feel ashamed; and so you oughtn't
to say a thing to another person that will make them feel ashamed.""Why, Mam, he said—""It don't make no difference what he said—that ain't the thing.
The thing is for you to treat him kind, and not be saying things to
make him remember he ain't in his own country and amongst his own
folks."
I says to myself, this is a girl that I'm letting that old reptile rob
her of her money!
Then Susan she waltzed in; and if you'll believe me, she did giveHare-lip hark from the tomb!
Says I to myself, and this is another one that I'm letting him rob
her of her money!
Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went in sweet andlovely again—which was her way; but when she got done there warn't
hardly anything left o' poor Hare-lip. So she hollered.
"All right, then," says the other girls; "you just ask his pardon."She done it, too; and she done it beautiful. She done it so beauti‐
ful it was good to hear; and I wished I could tell her a thousand lies, so
she could do it again.
I says to myself, this is another one that I'm letting him rob her ofher money. And when she got through they all jest laid theirselves out
to make me feel at home and know I was amongst friends. I felt soornery and low down and mean that I says to myself, my mind's madeup; I'll hive that money for them or bust.
So then I lit out—for bed, I said, meaning some time or another.
When I got by myself I went to thinking the thing over. I says to my‐self, shall I go to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds? No—
that won't do. He might tell who told him; then the king and the duke
would make it warm for me. Shall I go, private, and tell Mary Jane?
No—I dasn't do it. Her face would give them a hint, sure; they've got
the money, and they'd slide right out and get away with it. If she wasto fetch in help I'd get mixed up in the business before it was done
with, I judge. No; there ain't no good way but one. I got to steal thatmoney, somehow; and I got to steal it some way that they won't suspi‐
cion that I done it. They've got a good thing here, and they ain't a-go‐Chapter 26

175

ing to leave till they've played this family and this town for all they're
worth, so I'll find a chance time enough. I'll steal it and hide it; and by
and by, when I'm away down the river, I'll write a letter and tell Mary
Jane where it's hid. But I better hive it tonight if I can, because thedoctor maybe hasn't let up as much as he lets on he has; he mightscare them out of here yet.
So, thinks I, I'll go and search them rooms. Upstairs the hall was
dark, but I found the duke's room, and started to paw around it withmy hands; but I recollected it wouldn't be much like the king to let
anybody else take care of that money but his own self; so then I went
to his room and begun to paw around there. But I see I couldn't donothing without a candle, and I dasn't light one, of course. So I judged
I'd got to do the other thing—lay for them and eavesdrop. About thattime I hears their footsteps coming, and was going to skip under thebed; I reached for it, but it wasn't where I thought it would be; but I
touched the curtain that hid Mary Jane's frocks, so I jumped in behindthat and snuggled in amongst the gowns, and stood there perfectly
still.

The Duke Looks under the Bed

They come in and shut the door; and the first thing the duke done
was to get down and look under the bed. Then I was glad I hadn't
found the bed when I wanted it. And yet, you know, it's kind of natural
to hide under the bed when you are up to anything private. They sets
down then, and the king says:"Well, what is it? And cut it middlin' short, because it's better for
us to be down there a-whoopin' up the mournin' than up here givin'176'em a chance to talk us over.""Well, this is it, Capet. I ain't easy; I ain't comfortable. That doc‐
tor lays on my mind. I wanted to know your plans. I've got a notion,and I think it's a sound one.""What is it, duke?""That we better glide out of this before three in the morning, andclip it down the river with what we've got. Specially, seeing we got it
so easy—given back to us, flung at our heads, as you may say, whenof course we allowed to have to steal it back. I'm for knocking off andlighting out."
That made me feel pretty bad. About an hour or two ago it woulda been a little different, but now it made me feel bad and disappointed,
The king rips out and says:"What! And not sell out the rest o' the property? March off like apassel of fools and leave eight or nine thous'n' dollars' worth o' proper‐
ty layin' around jest sufferin' to be scooped in?—and all good, salable
stuff, too."
The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and hedidn't want to go no deeper—didn't want to rob a lot of orphans ofeverything they had.
"Why, how you talk!" says the king. "We sha'n't rob 'em of noth‐ing at all but jest this money. The people that buys the property is the
suff'rers; because as soon 's it's found out 'at we didn't own it—which
won't be long after we've slid—the sale won't be valid, and it 'll all goback to the estate. These yer orphans 'll git their house back agin, andthat's enough for them; they're young and spry, and k'n easy earn a li‐
vin'. they ain't a-goin to suffer. Why, jest think—there's thous'n's andthous'n's that ain't nigh so well off. Bless you, they ain't got noth'n' tocomplain of."Well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and said
all right, but said he believed it was blamed foolishness to stay, andthat doctor hanging over them. But the king says:"Cuss the doctor! What do we k'yer for him? Hain't we got all thefools in town on our side? And ain't that a big enough majority in any
town?"
So they got ready to go down stairs again. The duke says:"I don't think we put that money in a good place."
That cheered me up. I'd begun to think I warn't going to get a hintof no kind to help me. The king says:"Why?""Because Mary Jane 'll be in mourning from this out; and firstChapter 26

177

you know the nigger that does up the rooms will get an order to box
these duds up and put 'em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run
across money and not borrow some of it?""Your head's level agin, duke," says the king; and he comes afumbling under the curtain two or three foot from where I was. I stuck
tight to the wall and kept mighty still, though quivery; and I wondered
what them fellows would say to me if they catched me; and I tried tothink what I'd better do if they did catch me. But the king he got thebag before I could think more than about a half a thought, and he nev‐
er suspicioned I was around. They took and shoved the bag through a
rip in the straw tick that was under the feather-bed, and crammed it ina foot or two amongst the straw and said it was all right now, becausea nigger only makes up the feather-bed, and don't turn over the straw
tick only about twice a year, and so it warn't in no danger of getting
stole now.
But I knowed better. I
had it out of there before
they was half-way down
stairs. I groped along up to
my cubby, and hid it theretill I could get a chance to
do better. I judged I betterhide it outside of the housesomewheres, because if theymissed it they would givethe house a good ransack‐ing: I knowed that very
well. Then I turned in, with
my clothes all on; but I
couldn't a gone to sleep if
Huck Takes the Money
I'd a wanted to, I was insuch a sweat to get through with the business. By and by I heard the
king and the duke come up; so I rolled off my pallet and laid with mychin at the top of my ladder, and waited to see if anything was goingto happen. But nothing did.
So I held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones
hadn't begun yet; and then I slipped down the ladder.

Chapter 27
I crept to their doors and listened;
they was snoring. So I tiptoed
along, and got down stairs all right.
There warn't a sound anywheres. I
peeped through a crack of the din‐ing-room door, and see the men thatwas watching the corpse all soundasleep on their chairs. The door was
open into the parlor, where thecorpse was laying, and there was a
candle in both rooms. I passedalong, and the parlor door was
open; but I see there warn't nobody
in there but the remainders of Peter;
so I shoved on by; but the front
door was locked, and the key wasn't
A Crack in the Dining-Room Door
there. Just then I heard somebody
coming down the stairs, back behind me. I run in the parlor and took aswift look around, and the only place I see to hide the bag was in thecoffin. The lid was shoved along about a foot, showing the dead man's
face down in there, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on. I
tucked the money-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where hishands was crossed, which made me creep, they was so cold, and then I
run back across the room and in behind the door.
The person coming was Mary Jane. She went to the coffin, very
soft, and kneeled down and looked in; then she put up her handker‐
chief, and I see she begun to cry, though I couldn't hear her, and herback was to me. I slid out, and as I passed the dining-room I thought
I'd make sure them watchers hadn't seen me; so I looked through thecrack, and everything was all right. They hadn't stirred.
I slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts of the thingplaying out that way after I had took so much trouble and run so much
resk about it. Says I, if it could stay where it is, all right; because when
we get down the river a hundred mile or two I could write back to
Mary Jane, and she could dig him up again and get it; but that ain't thething that's going to happen; the thing that's going to happen is, themoney 'll be found when they come to screw on the lid. Then the king

Chapter 27

179'll get it again, and it 'll be a long day before he gives anybody anotherchance to smouch it from him. Of course I wanted to slide down and
get it out of there, but I dasn't try it. Every minute it was getting earlier
now, and pretty soon some of them watchers would begin to stir, and I
might get catched—catched with six thousand dollars in my hands that
nobody hadn't hired me to take care of. I don't wish to be mixed up in
no such business as that, I says to myself.
When I got down stairs in the morning the parlor was shut up,
and the watchers was gone. There warn't nobody around but the fami‐
ly and the widow Bartley and our tribe. I watched their faces to see ifanything had been happening, but I couldn't tell.
Towards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man,and they set the coffin in the middle of the room on a couple of chairs,
and then set all our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from the neigh‐bors till the hall and the parlor and the dining-room was full. I see thecoffin lid was the way it was before, but I dasn't go to look in under it,with folks around.
Then the people begun to flock in, and the beats and the girls
took seats in the front row at the head of the coffin, and for a half anhour the people filed around slow, in single rank, and looked down at
the dead man's face a minute, and some dropped in a tear, and it was
all very still and solemn, only the girls and the beats holding handker‐
chiefs to their eyes and keeping their heads bent, and sobbing a little.
There warn't no other sound but the scraping of the feet on the floor
and blowing noses—because people always blows them more at a fu‐
neral than they do at other places except church.
When the place was packed full the undertaker he slid around in
his black gloves with his softy soothering ways, putting on the last
touches, and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfortable,
and making no more sound than a cat. He never spoke; he moved peo‐
ple around, he squeezed in late ones, he opened up passageways, anddone it with nods, and signs with his hands. Then he took his placeover against the wall. He was the softest, glidingest, stealthiest man I
ever see; and there warn't no more smile to him than there is to a ham.
They had borrowed a melodeum—a sick one; and when every‐
thing was ready a young woman set down and worked it, and it waspretty skreeky and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and Pe‐
ter was the only one that had a good thing, according to my notion.
Then the Reverend Hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and begun totalk; and straight off the most outrageous row busted out in the cellar abody ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made a most powerful

180racket, and he kept it up right along; the par‐son he had to stand there, over the coffin, andwait—you couldn't hear yourself think. It wasright down awkward, and nobody didn't seemto know what to do. But pretty soon they seethat long-legged undertaker make a sign tothe preacher as much as to say, "Don't you
worry—just depend on me." Then he stooped
down and begun to glide along the wall, justhis shoulders showing over the people's
heads. So he glided along, and the powwow
and racket getting more and more outrageous
all the time; and at last, when he had gonearound two sides of the room, he disappears
The Undertakerdown cellar. Then in about two seconds weheard a whack, and the dog he finished up
with a most amazing howl or two, and then everything was dead still,
and the parson begun his solemn talk where he left off. In a minute or
two here comes this undertaker's back and shoulders gliding along thewall again; and so he glided and glided around three sides of the room,and then rose up, and shaded his mouth with his hands, and stretched
his neck out towards the preacher, over the people's heads, and says, ina kind of a coarse whisper, "He had a rat!" Then he drooped down
and glided along the wall again to his place. You could see it was agreat satisfaction to the people, because naturally they wanted toknow. A little thing like that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little
things that makes a man to be looked up to and liked. There warn't nomore popular man in town than what that undertaker was.
Well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and tire‐some; and then the king heshoved in and got off someof his usual rubbage, and atlast the job was through,and the undertaker begun tosneak up on the coffin withhis screw-driver. I was in asweat then, and watchedhim pretty keen. But henever meddled at all; justslid the lid along as soft asmush, and screwed it down
“He Had a Rat!”Chapter 27

181

tight and fast. So there I was! I didn't know whether the money was inthere or not. So, says I, s'pose somebody has hogged that bag on thesly?—now how do I know whether to write to Mary Jane or not?
S'pose she dug him up and didn't find nothing, what would she thinkof me? Blame it, I says, I might get hunted up and jailed; I'd better lay
low and keep dark, and not write at all; the thing's awful mixed now;
trying to better it, I've worsened it a hundred times, and I wish to
goodness I'd just let it alone, dad fetch the whole business!
They buried him, and we come back home, and I went to watch‐
ing faces again—I couldn't help it, and I couldn't rest easy. But noth‐
ing come of it; the faces didn't tell me nothing.
The king he visited around in the evening, and sweetened every‐
body up, and made himself ever so friendly; and he give out the ideathat his congregation over in England would be in a sweat about him,
so he must hurry and settle up the estate right away and leave forhome. He was very sorry he was so pushed, and so was everybody;they wished he could stay longer, but they said they could see it
couldn't be done. And he said of course him and William would takethe girls home with them; and that pleased everybody too, because
then the girls would be well fixed and amongst their own relations;and it pleased the girls, too—tickled them so they clean forgot they
ever had a trouble in the world; and told him to sell out as quick as hewanted to, they would be ready. Them poor things was that glad andhappy it made my heart ache to see them getting fooled and lied to so,but I didn't see no safe way for me to chip in and change the general
tune.
Well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and the niggers andall the property for auction straight off—sale two days after the funer‐al; but anybody could buy private beforehand if they wanted to.
So the next day after the funeral, along about noon-time, the girls'
joy got the first jolt. A couple of nigger traders come along, and the
king sold them the niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as theycalled it, and away they went, the two sons up the river to Memphis,and their mother down the river to Orleans. I thought them poor girls
and them niggers would break their hearts for grief; they cried aroundeach other, and took on so it most made me down sick to see it. The
girls said they hadn't ever dreamed of seeing the family separated orsold away from the town. I can't ever get it out of my memory, thesight of them poor miserable girls and niggers hanging around eachother's necks and crying; and I reckon I couldn't a stood it all, butwould a had to bust out and tell on our gang if I hadn't knowed the182sale warn't no account and the niggers would be back home in a weekor two.
The thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a good many comeout flatfooted and said it was scandalous to separate the mother andthe children that way. It injured the frauds some; but the old fool hebulled right along, spite of all the duke could say or do, and I tell you
the duke was powerful uneasy.
Next day was auction day. About broad day in the morning theking and the duke come up in the garret and woke me up, and I see by
their look that there was trouble. The king says:"Was you in my room night before last?""No, your majesty"—which was the way I always called him
when nobody but our gang warn't around.
"Was you in there yister‐
day er last night?""No, your majesty.""Honor bright, now—nolies.""Honor bright, your maj‐esty, I'm telling you the truth.
I hain't been a-near yourroom since Miss Mary Janetook you and the duke andshowed it to you."
The duke says:"Have you seen anybody
else go in there?""No, your grace, not as I
remember, I believe."“Was You in My Room?”"Stop and think."
I studied awhile and see my chance; then I says:"Well, I see the niggers go in there several times."
Both of them gave a little jump, and looked like they hadn't everexpected it, and then like they had. Then the duke says:"What, all of them?""No—leastways, not all at once—that is, I don't think I ever see
them all come out at once but just one time.""Hello! When was that?""It was the day we had the funeral. In the morning. It warn't ear‐ly, because I overslept. I was just starting down the ladder, and I see
them."

Chapter 27

183"Well, go on, go on! What did they do? How'd they act?""They didn't do nothing. And they didn't act anyway much, as fur
as I see. They tiptoed away; so I seen, easy enough, that they'd shoved
in there to do up your majesty's room, or something, s'posing you wasup; and found you warn't up, and so they was hoping to slide out of
the way of trouble without waking you up, if they hadn't alreadywaked you up."
"Great guns, this is a go!" says the king; and both of them looked
pretty sick and tolerable silly. They stood there a-thinking and scratch‐
ing their heads a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind of a little
raspy chuckle, and says:"It does beat all how neat the niggers played their hand. They let
on to be sorry they was going out of this region! And I believed they
was sorry, and so did you, and so did everybody. Don't ever tell me
any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic talent. Why, the way
they played that thing it would fool anybody. In my opinion, there's afortune in 'em. If I had capital and a theater, I wouldn't want a betterlay-out than that—and here we've gone and sold 'em for a song. Yes,
and ain't privileged to sing the song yet. Say, where is that song—that
draft?""In the bank for to be collected. Where would it be?""Well, that's all right then, thank goodness."
Says I, kind of timid-like:"Is something gone wrong?"
The king whirls on me and rips out:
"None o' your business! You keep your head shet, and mind y'r
own affairs—if you got any. Long as you're in this town don't you for‐git that—you hear?" Then he says to the duke, "We got to jest swaller
it and say noth'n': mum's the word for us."As they was starting down the ladder the duke he chuckles again,
and says:"Quick sales andsmall profits! It's a goodbusiness—yes."
The king snarlsaround on him and says:"I was trying to do
for the best in sellin' 'em
out so quick. If the prof‐
its has turned out to benone, lackin' considable,
Jawing184

and none to carry, is it my fault any more'n it's yourn?""Well, they'd be in this house yet and we wouldn't if I could a got
my advice listened to."The king sassed back as much as was safe for him, and thenswapped around and lit into me again. He give me down the banks fornot coming and telling him I see the niggers come out of his room act‐
ing that way—said any fool would a knowed something was up. And
then waltzed in and cussed himself awhile, and said it all come of him
not laying late and taking his natural rest that morning, and he'd beblamed if he'd ever do it again. So they went off a-jawing; and I felt
dreadful glad I'd worked it all off on to the niggers, and yet hadn't
done the niggers no harm by it.

Chapter 28
BY and by it was getting-up time. So
I come down the ladder and started
for down-stairs; but as I come to thegirls' room the door was open, and I
see Mary Jane setting by her old hairtrunk, which was open and she'dbeen packing things in it—getting
ready to go to England. But she had
stopped now with a folded gown in
her lap, and had her face in her
hands, crying. I felt awful bad to see
it; of course anybody would. I wentin there and says:"Miss Mary Jane, you can't abear to see people in trouble, and I
can't—most always. Tell me aboutit."
In Trouble
So she done it. And it was theniggers—I just expected it. She said the beautiful trip to England wasmost about spoiled for her; she didn't know how she was ever going tobe happy there, knowing the mother and the children warn't ever going
to see each other no more—and then busted out bitterer than ever, andflung up her hands, and says:"Oh, dear, dear, to think they ain't ever going to see each otherany more!""But they will—and inside of two weeks—and I know it!" says I.
Laws, it was out before I could think! And before I could budge
she throws her arms around my neck and told me to say it again, say it
again, say it again!
I see I had spoke too sudden and said too much, and was in aclose place. I asked her to let me think a minute; and she set there,
very impatient and excited and handsome, but looking kind of happyand eased-up, like a person that's had a tooth pulled out. So I went tostudying it out. I says to myself, I reckon a body that ups and tells thetruth when he is in a tight place is taking considerable many resks,
though I ain't had no experience, and can't say for certain; but it looks
so to me, anyway; and yet here's a case where I'm blest if it don't look186

to me like the truth is better and actuly safer than a lie. I must lay it by
in my mind, and think it over some time or other, it's so kind of
strange and unregular. I never see nothing like it. Well, I says to my‐self at last, I'm a-going to chance it; I'll up and tell the truth this time,
though it does seem most like setting down on a kag of powder andtouching it off just to see where you'll go to. Then I says:"Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a little ways
where you could go and stay three or four days?""Yes; Mr. Lothrop's. Why?""Never mind why yet. If I'll tell you how I know the niggers will
see each other again inside of two weeks—here in this house—andprove how I know it—will you go to Mr. Lothrop's and stay fourdays?""Four days!" she says; "I'll stay a year!""All right," I says, "I don't want nothing more out of you than justyour word—I druther have it than another man's kiss-the-Bible." Shesmiled and reddened up very sweet, and I says, "If you don't mind it,
I'll shut the door—and bolt it."
Then I come back and set down again, and says:"Don't you holler. Just set still and take it like a man. I got to tell
the truth, and you want to brace up, Miss Mary, because it's a bad
kind, and going to be hard to take, but there ain't no help for it. These
uncles of yourn ain't no uncles at all; they're a couple of frauds—regu‐
lar dead-beats. There, now we're over the worst of it, you can stand therest middling easy."
It jolted her up like everything, of course; but I was over the
shoal water now, so I went right along, her eyes a-blazing higher andhigher all the time, and told her every blame thing, from where wefirst struck that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear through towhere she flung herself on to the king's breast at the front door and hekissed her sixteen or seventeen times—and then up she jumps, withher face afire like sunset, and says:"The brute! Come, don't waste a minute—not a second—we'll
have them tarred and feathered, and flung in the river!"
Says I:"Cert'nly. But do you mean before you go to Mr. Lothrop's, or—"
"Oh," she says, "what am I thinking about!" she says, and set
right down again. "Don't mind what I said—please don't—you won't,
now, will you?" Laying her silky hand on mine in that kind of a waythat I said I would die first. "I never thought, I was so stirred up," shesays; "now go on, and I won't do so any more. You tell me what to do,Chapter 28

187

and whatever you say I'll do it.""Well," I says, "it's a rough gang, them
two frauds, and I'm fixed so I got to travelwith them a while longer, whether I want toor not—I druther not tell you why; and if
you was to blow on them this town would
get me out of their claws, and I'd be allright; but there'd be another person that you
don't know about who'd be in big trouble.
Well, we got to save him, hain't we? Of
course. Well, then, we won't blow onthem."
Saying them words put a good idea in
my head. I see how maybe I could get me
Indignation
and Jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed
here, and then leave. But I didn't want to run the raft in the daytime
without anybody aboard to answer questions but me; so I didn't want
the plan to begin working till pretty late to-night. I says:"Miss Mary Jane, I'll tell you what we'll do, and you won't haveto stay at Mr. Lothrop's so long, nuther. How fur is it?""A little short of four miles—right out in the country, back here.""Well, that 'll answer. Now you go along out there, and lay low
till nine or half-past to-night, and then get them to fetch you homeagain—tell them you've thought of something. If you get here before
eleven put a candle in this window, and if I don't turn up wait till elev‐
en, and then if I don't turn up it means I'm gone, and out of the way,
and safe. Then you come out and spread the news around, and getthese beats jailed.""Good," she says, "I'll do it.""And if it just happens so that I don't get away, but get took up
along with them, you must up and say I told you the whole thing be‐forehand, and you must stand by me all you can.""Stand by you! indeed I will. They sha'n't touch a hair of yourhead!" she says, and I see her nostrils spread and her eyes snap when
she said it, too.
"If I get away I sha'n't be here," I says, "to prove these rapscal‐
lions ain't your uncles, and I couldn't do it if I was here. I could swear
they was beats and bummers, that's all, though that's worth something.
Well, there's others can do that better than what I can, and they're peo‐
ple that ain't going to be doubted as quick as I'd be. I'll tell you how tofind them. Gimme a pencil and a piece of paper. There—'Royal Non‐

188

esuch, Bricksville.' Put it away, and don't lose it. When the court wants
to find out something about these two, let them send up to Bricksvilleand say they've got the men that played the Royal Nonesuch, and ask
for some witnesses—why, you'll have that entire town down here be‐fore you can hardly wink, Miss Mary. And they'll come a-biling, too."
I judged we had got everything
fixed about right now. So I says:"Just let the auction go rightalong, and don't worry. Nobody
don't have to pay for the things they
buy till a whole day after the auc‐
tion on accounts of the short notice,and they ain't going out of this tillthey get that money; and the way
we've fixed it the sale ain't going to
How to Find Them
count, and they ain't going to get nomoney. It's just like the way it waswith the niggers—it warn't no sale, and the niggers will be back before
long. Why, they can't collect the money for the niggers yet—they're in
the worst kind of a fix, Miss Mary.""Well," she says, "I'll run down to breakfast now, and then I'll
start straight for Mr. Lothrop's.""'Deed, that ain't the ticket, Miss Mary Jane," I says, "by no man‐ner of means; go before breakfast.""Why?""What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all for, Miss Mary?""Well, I never thought—and come to think, I don't know. What
was it?""Why, it's because you ain't one of these leather-face people. I
don't want no better book than what your face is. A body can set down
and read it off like coarse print. Do you reckon you can go and faceyour uncles when they come to kiss you good-morning, and never—""There, there, don't! Yes, I'll go before breakfast—I'll be glad to.
And leave my sisters with them?""Yes; never mind about them. They've got to stand it yet a while.
They might suspicion something if all of you was to go. I don't want
you to see them, nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town; if a neigh‐bor was to ask how is your uncles this morning your face would tellsomething. No, you go right along, Miss Mary Jane, and I'll fix it withall of them. I'll tell Miss Susan to give your love to your uncles andsay you've went away for a few hours for to get a little rest andChapter 28

189change, or to see a friend, and you'll be back to-night or early in themorning.""Gone to see a friend is all right, but I won't have my love given
to them.""Well, then, it sha'n't be." It was well enough to tell her so—noharm in it. It was only a little thing to do, and no trouble; and it's thelittle things that smooths people's roads the most, down here below; it
would make Mary Jane comfortable, and it wouldn't cost nothing.
Then I says: "There's one more thing—that bag of money.""Well, they've got that; and it makes me feel pretty silly to think
how they got it."
"No, you're out, there. They hain't got it.""Why, who's got it?"
"I wish I knowed, but I don't. I had it, because I stole it from
them; and I stole it to give to you; and I know where I hid it, but I'mafraid it ain't there no more. I'm awful sorry, Miss Mary Jane, I'm just
as sorry as I can be; but I done the best I could; I did honest. I comenigh getting caught, and I had to shove it into the first place I come to,and run—and it warn't a good place.""Oh, stop blaming yourself—it's too bad to do it, and I won't al‐
low it—you couldn't help it; it wasn't your fault. Where did you hideit?"
I didn't want to set her to thinking about her troubles again; and I
couldn't seem to get my mouth to tell her what would make her seethat corpse laying in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach.
So for a minute I didn't say nothing; then I says:"I'd ruther not tell you where I put it, Miss Mary Jane, if you
don't mind letting me off; but I'll write it for you on a piece of paper,and you can read it along the road to Mr. Lothrop's, if you want to. Do
you reckon that 'll do?""Oh, yes."
So I wrote: "I put it in the coffin. It was in there when you wascrying there, away in the night. I was behind the door, and I was
mighty sorry for you, Miss Mary Jane."
It made myeyes water a little
to remember her
crying there allby herself in thenight, and them
devils laying
He Wrote190

there right under her own roof, shaming her and robbing her; andwhen I folded it up and give it to her I see the water come into hereyes, too; and she shook me by the hand, hard, and says:"Good-bye. I'm going to do everything just as you've told me;
and if I don't ever see you again, I sha'n't ever forget you and I'll thinkof you a many and a many a time, and I'll pray for you, too!"—andshe was gone.
Pray for me! I reckoned if she knowed me she'd take a job thatwas more nearer her size. But I bet she done it, just the same—she
was just that kind. She had the grit to pray for Judus if she took thenotion—there warn't no back-down to her, I judge. You may say what
you want to, but in my opinion she had more sand in her than any girlI ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand. It sounds like flat‐
tery, but it ain't no flattery. And when it comes to beauty—and good‐
ness, too—she lays over them all. I hain't ever seen her since that timethat I see her go out of that door; no, I hain't ever seen her since, but I
reckon I've thought of her a many and a many a million times, and ofher saying she would pray for me; and if ever I'd a thought it would do
any good for me to pray for her, blamed if I wouldn't a done it or bust.
Well, Mary Jane she lit out the back way, I reckon; because no‐body see her go. When I struck Susan and the hare-lip, I says:"What's the name of them people over on t'other side of the riverthat you all goes to see sometimes?"
They says:"There's several; but it's the Proctors, mainly.""That's the name," I says; "I most forgot it. Well, Miss Mary Janeshe told me to tell you she's gone over there in a dreadful hurry—oneof them's sick.""Which one?""I don't know; leastways, I kinder forget; but I thinks it's—""Sakes alive, I hope it ain't Hanner?""I'm sorry to say it," I says, "but Hanner's the very one.""My goodness, and she so well only last week! Is she took bad?""It ain't no name for it. They set up with her all night, Miss Mary
Jane said, and they don't think she'll last many hours.""Only think of that, now! What's the matter with her?"
I couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so I
says:
"Mumps.""Mumps your granny! They don't set up with people that's got themumps."

Chapter 28

191"They don't, don't they? You better bet they do with thesemumps. These mumps is different. It's a new kind, Miss Mary Janesaid.""How's it a new kind?""Because it's mixed up with otherthings.""What other things?""Well, measles, and whoopingcough, and erysiplas, and consumption,and yaller janders, and brain-fever, and I
don't know what all.""My land! And they call it themumps?""That's what Miss Mary Jane said.""Well, what in the nation do they callit the mumps for?""Why, because it is the mumps.
Hanner with the Mumps
That's what it starts with.""Well, ther' ain't no sense in it. A body might stump his toe, andtake pison, and fall down the well, and break his neck, and bust hisbrains out, and somebody come along and ask what killed him, andsome numskull up and say, 'Why, he stumped his toe.' Would ther' be
any sense in that? No. And ther' ain't no sense in this, nuther. Is it
ketching?""Is it ketching? Why, how you talk. Is a harrow catching—in the
dark? If you don't hitch on to one tooth, you're bound to on another,
ain't you? And you can't get away with that tooth without fetching thewhole harrow along, can you? Well, these kind of mumps is a kind of
a harrow, as you may say—and it ain't no slouch of a harrow, nuther,you come to get it hitched on good.""Well, it's awful, I think," says the hare-lip. "I'll go to Uncle Har‐
vey and—""Oh, yes," I says, "I would. Of course I would. I wouldn't lose notime.""Well, why wouldn't you?""Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. Hain't your un‐cles obleegd to get along home to England as fast as they can? And do
you reckon they'd be mean enough to go off and leave you to go allthat journey by yourselves? you know they'll wait for you. So fur, so
good. Your uncle Harvey's a preacher, ain't he? Very well, then; is apreacher going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to deceive a192

ship clerk?—so as to get them to let Miss Mary Jane go aboard? Now
you know he ain't. What will he do, then? Why, he'll say, 'It's a greatpity, but my church matters has got to get along the best way they can;for my niece has been exposed to the dreadful pluribus-unum mumps,
and so it's my bounden duty to set down here and wait the threemonths it takes to show on her if she's got it.' But never mind, if you
think it's best to tell your uncle Harvey—""Shucks, and stay fooling around here when we could all be hav‐
ing good times in England whilst we was waiting to find out whether
Mary Jane's got it or not? Why, you talk like a muggins.""Well, anyway, maybe you'd better tell some of the neighbors.""Listen at that, now. You do beat all for natural stupidness. Can't
you see that they'd go and tell? Ther' ain't no way but just to not tellanybody at all.""Well, maybe you're right—yes, I judge you are right.""But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she's gone out awhile, anyway, so he won't be uneasy about her?""Yes, Miss Mary Jane she wanted you to do that. She says, 'Tellthem to give Uncle Harvey and William my love and a kiss, and say
I've run over the river to see Mr.'—Mr.—what is the name of that richfamily your uncle Peter used to think so much of?—I mean the one
that—""Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain't it?""Of course; bother them kind of names, a body can't ever seem toremember them, half the time, somehow. Yes, she said, say she has
run over for to ask the Apthorps to be sure and come to the auction
and buy this house, because she allowed her uncle Peter would ruther
they had it than anybody else; and she's going to stick to them till they
say they'll come, and then, if she ain't too tired, she's coming home;
and if she is, she'll be home in the morning anyway. She said, don't
say nothing about the Proctors, but only about the Apthorps—which 'll
be perfectly true, because she is going there to speak about their buy‐
ing the house; I know it, because she told me so herself.""All right," they said, and cleared out to lay for their uncles, andgive them the love and the kisses, and tell them the message.
Everything was all right now. The girls wouldn't say nothing be‐cause they wanted to go to England; and the king and the duke would
ruther Mary Jane was off working for the auction than around in reachof Doctor Robinson. I felt very good; I judged I had done it pretty neat
—I reckoned Tom Sawyer couldn't a done it no neater himself. Of
course he would a throwed more style into it, but I can't do that very

Chapter 28

193

handy, not being brung up to it.
Well, they held the auction in the public square, along towards
the end of the afternoon, and it strung along, and strung along, and theold man he was on hand and looking his level pisonest, up there long‐side of the auctioneer, and chipping in a little Scripture now and then,or a little goody-goody saying of some kind, and the duke he wasaround goo-gooing for sympathy all he knowed how, and just spread‐ing himself generly.
But by and by the thing
dragged through, and every‐
thing was sold—everything
but a little old trifling lot in
the graveyard. So they'd got
to work that off—I never see
such a girafft as the king
was for wanting to swallow
everything. Well, whilst they
was at it a steamboat landed,
and in about two minutes up
comes a crowd a-whooping
and yelling and laughing
and carrying on, and singing
out:"Here's your opposition
The Auction
line! here's your two sets o'heirs to old Peter Wilks—
and you pays your money and you takes your choice!"Chapter 29
THEY was fetching a very nice-look‐ing old gentleman along, and a nicelooking younger one, with his rightarm in a sling. And, my souls, how
the people yelled and laughed, andkept it up. But I didn't see no joke
about it, and I judged it would strain
the duke and the king some to see
any. I reckoned they'd turn pale. But
no, nary a pale did they turn. The
duke he never let on he suspicioned
what was up, but just went a googooing around, happy and satisfied,
like a jug that's googling out butter‐
milk; and as for the king, he justgazed and gazed down sorrowful onthem new-comers like it give him the
The True Brothers
stomach-ache in his very heart tothink there could be such frauds and rascals in the world. Oh, he done
it admirable. Lots of the principal people gethered around the king, tolet him see they was on his side. That old gentleman that had justcome looked all puzzled to death. Pretty soon he begun to speak, and I
see straight off he pronounced like an Englishman—not the king's
way, though the king's was pretty good for an imitation. I can't givethe old gent's words, nor I can't imitate him; but he turned around tothe crowd, and says, about like this:"This is a surprise to me which I wasn't looking for; and I'll ac‐
knowledge, candid and frank, I ain't very well fixed to meet it and an‐swer it; for my brother and me has had misfortunes; he's broke hisarm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here last night in thenight by a mistake. I am Peter Wilks' brother Harvey, and this is his
brother William, which can't hear nor speak—and can't even makesigns to amount to much, now't he's only got one hand to work themwith. We are who we say we are; and in a day or two, when I get thebaggage, I can prove it. But up till then I won't say nothing more, but
go to the hotel and wait."
So him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs,

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195

and blethers out:
"Broke his arm—very likely, ain't it?—and very convenient, too,for a fraud that's got to make signs, and ain't learnt how. Lost theirbaggage! That's mighty good!—and mighty ingenious—under the cir‐
cumstances!"
So he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three orfour, or maybe half a dozen. One of these was that doctor; another one
was a sharp-looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-fashioned
kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just come off of the steamboat
and was talking to him in a low voice, and glancing towards the kingnow and then and nodding their heads—it was Levi Bell, the lawyer
that was gone up to Louisville; and another one was a big rough huskythat come along and listened to all the old gentleman said, and was lis‐tening to the king now. And when the king got done this husky up andsays:"Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when'd you come tothis town?""The day before the funeral, friend," says the king.
"But what time o' day?""In the evenin'—'bout an hour er two before sundown.""How'd you come?""I come down on the Susan Powell from Cincinnati.""Well, then, how'd you come to be up at the Pint in the mornin'—in a canoe?""I warn't up at the Pint in the mornin'.""It's a lie."
Several of them jumped for him and begged him not to talk thatway to an old man and a preacher.
"Preacher be hanged, he's a fraud and a liar. He was up at the Pint
that mornin'. I live up there, don't I? Well, I was up there, and he wasup there. I see him there. He come in a canoe, along with Tim Collins
and a boy."
The doctor he up and says:"Would you know the boy again if you was to see him, Hines?""I reckon I would, but I don't know. Why, yonder he is, now. I
know him perfectly easy."
It was me he pointed at. The doctor says:"Neighbors, I don't know whether the new couple is frauds ornot; but if these two ain't frauds, I am an idiot, that's all. I think it's ourduty to see that they don't get away from here till we've looked into
this thing. Come along, Hines; come along, the rest of you. We'll take

196

these fellows to the tavern and affront them with t'other couple, and I
reckon we'll find out something before we get through."
It was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for the king's
friends; so we all started. It was about sundown. The doctor he led mealong by the hand, and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go myhand.
We all got in a big room inthe hotel, and lit up some can‐dles, and fetched in the newcouple. First, the doctor says:"I don't wish to be too hardon these two men, but I thinkthey're frauds, and they may
have complices that we don't
know nothing about. If they
have, won't the complices getaway with that bag of gold Peter
Wilks left? It ain't unlikely. If
these men ain't frauds, they
won't object to sending for thatmoney and letting us keep it tillthey prove they're all right—
The Doctor Leads Huck
ain't that so?"Everybody agreed to that. So I judged they had our gang in a
pretty tight place right at the outstart. But the king he only looked sor‐
rowful, and says:"Gentlemen, I wish the money was there, for I ain't got no dispo‐
sition to throw anything in the way of a fair, open, out-and-out investi‐
gation o' this misable business; but, alas, the money ain't there; you k'n
send and see, if you want to.""Where is it, then?""Well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her I took and hid
it inside o' the straw tick o' my bed, not wishin' to bank it for the few
days we'd be here, and considerin' the bed a safe place, we not bein'used to niggers, and suppos'n' 'em honest, like servants in England.
The niggers stole it the very next mornin' after I had went down stairs;
and when I sold 'em I hadn't missed the money yit, so they got clean
away with it. My servant here k'n tell you 'bout it, gentlemen."
The doctor and several said "Shucks!" and I see nobody didn't al‐
together believe him. One man asked me if I see the niggers steal it. I
said no, but I see them sneaking out of the room and hustling away,

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197

and I never thought nothing, only I reckoned they was afraid they had
waked up my master and was trying to get away before he made trou‐
ble with them. That was all they asked me. Then the doctor whirls onme and says:"Are you English, too?"
I says yes; and him and some others laughed, and said, "Stuff!"
Well, then they sailed in on the general investigation, and there
we had it, up and down, hour in, hour out, and nobody never said aword about supper, nor ever seemed to think about it—and so they
kept it up, and kept it up; and it was the worst mixed-up thing you ev‐
er see. They made the king tell his yarn, and they made the old gentle‐
man tell his'n; and anybody but a lot of prejudiced chuckleheads
would a seen that the old gentleman was spinning truth and t'other one
lies. And by and by they had me up to tell what I knowed. The king hegive me a left-handed look out of the corner of his eye, and so I
knowed enough to talk on the right side. I begun to tell about Shef‐
field, and how we lived there, and all about the English Wilkses, andso on; but I didn't get pretty fur till the doctor begun to laugh; andLevi Bell, the lawyer, says:"Set down, my boy; I wouldn't strain myself if I was you. I reck‐
on you ain't used to lying, it don't seem to come handy; what you want
is practice. You do it pretty awkward."
I didn't care nothing for the compliment, but I was glad to be letoff, anyway.
The doctor he started to say something, and turns and says:"If you'd been in town at first, Levi Bell—" The king broke inand reached out his hand, and says:"Why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend that he's wrote sooften about?"
The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled andlooked pleased, and they talked right along awhile, and then got to one
side and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says:"That 'll fix it. I'll take the order and send it, along with yourbrother's, and then they'll know it's all right."
So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down andtwisted his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled off
something; and then they give the pen to the duke—and then for the
first time the duke looked sick. But he took the pen and wrote. So thenthe lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says:"You and your brother please write a line or two and sign yournames."

198

The old gentleman wrote,
but nobody couldn't read it.
The lawyer looked powerful as‐
tonished, and says:"Well, it beats me"—andsnaked a lot of old letters out ofhis pocket, and examined them,and then examined the old
man's writing, and then them
The Duke Wroteagain; and then says: "Theseold letters is from Harvey
Wilks; and here's these two handwritings, and anybody can see they
didn't write them" (the king and the duke looked sold and foolish, I
tell you, to see how the lawyer had took them in), "and here's this old
gentleman's hand writing, and anybody can tell, easy enough, he didn't
write them—fact is, the scratches he makes ain't properly writing at
all. Now, here's some letters from—"
The new old gentleman says:"If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but mybrother there—so he copies for me. It's his hand you've got there, notmine.""Well!" says the lawyer, "this is a state of things. I've got some ofWilliam's letters, too; so if you'll get him to write a line or so we cancom—""He can't write with his left hand," says the old gentleman. "If he
could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his own lettersand mine too. Look at both, please—they're by the same hand."The lawyer done it, and says:"I believe it's so—and if it ain't so, there's a heap stronger resem‐
blance than I'd noticed before, anyway. Well, well, well! I thought we
was right on the track of a solution, but it's gone to grass, partly. But
anyway, one thing is proved—these two ain't either of 'em Wilkses"—and he wagged his head towards the king and the duke.
Well, what do you think? That muleheaded old fool wouldn't givein then! Indeed he wouldn't. Said it warn't no fair test. Said his brotherWilliam was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't tried to write—he see William was going to play one of his jokes the minute he put
the pen to paper. And so he warmed up and went warbling and war‐
bling right along till he was actuly beginning to believe what he wassaying himself; but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and says:"I've thought of something. Is there anybody here that helped toChapter 29

199

lay out my br—helped to lay out the late Peter Wilks for burying?""Yes," says somebody, "me and Ab Turner done it. We're bothhere."
Then the old man turns towards the king, and says:"Perhaps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his
breast?"Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd asqushed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took him
so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to makemost anybody sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that without any
notice, because how was he going to know what was tattooed on theman? He whitened a little; he couldn't help it; and it was mighty stillin there, and everybody bending a little forwards and gazing at him.
Says I to myself, now he'll throw up the sponge—there ain't no moreuse. Well, did he? A body can't hardly believe it, but he didn't. I reck‐
on he thought he'd keep the thing up till he tired them people out, sothey'd thin out, and him and the duke could break loose and get away.
Anyway, he set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says:"Mf! It's a very tough question, ain't it! yes, sir, I k'n tell you
what's tattooed on his breast. It's jest a small, thin, blue arrow—that's
what it is; and if you don't look clost, you can't see it. now what doyou say—hey?"Well, I never see anything like that old blister for clean out-andout cheek.
The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and hispard, and his eye lights up like he judged he'd got the king this time,and says:"There—you've heard what he said! Was there any such mark on
Peter Wilks' breast?"
Both of them spoke up and says:"We didn't see no such mark.""Good!" says the old gentleman. "Now, what you did see on his
breast was a small dim P, and a B (which is an initial he dropped when
he was young), and a W, with dashes between them, so: P—B—W"—
and he marked them that way on a piece of paper. "Come, ain't thatwhat you saw?"
Both of them spoke up again, and says:"No, we didn't. We never seen any marks at all."Well, everybody was in a state of mind now, and they sings out:
"The whole bilin' of 'm 's frauds! Le's duck 'em! le's drown 'em!
le's ride 'em on a rail!" and everybody was whooping at once, and200

there was a rattling powwow. But the lawyer he jumps on the table
and yells, and says:"Gentlemen—gentlemen! Hear me just a word—just a single
word—if you please! There's one way yet—let's go and dig up thecorpse and look."That took them.
"Hooray!" they all shouted,
and was starting right off; but thelawyer and the doctor sung out:
"Hold on, hold on! Collar allthese four men and the boy, andfetch them along, too!""We'll do it!" they all shouted;"and if we don't find them marks
we'll lynch the whole gang!"
I was scared, now, I tell you.
But there warn't no getting away,
you know. They gripped us all, andmarched us right along, straight for
the graveyard, which was a mile“gentlemen—Gentlemen!”
and a half down the river, and thewhole town at our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was only
nine in the evening.
As we went by our house I wished I hadn't sent Mary Jane out of
town; because now if I could tip her the wink she'd light out and saveme, and blow on our dead-beats.
Well, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying onlike wildcats; and to make it more scary the sky was darking up, andthe lightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiveramongst the leaves. This was the most awful trouble and most danger‐
some I ever was in; and I was kinder stunned; everything was going so
different from what I had allowed for; stead of being fixed so I could
take my own time if I wanted to, and see all the fun, and have Mary
Jane at my back to save me and set me free when the close-fit come,here was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden death but justthem tattoo-marks. If they didn't find them—
I couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, I couldn't
think about nothing else. It got darker and darker, and it was a beauti‐
ful time to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by thewrist—Hines—and a body might as well try to give Goliar the slip.
He dragged me right along, he was so excited, and I had to run to keep

Chapter 29

201

up.
When they got there they swarmed into the graveyard and wash‐
ed over it like an overflow. And when they got to the grave they foundthey had about a hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but
nobody hadn't thought to fetch a lantern. But they sailed into digging
anyway by the flicker of the lightning, and sent a man to the nearest
house, a half a mile off, to borrow one.
So they dug and dug like everything; and it got awful dark, andthe rain started, and the wind swished and swushed along, and thelightning come brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but thempeople never took no notice of it, they was so full of this business; andone minute you could see everything and every face in that big crowd,
and the shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the next sec‐
ond the dark wiped it all out, and you couldn't see nothing at all.
At last they got out the coffin and begun to unscrew the lid, andthen such another crowding and shouldering and shoving as there was,to scrouge in and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that way,
it was awful. Hines he hurt my wrist dreadful pulling and tugging so,and I reckon he clean forgot I was in the world, he was so excited andpanting.
All of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice of white glare,
and somebody sings out:
"By the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his breast!"
Hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and dropped my wrist
and give a big surge to bust his way in and get a look, and the way I lit
out and shinned for the road in the dark there ain't nobody can tell.
I had the road all to myself, and I fairly flew—leastways, I had it
all to myself except the solid dark, and the now-and-then glares, andthe buzzing of the rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the splittingof the thunder; and sure as you are born I did clip it along!
When I struck the town I see there warn't nobody out in thestorm, so I never hunted for no back streets, but humped it straight
through the main one; and when I begun to get towards our house I
aimed my eye and set it. No light there; the house all dark—which
made me feel sorry and disappointed, I didn't know why. But at last,
just as I was sailing by, flash comes the light in Mary Jane's window!
and my heart swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same second thehouse and all was behind me in the dark, and wasn't ever going to be
before me no more in this world. She was the best girl I ever see, andhad the most sand.
The minute I was far enough above the town to see I could make202

the towhead, I begun to look sharp for a boat to borrow, and the firsttime the lightning showed me one that wasn't chained I snatched it andshoved. It was a canoe, and warn't fastened with nothing but a rope.
The towhead was a rattling big distance off, away out there in the mid‐dle of the river, but I didn't lose no time; and when I struck the raft atlast I was so fagged I would a just laid down to blow and gasp if I
could afforded it. But I didn't. As I sprung aboard I sung out:
"Out with you, Jim, and set her loose! Glory be to goodness,
we're shut of them!"
Jim lit out, and was acoming for me with both arms
spread, he was so full of joy;
but when I glimpsed him in
the lightning my heart shot up
in my mouth and I went over‐board backwards; for I forgot
he was old King Lear and adrownded A-rab all in one,and it most scared the livers
and lights out of me. But Jim
fished me out, and was goingto hug me and bless me, andso on, he was so glad I wasback and we was shut of theking and the duke, but I says:“Jim Let Out”
"Not now; have it for
breakfast, have it for breakfast! Cut loose and let her slide!"
So in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the river, and it
did seem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the big river,and nobody to bother us. I had to skip around a bit, and jump up andcrack my heels a few times—I couldn't help it; but about the thirdcrack I noticed a sound that I knowed mighty well, and held my breathand listened and waited; and sure enough, when the next flash busted
out over the water, here they come!—and just a-laying to their oars
and making their skiff hum! It was the king and the duke.
So I wilted right down on to the planks then, and give up; and it
was all I could do to keep from crying.

Chapter 30
WHEN they got aboard the kingwent for me, and shook me by thecollar, and says:"Tryin' to give us the slip, wasye, you pup! Tired of our company,
hey?"
I says:"No, your majesty, we warn't—
please don't, your majesty!""Quick, then, and tell us what
was your idea, or I'll shake the in‐sides out o' you!""Honest, I'll tell you everything
just as it happened, your majesty.
The man that had a-holt of me was
The King Shakes Huckvery good to me, and kept saying hehad a boy about as big as me thatdied last year, and he was sorry to see a boy in such a dangerous fix;
and when they was all took by surprise by finding the gold, and madea rush for the coffin, he lets go of me and whispers, 'Heel it now, or
they'll hang ye, sure!' and I lit out. It didn't seem no good for me tostay—I couldn't do nothing, and I didn't want to be hung if I could getaway. So I never stopped running till I found the canoe; and when I
got here I told Jim to hurry, or they'd catch me and hang me yet, andsaid I was afeard you and the duke wasn't alive now, and I was awful
sorry, and so was Jim, and was awful glad when we see you coming;
you may ask Jim if I didn't."
Jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up, and said,"Oh, yes, it's mighty likely!" and shook me up again, and said he reck‐
oned he'd drownd me. But the duke says:"Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would you a done any different?
Did you inquire around for him when you got loose? I don't remember
it."So the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and every‐
body in it. But the duke says:"You better a blame' sight give yourself a good cussing, for you're
the one that's entitled to it most. You hain't done a thing from the start204

that had any sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky withthat imaginary blue-arrow mark. That was bright—it was right downbully; and it was the thing that saved us. For if it hadn't been for thatthey'd a jailed us till them Englishmen's baggage come—and then—the penitentiary, you bet! But that trick took 'em to the graveyard, andthe gold done us a still bigger kindness; for if the excited fools hadn't
let go all holts and made that rush to get a look we'd a slept in our cra‐vats to-night—cravats warranted to wear, too—longer than we'd need'em."
They was still a minute—thinking; then the king says, kind of ab‐
sent-minded like:"Mf! And we reckoned the niggers stole it!"That made me squirm!
"Yes," says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate and sarcastic,"we did."
After about a half a minute the king drawls out:
"Leastways, I did."
The duke says, the same way:
"On the contrary, I did."
The king kind of ruffles up, and says:"Looky here, Bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?"The duke says, pretty brisk:"When it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask, what was you
referring to?""Shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but I don't know—
maybe you was asleep, and didn't know what you was about."
The duke bristles up now, and says:"Oh, let up on this cussed nonsense; do you take me for a blame'
fool? Don't you reckon I know who hid that money in that coffin?"

The Duke Went for him

Chapter 30

205"Yes, sir! I know you do know, because you done it yourself!""It's a lie!"—and the duke went for him. The king sings out:
"Take y'r hands off!—leggo my throat!—I take it all back!"
The duke says:"Well, you just own up, first, that you did hide that money there,
intending to give me the slip one of these days, and come back and dig
it up, and have it all to yourself.""Wait jest a minute, duke—answer me this one question, honest
and fair; if you didn't put the money there, say it, and I'll b'lieve you,and take back everything I said.""You old scoundrel, I didn't, and you know I didn't. There, now!""Well, then, I b'lieve you. But answer me only jest this one more—now don't git mad; didn't you have it in your mind to hook the mon‐ey and hide it?"
The duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says:"Well, I don't care if I did, I didn't do it, anyway. But you not on‐ly had it in mind to do it, but you done it."
"I wisht I never die if I done it, duke, and that's honest. I won't
say I warn't goin' to do it, because I was; but you—I mean somebody—got in ahead o' me.""It's a lie! You done it, and you got to say you done it, or—"
The king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out:"'Nough!—I own up!"
I was very glad to hear him say that; it made me feel much moreeasier than what I was feeling before. So the duke took his hands off
and says:"If you ever deny it again I'll drown you. It's well for you to set
there and blubber like a baby—it's fitten for you, after the way you've
acted. I never see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble everything—and I a-trusting you all the time, like you was my own father. You
ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand by and hear it saddled on
to a lot of poor niggers, and you never say a word for 'em. It makes me
feel ridiculous to think I was soft enough to believe that rubbage. Cuss
you, I can see now why you was so anxious to make up the deffisit—
you wanted to get what money I'd got out of the Nonesuch and one
thing or another, and scoop it all!"
The king says, timid, and still a-snuffling:"Why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffisit; it warn'tme.""Dry up! I don't want to hear no more out of you!" says the duke.
"And now you see what you GOT by it. They've got all their own

206

money back, and all of ourn but a shekel or two besides. G'long tobed, and don't you deffersit me no more deffersits, long 's you live!"
So the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to his bottle for
comfort, and before long the duke tackled HIS bottle; and so in about
a half an hour they was as thick as thieves again, and the tighter they
got the lovinger they got, and went off a-snoring in each other's arms.
They both got powerful mellow, but I noticed the king didn't get mel‐low enough to forget to remember to not deny about hiding the mon‐ey-bag again. That made me feel easy and satisfied. Of course when
they got to snoring we had a long gabble, and I told Jim everything.

Chapter 31
WE dasn't stop again at
any town for days anddays; kept right along
down the river. We wasdown south in the warm
weather now, and a mighty
long ways from home. We
begun to come to trees
with Spanish moss onthem, hanging down fromthe limbs like long, graybeards. It was the first I ev‐
er see it growing, and it
made the woods look sol‐emn and dismal. So now
the frauds reckoned they
was out of danger, and they
Spanish Mossbegun to work the villages
again.
First they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn't makeenough 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 noluck. So at last they got just about dead broke, and laid around the raftas 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 to‐gether 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 wasgoing to break into somebody's house or store, or was going into the208

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 wewould 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, andthe 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 Roy‐al 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 won‐
der what has become of me and Jim and the raft—and you'll have totake 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 comealong.
So we stayed where we was. The duke he fretted and sweatedaround, 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—andmaybe 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, anda lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a-cussing and athreatening with all his might, and so tight he couldn't walk, andcouldn'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, andsung 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 anotherone; and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screech‐
ing; but it warn't no use—old Jim was gone. Then I set down andcried; I couldn't help it. But I couldn't set still long. Pretty soon I wentout 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 andso, and he says:"Yes."

Chapter 31

209"Whereabouts?" says I.
"Down to Silas Phelps' place, two mile below here. He's a run‐away 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 sevenyear.""That's me, every
time," says I. "But maybe
his chance ain't worth nomore than that, if he'll sell it
so cheap. Maybe there's
something ain't straightabout it."
"But it is, though—straight as a string. I see the“Who Nailed Him?”
handbill myself. It tells allabout 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 'boutthat 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. Afterall 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, be‐cause they could have the heart to serve Jim such a trick as that, and210

make him a slave again all his life, and amongst strangers, too, for for‐ty 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 aslave, and so I'd better write a letter to Tom Sawyer and tell him to tellMiss 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 anddisgraced. 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 any‐
body from that town again I'd be ready to get down and lick his bootsfor shame. That's just the way: a person does a low-down thing, andthen he don't want to take no consequences of it. Thinks as long as hecan 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, andthe more wicked and low-down and ornery I got to feeling. And atlast, 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 wicked‐
ness 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 noharm, and now was showing me there's One that's always on the look‐out, and ain't a-going to allow no such miserable doings to go only justso 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 Sundayschool, 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 goesto everlasting fire."
It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray, andsee 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 play‐ing 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 tothat nigger's owner and tell where he was; but deep down in me I

Chapter 31

211

knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it. You can't pray a lie—I foundthat 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—andthen 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 apiece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down andwrote: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 wash‐
ed clean of sin for the firsttime I had ever felt so in mylife, and I knowed I could
pray now. But I didn't do itstraight 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 andgoing 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
Thinkingnight-time, sometimes moon‐light, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing
and laughing. But somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places toharden 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 sleep‐
ing; 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 bestfriend 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-

212trembling, 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 theother warn't. And for a starter I would go to work and steal Jim out ofslavery 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 someconsiderable many ways in my mind; and at last fixed up a plan thatsuited 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 break‐fast, 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 wan‐
ted her, about a quarter of a mile below a little steam sawmill that wason the bank.
Then I struck up the road, and when I passed the mill I see a signon 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, andshoved 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 Nones‐
uch—three-night performance—like that other time. They had thecheek, 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 gladand 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."Chapter 31

213

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 andoffered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff over the river and back tofetch 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 andrun, and we after him. We didn't have no dog, and so we had to chasehim 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 trou‐
ble 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 oldfool 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 ev‐
ery cent but what he'd spent for whisky; and when I got him home latelast 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 consid‐
er 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 weflat 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 powderhorn. 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 themoney's gone."

214"Sold him?" I says, andbegun to cry; "why, he was mynigger, and that was my money.
Where is he?—I want my nig‐
ger."
"Well, you can't get yournigger, that's all—so dry up
your blubbering. Looky here—
do you think you'd venture toblow on us? Blamed if I think
I'd trust you. Why, if you wasto blow on us—"
He stopped, but I neversee the duke look so ugly out of
his eyes before. I went on aHe Game Him The Cents
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 andfind my nigger."He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills flutter‐ing 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, andbegun 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 hav‐
ing 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 roadto Lafayette.""All right," I says, "I can walk it in three days. And I'll start thisvery 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 inyour 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

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215

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 re‐ward'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 andthere."So I left, andstruck for the backcountry. I didn't
look around, but I
kinder felt like hewas watching me.
But I knowed I
could tire him out
at that. I wentstraight out in the
country as much
Striking for the Back Country
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 foolingaround, because I wanted to stop Jim's mouth till these fellows could
get away. I didn't want no trouble with their kind. I'd seen all I wanted
to of them, and wanted to get entirely shut of them.

Chapter 32
WHEN I got there it was all still andSunday-like, and hot and sunshiny;
the hands was gone to the fields; andthere was them kind of faint droningsof bugs and flies in the air that makes
it seem so lonesome and like every‐
body's dead and gone; and if a breezefans along and quivers the leaves it
makes you feel mournful, because
you feel like it's spirits whispering—spirits that's been dead ever so many
years—and you always think they'retalking about you. As a general thing
it makes a body wish he was dead,too, and done with it all.
Still and Sunday Like
Phelps' was one of these little
one-horse cotton plantations, andthey all look alike. A rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile made outof logs sawed off and up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different
length, to climb over the fence with, and for the women to stand on
when they are going to jump on to a horse; some sickly grass-patches
in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth, like an old hat with
the nap rubbed off; big double log-house for the white folks—hewed
logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar, and these mudstripes been whitewashed some time or another; round-log kitchen,with a big broad, open but roofed passage joining it to the house; log
smoke-house back of the kitchen; three little log nigger-cabins in a
row t'other side the smoke-house; one little hut all by itself away down
against the back fence, and some outbuildings down a piece the otherside; ash-hopper and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut; bench
by the kitchen door, with bucket of water and a gourd; hound asleep
there in the sun; more hounds asleep round about; about three shadetrees away off in a corner; some currant bushes and gooseberry bushes
in one place by the fence; outside of the fence a garden and a water‐
melon patch; then the cotton fields begins, and after the fields thewoods.
I went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper,

Chapter 32

217

and started for the kitchen. When I got a little ways I heard the dimhum of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along down
again; and then I knowed for certain I wished I was dead—for that is
the lonesomest sound in the whole world.
I went right along, not fixing up any particular plan, but justtrusting to Providence to put the right words in my mouth when thetime come; for I'd noticed that Providence always did put the rightwords in my mouth if I left it alone.
When I got half-way, first one hound and then another got up andwent for me, and of course I stopped and faced them, and kept still.
And such another powwow as they made! In a quarter of a minute I
was a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may say—spokes made out ofdogs—circle of fifteen of them packed together around me, with theirnecks and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and howling; andmore a-coming; you could see them sailing over fences and aroundcorners from everywheres.
A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rollingpin in her hand, singing out, "Begone you Tige! you Spot! begone
sah!" and she fetched first one and then another of them a clip and sent
them howling, and then the rest followed; and the next second half ofthem come back, wagging their tails around me, and making friends
with me. There ain't no harm in a hound, nohow.
And behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little
nigger boys without anything on but tow-linen shirts, and they hungon to their mother's gown, and peeped out from behind her at me,
bashful, the way they always do. And here comes the white woman
running from the house, about forty-five or fifty year old, bareheaded,and her spinning-stick in her hand; and behind her comes her little
white children, acting the same way the little niggers was doing. She
was smiling all over so she could hardly stand—and says:"It's you, at last!—ain't it?"
I out with a "Yes'm" before I thought.
She grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then gripped me byboth hands and shook and shook; and the tears come in her eyes, andrun down over; and she couldn't seem to hug and shake enough, andkept saying, "You don't look as much like your mother as I reckoned
you would; but law sakes, I don't care for that, I'm so glad to see you!
Dear, dear, it does seem like I could eat you up! Children, it's yourcousin Tom!—tell him howdy."
But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their mouths,
and hid behind her. So she run on:

218"Lize, hurry up and get
him a hot breakfast right away—or did you get your break‐fast on the boat?"
I said I had got it on theboat. So then she started forthe house, leading me by thehand, and the children tagging
after. When we got there she
set me down in a split-bot‐
tomed chair, and set herself
down on a little low stool infront of me, holding both ofmyhands, and says:
She Hugged Him Tight"Now I can have a goodlook at you; and, laws-a-me, I've been hungry for it a many and amany a time, all these long years, and it's come at last! We been ex‐
pecting you a couple of days and more. What kep' you?—boat getaground?""Yes'm—she—""Don't say yes'm—say Aunt Sally. Where'd she get aground?"I didn't rightly know what to say, because I didn't know whether
the boat would be coming up the river or down. But I go a good deal
on instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming up—from down
towards Orleans. That didn't help me much, though; for I didn't know
the names of bars down that way. I see I'd got to invent a bar, or forget
the name of the one we got aground on—or—Now I struck an idea,
and fetched it out:
"It warn't the grounding—that didn't keep us back but a little. We
blowed out a cylinder-head.""Good gracious! anybody hurt?""No'm. Killed a nigger.""Well, it's lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. Twoyears ago last Christmas your uncle Silas was coming up from New‐rleans on the old Lally Rook, and she blowed out a cylinder-head andcrippled a man. And I think he died afterwards. He was a Baptist.
Your uncle Silas knowed a family in Baton Rouge that knowed his
people very well. Yes, I remember now, he did die. Mortification set
in, and they had to amputate him. But it didn't save him. Yes, it wasmortification—that was it. He turned blue all over, and died in thehope of a glorious resurrection. They say he was a sight to look at.

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219

Your uncle's been up to the town every day to fetch you. And he'sgone again, not more'n an hour ago; he'll be back any minute now.
You must a met him on the road, didn't you?—oldish man, with a—""No, I didn't see nobody, Aunt Sally. The boat landed just at day‐light, and I left my baggage on the wharf-boat and went looking
around the town and out a piece in the country, to put in the time andnot get here too soon; and so I come down the back way.""Who'd you give the baggage to?""Nobody.""Why, child, it 'll be stole!""Not where I hid it I reckon it won't," I says.
"How'd you get your breakfast so early on the boat?"
It was kinder thin ice, but I says:"The captain see me standing around, and told me I better havesomething to eat before I went ashore; so he took me in the texas tothe officers' lunch, and give me all I wanted."
I was getting so uneasy I couldn't listen good. I had my mind on
the children all the time; I wanted to get them out to one side andpump them a little, and find out who I was. But I couldn't get no show,
Mrs. Phelps kept it up and run on so. Pretty soon she made the cold
chills streak all down my back, because she says:"But here we're a-running on this way, and you hain't told me aword about Sis, nor any of them. Now I'll rest my works a little, andyou start up yourn; just tell me everything—tell me all about 'm all ev‐
ery one of 'm; and how they are, and what they're doing, and what
they told you to tell me; and every last thing you can think of."Well, I see I was up a stump—and up it good. Providence had
stood by me this fur all right, but I was hard and tight aground now. I
see it warn't a bit of use to try to go ahead—I'd got to throw up myhand. So I says to myself, here's another place where I got to resk thetruth. I opened my mouth to begin; but she grabbed me and hustled mein behind the bed, and says:"Here he comes! Stick your head down lower—there, that'll do;
you can't be seen now. Don't you let on you're here. I'll play a joke onhim. Children, don't you say a word."
I see I was in a fix now. But it warn't no use to worry; there
warn't nothing to do but just hold still, and try and be ready to standfrom under when the lightning struck.
I had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he comein; then the bed hid him. Mrs. Phelps she jumps for him, and says:"Has he come?"

220"No," says her husband.
"Good-ness gracious!" she says, "what in the warld can have be‐come of him?""I can't imagine," says the old gentleman; "and I must say it
makes me dreadful uneasy.""Uneasy!" she says; "I'm ready to go distracted! He must a come;and you've missed him along the road. I know it's so—something tells
me so.""Why, Sally, I couldn't miss him along the road—you know that.""But oh, dear, dear, what will Sis say! He must a come! You musta missed him. He—"
"Oh, don't distress me any more'n I'm already distressed. I don't
know what in the world to make of it. I'm at my wit's end, and I don't
mind acknowledging 't I'm right down scared. But there's no hope that
he's come; for he couldn't come and me miss him. Sally, it's terrible—
just terrible—something's happened to the boat, sure!""Why, Silas! Look yonder!—up the road!—ain't that somebody
coming?"He sprung to the window at the head of the bed, and that give
Mrs. Phelps the chance she wanted. She stooped down quick at thefoot of the bed and give me a pull, and out I come; and when heturned back from the window there she stood, a-beaming and a-smil‐
ing like a house afire, and I standing pretty meek and sweaty along‐side. The old gentleman stared, and says:"Why, who's that?""Who do you reckon 't is?""I hain't no idea. Who isit?""It's Tom Sawyer!"By jings, I most slumped
through the floor! But there
warn't no time to swap knives;
the old man grabbed me by thehand and shook, and kept on
shaking; and all the time how
the woman did dance aroundand laugh and cry; and then
how they both did fire off ques‐
tions about Sid, and Mary, andthe rest of the tribe.
But if they was joyful, it“Who Do You Reckon It Is?”

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221

warn't nothing to what I was; for it was like being born again, I was so
glad to find out who I was. Well, they froze to me for two hours; andat last, when my chin was so tired it couldn't hardly go any more, I
had told them more about my family—I mean the Sawyer family—
than ever happened to any six Sawyer families. And I explained allabout how we blowed out a cylinder-head at the mouth of White Riv‐er, and it took us three days to fix it. Which was all right, and worked
first-rate; because they didn't know but what it would take three days
to fix it. If I'd a called it a bolthead it would a done just as well.
Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, andpretty uncomfortable all up the other. Being Tom Sawyer was easy
and comfortable, and it stayed easy and comfortable till by and by I
hear a steamboat coughing along down the river. Then I says to my‐self, s'pose Tom Sawyer comes down on that boat? And s'pose hesteps in here any minute, and sings out my name before I can throw
him a wink to keep quiet?
Well, I couldn't have it that way; it wouldn't do at all. I must go
up the road and waylay him. So I told the folks I reckoned I would go
up to the town and fetch down my baggage. The old gentleman wasfor going along with me, but I said no, I could drive the horse myself,and I druther he wouldn't take no trouble about me.

Chapter 33
SO I started for town in the wagon,
and when I was half-way I see awagon coming, and sure enough it
was Tom Sawyer, and I stopped andwaited till he come along. I says
"Hold on!" and it stopped alongside,and his mouth opened up like atrunk, and stayed so; and he swal‐
lowed two or three times like a per‐son that's got a dry throat, and thensays:
"I hain't ever done you noharm. You know that. So, then, what
you want to come back and ha'nt me“It Was Tom Sawyer”
for?"
I says:"I hain't come back—I hain't been gone."
When he heard my voice it righted him up some, but he warn't
quite satisfied yet. He says:"Don't you play nothing on me, because I wouldn't on you. Hon‐
est injun now, you ain't a ghost?""Honest injun, I ain't," I says.
"Well—I—I—well, that ought to settle it, of course; but I can't
somehow seem to understand it no way. Looky here, warn't you evermurdered at all?""No. I warn't ever murdered at all—I played it on them. You
come in here and feel of me if you don't believe me."
So he done it; and it satisfied him; and he was that glad to see meagain he didn't know what to do. And he wanted to know all about itright off, because it was a grand adventure, and mysterious, and so it
hit him where he lived. But I said, leave it alone till by and by; andtold his driver to wait, and we drove off a little piece, and I told him
the kind of a fix I was in, and what did he reckon we better do? He
said, let him alone a minute, and don't disturb him. So he thought andthought, and pretty soon he says:"It's all right; I've got it. Take my trunk in your wagon, and let on
it's your'n; and you turn back and fool along slow, so as to get to theChapter 33

223

house about the time you ought to; and I'll go towards town a piece,
and take a fresh start, and get there a quarter or a half an hour afteryou; and you needn't let on to know me at first."
I says:"All right; but wait a minute. There's one more thing—a thingthat nobody don't know but me. And that is, there's a nigger here that
I'm a-trying to steal out of slavery, and his name is Jim—old Miss
Watson's Jim."
He says:"What! Why, Jim is—"He stopped and went to studying. I says:"I know what you'll say. You'll say it's dirty, low-down business;but what if it is? I'm low down; and I'm a-going to steal him, and I
want you keep mum and not let on. Will you?"His eye lit up, and he says:"I'll help you steal him!"
Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It was the most aston‐ishing speech I ever heard—and I'm bound to say Tom Sawyer fell
considerable in my estimation. Only I couldn't believe it. Tom Sawyer
a nigger-stealer!
"Oh, shucks!" I says; "you're joking.""I ain't joking, either.""Well, then," I says, "joking or no joking, if you hear anything
said about a runaway nigger, don't forget to remember that you don't
know nothing about him, and I don't know nothing about him."
Then we took the trunk and put it in my wagon, and he drove off
his way and I drove mine. But of course I forgot all about driving slow
on accounts of being glad and full of thinking; so I got home a heap
too quick for that length of a trip. The old gentleman was at the door,and he says:"Why, this is wonderful! Whoever would a thought it was in thatmare to do it? I wish we'd a timed her. And she hain't sweated a hair—
not a hair. It's wonderful. Why, I wouldn't take a hundred dollars forthat horse now—I wouldn't, honest; and yet I'd a sold her for fifteen
before, and thought 'twas all she was worth."That's all he said. He was the innocentest, best old soul I ever see.
But it warn't surprising; because he warn't only just a farmer, he was apreacher, too, and had a little one-horse log church down back of theplantation, which he built it himself at his own expense, for a churchand schoolhouse, and never charged nothing for his preaching, and it
was worth it, too. There was plenty other farmer-preachers like that,

224

and done the same way, down South.
In about half an hour Tom's wagon drove up to the front stile, andAunt Sally she see it through the window, because it was only about
fifty yards, and says:"Why, there's somebody come! I wonder who 'tis? Why, I do be‐lieve it's a stranger. Jimmy" (that's one of the children) "run and tellLize to put on another plate for dinner."
Everybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course, astranger don't come every year, and so he lays over the yaller-fever, forinterest, when he does come. Tom was over the stile and starting forthe house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the village, and we
was all bunched in the front door. Tom had his store clothes on, and an
audience—and that was always nuts for Tom Sawyer. In them circum‐
stances it warn't no trouble to him to throw in an amount of style thatwas suitable. He warn't a boy to meeky along up that yard like asheep; no, he come ca'm and important, like the ram. When he got afront of us he lifts his hat ever so gracious and dainty, like it was thelid of a box that had butterflies asleep in it and he didn't want to dis‐
turb them, and says:"Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?""No, my boy," says the old gen‐tleman, "I'm sorry to say 't your driv‐
er has deceived you; Nichols's placeis down a matter of three mile more.
Come in, come in."Tom he took a look back over
his shoulder, and says, "Too late—he's out of sight.""Yes, he's gone, my son, andyou must come in and eat your din‐ner with us; and then we'll hitch up
and take you down to Nichols's.""Oh, I can't make you so muchtrouble;I couldn't think of it. I'll
“Mr. Archibald Nichols, I Presume?”
walk—I don't mind the distance.""But we won't let you walk—it wouldn't be Southern hospitality
to do it. Come right in."
"Oh, do," says Aunt Sally; "it ain't a bit of trouble to us, not a bitin the world. You must stay. It's a long, dusty three mile, and we can't
let you walk. And, besides, I've already told 'em to put on anotherplate when I see you coming; so you mustn't disappoint us. Come

Chapter 33

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right in and make yourself at home."
So Tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome, and let him‐
self be persuaded, and come in; and when he was in he said he was astranger from Hicksville, Ohio, and his name was William Thompson—and he made another bow.
Well, he run on, and on, and on, making up stuff about Hicksvilleand everybody in it he could invent, and I getting a little nervious, andwondering how this was going to help me out of my scrape; and atlast, still talking along, he reached over and kissed Aunt Sally right on
the mouth, and then settled back again in his chair comfortable, andwas going on talking; but she jumped up and wiped it off with theback of her hand, and says:"You owdacious puppy!"
He looked kind of hurt, and says:"I'm surprised at you, m'am.""You're s'rp—Why, what do you reckon I am? I've a good notion
to take and—Say, what do you mean by kissing me?"He looked kind of humble, and says:"I didn't mean nothing, m'am. I didn't mean no harm. I—I—
thought you'd like it.""Why, you born fool!" She took up the spinning stick, and it
looked like it was all she could do to keep from giving him a crackwith it. "What made you think I'd like it?""Well, I don't know. Only, they—they—told me you would.""They told you I would. Whoever told you's another lunatic. I
never heard the beat of it. Who's they?""Why, everybody. They all said so, m'am."
It was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes snapped, and her
fingers worked like she wanted to scratch him; and she says:"Who's 'everybody'? Out with their names, or ther'll be an idiot
short."He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says:"I'm sorry, and I warn't expecting it. They told me to. They all
told me to. They all said, kiss her; and said she'd like it. They all said
it—every one of them. But I'm sorry, m'am, and I won't do it no more
—I won't, honest.""You won't, won't you? Well, I sh'd reckon you won't!""No'm, I'm honest about it; I won't ever do it again—till you ask
me.""Till I ask you! Well, I never see the beat of it in my born days! I
lay you'll be the Methusalem-numskull of creation before ever I ask

226

you—or the likes of you.""Well," he says, "it does surprise me so. I can't make it out, some‐how. They said you would, and I thought you would. But—" He stop‐
ped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across afriendly eye somewheres, and fetched up on the old gentleman's, andsays, "Didn't you think she'd like me to kiss her, sir?""Why, no; I—I—well, no, I b'lieve I didn't."
Then he looks on around the same way to me, and says:"Tom, didn't you think Aunt Sally 'd open out her arms and say,
'Sid Sawyer—'""My land!" she says, breaking in and jumping for him, "you im‐
pudent young rascal, to fool a body so—" and was going to hug him,
but he fended her off, and says:"No, not till you've asked me first."
So she didn't lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him andkissed him over and over again, and then turned him over to the oldman, and he took what was left. And after they got a little quiet again
she says:"Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We warn't looking for
you at all, but only Tom. Sis never wrote to me about anybody coming
but him.""It's because it warn't intended for any of us to come but Tom,"he says; "but I begged and begged, and at the last minute she let mecome, too; so, coming down the river, me and Tom thought it would
be a first-rate surprise for him to come here to the house first, and forme to by and by tag along and drop in, and let on to be a stranger. But
it was a mistake, Aunt Sally. This ain't no healthy place for a stranger
to come.""No—not impudent whelps, Sid. You ought to had your jaws
boxed; I hain't been so put out since I don't know when. But I don'tcare, I don't mind the terms—I'd be willing to stand a thousand suchjokes to have you here. Well, to think of that performance! I don't de‐ny it, I was most putrified with astonishment when you give me thatsmack."We had dinner out in that broad open passage betwixt the houseand the kitchen; and there was things enough on that table for sevenfamilies—and all hot, too; none of your flabby, tough meat that's laid
in a cupboard in a damp cellar all night and tastes like a hunk of oldcold cannibal in the morning. Uncle Silas he asked a pretty long bless‐ing over it, but it was worth it; and it didn't cool it a bit, neither, theway I've seen them kind of interruptions do lots of times. There was aChapter 33

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considerable gooddeal of talk all theafternoon, and me
and Tom was on
the lookout all thetime; but it warn't
no use, they didn't
happen to say
nothing about any
runaway nigger,
and we was afraid
A Pretty Long Blessing
to try to work up
to it. But at supper, at night, one of the little boys says:"Pa, mayn't Tom and Sid and me go to the show?""No," says the old man, "I reckon there ain't going to be any; andyou couldn't go if there was; because the runaway nigger told Burton
and me all about that scandalous show, and Burton said he would tell
the people; so I reckon they've drove the owdacious loafers out of
town before this time."
So there it was!—but I couldn't help it. Tom and me was to sleepin the same room and bed; so, being tired, we bid good-night and went
up to bed right after supper, and clumb out of the window and down
the lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for I didn't believe any‐
body was going to give the king and the duke a hint, and so if I didn't
hurry up and give them one they'd get into trouble sure.
On the road Tom he told me all about how it was reckoned I was
murdered, and how pap disappeared pretty soon, and didn't come backno more, and what a stir there was when Jim run away; and I told Tom
all about our Royal Nonesuch rapscallions, and as much of the raftvoyage as I had time to; and as we struck into the town and up throughthe the middle of it—it was as much as half-after eight, then—herecomes a raging rush of people with torches, and an awful whooping
and yelling, and banging tin pans and blowing horns; and we jumped
to one side to let them go by; and as they went by I see they had the
king and the duke astraddle of a rail—that is, I knowed it was the kingand the duke, though they was all over tar and feathers, and didn't look
like nothing in the world that was human—just looked like a couple ofmonstrous big soldier-plumes. Well, it made me sick to see it; and I
was sorry for them poor pitiful rascals, it seemed like I couldn't everfeel any hardness against them any more in the world. It was a dread‐
ful thing to see. Human beings can be awful cruel to one another.

228

We see we was
too late—couldn't do
no good. We asked
some stragglers about
it, and they said every‐
body went to the show
looking very innocent;and laid low and kept
dark till the poor old
king was in the middle
Travelling by Railof his cavortings on thestage; then somebody
give a signal, and the house rose up and went for them.
So we poked along back home, and I warn't feeling so brash as I
was before, but kind of ornery, and humble, and to blame, somehow—
though I hadn't done nothing. But that's always the way; it don't makeno difference whether you do right or wrong, a person's conscience
ain't got no sense, and just goes for him anyway. If I had a yaller dog
that didn't know no more than a person's conscience does I would pi‐
son him. It takes up more room than all the rest of a person's insides,
and yet ain't no good, nohow. Tom Sawyer he says the same.

Chapter 34
WE stopped talking, and got tothinking. By and by Tom says:"Looky here, Huck, what fools
we are to not think of it before! I
bet I know where Jim is.""No! Where?""In that hut down by the ashhopper. Why, looky here. When wewas at dinner, didn't you see a nig‐
ger man go in there with some vit‐
tles?""Yes.""What did you think the vittles
was for?""For a dog.""So 'd I. Well, it wasn't for a
Vittlesdog.""Why?""Because part of it was watermelon.""So it was—I noticed it. Well, it does beat all that I never thought
about a dog not eating watermelon. It shows how a body can see anddon't see at the same time.""Well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he went in, and helocked it again when he came out. He fetched uncle a key about thetime we got up from table—same key, I bet. Watermelon shows man,lock shows prisoner; and it ain't likely there's two prisoners on such alittle plantation, and where the people's all so kind and good. Jim's theprisoner. All right—I'm glad we found it out detective fashion; I
wouldn't give shucks for any other way. Now you work your mind,
and study out a plan to steal Jim, and I will study out one, too; andwe'll take the one we like the best."
What a head for just a boy to have! If I had Tom Sawyer's head I
wouldn't trade it off to be a duke, nor mate of a steamboat, nor clown
in a circus, nor nothing I can think of. I went to thinking out a plan,but only just to be doing something; I knowed very well where theright plan was going to come from. Pretty soon Tom says:"Ready?"230"Yes," I says.
"All right—bring it out.""My plan is this," I says. "We can easy find out if it's Jim in there.
Then get up my canoe to-morrow night, and fetch my raft over fromthe island. Then the first dark night that comes steal the key out of theold man's britches after he goes to bed, and shove off down the riveron the raft with Jim, hiding daytimes and running nights, the way me
and Jim used to do before. Wouldn't that plan work?""Work? Why, cert'nly it would work, like rats a-fighting. But it's
too blame' simple; there ain't nothing to it. What's the good of a planthat ain't no more trouble than that? It's as mild as goose-milk. Why,
Huck, it wouldn't make no more talk than breaking into a soap facto‐ry."
I never said nothing, because I warn't expecting nothing different;
but I knowed mighty well that whenever he got his plan ready it
wouldn't have none of them objections to it.
And it didn't. He told me what it was, and I see in a minute it wasworth fifteen of mine for style, and would make Jim just as free a man
as mine would, and maybe get us all killed besides. So I was satisfied,and said we would waltz in on it. I needn't tell what it was here, be‐cause I knowed it wouldn't stay the way, it was. I knowed he would bechanging it around every which way as we went along, and heaving in
new bullinesses wherever he got a chance. And that is what he done.
Well, one thing was dead sure, and that was that Tom Sawyer wasin earnest, and was actuly going to help steal that nigger out of slav‐
ery. That was the thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy thatwas respectable and well brung up; and had a character to lose; andfolks at home that had characters; and he was bright and not leatherheaded; and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but kind; andyet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or feeling, thanto stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and his family ashame, before everybody. I couldn't understand it no way at all. It was
outrageous, and I knowed I ought to just up and tell him so; and so be
his true friend, and let him quit the thing right where he was and savehimself. And I did start to tell him; but he shut me up, and says:"Don't you reckon I know what I'm about? Don't I generly knowwhat I'm about?""Yes.""Didn't I say I was going to help steal the nigger?""Yes.""Well, then."Chapter 34

231

That's all he said, and that's all I said. It warn't no use to say any
more; because when he said he'd do a thing, he always done it. But I
couldn't make out how he was willing to go into this thing; so I just let
it go, and never bothered no more about it. If he was bound to have it
so, I couldn't help it.
When we got home the house was all dark and still; so we wenton down to the hut by the ash-hopper for to examine it. We went
through the yard so as to see what the hounds would do. They knowedus, and didn't make no more noise than country dogs is always doing
when anything comes by in the night. When we got to the cabin we
took a look at the front and the two sides; and on the side I warn't ac‐
quainted with—which was the north side—we found a square win‐
dow-hole, up tolerable high, with just one stout board nailed across it.
I says:"Here's the ticket. This hole's big enough for Jim to get through if
we wrench off the board."
Tom says:"It's as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as easy as playing
hooky. I should hope we can find a way that's a little more complica‐
ted than that, Huck Finn.""Well, then," I says, "how'll it do to saw him out, the way
I done before I was murderedthat time?""That's more like," he says.
"It's real mysterious, and trou‐
blesome, and good," he says;"but I bet we can find a way
that's twice as long. There ain't
no hurry; le's keep on looking
around."Betwixt the hut and thefence, on the back side, was alean-to that joined the hut at theeaves, and was made out ofplank. It was as long as the hut,
A Simple Job
but narrow—only about six footwide. The door to it was at thesouth end, and was padlocked. Tom he went to the soap-kettle andsearched around, and fetched back the iron thing they lift the lid with;so he took it and prized out one of the staples. The chain fell down,

232

and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and struck a match,and see the shed was only built against a cabin and hadn't no connec‐
tion with it; and there warn't no floor to the shed, nor nothing in it but
some old rusty played-out hoes and spades and picks and a crippled
plow. The match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the staple
again, and the door was locked as good as ever. Tom was joyful. He
says;"Now we're all right. We'll dig him out. It 'll take about a week!"
Then we started for the house, and I went in the back door—you
only have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don't fasten the doors—
but that warn't romantical enough for Tom Sawyer; no way would do
him but he must climb up the lightning-rod. But after he got up half
way about three times, and missed fire and fell every time, and the lasttime most busted his brains out, he thought he'd got to give it up; but
after he was rested he allowed he would give her one more turn for
luck, and this time he made the trip.
In the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger
cabins to pet the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed Jim—
if it was Jim that was being fed. The niggers was just getting throughbreakfast and starting for the fields; and Jim's nigger was piling up atin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the others wasleaving, the key come from the house.
This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and hiswool was all tied up in little bunches with thread. That was to keep
witches off. He said the witches was pestering him awful these nights,
and making him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds ofstrange words and noises, and he didn't believe he was ever witched solong before in his life. He got so worked up, and got to running on so
about his troubles, he forgot all about what he'd been a-going to do. So
Tom says:"What's the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?"
The nigger kind of smiled around gradually over his face, likewhen you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle, and he says:"Yes, Mars Sid, A dog. Cur'us dog, too. Does you want to go en
look at 'im?""Yes."
I hunched Tom, and whispers:"You going, right here in the daybreak? that warn't the plan.""No, it warn't; but it's the plan now."
So, drat him, we went along, but I didn't like it much. When we
got in we couldn't hardly see anything, it was so dark; but Jim wasChapter 34

233

there, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out:
"Why, Huck! En good lan'! ain' dat Misto Tom?"I just knowed how it would be; I just expected it. I didn't know
nothing to do; and if I had I couldn't a done it, because that nigger bus‐
ted in and says:"Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?"
We could see pretty well now. Tom he looked at the nigger,
steady and kind of wondering, and says:"Does who know us?"
"Why, dis-yer runaway nigger.""I don't reckon he does; but what put that into your head?""What put it dar? Didn' he jis' dis minute sing out like he knowedyou?"
Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way:
"Well, that's mighty curious. Who sung out? when did he singout? what did he sing out?" And turns to me, perfectly ca'm, and says,"Did you hear anybody sing out?"
Of course there warn't nothing to be said but the one thing; so I
says:
"No; I ain't heard nobody say nothing."
Then he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he never see him
before, and says:"Did you sing out?""No, sah," says Jim; "I hain't said nothing, sah.""Not a word?""No, sah, I hain't said a word.""Did you ever see us before?""No, sah; not as I knows on."
So Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and dis‐tressed, and says, kind of severe:"What do you reckon's the matter with you, anyway? What madeyou think somebody sung out?""Oh, it's de dad-blame' witches, sah, en I wisht I was dead, I do.
Dey's awluz at it, sah, en dey do mos' kill me, dey sk'yers me so.
Please to don't tell nobody 'bout it sah, er ole Mars Silas he'll scoleme; 'kase he say dey ain't no witches. I jis' wish to goodness he washeah now—den what would he say! I jis' bet he couldn' fine no way to
git aroun' it dis time. But it's awluz jis' so; people dat's sot, stays sot;dey won't look into noth'n'en fine it out f'r deyselves, en when you fineit out en tell um 'bout it, dey doan' b'lieve you."
Tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn't tell nobody; and told

234

Witches

him to buy some more thread
to tie up his wool with; andthen looks at Jim, and says:"I wonder if Uncle Silas isgoing to hang this nigger. If I
was to catch a nigger that was
ungrateful enough to run away,
I wouldn't give him up, I'dhang him." And whilst the nig‐
ger stepped to the door to lookat the dime and bite it to see if
it was good, he whispers to Jim
and says:"Don't ever let on to know
us. And if you hear any dig‐ging going on nights, it's us;

we're going to set you free."Jim only had time to grab us by the hand and squeeze it; then the
nigger come back, and we said we'd come again some time if the nig‐
ger wanted us to; and he said he would, more particular if it was dark,
because the witches went for him mostly in the dark, and it was goodto have folks around then.

Chapter 35
IT would be most an hour yet tillbreakfast, so we left and struck
down into the woods; because
Tom said we got to have somelight to see how to dig by, and alantern makes too much, andmight get us into trouble; what wemust have was a lot of them rotten
chunks that's called fox-fire, andjust makes a soft kind of a glow
when you lay them in a darkplace. We fetched an armful andhid it in the weeds, and set down
to rest, and Tom says, kind of dis‐satisfied:Getting Wood
"Blame it, this whole thing isjust as easy and awkward as it canbe. And so it makes it so rotten difficult to get up a difficult plan.
There ain't no watchman to be drugged—now there ought to be awatchman. There ain't even a dog to give a sleeping-mixture to. And
there's Jim chained by one leg, with a ten-foot chain, to the leg of his
bed: why, all you got to do is to lift up the bedstead and slip off thechain. And Uncle Silas he trusts everybody; sends the key to the pun‐kin-headed nigger, and don't send nobody to watch the nigger. Jim
could a got out of that window-hole before this, only there wouldn't be
no use trying to travel with a ten-foot chain on his leg. Why, drat it,
Huck, it's the stupidest arrangement I ever see. You got to invent all
the difficulties. Well, we can't help it; we got to do the best we canwith the materials we've got. Anyhow, there's one thing—there's morehonor in getting him out through a lot of difficulties and dangers,
where there warn't one of them furnished to you by the people who it
was their duty to furnish them, and you had to contrive them all out ofyour own head. Now look at just that one thing of the lantern. When
you come down to the cold facts, we simply got to let on that a lan‐tern's resky. Why, we could work with a torchlight procession if wewanted to, I believe. Now, whilst I think of it, we got to hunt up some‐thing to make a saw out of the first chance we get."236"What do we want of a saw?""What do we want of it? Hain't we got to saw the leg of Jim's bed
off, so as to get the chain loose?""Why, you just said a body could lift up the bedstead and slip thechain off.""Well, if that ain't just like you, Huck Finn. You can get up the
infant-schooliest ways of going at a thing. Why, hain't you ever readany books at all?—Baron Trenck, nor Casanova, nor Benvenuto Chel‐
leeny, nor Henri IV., nor none of them heroes? Who ever heard of get‐ting a prisoner loose in such an old-maidy way as that? No; the way
all the best authorities does is to saw the bed-leg in two, and leave it
just so, and swallow the sawdust, so it can't be found, and put some
dirt and grease around the sawed place so the very keenest seneskal
can't see no sign of it's being sawed, and thinks the bed-leg is perfectly
sound. Then, the night you're ready, fetch the leg a kick, down she
goes; slip off your chain, and there you are. Nothing to do but hitch
your rope ladder to the battlements, shin down it, break your leg in themoat—because a rope ladder is nineteen foot too short, you know—
and there's your horses and your trusty vassles, and they scoop you up
and fling you across a saddle, and away you go to your native Langu‐
doc, or Navarre, or wherever it is. It's gaudy, Huck. I wish there was amoat to this cabin. If we get time, the night of the escape, we'll digone."
I says:"What do we want of a moat when we're going to snake him out
from under the cabin?"
But he never heard me. He had forgot me and everything else. He
had his chin in his hand, thinking. Pretty soon he sighs and shakes hishead; then sighs again, and says:"No, it wouldn't do—there ain't necessity enough for it.""For what?" I says.
"Why, to saw Jim's leg off," he says.
"Good land!" I says; "why, there ain't no necessity for it. And
what would you want to saw his leg off for, anyway?""Well, some of the best authorities has done it. They couldn't get
the chain off, so they just cut their hand off and shoved. And a leg
would be better still. But we got to let that go. There ain't necessity
enough in this case; and, besides, Jim's a nigger, and wouldn't under‐
stand the reasons for it, and how it's the custom in Europe; so we'll let
it go. But there's one thing—he can have a rope ladder; we can tear up
our sheets and make him a rope ladder easy enough. And we can sendChapter 35

237

it to him in a pie; it's mostly donethat way. And I've et worse pies.""Why, Tom Sawyer, how
you talk," I says; "Jim ain't got nouse for a rope ladder.""He has got use for it. How
you talk, you better say; you don't
know nothing about it. He's got tohave a rope ladder; they all do.""What in the nation can hedo with it?"
"Do with it? He can hide it
in his bed, can't he?" That's what
One of the Best Authorities
they all do; and he's got to, too.
Huck, you don't ever seem towant to do anything that's regular; you want to be starting something
fresh all the time. S'pose he don't do nothing with it? ain't it there in
his bed, for a clew, after he's gone? and don't you reckon they'll wantclews? Of course they will. And you wouldn't leave them any? Thatwould be a pretty howdy-do, wouldn't it! I never heard of such athing.""Well," I says, "if it's in the regulations, and he's got to have it, allright, let him have it; because I don't wish to go back on no regula‐tions; but there's one thing, Tom Sawyer—if we go to tearing up our
sheets to make Jim a rope ladder, we're going to get into trouble with
Aunt Sally, just as sure as you're born. Now, the way I look at it, ahickry-bark ladder don't cost nothing, and don't waste nothing, and isjust as good to load up a pie with, and hide in a straw tick, as any rag
ladder you can start; and as for Jim, he ain't had no experience, and so
he don't care what kind of a—""Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant as you I'd keep still—that's what I'D do. Who ever heard of a state prisoner escaping by ahickry-bark ladder? Why, it's perfectly ridiculous.""Well, all right, Tom, fix it your own way; but if you'll take myadvice, you'll let me borrow a sheet off of the clothesline."
He said that would do. And that gave him another idea, and hesays:"Borrow a shirt, too.""What do we want of a shirt, Tom?""Want it for Jim to keep a journal on.""Journal your granny—Jim can't write."

238"S'pose he can't write—he can make marks on the shirt, can't he,
if we make him a pen out of an old pewter spoon or a piece of an oldiron barrel-hoop?""Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him abetter one; and quicker, too.""Prisoners don't have geese running around the donjon-keep topull pens out of, you muggins. They always make their pens out of thehardest, toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick orsomething like that they can get their hands on; and it takes themweeks and weeks and months and months to file it out, too, because
they've got to do it by rubbing it on the wall. They wouldn't use agoose-quill if they had it. It ain't regular.""Well, then, what'll we make him the ink out of?"
"Many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but that's the common
sort and women; the best authorities uses their own blood. Jim can dothat; and when he wants to send any little common ordinary mysteri‐ous message to let the world know where he's captivated, he can write
it on the bottom of a tin plate with a fork and throw it out of the win‐
dow. The Iron Mask always done that, and it's a blame' good way,
too."
"Jim ain't got no tin plates. They feed him in a pan.""That ain't nothing; we can get him some.""Can't nobody read his plates.""That ain't got anything to do with it, Huck Finn. All he's got to
do is to write on the plate and throw it out. You don't have to be able
to read it. Why, half the time you can't read anything a prisoner writes
on a tin plate, or anywhere else.""Well, then, what's the sense in wasting the plates?""Why, blame it all, it ain't the prisoner's plates.""But it's somebody's plates, ain't it?""Well, spos'n it is? What does the prisoner care whose—"
He broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn blowing. So
we cleared out for the house.
Along during the morning I borrowed a sheet and a white shirt
off of the clothes-line; and I found an old sack and put them in it, andwe went down and got the fox-fire, and put that in too. I called it bor‐
rowing, because that was what pap always called it; but Tom said it
warn't borrowing, it was stealing. He said we was representing prison‐ers; and prisoners don't care how they get a thing so they get it, andnobody don't blame them for it, either. It ain't no crime in a prisoner tosteal the thing he needs to get away with, Tom said; it's his right; andChapter 35

239

so, as long as we was repre‐
senting a prisoner, we had aperfect right to steal anything
on this place we had the least
use for to get ourselves outof prison with. He said if wewarn't prisoners it would be avery different thing, and no‐
body but a mean, ornery per‐son would steal when he
warn't a prisoner. So we al‐
lowed we would steal every‐
thing there was that comehandy. And yet he made amighty fuss, one day, after
that, when I stole a waterme‐
The Breakfast-Hornlon out of the nigger-patch
and eat it; and he made me
go and give the niggers a dime without telling them what it was for.
Tom said that what he meant was, we could steal anything we needed.
Well, I says, I needed the watermelon. But he said I didn't need it to
get out of prison with; there's where the difference was. He said if I'd awanted it to hide a knife in, and smuggle it to Jim to kill the seneskal
with, it would a been all right. So I let it go at that, though I couldn't
see no advantage in my representing a prisoner if I got to set down andchaw over a lot of gold-leaf distinctions like that every time I see achance to hog a watermelon.
Well, as I was saying, we waited that morning till everybody was
settled down to business, and nobody in sight around the yard; thenTom he carried the sack into the lean-to whilst I stood off a piece tokeep watch. By and by he come out, and we went and set down on the
woodpile to talk. He says:"Everything's all right now except tools; and that's easy fixed.""Tools?" I says.
"Yes.""Tools for what?""Why, to dig with. We ain't a-going to gnaw him out, are we?""Ain't them old crippled picks and things in there good enough to
dig a nigger out with?" I says.
He turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a body cry, and
says:

240

"Huck Finn, did you ever hear of a prisoner having picks andshovels, and all the modern conveniences in his wardrobe to dig him‐
self out with? Now I want to ask you—if you got any reasonablenessin you at all—what kind of a show would that give him to be a hero?
Why, they might as well lend him the key and done with it. Picks andshovels—why, they wouldn't furnish 'em to a king.""Well, then," I says, "if we don't want the picks and shovels, what
do we want?""A couple of case-knives.""To dig the foundations out from under that cabin with?""Yes.""Confound it, it's foolish, Tom.""It don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's the right way—
and it's the regular way. And there ain't no other way, that ever I heardof, and I've read all the books that gives any information about thesethings. They always dig out with a case-knife—and not through dirt,
mind you; generly it's through solid rock. And it takes them weeks andweeks and weeks, and for ever and ever. Why, look at one of themprisoners in the bottom dungeon of the Castle Deef, in the harbor of
Marseilles, that dug himself out that way; how long was he at it, you
reckon?""I don't know.""Well, guess.""I don't know. A month and a half.""Thirty-seven year—and he come out in China. That's the kind. I
wish the bottom of this fortress was solid rock.""Jim don't know nobody in China.""What's that got to do with it? Neither did that other fellow. But
you're always a-wandering off on a side issue. Why can't you stick to
the main point?""All right—I don't care where he comes out, so he comes out; andJim don't, either, I reckon. But there's one thing, anyway—Jim's too
old to be dug out with a case-knife. He won't last.""Yes he will last, too. You don't reckon it's going to take thirtyseven years to dig out through a dirt foundation, do you?""How long will it take, Tom?""Well, we can't resk being as long as we ought to, because it
mayn't take very long for Uncle Silas to hear from down there by New
Orleans. He'll hear Jim ain't from there. Then his next move will be toadvertise Jim, or something like that. So we can't resk being as long
digging him out as we ought to. By rights I reckon we ought to be a

241

Chapter 35

couple of years; but we can't. Things being so uncertain, what I rec‐ommend is this: that we really dig right in, as quick as we can; andafter that, we can let on, to ourselves, that we was at it thirty-sevenyears. Then we can snatch him out and rush him away the first time
there's an alarm. Yes, I reckon that 'll be the best way.""Now, there's sense in that," I says. "Letting on don't cost noth‐
ing; letting on ain't no trouble; and if it's any object, I don't mind let‐ting on we was at it a hundred and fifty year. It wouldn't strain me
none, after I got my hand in. So I'll mosey along now, and smouch a
couple of case-knives.""Smouch three," he says; "wewant one to make a saw out of."
"Tom, if it ain't unregular and ir‐
religious to sejest it," I says, "there's
an old rusty saw-blade around yonder
sticking under the weather-boarding
behind the smoke-house."
He looked kind of weary anddiscouraged-like, and says:"It ain't no use to try to learn you
nothing, Huck. Run along andsmouch the knives—three of them."
So I done it.

Smouching the Knives

Chapter 36
AS soon as we reckoned every‐
body was asleep that night wewent down the lightning-rod, andshut ourselves up in the lean-to,
and got out our pile of fox-fire,
and went to work. We cleared ev‐
erything out of the way, about fouror five foot along the middle of thebottom log. Tom said he was rightbehind Jim's bed now, and we'ddig in under it, and when we got
through there couldn't nobody inthe cabin ever know there was any
hole there, because Jim's counterpin hung down most to the ground,and you'd have to raise it up andlook under to see the hole. So we
Going Down the Lightning-Rod
dug and dug with the case-knives
till most midnight; and then wewas dog-tired, and our hands was blistered, and yet you couldn't see
we'd done anything hardly. At last I says:"This ain't no thirty-seven year job; this is a thirty-eight year job,
Tom Sawyer."
He never said nothing. But he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped
digging, and then for a good little while I knowed that he was think‐ing. Then he says:"It ain't no use, Huck, it ain't a-going to work. If we was prison‐
ers it would, because then we'd have as many years as we wanted, andno hurry; and we wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day,while they was changing watches, and so our hands wouldn't get blis‐
tered, and we could keep it up right along, year in and year out, and do
it right, and the way it ought to be done. But we can't fool along; wegot to rush; we ain't got no time to spare. If we was to put in anothernight this way we'd have to knock off for a week to let our hands getwell—couldn't touch a case-knife with them sooner.""Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?""I'll tell you. It ain't right, and it ain't moral, and I wouldn't like itChapter 36

243

to get out; but there ain't only just the one way: we got to dig him out
with the picks, and let on it's case-knives.""Now you're talking!" I says; "your head gets leveler and leveler
all the time, Tom Sawyer," I says. "Picks is the thing, moral or no mo‐ral; and as for me, I don't care shucks for the morality of it, nohow.
When I start in to steal a nigger, or a watermelon, or a Sunday-school
book, I ain't no ways particular how it's done so it's done. What I wantis my nigger; or what I want is my watermelon; or what I want is my
Sunday-school book; and if a pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing
I'm a-going to dig that nigger or that watermelon or that Sundayschool book out with; and I don't give a dead rat what the authorities
thinks about it nuther.""Well," he says, "there's excuse for picks and letting-on in a caselike this; if it warn't so, I wouldn't approve of it, nor I wouldn't standby and see the rules broke—because right is right, and wrong iswrong, and a body ain't got no business doing wrong when he ain't ig‐
norant and knows better. It might answer for you to dig Jim out with apick, without any letting on, because you don't know no better; but itwouldn't for me, because I do know better. Gimme a case-knife."
He had his own by him, but I handed him mine. He flung it
down, and says:"Gimme a case-knife."
I didn't know just what to do—but then I thought. I scratchedaround amongst the old tools, and got a pickaxe and give it to him,
and he took it and went to work, and never said a word.
He was always just that particular. Full of principle.
So then I got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turnabout, and made the fur fly. We stuck to it about a half an hour, which
was as long as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole toshow for it. When I got up stairs I looked out at the window and see
Tom doing his level best with the lightning-rod, but he couldn't comeit, his hands was so sore. At last he says:"It ain't no use, it can't be done. What you reckon I better do?
Can't you think of no way?""Yes," I says, "but I reckon it ain't regular. Come up the stairs,
and let on it's a lightning-rod."
So he done it.
Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in thehouse, for to make some pens for Jim out of, and six tallow candles;
and I hung around the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole
three tin plates. Tom says it wasn't enough; but I said nobody wouldn't

244

ever see the plates that Jim
throwed out, because they'd fall inthe dog-fennel and jimpson weeds
under the window-hole—then we
could tote them back and he could
use them over again. So Tom wassatisfied. Then he says:"Now, the thing to study out
is, how to get the things to Jim.""Take them in through thehole," I says, "when we get it
done."He only just looked scornful,and said something about nobody
Stealing Spoons
ever heard of such an idiotic idea,
and then he went to studying. By
and by he said he had ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't
no need to decide on any of them yet. Said we'd got to post Jim first.
That night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten, andtook one of the candles along, and listened under the window-hole,and heard Jim snoring; so we pitched it in, and it didn't wake him.
Then we whirled in with the pick and shovel, and in about two hours
and a half the job was done. We crept in under Jim's bed and into thecabin, and pawed around and found the candle and lit it, and stoodover Jim awhile, and found him looking hearty and healthy, and thenwe woke him up gentle and gradual. He was so glad to see us he mostcried; and called us honey, and all the pet names he could think of; andwas for having us hunt up a cold-chisel to cut the chain off of his leg
with right away, and clearing out without losing any time. But Tom heshowed him how unregular it would be, and set down and told him allabout our plans, and how we could alter them in a minute any time
there was an alarm; and not to be the least afraid, because we would
see he got away, sure. So Jim he said it was all right, and we set there
and talked over old times awhile, and then Tom asked a lot of ques‐
tions, and when Jim told him Uncle Silas come in every day or two topray with him, and Aunt Sally come in to see if he was comfortable
and had plenty to eat, and both of them was kind as they could be,
Tom says:"Now I know how to fix it. We'll send you some things by them."
I said, "Don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of the most jackass
ideas I ever struck;" but he never paid no attention to me; went rightChapter 36

245

on. It was his way when he'd got his plans set.
So he told Jim how we'd have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie
and other large things by Nat, the nigger that fed him, and he must beon the lookout, and not be surprised, and not let Nat see him openthem; and we would put small things in uncle's coat-pockets and hemust steal them out; and we would tie things to aunt's apron-strings or
put them in her apron-pocket, if we got a chance; and told him what
they would be and what they was for. And told him how to keep ajournal on the shirt with his blood, and all that. He told him every‐
thing. Jim he couldn't see no sense in the most of it, but he allowed wewas white folks and knowed better than him; so he was satisfied, andsaid he would do it all just as Tom said.
Jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so we had a rightdown good sociable time; then we crawled out through the hole, andso home to bed, with hands that looked like they'd been chawed. Tom
was in high spirits. He said it was the best fun he ever had in his life,
and the most intellectural; and said if he only could see his way to it
we would keep it up all the rest of our lives and leave Jim to our chil‐dren to get out; for he believed Jim would come to like it better andbetter the more he got used to it. He said that in that way it could be
strung out to as much as eighty year, and would be the best time onrecord. And he said it would make us all celebrated that had a hand init.
In the morning we went out to the woodpile and chopped up thebrass candlestick into handy sizes, and Tom put them and the pewter
spoon in his pocket. Then we went to the nigger cabins, and while I
got Nat's notice off, Tom shoved a piece of candlestick into the middle
of a corn-pone that was in Jim's pan, and we went along with Nat tosee how it would work, and it just worked noble; when Jim bit into it
it most mashed all his teeth out; and there warn't ever anything could aworked better. Tom said so himself. Jim he never let on but what it
was only just a piece of rock or something like that that's always get‐ting into bread, you know; but after that he never bit into nothing but
what he jabbed his fork into it in three or four places first.
And whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish light, herecomes a couple of the hounds bulging in from under Jim's bed; andthey kept on piling in till there was eleven of them, and there warn't
hardly room in there to get your breath. By jings, we forgot to fastenthat lean-to door! The nigger Nat he only just hollered "Witches"
once, and keeled over on to the floor amongst the dogs, and begun togroan like he was dying. Tom jerked the door open and flung out a246slab of Jim's meat, and the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he wasout himself and back again and shut the door, and I knowed he'd fixed
the other door too. Then he went to work on the nigger, coaxing him
and petting him, and asking him if he'd been imagining he saw some‐thing again. He raised up, and blinked his eyes around, and says:"Mars Sid, you'll say I's a fool, but if I didn't b'lieve I see most amillion dogs, er devils, er some'n, I wisht I may die right heah in dese
tracks. I did, mos' sholy. Mars Sid, I felt um—I felt um, sah; dey was
all over me. Dad fetch it, I jis' wisht I could git my han's on one er
dem witches jis' wunst—on'y jis' wunst—it's all I'd ast. But mos'ly I
wisht dey'd lemme 'lone, I does."
Tom says:"Well, I tell you what I think. What makes them come here just at
this runaway nigger's breakfast-time? It's because they're hungry;
that's the reason. You make them a witch pie; that's the thing for you todo.""But my lan', Mars Sid,
how's I gwyne to make 'm awitch pie? I doan' know how
to make it. I hain't ever hearn
er sich a thing b'fo'.""Well, then, I'll have to
make it myself.""Will you do it, honey?—
will you? I'll wusshup degroun' und' yo' foot, I will!""All right, I'll do it, see‐ing it's you, and you've been
good to us and showed us the
runaway nigger. But you got tobe mighty careful. When wecome around, you turn your
Tom Advises a Witch Pie
back; and then whatever we've
put in the pan, don't you let on
you see it at all. And don't you look when Jim unloads the pan—some‐thing might happen, I don't know what. And above all, don't you han‐dle the witch-things.""Hannel 'M, Mars Sid? What is you a-talkin' 'bout? I wouldn' lay
de weight er my finger on um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n billion dollars,
I wouldn't."Chapter 37
THAT was all fixed. So then we
went away and went to the rub‐bage-pile in the back yard,
where they keep the old boots,
and rags, and pieces of bottles,
and wore-out tin things, and allsuch truck, and scratched aroundand found an old tin washpan,and stopped up the holes as wellas we could, to bake the pie in,and took it down cellar and stole
it full of flour and started forbreakfast, and found a couple ofshingle-nails that Tom said
would be handy for a prisoner toscrabble his name and sorrows
on the dungeon walls with, anddropped one of them in Aunt
The Rubbage-File
Sally's apron-pocket which was
hanging on a chair, and t'other we stuck in the band of Uncle Silas'shat, which was on the bureau, because we heard the children say theirpa and ma was going to the runaway nigger's house this morning, andthen went to breakfast, and Tom dropped the pewter spoon in Uncle
Silas's coat-pocket, and Aunt Sally wasn't come yet, so we had to wait
a little while.
And when she come she was hot and red and cross, and couldn't
hardly wait for the blessing; and then she went to sluicing out coffeewith one hand and cracking the handiest child's head with her thimblewith the other, and says:"I've hunted high and I've hunted low, and it does beat all what
has become of your other shirt."
My heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things, anda hard piece of corn-crust started down my throat after it and got met
on the road with a cough, and was shot across the table, and took oneof the children in the eye and curled him up like a fishing-worm, andlet a cry out of him the size of a warwhoop, and Tom he turned kinder
blue around the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable state of248

things for about a quarter of a minute or as much as that, and I woulda sold out for half price if there was a bidder. But after that we was allright again—it was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so kind of
cold. Uncle Silas he says:"It's most uncommon curious, I can't understand it. I know per‐fectly well I took it off, because—""Because you hain't got but one on. Just listen at the man! I know
you took it off, and know it by a better way than your wool-gethering
memory, too, because it was on the clo's-line yesterday—I see it there
myself. But it's gone, that's the long and the short of it, and you'll justhave to change to a red flann'l one till I can get time to make a newone. And it 'll be the third I've made in two years. It just keeps a bodyon the jump to keep you in shirts; and whatever you do manage to dowith 'm all is more'n I can make out. A body 'd think you would learn
to take some sort of care of 'em at your time of life.""I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it oughtn't to be alto‐
gether my fault, because, you know, I don't see them nor have nothing
to do with them except when they're on me; and I don't believe I've
ever lost one of them off of me.""Well, it ain't your fault if you haven't, Silas; you'd a done it if
you could, I reckon. And the shirt ain't all that's gone, nuther. Ther's a
spoon gone; and that ain't all. There was ten, and now ther's only nine.
The calf got the shirt, I reckon, but the calf never took the spoon,
that's certain.""Why, what else is gone, Sally?""Ther's six candles gone—that's what. The rats could a got thecandles, and I reckon they did; I wonder they don't walk off with thewhole place, the way you're always going to stop their holes and don't
do it; and if they warn't fools they'd sleep in your hair, Silas—you'dnever find it out; but you can't lay the spoon on the rats, and that I
know.""Well, Sally, I'm in fault, and I acknowledge it; I've been remiss;but I won't let to-morrow go by without stopping up them holes.""Oh, I wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. Matilda Angelina Aramin‐ta Phelps!"
Whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws outof the sugar-bowl without fooling around any. Just then the nigger
woman steps on to the passage, and says:"Missus, dey's a sheet gone.""A sheet gone! Well, for the land's sake!""I'll stop up them holes to-day," says Uncle Silas, looking sor‐

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249

rowful.
"Oh, do shet up!—s'pose the rats
took the sheet? where's it gone, Lize?""Clah to goodness I hain't no notion,
Miss' Sally. She wuz on de clo'sline yistid‐dy, but she done gone: she ain' dah no mo'now.""I reckon the world is coming to an
end. I never see the beat of it in all myborn days. A shirt, and a sheet, and aspoon, and six can—""Missus," comes a young yaller
wench, "dey's a brass cannelstick miss'n.""Cler out from here, you hussy, er I'll
take a skillet to ye!"“Missus, Dey's a Sheet Gone.”
Well, she was just a-biling. I begun tolay for a chance; I reckoned I would sneakout and go for the woods till the weather moderated. She kept a-raging
right along, running her insurrection all by herself, and everybody elsemighty meek and quiet; and at last Uncle Silas, looking kind of fool‐ish, fishes up that spoon out of his pocket. She stopped, with her
mouth open and her hands up; and as for me, I wished I was in Jerus‐
lem or somewheres. But not long, because she says:"It's just as I expected. So you had it in your pocket all the time;and like as not you've got the other things there, too. How'd it get
there?""I reely don't know, Sally," he says, kind of apologizing, "or you
know I would tell. I was a-studying over my text in Acts Seventeen
before breakfast, and I reckon I put it in there, not noticing, meaning
to put my Testament in, and it must be so, because my Testament ain't
in; but I'll go and see; and if the Testament is where I had it, I'll know I
didn't put it in, and that will show that I laid the Testament down andtook up the spoon, and—""Oh, for the land's sake! Give a body a rest! Go 'long now, thewhole kit and biling of ye; and don't come nigh me again till I've got
back my peace of mind."
I'D a heard her if she'd a said it to herself, let alone speaking itout; and I'd a got up and obeyed her if I'd a been dead. As we waspassing through the setting-room the old man he took up his hat, andthe shingle-nail fell out on the floor, and he just merely picked it up
and laid it on the mantel-shelf, and never said nothing, and went out.

250

Tom see him do it, and remembered about the spoon, and says:"Well, it ain't no use to send things by him no more, he ain't relia‐ble." Then he says: "But he done us a good turn with the spoon, any‐
way, without knowing it, and so we'll go and do him one without him
knowing it—stop up his rat-holes."There was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and it took us awhole hour, but we done the job tight and good and shipshape. Then
we heard steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; andhere comes the old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle ofstuff in t'other, looking as absent-minded as year before last. He wenta mooning around, first to one rat-hole and then another, till he'd been
to them all. Then he stood about five minutes, picking tallow-drip offof his candle and thinking. Then he turns off slow and dreamy towards
the stairs, saying:"Well, for the life of me I can't remember when I done it. I could
show her now that I warn't to blame on account of the rats. But nevermind—let it go. I reckon it wouldn't do no good."
And so he went on a-mumbling up stairs, and then we left. He
was a mighty nice old man. And always is.
Tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but
he said we'd got to have it; so he took a think. When he had ciphered itout he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around thespoon-basket till we see Aunt Sally coming, and then Tom went tocounting the spoons and laying them out to one side, and I slid one ofthem up my sleeve, and Tom says:"Why, Aunt Sally, there ain't but nine spoons yet."
She says:"Go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. I know better, I
counted 'm myself.""Well, I've counted them twice, Aunty, and I can't make but
nine."She looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count—anybody would.
"I declare to gracious ther' ain't but nine!" she says. "Why, whatin the world—plague take the things, I'll count 'm again."
So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting,she says:"Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's ten now!" and she looked
huffy and bothered both. But Tom says:"Why, Aunty, I don't think there's ten.""You numskull, didn't you see me count 'm?"

Chapter 37

251"I know, but—""Well, I'll count 'm again."
So I smouched one, and theycome out nine, same as the othertime. Well, she was in a tearing way—just a-trembling all over, she wasso mad. But she counted and counted
till she got that addled she'd start tocount in the basket for a spoon some‐times; and so, three times they comeout right, and three times they comeout wrong. Then she grabbed up thebasket and slammed it across thehouse and knocked the cat galleywest; and she said cle'r out and let
her have some peace, and if we comebothering around her again betwixt
In a Tearing Way
that and dinner she'd skin us. So we
had the odd spoon, and dropped it in her apron-pocket whilst she wasa-giving us our sailing orders, and Jim got it all right, along with her
shingle nail, before noon. We was very well satisfied with this busi‐
ness, and Tom allowed it was worth twice the trouble it took, because
he said now she couldn't ever count them spoons twice alike again tosave her life; and wouldn't believe she'd counted them right if she did;and said that after she'd about counted her head off for the next threedays he judged she'd give it up and offer to kill anybody that wanted
her to ever count them any more.
So we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one outof her closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it again for acouple of days till she didn't know how many sheets she had any
more, and she didn't care, and warn't a-going to bullyrag the rest ofher soul out about it, and wouldn't count them again not to save her
life; she druther die first.
So we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and thespoon and the candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and themixed-up counting; and as to the candlestick, it warn't no conse‐
quence, it would blow over by and by.
But that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie. We
fixed it up away down in the woods, and cooked it there; and we got it
done at last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one day; and we
had to use up three wash-pans full of flour before we got through, and252

we got burnt pretty much all over, in places, and eyes put out with thesmoke; because, you see, we didn't want nothing but a crust, and we
couldn't prop it up right, and she would always cave in. But of course
we thought of the right way at last—which was to cook the ladder,too, in the pie. So then we laid in with Jim the second night, and tore
up the sheet all in little strings and twisted them together, and long be‐fore daylight we had a lovely rope that you could a hung a personwith. We let on it took nine months to make it.
And in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but itwouldn't go into the pie. Being made of a whole sheet, that way, there
was rope enough for forty pies if we'd a wanted them, and plenty left
over for soup, or sausage, or anything you choose. We could a had awhole dinner.
But we didn't need it. All we nee‐ded was just enough for the pie, and so
we throwed the rest away. We didn't
cook none of the pies in the wash-pan—afraid the solder would melt; but Uncle
Silas he had a noble brass warming-pan
which he thought considerable of, be‐cause it belonged to one of his ancesters
with a long wooden handle that comeover from England with William theConqueror in the Mayflower or one ofthem early ships and was hid away up
garret with a lot of other old pots andthings that was valuable, not on account
One of His Ancesters
of being any account, because they
warn't, but on account of them being relicts, you know, and we snaked
her out, private, and took her down there, but she failed on the firstpies, because we didn't know how, but she come up smiling on the lastone. We took and lined her with dough, and set her in the coals, andloaded her up with rag rope, and put on a dough roof, and shut down
the lid, and put hot embers on top, and stood off five foot, with thelong handle, cool and comfortable, and in fifteen minutes she turned
out a pie that was a satisfaction to look at. But the person that et it
would want to fetch a couple of kags of toothpicks along, for if thatrope ladder wouldn't cramp him down to business I don't know noth‐ing what I'm talking about, and lay him in enough stomach-ache tolast him till next time, too.
Nat didn't look when we put the witch pie in Jim's pan; and weChapter 37

253

put the three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the vittles; andso Jim got everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself hebusted into the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw tick, andscratched some marks on a tin plate and throwed it out of the windowhole.

Chapter 38

Jim's Coat of Arms

MAKING them pens was a distres‐
sid tough job, and so was the saw;
and Jim allowed the inscription wasgoing to be the toughest of all.
That's the one which the prisoner
has to scrabble on the wall. But hehad to have it; Tom said he'd got to;there warn't no case of a state pris‐oner not scrabbling his inscription toleave behind, and his coat of arms.
"Look at Lady Jane Grey," hesays; "look at Gilford Dudley; lookat old Northumberland! Why, Huck,s'pose it is considerble trouble?—what you going to do?—how you
going to get around it? Jim's got to
do his inscription and coat of arms.
They all do."Jim says:"Why, Mars Tom, I hain't got no coat o' arm; I hain't got nuffn but
dish yer ole shirt, en you knows I got to keep de journal on dat.""Oh, you don't understand, Jim; a coat of arms is very different.""Well," I says, "Jim's right, anyway, when he says he ain't got nocoat of arms, because he hain't.""I reckon I knowed that," Tom says, "but you bet he'll have one
before he goes out of this—because he's going out right, and there
ain't going to be no flaws in his record."
So whilst me and Jim filed away at the pens on a brickbat apiece,
Jim a-making his'n out of the brass and I making mine out of thespoon, Tom set to work to think out the coat of arms. By and by hesaid he'd struck so many good ones he didn't hardly know which totake, but there was one which he reckoned he'd decide on. He says:"On the scutcheon we'll have a bend or in the dexter base, a salt‐
ire murrey in the fess, with a dog, couchant, for common charge, andunder his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron vert in achief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field azure, with thenombril points rampant on a dancette indented; crest, a runaway nig‐Chapter 38

255

ger, sable, with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and acouple of gules for supporters, which is you and me; motto, Maggiore
Fretta, Minore Otto. Got it out of a book—means the more haste theless speed.""Geewhillikins," I says, "but what does the rest of it mean?""We ain't got no time to bother over that," he says; "we got to dig
in like all git-out.""Well, anyway," I says, "what's some of it? What's a fess?""A fess—a fess is—you don't need to know what a fess is. I'll
show him how to make it when he gets to it."
"Shucks, Tom," I says, "I think you might tell a person. What's abar sinister?""Oh, I don't know. But he's got to have it. All the nobility does."That was just his way. If it didn't suit him to explain a thing toyou, he wouldn't do it. You might pump at him a week, it wouldn't
make no difference.
He'd got all that coat of arms business fixed, so now he started in
to finish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan out amournful inscription—said Jim got to have one, like they all done. He
made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and read them off, so:
1. Here a captive heart busted. 2. Here a poor prisoner, forsookby the world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life. 3. Here a lonely
heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven yearsof solitary captivity. 4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-sev‐
en years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son ofLouis XIV.
Tom's voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he mostbroke down. When he got done he couldn't no way make up his mind
which one for Jim to scrabble on to the wall, they was all so good; butat last he allowed he would let him scrabble them all on. Jim said it
would take him a year to scrabble such a lot of truck on to the logs
with a nail, and he didn't know how to make letters, besides; but Tom
said he would block them out for him, and then he wouldn't have noth‐ing to do but just follow the lines. Then pretty soon he says:"Come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they don't have log
walls in a dungeon: we got to dig the inscriptions into a rock. We'll
fetch a rock."
Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would takehim such a pison long time to dig them into a rock he wouldn't ever
get out. But Tom said he would let me help him do it. Then he took alook to see how me and Jim was getting along with the pens. It was256

most pesky tedious hard work and slow, and didn't give my hands noshow to get well of the sores, and we didn't seem to make no headway,
hardly; so Tom says:"I know how to fix it. We got to have a rock for the coat of arms
and mournful inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with that samerock. There's a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll
smouch it, and carve the things on it, and file out the pens and the saw
on it, too."It warn't no
slouch of an idea; andit warn't no slouch of agrindstone nuther; but
we allowed we'd tack‐le it. It warn't quite
midnight yet, so wecleared out for themill, leaving Jim atwork. We smouched
the grindstone, and set
out to roll her home,
but it was a most na‐
tion tough job. Some‐A Togh Job
times, do what we
could, we couldn't keep her from falling over, and she come mighty
near mashing us every time. Tom said she was going to get one of us,
sure, before we got through. We got her half way; and then we wasplumb played out, and most drownded with sweat. We see it warn't nouse; we got to go and fetch Jim. So he raised up his bed and slid thechain off of the bed-leg, and wrapt it round and round his neck, andwe crawled out through our hole and down there, and Jim and me laid
into that grindstone and walked her along like nothing; and Tom su‐
perintended. He could out-superintend any boy I ever see. He knowed
how to do everything.
Our hole was pretty big, but it warn't big enough to get the grind‐stone through; but Jim he took the pick and soon made it big enough.
Then Tom marked out them things on it with the nail, and set Jim towork on them, with the nail for a chisel and an iron bolt from the rub‐bage in the lean-to for a hammer, and told him to work till the rest of
his candle quit on him, and then he could go to bed, and hide thegrindstone under his straw tick and sleep on it. Then we helped him
fix his chain back on the bed-leg, and was ready for bed ourselves.

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But Tom thought of something, and says:"You got any spiders in here, Jim?""No, sah, thanks to goodness I hain't, Mars Tom.""All right, we'll get you some.""But bless you, honey, I doan' want none. I's afeard un um. I jis' 's
soon have rattlesnakes aroun'."Tom thought a minute or two, and says:"It's a good idea. And I reckon it's been done. It must a been
done; it stands to reason. Yes, it's a prime good idea. Where could you
keep it?""Keep what, Mars Tom?""Why, a rattlesnake.""De goodness gracious alive, Mars Tom! Why, if dey was a rat‐
tlesnake to come in heah I'd take en bust right out thoo dat log wall, I
would, wid my head.""Why, Jim, you wouldn't be afraid of it after a little. You could
tame it.""Tame it!"
"Yes—easy enough. Every animal is grateful for kindness andpetting, and they wouldn't think of hurting a person that pets them.
Any book will tell you that. You try—that's all I ask; just try for twoor three days. Why, you can get him so, in a little while, that he'll loveyou; and sleep with you; and won't stay away from you a minute; andwill let you wrap him round your neck and put his head in yourmouth.""Please, Mars Tom—doan' talk so! I can't stan' it! He'd let me
shove his head in my mouf—fer a favor, hain't it? I lay he'd wait a
pow'ful long time 'fo' I ast him. En mo' en dat, I doan' want him to
sleep wid me.""Jim, don't act so foolish. A prisoner's got to have some kind of adumb pet, and if a rattlesnake hain't ever been tried, why, there's moreglory to be gained in your being the first to ever try it than any other
way you could ever think of to save your life.""Why, Mars Tom, I doan' want no sich glory. Snake take 'n bite
Jim's chin off, den whah is de glory? No, sah, I doan' want no sichdoin's.""Blame it, can't you try? I only want you to try—you needn't
keep it up if it don't work.""But de trouble all done ef de snake bite me while I's a tryin' him.
Mars Tom, I's willin' to tackle mos' anything 'at ain't onreasonable, but
ef you en Huck fetches a rattlesnake in heah for me to tame, I's gwyne

258

to leave, dat's shore.""Well, then, let it go, let it go, if you're so bull-headed about it.
We can get you some garter-snakes, and you can tie some buttons on
their tails, and let on they're rattlesnakes, and I reckon that 'll have todo.""I k'n stan' dem,Mars Tom, but blame' 'f
I couldn' get along wid‐
out um, I tell you dat. I
never knowed b'fo' 't
was so much bother andtrouble to be a prison‐er.""Well, it always iswhen it's done right.
Buttons on Their Tails
You got any rats aroundhere?""No, sah, I hain't seed none.""Well, we'll get you some rats.""Why, Mars Tom, I doan' want no rats. Dey's de dadblamedest
creturs to 'sturb a body, en rustle roun' over 'im, en bite his feet, when
he's tryin' to sleep, I ever see. No, sah, gimme g'yarter-snakes, 'f I's got
to have 'm, but doan' gimme no rats; I hain' got no use f'r um, skasely.""But, Jim, you got to have 'em—they all do. So don't make nomore fuss about it. Prisoners ain't ever without rats. There ain't no in‐stance of it. And they train them, and pet them, and learn them tricks,
and they get to be as sociable as flies. But you got to play music tothem. You got anything to play music on?""I ain' got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o' paper, en a juiceharp; but I reck'n dey wouldn' take no stock in a juice-harp.""Yes they wouldthey don't care what kind of music 'tis. A jewsharp's plenty good enough for a rat. All animals like music—in a pris‐on they dote on it. Specially, painful music; and you can't get no otherkind out of a jews-harp. It always interests them; they come out to see
what's the matter with you. Yes, you're all right; you're fixed very
well. You want to set on your bed nights before you go to sleep, andearly in the mornings, and play your jews-harp; play 'The Last Link is
Broken'—that's the thing that 'll scoop a rat quicker 'n anything else;
and when you've played about two minutes you'll see all the rats, andthe snakes, and spiders, and things begin to feel worried about you,and come. And they'll just fairly swarm over you, and have a noble

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259

good time.""Yes, dey will, I reck'n, Mars Tom, but what kine er time is Jim
havin'? Blest if I kin see de pint. But I'll do it ef I got to. I reck'n I
better keep de animals satisfied, en not have no trouble in de house."
Tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn't nothing else;and pretty soon he says:"Oh, there's one thing I forgot. Could you raise a flower here, do
you reckon?""I doan know but maybe I could, Mars Tom; but it's tolable dark
in heah, en I ain' got no use f'r no flower, nohow, en she'd be a pow'ful
sight o' trouble.""Well, you try it, anyway. Some other prisoners has done it.""One er dem big cat-tail-lookin' mullen-stalks would grow inheah, Mars Tom, I reck'n, but she wouldn't be wuth half de trouble
she'd coss.""Don't you believe it. We'll fetch you a little one and you plant itin the corner over there, and raise it. And don't call it mullen, call it
Pitchiola—that's its right name when it's in a prison. And you want towater it with your tears.""Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom.""You don't want spring water; you want to water it with yourtears. It's the way they always do.""Why, Mars Tom, I lay I kin raise one er dem mullen-stalks
twyste wid spring water whiles another man's a start'n one wid tears.""That ain't the idea. You got
to do it with tears.""She'll die on my han's,
Mars Tom, she sholy will; kase I
doan' skasely ever cry."
So Tom was stumped. But
he studied it over, and then said
Jim would have to worry along
the best he could with an onion.
He promised he would go to thenigger cabins and drop one, pri‐
Irrigations
vate, in Jim's coffee-pot, in themorning. Jim said he would "jis' 's soon have tobacker in his coffee;"and found so much fault with it, and with the work and bother of rais‐
ing the mullen, and jews-harping the rats, and petting and flattering up
the snakes and spiders and things, on top of all the other work he had
to do on pens, and inscriptions, and journals, and things, which made260

it more trouble and worry and responsibility to be a prisoner than any‐
thing he ever undertook, that Tom most lost all patience with him; andsaid he was just loadened down with more gaudier chances than aprisoner ever had in the world to make a name for himself, and yet hedidn't know enough to appreciate them, and they was just about was‐ted on him. So Jim he was sorry, and said he wouldn't behave so no
more, and then me and Tom shoved for bed.

Chapter 39
IN the morning we went up to thevillage and bought a wire rat-trap
and fetched it down, and unstopped
the best rat-hole, and in about anhour we had fifteen of the bulliest
kind of ones; and then we took it andput it in a safe place under Aunt Sal‐
ly's bed. But while we was gone forspiders little Thomas Franklin Benja‐
min Jefferson Elexander Phelps
found it there, and opened the doorof it to see if the rats would comeout, and they did; and Aunt Sally she
come in, and when we got back she
was a-standing on top of the bed
raising Cain, and the rats was doing
Keeping off Dull Times
what they could to keep off the dulltimes for her. So she took and dusted
us both with the hickry, and we was as much as two hours catchinganother fifteen or sixteen, drat that meddlesome cub, and they warn't
the likeliest, nuther, because the first haul was the pick of the flock. I
never see a likelier lot of rats than what that first haul was.
We got a splendid stock of sorted spiders, and bugs, and frogs,
and caterpillars, and one thing or another; and we like to got a hornet's
nest, but we didn't. The family was at home. We didn't give it right up,
but stayed with them as long as we could; because we allowed we'dtire them out or they'd got to tire us out, and they done it. Then we got
allycumpain and rubbed on the places, and was pretty near all rightagain, but couldn't set down convenient. And so we went for thesnakes, and grabbed a couple of dozen garters and house-snakes, andput them in a bag, and put it in our room, and by that time it was sup‐per-time, and a rattling good honest day's work: and hungry?—oh, no,I reckon not! And there warn't a blessed snake up there when we went
back—we didn't half tie the sack, and they worked out somehow, andleft. But it didn't matter much, because they was still on the premises
somewheres. So we judged we could get some of them again. No,
there warn't no real scarcity of snakes about the house for a considera‐

262

ble spell. You'd see them dripping from the rafters and places every
now and then; and they generly landed in your plate, or down the backof your neck, and most of the time where you didn't want them. Well,they was handsome and striped, and there warn't no harm in a millionof them; but that never made no difference to Aunt Sally; she despised
snakes, be the breed what they might, and she couldn't stand them noway you could fix it; and every time one of them flopped down on her,it didn't make no difference what she was doing, she would just lay
that work down and light out. I never see such a woman. And you
could hear her whoop to Jericho. You couldn't get her to take a-holt of
one of them with the tongs. And if she turned over and found one in
bed she would scramble out and lift a howl that you would think thehouse was afire. She disturbed the old man so that he said he could
most wish there hadn't ever been no snakes created. Why, after every
last snake had been gone clear out of the house for as much as a week
Aunt Sally warn't over it yet; she warn't near over it; when she wassetting thinking about something you could touch her on the back ofher neck with a feather and she would jump right out of her stockings.
It was very curious. But Tom said all women was just so. He said they
was made that way for some reason or other.
We got a licking every time one of our snakes come in her way,
and she allowed these lickings warn't nothing to what she would do if
we ever loaded up the place again with them. I didn't mind the lick‐ings, because they didn't amount to nothing; but I minded the trouble
we had to lay in another lot. But we got them laid in, and all the otherthings; and you never see a cabin as blithesome as Jim's was when
they'd all swarm out for music and go for him. Jim didn't like the spi‐ders, and the spiders didn't like Jim; and so they'd lay for him, andmake it mighty warm for him. And he said that between the rats andthe snakes and the grindstone there warn't no room in bed for him,skasely; and when there was, a body couldn't sleep, it was so lively,
and it was always lively, he said, because they never all slept at one
time, but took turn about, so when the snakes was asleep the rats wason deck, and when the rats turned in the snakes come on watch, so healways had one gang under him, in his way, and t'other gang having acircus over him, and if he got up to hunt a new place the spiders would
take a chance at him as he crossed over. He said if he ever got out thistime he wouldn't ever be a prisoner again, not for a salary.
Well, by the end of three weeks everything was in pretty good
shape. The shirt was sent in early, in a pie, and every time a rat bit Jim
he would get up and write a little in his journal whilst the ink wasChapter 39

263

fresh; the pens was made, the inscriptions and so on was all carved on
the grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in two, and we had et up thesawdust, and it give us a most amazing stomach-ache. We reckoned
we was all going to die, but didn't. It was the most undigestible saw‐
dust I ever see; and Tom said the same.
But as I was saying, we'd got all
the work done now, at last; and we was
all pretty much fagged out, too, butmainly Jim. The old man had wrote a
couple of times to the plantation below
Orleans to come and get their runaway
nigger, but hadn't got no answer, be‐cause there warn't no such plantation; sohe allowed he would advertise Jim in
the St. Louis and New Orleans papers;
and when he mentioned the St. Louis
ones it give me the cold shivers, and I
see we hadn't no time to lose. So Tom
Sawdust Dietsaid, now for the nonnamous letters.
"What's them?" I says.
"Warnings to the people that something is up. Sometimes it'sdone one way, sometimes another. But there's always somebody spy‐
ing around that gives notice to the governor of the castle. When LouisXVI. was going to light out of the Tooleries, a servant-girl done it. It'sa very good way, and so is the nonnamous letters. We'll use them both.
And it's usual for the prisoner's mother to change clothes with him,and she stays in, and he slides out in her clothes. We'll do that, too.""But looky here, Tom, what do we want to warn anybody for thatsomething's up? Let them find it out for themselves—it's their look‐out.""Yes, I know; but you can't depend on them. It's the way they've
acted from the very start—left us to do everything. They're so confid‐
ing and mullet-headed they don't take notice of nothing at all. So if we
don't give them notice there won't be nobody nor nothing to interferewith us, and so after all our hard work and trouble this escape 'll go off
perfectly flat; won't amount to nothing—won't be nothing to it.""Well, as for me, Tom, that's the way I'd like.""Shucks!" he says, and looked disgusted. So I says:"But I ain't going to make no complaint. Any way that suits you
suits me. What you going to do about the servant-girl?""You'll be her. You slide in, in the middle of the night, and hook

264

that yaller girl's frock.""Why, Tom, that 'll make trouble next morning; because, ofcourse, she prob'bly hain't got any but that one.""I know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes, to carry thenonnamous letter and shove it under the front door.""All right, then, I'll do it; but I could carry it just as handy in myown togs.""You wouldn't look like a servant-girl then, would you?""No, but there won't be nobody to see what I look like, anyway.""That ain't got nothing to do with it. The thing for us to do is justto do our duty, and not worry about whether anybody sees us do it ornot. Hain't you got no principle at all?""All right, I ain't saying nothing; I'm the servant-girl. Who's Jim's
mother?""I'm his mother. I'll hook a gown from Aunt Sally.""Well, then, you'll have to stay in the cabin when me and Jim
leaves.""Not much. I'll stuff Jim's clothes full of straw and lay it on his
bed to represent his mother in disguise, and Jim 'll take the nigger
woman's gown off of me and wear it, and we'll all evade together.
When a prisoner of style escapes it's called an evasion. It's always
called so when a king escapes, f'rinstance. And the same with a king's
son; it don't make no difference whether he's a natural one or an un‐
natural one."
So Tom he wrote thenonnamous letter, and I
smouched the yaller wench's
frock that night, and put it on,
and shoved it under the front
door, the way Tom told me
to. It said:
Beware. Trouble isbrewing. Keep a sharp look‐out. Unknown Friend.
Next night we stuck a
picture, which Tom drawed
in blood, of a skull and cross‐bones on the front door; andnext night another one of acoffin on the back door. I
never see a family in such a
Trouble is Brewing

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265

sweat. They couldn't a been worse scared if the place had a been fullof ghosts laying for them behind everything and under the beds andshivering through the air. If a door banged, Aunt Sally she jumped andsaid "ouch!" if anything fell, she jumped and said "ouch!" if you hap‐
pened to touch her, when she warn't noticing, she done the same; she
couldn't face noway and be satisfied, because she allowed there wassomething behind her every time—so she was always a-whirling
around sudden, and saying "ouch," and before she'd got two-thirds
around she'd whirl back again, and say it again; and she was afraid to
go to bed, but she dasn't set up. So the thing was working very well,
Tom said; he said he never see a thing work more satisfactory. He said
it showed it was done right.
So he said, now for the grand bulge! So the very next morning at
the streak of dawn we got another letter ready, and was wondering
what we better do with it, because we heard them say at supper they
was going to have a nigger on watch at both doors all night. Tom hewent down the lightning-rod to spy around; and the nigger at the backdoor was asleep, and he stuck it in the back of his neck and comeback. This letter said:
Don't betray me, I wish to be your friend. There is a desprategang of cutthroats from over in the Indian Territory going to steal yourrunaway nigger to-night, and they have been trying to scare you so as
you will stay in the house and not bother them. I am one of the gang,but have got religgion and wish to quit it and lead an honest life again,
and will betray the helish design. They will sneak down from north‐ards, along the fence, at midnight exact, with a false key, and go in the
nigger's cabin to get him. I am to be off a piece and blow a tin horn if I
see any danger; but stead of that I will baa like a sheep soon as they
get in and not blow at all; then whilst they are getting his chains loose,you slip there and lock them in, and can kill them at your leasure.
Don't do anything but just the way I am telling you, if you do they willsuspicion something and raise whoop-jamboreehoo. I do not wish any
reward but to know I have done the right thing. Unknown Friend.

Chapter 40
WE was feeling pretty good after
breakfast, and took my canoe andwent over the river a-fishing, witha lunch, and had a good time, andtook a look at the raft and found
her all right, and got home late tosupper, and found them in such asweat and worry they didn't know
which end they was standing on,
and made us go right off to bed theminute we was done supper, andwouldn't tell us what the trouble
was, and never let on a word about
the new letter, but didn't need to,
because we knowed as much about
it as anybody did, and as soon as
we was half up stairs and her backwasturned we slid for the cellar
Fishingcupboard and loaded up a goodlunch and took it up to our room and went to bed, and got up about
half-past eleven, and Tom put on Aunt Sally's dress that he stole andwas going to start with the lunch, but says:"Where's the butter?""I laid out a hunk of it," I says, "on a piece of a corn-pone.""Well, you left it laid out, then—it ain't here.""We can get along without it," I says.
"We can get along with it, too," he says; "just you slide down cel‐lar and fetch it. And then mosey right down the lightning-rod andcome along. I'll go and stuff the straw into Jim's clothes to represent
his mother in disguise, and be ready to baa like a sheep and shovesoon as you get there."
So out he went, and down cellar went I. The hunk of butter, big
as a person's fist, was where I had left it, so I took up the slab of cornpone with it on, and blowed out my light, and started up stairs very
stealthy, and got up to the main floor all right, but here comes Aunt
Sally with a candle, and I clapped the truck in my hat, and clapped myhat on my head, and the next second she see me; and she says:

Chapter 40

267"You been down cellar?""Yes'm.""What you been doing down there?""Noth'n.""Noth'n!""No'm.""Well, then, what possessed you to go down there this time ofnight?""I don't know 'm."
"You don't know? Don't answer me that way. Tom, I want toknow what you been doing down there.""I hain't been doing a single thing, Aunt Sally, I hope to gracious
if I have."
I reckoned she'd let me go now, and as a generl thing she would;
but I s'pose there was so many strange things going on she was just ina sweat about every little thing that warn't yard-stick straight; so shesays, very decided:"You just march into that setting-room and stay there till I come.
You been up to something you no business to, and I lay I'll find out
what it is before I'M done with you."
So she went away as I opened the door and walked into the set‐ting-room. My, but there was a crowd there! Fifteen farmers, and ev‐
ery one of them had a gun. I was most powerful sick, and slunk to achair and set down. They was setting around, some of them talking alittle, in a low voice, and all of them fidgety and uneasy, but trying tolook like they warn't; but I knowed they was, because they was always
taking off their hats, and putting them on, and scratching their heads,
and changing their seats, and fumbling with their buttons. I warn't
easy myself, but I didn't
take my hat off, all thesame.
I did wish Aunt Sal‐ly would come, and get
done with me, and lickme, if she wanted to, andlet me get away and tell
Tom how we'd overdone
this thing, and what athundering hornet's-nest
we'd got ourselves into,
so we could stop fooling
Every One Had a Gun

268

around straight off, and clear out with Jim before these rips got out ofpatience and come for us.
At last she come and begun to ask me questions, but I couldn't
answer them straight, I didn't know which end of me was up; because
these men was in such a fidget now that some was wanting to startright NOW and lay for them desperadoes, and saying it warn't but a
few minutes to midnight; and others was trying to get them to hold on
and wait for the sheep-signal; and here was Aunty pegging away at thequestions, and me a-shaking all over and ready to sink down in mytracks I was that scared; and the place getting hotter and hotter, andthe butter beginning to melt and run down my neck and behind myears; and pretty soon, when one of them says, "I'M for going and get‐ting in the cabin first and right now, and catching them when theycome," I most dropped; and a streak of butter come a-trickling down
my forehead, and Aunt Sally she see it, and turns white as a sheet, andsays:"For the land's sake, what is the matter with the child? He's got
the brain-fever as shore as you're born, and they're oozing out!"
And everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my hat, and out
comes the bread and what was left of the butter, and she grabbed me,
and hugged me, and says:"Oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad and grateful I
am it ain't no worse; for luck's against us, and it never rains but it
pours, and when I see that truck I thought we'd lost you, for I knowedby the color and all it was just like your brains would be if—Dear,
dear, whyd'nt you tell me that was what you'd been down there for, I
wouldn't a cared. Now cler out to bed, and don't lemme see no more of
you till morning!"
I was up stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod in anotherone, and shinning through the dark for the lean-to. I couldn't hardly
get my words out, I was so anxious; but I told Tom as quick as I could
we must jump for it now, and not a minute to lose—the house full ofmen, yonder, with guns!
His eyes just blazed; and he says:"No!—is that so? ain't it bully! Why, Huck, if it was to do overagain, I bet I could fetch two hundred! If we could put it off till—""Hurry! Hurry!" I says. "Where's Jim?""Right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm you can touch
him. He's dressed, and everything's ready. Now we'll slide out andgive the sheep-signal."
But then we heard the tramp of men coming to the door, andChapter 40

269

heard them begin to fumble with the pad-lock, and heard a man say:
"I told you we'd be too soon; they haven't come—the door islocked. Here, I'll lock some of you into the cabin, and you lay for 'em
in the dark and kill 'em when they come; and the rest scatter around apiece, and listen if you can hear 'em coming."
So in they come, but couldn't see us in the dark, and most trod on
us whilst we was hustling to get under the bed. But we got under all
right, and out through the hole, swift but soft—Jim first, me next, andTom last, which was according to Tom's orders. Now we was in thelean-to, and heard trampings close by outside. So we crept to the door,
and Tom stopped us there and put his eye to the crack, but couldn't
make out nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and said he would
listen for the steps to get further, and when he nudged us Jim must
glide out first, and him last. So he set his ear to the crack and listened,
and listened, and listened, and the steps a-scraping around out there all
the time; and at last he nudged us, and we slid out, and stooped down,
not breathing, and not making the least noise, and slipped stealthy to‐wards the fence in Injun file, and got to it all right, and me and Jim
over it; but Tom's britches catched fast on a splinter on the top rail,
and then he hear the steps coming, so he had to pull loose, whichsnapped the splinter and made a noise; and as he dropped in our tracks
and started somebody sings out:
"Who's that? Answer, or I'll
shoot!"
But we didn't answer; we just un‐
furled our heels and shoved. Then
there was a rush, and a Bang, Bang,
Bang! and the bullets fairly whizzed
around us! We heard them sing out:
"Here they are! They've broke forthe river! After 'em, boys, and turnloose the dogs!"
So here they come, full tilt. We
could hear them because they wore
boots and yelled, but we didn't wear
no boots and didn't yell. We was in thepath to the mill; and when they got
Tom Caught on a Splinterpretty close on to us we dodged into
the bush and let them go by, and thendropped in behind them. They'd had all the dogs shut up, so theywouldn't scare off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let them

270

loose, and here they come, making powwow enough for a million; but
they was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till they catched up;
and when they see it warn't nobody but us, and no excitement to offer
them, they only just said howdy, and tore right ahead towards theshouting and clattering; and then we up-steam again, and whizzed
along after them till we was nearly to the mill, and then struck up
through the bush to where my canoe was tied, and hopped in andpulled for dear life towards the middle of the river, but didn't make nomore noise than we was obleeged to. Then we struck out, easy andcomfortable, for the island where my raft was; and we could hearthem yelling and barking at each other all up and down the bank, till
we was so far away the sounds got dim and died out. And when we
stepped on to the raft I says:"Now, old Jim, you're a free man again, and I bet you won't everbe a slave no more.""En a mighty good job it wuz, too, Huck. It 'uz planned beautiful,en it 'uz done beautiful; en dey ain't nobody kin git up a plan dat's mo'mixed-up en splendid den what dat one wuz."
We was all glad as we could be, but Tom was the gladdest of all
because he had a bullet in the calf of his leg.
When me and Jim heard that we didn't feel so brash as what we
did before. It was hurting him considerable, and bleeding; so we laid
him in the wigwam and tore up one of the duke's shirts for to bandage
him, but he says:"Gimme the rags; I can do it myself. Don't stop now; don't foolaround here, and the evasion booming along so handsome; man thesweeps, and set her loose! Boys, we done it elegant!—'deed we did. I
wish we'd a had the handling of Louis XVI., there wouldn't a been no'Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven!' wrote down in his biography;
no, sir, we'd a whooped him over the border—that's what we'd a donewith him—and done it just as slick as nothing at all, too. Man thesweeps—man the sweeps!"
But me and Jim was consulting—and thinking. And after we'dthought a minute, I says:"Say it, Jim."
So he says:"Well, den, dis is de way it look to me, Huck. Ef it wuz him dat'uz bein' sot free, en one er de boys wuz to git shot, would he say, 'Go
on en save me, nemmine 'bout a doctor f'r to save dis one?' Is dat likeMars Tom Sawyer? Would he say dat? You bet he wouldn't! well, den,is Jim gywne to say it? No, sah—I doan' budge a step out'n dis place

Chapter 40

271'dout a doctor, not if it's forty year!"
I knowed he was white inside,and I reckoned he'd say what he didsay—so it was all right now, and I
told Tom I was a-going for a doctor.
He raised considerable row about it,
but me and Jim stuck to it andwouldn't budge; so he was forcrawling out and setting the raftloose himself; but we wouldn't let
him. Then he give us a piece of his
mind, but it didn't do no good.
So when he sees me getting
the canoe ready, he says:"Well, then, if you're bound to
Jim Advises a Doctorgo, I'll tell you the way to do when
you get to the village. Shut the door and blindfold the doctor tight andfast, and make him swear to be silent as the grave, and put a purse fullof gold in his hand, and then take and lead him all around the backalleys and everywheres in the dark, and then fetch him here in the ca‐noe, in a roundabout way amongst the islands, and search him andtake his chalk away from him, and don't give it back to him till you get
him back to the village, or else he will chalk this raft so he can find it
again. It's the way they all do."So I said I would, and left, and Jim was to hide in the woods
when he see the doctor coming till he was gone again.

Chapter 41
THE doctor was an old man; a very
nice, kind-looking old man when I
got him up. I told him me and mybrother was over on Spanish Island
hunting yesterday afternoon, andcamped on a piece of a raft we found,and about midnight he must a kicked
his gun in his dreams, for it went off
and shot him in the leg, and we wan‐
ted him to go over there and fix it andnot say nothing about it, nor let any‐
body know, because we wanted tocome home this evening and surprise
The Doctor
the folks.
"Who is your folks?" he says.
"The Phelpses, down yonder.""Oh," he says. And after a minute, he says:"How'd you say he got shot?""He had a dream," I says, "and it shot him.""Singular dream," he says.
So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started.
But when he sees the canoe he didn't like the look of her—said she
was big enough for one, but didn't look pretty safe for two. I says:"Oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us easy
enough.""What three?""Why, me and Sid, and—and—and the guns; that's what I mean.""Oh," he says.
But he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook hishead, and said he reckoned he'd look around for a bigger one. But they
was all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me towait till he come back, or I could hunt around further, or maybe I bet‐
ter go down home and get them ready for the surprise if I wanted to.
But I said I didn't; so I told him just how to find the raft, and then hestarted.
I struck an idea pretty soon. I says to myself, spos'n he can't fix
that leg just in three shakes of a sheep's tail, as the saying is? spos'n itChapter 41

273

takes him three or four days? What are we going to do?—lay aroundthere till he lets the cat out of the bag? No, sir; I know what I'll do. I'll
wait, and when he comes back if he says he's got to go any more I'll
get down there, too, if I swim; and we'll take and tie him, and keep
him, and shove out down the river; and when Tom's done with him
we'll give him what it's worth, or all we got, and then let him getashore.
So then I crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and nexttime I waked up the sun was away up over my head! I shot out andwent for the doctor's house, but they told me he'd gone away in thenight some time or other, and warn't back yet. Well, thinks I, thatlooks powerful bad for Tom, and I'll dig out for the island right off. So
away I shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly rammed my head in‐
to Uncle Silas's stomach! He says:"Why, Tom! Where you been all this time, you rascal?""I hain't been nowheres," I
says, "only just hunting for the
runaway nigger—me and Sid.""Why, where ever did yougo?" he says. "Your aunt's been
mighty uneasy.""She needn't," I says, "be‐cause we was all right. We fol‐
lowed the men and the dogs, butthey outrun us, and we lost them;but we thought we heard them on
the water, so we got a canoe andtook out after them and crossed
over, but couldn't find nothing ofthem; so we cruised along upshore till we got kind of tired andUncle Silas in Danger
beat out; and tied up the canoe
and went to sleep, and never waked up till about an hour ago; then we
paddled over here to hear the news, and Sid's at the post-office to see
what he can hear, and I'm a-branching out to get something to eat forus, and then we're going home."
So then we went to the post-office to get "Sid"; but just as I sus‐
picioned, he warn't there; so the old man he got a letter out of the of‐fice, and we waited awhile longer, but Sid didn't come; so the old man
said, come along, let Sid foot it home, or canoe it, when he got done
fooling around—but we would ride. I couldn't get him to let me stay

274

and wait for Sid; and he said there warn't no use in it, and I must comealong, and let Aunt Sally see we was all right.
When we got home Aunt Sally was that glad to see me she laugh‐
ed and cried both, and hugged me, and give me one of them lickingsof hern that don't amount to shucks, and said she'd serve Sid the same
when he come.
And the place was plum full of farmers and farmers' wives, todinner; and such another clack a body never heard. Old Mrs. Hotch‐
kiss was the worst; her tongue was a-going all the time. She says:"Well, Sister Phelps, I've ransacked that-air cabin over, an' I
b'lieve the nigger was crazy. I says to Sister Damrell—didn't I, Sister
Damrell?—s'I, he's crazy, s'I—them's the very words I said. You all
hearn me: he's crazy, s'I; everything shows it, s'I. Look at that-air
grindstone, s'I; want to tell me't any cretur 't's in his right mind 's agoin' to scrabble all them crazy things onto a grindstone, s'I? Here sich'n' sich a person busted his heart; 'n' here so 'n' so pegged along for
thirty-seven year, 'n' all that—natcherl son o' Louis somebody, 'n' sicheverlast'n rubbage. He's plumb crazy, s'I; it's what I says in the fustplace, it's what I says in the middle, 'n' it's what I says last 'n' all thetime—the nigger's crazy—crazy 's Nebokoodneezer, s'I.""An' look at that-air laddermade out'n rags, Sister Hotchkiss,"says old Mrs. Damrell; "what in thename o' goodness could he everwant of—""The very words I was a-sayin'no longer ago th'n this minute to
Sister Utterback, 'n' she'll tell you soherself. Sh-she, look at that-air rag
ladder, sh-she; 'n' s'I, yes, look at it,
Old Mrs. Hotchkisss'I—what could he a-wanted of it,s'I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she—""But how in the nation'd they ever git that grindstone in there,
anyway? 'n' who dug that-air hole? 'n' who—""My very words, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin'—pass that-air sass‐er o' m'lasses, won't ye?—I was a-sayin' to Sister Dunlap, jist this mi‐nute, how did they git that grindstone in there, s'I. Without help, mind
you—'thout help! that's wher 'tis. Don't tell me, s'I; there wuz help, s'I;'n' ther' wuz a plenty help, too, s'I; ther's ben a dozen a-helpin' that nig‐
ger, 'n' I lay I'd skin every last nigger on this place but I'd find out who

Chapter 41

275

done it, s'I; 'n' moreover, s'I—""A dozen says you!—forty couldn't a done every thing that's been
done. Look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they'vebeen made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with 'm, a week's work forsix men; look at that nigger made out'n straw on the bed; and look at—""You may well say it, Brer Hightower! It's jist as I was a-sayin' toBrer Phelps, his own self. S'e, what do you think of it, Sister Hotch‐
kiss, s'e? Think o' what, Brer Phelps, s'I? Think o' that bed-leg sawed
off that a way, s'e? think of it, s'I? I lay it never sawed itself off, s'I—
somebody sawed it, s'I; that's my opinion, take it or leave it, it mayn't
be no 'count, s'I, but sich as 't is, it's my opinion, s'I, 'n' if any body k'n
start a better one, s'I, let him do it, s'I, that's all. I says to Sister Dun‐lap, s'I—""Why, dog my cats, they must a ben a house-full o' niggers in
there every night for four weeks to a done all that work, Sister Phelps.
Look at that shirt—every last inch of it kivered over with secret Afri‐can writ'n done with blood! Must a ben a raft uv 'm at it right along,
all the time, amost. Why, I'd give two dollars to have it read to me; 'n'
as for the niggers that wrote it, I 'low I'd take 'n' lash 'm t'll—""People to help him, Brother Marples! Well, I reckon you'd thinkso if you'd a been in this house for a while back. Why, they've stole
everything they could lay their hands on—and we a-watching all thetime, mind you. They stole that shirt right off o' the line! and as forthat sheet they made the rag ladder out of, ther' ain't no telling how
many times they didn't steal that; and flour, and candles, and candle‐
sticks, and spoons, and the old warming-pan, and most a thousandthings that I disremember now, and my new calico dress; and me andSilas and my Sid and Tom on the constant watch day and night, as I
was a-telling you, and not a one of us could catch hide nor hair nor
sight nor sound of them; and here at the last minute, lo and beholdyou, they slides right in under our noses and fools us, and not only
fools us but the Injun Territory robbers too, and actuly gets away withthat nigger safe and sound, and that with sixteen men and twenty-two
dogs right on their very heels at that very time! I tell you, it just bangs
anything I ever heard of. Why, sperits couldn't a done better and been
no smarter. And I reckon they must a been sperits—because, youknow our dogs, and ther' ain't no better; well, them dogs never evengot on the track of 'm once! You explain that to me if you can!—anyof you!""Well, it does beat—"276"Laws alive, I never—""So help me, I wouldn't a be—""House-thieves as well as—""Goodnessgracioussakes, I'd a ben afeard to live in sich a—""'Fraid to live!—why, I was that scared I dasn't hardly go to bed,or get up, or lay down, or set down, Sister Ridgeway. Why, they'dsteal the very—why, goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of afluster I was in by the time midnight come last night. I hope to gra‐cious if I warn't afraid they'd steal some o' the family! I was just tothat pass I didn't have no reasoning faculties no more. It looks foolishenough now, in the daytime; but I says to myself, there's my two poorboys asleep, 'way up stairs in that lonesome room, and I declare togoodness I was that uneasy 't I crep' up there and locked 'em in! I did.
And anybody would. Because, you know, when you get scared thatway, and it keeps running on, and getting worse and worse all thetime, and your wits gets to addling, and you get to doing all sorts o'wild things, and by and by you think to yourself, spos'n I was a boy,and was away up there, and the door ain't locked, and you—" Shestopped, looking kind of wondering, and then she turned her headaround slow, and when her eye lit on me—I got up and took a walk.
Says I to myself, I can explain better how we come to not be inthat room this morning if I go out to one side and study over it a little.
So I done it. But I dasn't go fur, or she'd a sent for me. And when it
was late in the day the people all went, and then I come in and told her
the noise and shooting waked up me and "Sid," and the door was
locked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the lightningrod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn't never want to try
that no more. And then I went on and told her all what I told Uncle
Silas before; and then she said she'd forgive us, and maybe it was allright enough anyway, and about what a body might expect of boys, forall boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as fur as she could see; and so,
as long as no harm hadn't come of it, she judged she better put in her
time being grateful we was alive and well and she had us still, stead offretting over what was past and done. So then she kissed me, and pat‐ted me on the head, and dropped into a kind of a brown study; andpretty soon jumps up, and says:"Why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and Sid not come yet! What
has become of that boy?"
I see my chance; so I skips up and says:"I'll run right up to town and get him," I says.
"No you won't," she says. "You'll stay right wher' you are; one'sChapter 41

277

enough to be lost at a time. If he ain't here to supper, your uncle 'll
go."Well, he warn't there to supper; so right after supper uncle went.
He come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn't run acrossTom's track. Aunt Sally was a good deal uneasy; but Uncle Silas hesaid there warn't no occasion to be—boys will be boys, he said, andyou'll see this one turn up in the morning all sound and right. So she
had to be satisfied. But she said she'd set up for him a while anyway,
and keep a light burning so he could see it.
And then when I went up to bed
she come up with me and fetched
her candle, and tucked me in, andmothered me so good I felt mean,
and like I couldn't look her in theface; and she set down on the bed
and talked with me a long time, andsaid what a splendid boy Sid was,and didn't seem to want to ever stoptalking about him; and kept asking
me every now and then if I reckoned
he could a got lost, or hurt, or maybe
drownded, and might be laying at
Aunt Sally Talks to Huck
this minute somewheres suffering ordead, and she not by him to help
him, and so the tears would drip down silent, and I would tell her that
Sid was all right, and would be home in the morning, sure; and shewould squeeze my hand, or maybe kiss me, and tell me to say it again,
and keep on saying it, because it done her good, and she was in somuch trouble. And when she was going away she looked down in myeyes so steady and gentle, and says:"The door ain't going to be locked, Tom, and there's the window
and the rod; but you'll be good, won't you? And you won't go? For mysake."
Laws knows I wanted to go bad enough to see about Tom, andwas all intending to go; but after that I wouldn't a went, not for king‐doms.
But she was on my mind and Tom was on my mind, so I slept
very restless. And twice I went down the rod away in the night, andslipped around front, and see her setting there by her candle in thewindow with her eyes towards the road and the tears in them; and I
wished I could do something for her, but I couldn't, only to swear that

278

I wouldn't never do nothing to grieve her any more. And the third time
I waked up at dawn, and slid down, and she was there yet, and hercandle was most out, and her old gray head was resting on her hand,and she was asleep.

Chapter 42
THE old man was uptown again
before breakfast, but couldn't get
no track of Tom; and both of them
set at the table thinking, and notsaying nothing, and looking
mournful, and their coffee getting
cold, and not eating anything. And
by and by the old man says:"Did I give you the letter?""What letter?""The one I got yesterday outof the post-office.""No, you didn't give me noletter.""Well, I must a forgot it."
So he rummaged his pockets,
Tom Sawyer Wounded
and then went off somewheres
where he had laid it down, and fetched it, and give it to her. She says:"Why, it's from St. Petersburg—it's from Sis."
I allowed another walk would do me good; but I couldn't stir. But
before she could break it open she dropped it and run—for she see
something. And so did I. It was Tom Sawyer on a mattress; and thatold doctor; and Jim, in her calico dress, with his hands tied behind
him; and a lot of people. I hid the letter behind the first thing thatcome handy, and rushed. She flung herself at Tom, crying, and says:"Oh, he's dead, he's dead, I know he's dead!"
And Tom he turned his head a little, and muttered something orother, which showed he warn't in his right mind; then she flung up her
hands, and says:"He's alive, thank God! And that's enough!" and she snatched akiss of him, and flew for the house to get the bed ready, and scatteringorders right and left at the niggers and everybody else, as fast as her
tongue could go, every jump of the way.
I followed the men to see what they was going to do with Jim;and the old doctor and Uncle Silas followed after Tom into the house.
The men was very huffy, and some of them wanted to hang Jim for an
example to all the other niggers around there, so they wouldn't be try‐

280

ing to run away like Jim done, and making such a raft of trouble, andkeeping a whole family scared most to death for days and nights. But
the others said, don't do it, it wouldn't answer at all; he ain't our nig‐
ger, and his owner would turn up and make us pay for him, sure. So
that cooled them down a little, because the people that's always themost anxious for to hang a nigger that hain't done just right is always
the very ones that ain't the most anxious to pay for him when they've
got their satisfaction out of him.
They cussed Jim considerble, though, and give him a cuff or twoside the head once in a while, but Jim never said nothing, and he neverlet on to know me, and they took him to the same cabin, and put his
own clothes on him, and chained him again, and not to no bed-leg thistime, but to a big staple drove into the bottom log, and chained hishands, too, and both legs, and said he warn't to have nothing but bread
and water to eat after this till his owner come, or he was sold at auc‐
tion because he didn't come in a certain length of time, and filled up
our hole, and said a couple of farmers with guns must stand watch
around about the cabin every night, and a bulldog tied to the door in
the daytime; and about this time they was through with the job andwas tapering off with a kind of generl good-bye cussing, and then theold doctor comes and takes a look, and says:"Don't be no rougher on him than you're obleeged to, because heain't a bad nigger. When I got to where I found the boy I see I couldn't
cut the bullet out without some help, and he warn't in no condition forme to leave to go and get help; and he got a little worse and a little
worse, and after a long time he went out of his head, and wouldn't letme come a-nigh him any more, and said if I chalked his raft he'd killme, and no end of wild foolishness like that, and I see I couldn't doanything at all with him; so I says, I got to have help somehow; andthe minute I says it out crawls this nigger from somewheres and says
he'll help, and he done it, too, and done it very well. Of course I
judged he must be a runaway nigger, and there I was! and there I had
to stick right straight along all the rest of the day and all night. It was afix, I tell you! I had a couple of patients with the chills, and of course
I'd of liked to run up to town and see them, but I dasn't, because thenigger might get away, and then I'd be to blame; and yet never a skiff
come close enough for me to hail. So there I had to stick plumb until
daylight this morning; and I never see a nigger that was a better nussor faithfuller, and yet he was risking his freedom to do it, and was all
tired out, too, and I see plain enough he'd been worked main hard late‐ly. I liked the nigger for that; I tell you, gentlemen, a nigger like that is

Chapter 42281

worth a thousand dollars—and kind treatment, too. I had everything I
needed, and the boy was doing as well there as he would a done athome—better, maybe, because it was so quiet; but there I was, withboth of 'm on my hands, and there I had to stick till about dawn thismorning; then some men in a skiff come by, and as good luck would
have it the nigger was setting by the pallet with his head propped on
his knees sound asleep; so I motioned them in quiet, and they slipped
up on him and grabbed him and tied him before he knowed what he
was about, and we never had no trouble. And the boy being in a kindof a flighty sleep, too, we muffled the oars and hitched the raft on, andtowed her over very nice and quiet, and the nigger never made theleast row nor said a word from the start. He ain't no bad nigger, gentle‐
men; that's what I think about him."
Somebody says:"Well, it sounds very good,
doctor, I'm obleeged to say."
Then the others softened up alittle, too, and I was mighty thank‐
ful to that old doctor for doing Jimthat good turn; and I was glad it
was according to my judgment ofhim, too; because I thought he had
a good heart in him and was a good
man the first time I see him. Thenthey all agreed that Jim had acted
very well, and was deserving tohave some notice took of it, and re‐
The Doctor Speaks for Jim
ward. So every one of them prom‐
ised, right out and hearty, that theywouldn't cuss him no more.
Then they come out and locked him up. I hoped they was goingto say he could have one or two of the chains took off, because they
was rotten heavy, or could have meat and greens with his bread andwater; but they didn't think of it, and I reckoned it warn't best for me
to mix in, but I judged I'd get the doctor's yarn to Aunt Sally somehowor other as soon as I'd got through the breakers that was laying justahead of me—explanations, I mean, of how I forgot to mention about
Sid being shot when I was telling how him and me put in that dratted
night paddling around hunting the runaway nigger.
But I had plenty time. Aunt Sally she stuck to the sick-room all
day and all night, and every time I see Uncle Silas mooning around I

282

dodged him.
Next morning I heard Tom was a good deal better, and they said
Aunt Sally was gone to get a nap. So I slips to the sick-room, and if I
found him awake I reckoned we could put up a yarn for the family thatwould wash. But he was sleeping, and sleeping very peaceful, too; andpale, not fire-faced the way he was when he come. So I set down andlaid for him to wake. In about half an hour Aunt Sally comes gliding
in, and there I was, up a stump again! She motioned me to be still, andset down by me, and begun to whisper, and said we could all be joyful
now, because all the symptoms was first-rate, and he'd been sleeping
like that for ever so long, and looking better and peacefuller all thetime, and ten to one he'd wake up in his right mind.
So we set there watching, and by and by he stirs a bit, and opened
his eyes very natural, and takes a look, and says:"Hello!—why, I'm at home! How's that? Where's the raft?""It's all right," I says.
"And Jim?""The same," I says, but couldn't say it pretty brash. But he nevernoticed, but says:"Good! Splendid! Now we're all right and safe! Did you tell Aun‐ty?"
I was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says: "About what,
Sid?""Why, about the way the whole thing was done.""What whole thing?""Why, the whole thing. There ain't but one; how we set the run‐away nigger free—me and Tom.""Good land! Set the run—What is the child talking about! Dear,
dear, out of his head again!""No, I ain't out of my head; I know all what I'm talking about. We
did set him free—me and Tom. We laid out to do it, and we done it.
And we done it elegant, too." He'd got a start, and she never checked
him up, just set and stared and stared, and let him clip along, and I see
it warn't no use for me to put in. "Why, Aunty, it cost us a power ofwork—weeks of it—hours and hours, every night, whilst you was all
asleep. And we had to steal candles, and the sheet, and the shirt, andyour dress, and spoons, and tin plates, and case-knives, and the warm‐
ing-pan, and the grindstone, and flour, and just no end of things, andyou can't think what work it was to make the saws, and pens, and in‐
scriptions, and one thing or another, and you can't think half the fun it
was. And we had to make up the pictures of coffins and things, andChapter 42283

nonnamous letters from the robbers, and get up and down the light‐
ning-rod, and dig the hole into the cabin, and made the rope ladderand send it in cooked up in a pie, and send in spoons and things towork with in your apron pocket—""Mercy sakes!""—and load up the cabin with rats and snakes and so on, for com‐pany for Jim; and then you kept Tom here so long with the butter inhis hat that you come near spiling the whole business, because themen come before we was out of the cabin, and we had to rush, andthey heard us and let drive at us, and I got my share, and we dodged
out of the path and let them go by, and when the dogs come they
warn't interested in us, but went for the most noise, and we got our ca‐noe, and made for the raft, and was all safe, and Jim was a free man,and we done it all by ourselves, and wasn't it bully, Aunty!""Well, I never heard the likes of it in all my born days! So it wasyou, you little rapscallions, that's been making all this trouble, andturned everybody's wits clean inside out and scared us all most to
death. I've as good a notion as ever I had in my life to take it out o'you this very minute. To think, here I've been, night after night, a—
you just get well once, you young scamp, and I lay I'll tan the Old
Harry out o' both o' ye!"
But Tom, he was so proud and joyful, he just couldn't hold in,and his tongue just went it—she a-chipping in, and spitting fire allalong, and both of them going it at once, like a cat convention; and she
says:"Well, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it now, for mind I
tell you if I catch you meddling with him again—""Meddling with who?" Tom says, dropping his smile and looking
surprised.
"With who? Why, the runaway nigger, of course. Who'd you
reckon?"Tom looks at me very grave, and says:"Tom, didn't you just tell me he was all right? Hasn't he got
away?""Him?" says Aunt Sally; "the runaway nigger? 'Deed he hasn't.
They've got him back, safe and sound, and he's in that cabin again, on
bread and water, and loaded down with chains, till he's claimed or
sold!"Tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and his nostrils
opening and shutting like gills, and sings out to me:"They hain't no right to shut him up! SHOVE!—and don't you

284

Tom Rose Square up in Bed

lose a minute. Turn him loose! heain't no slave; he's as free as any
cretur that walks this earth!""What does the child mean?""I mean every word I say, Aunt
Sally, and if somebody don't go, I'll
go. I've knowed him all his life, andso has Tom, there. Old Miss Watson
died two months ago, and she wasashamed she ever was going to sellhim down the river, and said so; andshe set him free in her will.""Then what on earth did you
want to set him free for, seeing he

was already free?""Well, that is a question, I must say; and just like women! Why, I
wanted the adventure of it; and I'd a waded neck-deep in blood to—goodness alive, Aunt Polly!"
If she warn't standing right there, just inside the door, looking as
sweet and contented as an angel half full of pie, I wish I may never!
Aunt Sally jumped for her, and most hugged the head off of her,and cried over her, and I found a good enough place for me under thebed, for it was getting pretty sultry for us, seemed to me. And I peeped
out, and in a little while Tom's Aunt Polly shook herself loose andstood there looking across at Tom over her spectacles—kind of grind‐ing him into the earth, you know. And then she says:"Yes, you better turn y'r head away—I would if I was you, Tom.""Oh, deary me!" says Aunt Sally; "Is he changed so? Why, that
ain't Tom, it's Sid; Tom's—Tom's—why, where is Tom? He was here aminute ago.""You mean where's Huck Finn—that's what you mean! I reckon I
hain't raised such a scamp as my Tom all these years not to know him
when I see him. That would be a pretty howdy-do. Come out from un‐
der that bed, Huck Finn."
So I done it. But not feeling brash.
Aunt Sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking persons I ev‐
er see—except one, and that was Uncle Silas, when he come in andthey told it all to him. It kind of made him drunk, as you may say, andhe didn't know nothing at all the rest of the day, and preached a pray‐
er-meeting sermon that night that gave him a rattling ruputation, be‐cause the oldest man in the world couldn't a understood it. So Tom'sChapter 42285

Aunt Polly, she told all about who I was, and what; and I had to up
and tell how I was in such a tight place that when Mrs. Phelps took me
for Tom Sawyer—she chipped in and says, "Oh, go on and call me
Aunt Sally, I'm used to it now, and 'tain't no need to change"—that
when Aunt Sally took me for Tom Sawyer I had to stand it—there
warn't no other way, and I knowed he wouldn't mind, because it would
be nuts for him, being a mystery, and he'd make an adventure out of it,
and be perfectly satisfied. And so it turned out, and he let on to be Sid,
and made things as soft as he could for me.
And his Aunt Polly she said Tom was right about old Miss Wat‐son setting Jim free in her will; and so, sure enough, Tom Sawyer hadgone and took all that trouble and bother to set a free nigger free! andI couldn't ever understand before, until that minute and that talk, how
he could help a body set a nigger free with his bringing-up.
Well, Aunt Polly she said that when Aunt Sally wrote to her thatTom and Sid had come all right and safe, she says to herself:"Look at that, now! I might have expected it, letting him go offthat way without anybody to watch him. So now I got to go and trapse
all the way down the river, eleven hundred mile, and find out whatthat creetur's up to this time, as long as I couldn't seem to get any an‐swer out of you about it.""Why, I never heard nothing from you," says Aunt Sally.
"Well, I wonder! Why, I wrote you twice to ask you what you
could mean by Sid being here.""Well, I never got 'em, Sis."
Aunt Polly she turns around slow and severe, and says:"You, Tom!""Well—what?" he says, kind of pettish.
"Don't you what me, you impudent thing—hand out them letters.""What letters?""Them letters. I be bound, if I have totake a-holt of you I'll—""They're in the trunk. There, now. And
they're just the same as they was when I got
them out of the office. I hain't looked into
them, I hain't touched them. But I knowed
they'd make trouble, and I thought if you
warn't in no hurry, I'd—""Well, you do need skinning, there ain't
no mistake about it. And I wrote another one“Hand out Them Letters.”

286

to tell you I was coming; and I s'pose he—""No, it come yesterday; I hain't read it yet, but it's all right, I've
got that one."
I wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn't, but I reckoned
maybe it was just as safe to not to. So I never said nothing.

Chapter the Last
THE first time I catched Tom pri‐vate I asked him what was his
idea, time of the evasion?—what it
was he'd planned to do if the eva‐sion worked all right and he man‐aged to set a nigger free that was
already free before? And he said,
what he had planned in his headfrom the start, if we got Jim out all
safe, was for us to run him down
the river on the raft, and have ad‐ventures plumb to the mouth of theriver, and then tell him about his
Out of Bondage
being free, and take him back up
home on a steamboat, in style, andpay him for his lost time, and write word ahead and get out all the nig‐
gers around, and have them waltz him into town with a torchlight pro‐cession and a brass-band, and then he would be a hero, and so would
we. But I reckoned it was about as well the way it was.
We had Jim out of the chains in no time, and when Aunt Pollyand Uncle Silas and Aunt Sally found out how good he helped thedoctor nurse Tom, they made a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him
up prime, and give him all he wanted to eat, and a good time, andnothing to do. And we had him up to the sick-room, and had a hightalk; and Tom give Jim forty dollars for be‐
ing prisoner for us so patient, and doing it
up so good, and Jim was pleased most to
death, and busted out, and says:"Dah, now, Huck, what I tell you?—what I tell you up dah on Jackson islan'? I
tole you I got a hairy breas', en what's design un it; en I tole you I ben rich wunst, en
gwineter to be rich agin; en it's come true;
en heah she is! dah, now! doan' talk to me—signs is signs, mine I tell you; en I
knowed jis' 's well 'at I 'uz gwineter be richagin as I's a-stannin' heah dis minute!"
Tom's Liberality

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And then Tom he talked along and talked along, and says, le's all
three slide out of here one of these nights and get an outfit, and go for
howling adventures amongst the Injuns, over in the Territory, for acouple of weeks or two; and I says, all right, that suits me, but I ain't
got no money for to buy the outfit, and I reckon I couldn't get none
from home, because it's likely pap's been back before now, and got it
all away from Judge Thatcher and drunk it up.
"No, he hain't," Tom says; "it's all there yet—six thousand dollars
and more; and your pap hain't ever been back since. Hadn't when I
come away, anyhow."
Jim says, kind of solemn:"He ain't a-comin' back no mo', Huck."
I says:"Why, Jim?""Nemmine why, Huck—but he ain't comin' back no mo."
But I kept at him; so at last he says:"Doan' you 'member de house dat was float'n down de river, en
dey wuz a man in dah, kivered up, en I went in en unkivered him anddidn' let you come in? Well, den, you kin git yo' money when you
wants it, kase dat wuz him."
Tom's most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on awatch-guard for a watch, and is always seeing what time it is, and so
there ain't nothing more to write about, and I am rotten glad of it, be‐cause if I'd a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't
a tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more. But I reckon I got to lightout for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's goingto adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before.
END.
YOURS TRULY, HUCK FINN.